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*******The Project Gutenberg Etext of "Les Miserables"******* by Victor Hugo ** ***This file should be named lesms10.txt or lesms10.zip***** Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, lesms11.txt. VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lesms10a.txt. This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska. The equipment: an IBM-c ompatible 486/50, a Hewlett-Packard ScanJet IIc flatbed scanner, and a copy of C alera Recognition Systems' M/600 Series Professional OCR software and RISC accel erator board donated by Calera. The Works of Victor Hugo Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood

CONTENTS VOLUME I BOOK FIRST.--A JUST MAN

CHAPTER I. M. Myriel II. M. Myriel becomes M. Welcome III. A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bis hop IV. Works corresponding to Words V. Monseigneur Bienvenu made his Cassocks l ast too long VI. Who guarded his House for him VII. Cravatte VIII. Philosophy af ter Drinking IX. The Brother as depicted by the Sister X. The Bishop in the Pres ence of an Unknown Light XI. A Restriction XII. The Solitude of Monseigneur Welc ome XIII. What he believed XIV. What he thought BOOK SECOND.--THE FALL

I. The Evening of a Day of Walking II. Prudence counselled to Wisdom III. The H eroism of Passive Obedience IV. Details concerning the Cheese-Dairies of Pontarl ier V. Tranquillity VI. Jean Valjean VII. The Interior of Despair VIII. Billows and Shadows IX. New Troubles X. The Man aroused XI. What he does XII. The Bishop works XIII. Little Gervais BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817 I. The Year 1817 II. A Double Quartette III. Four and Four IV. Tholomyes is so Merry that he sings a Spanish Ditty V. At Bombardas VI. A Chapter in which they adore Each Other VII. The Wisdom of Tholomyes VIII. The Death of a Horse IX. A M erry End to Mirth BOOK FOURTH.--TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON'S POWER I. One Mother meets Another Mother II. First Sketch of Two Unprepossessing Figu res III. The Lark BOOK FIFTH.-- THE DESCENT I. The History of a Progress in Black Glass Trinkets II. Madeleine III. Sums de posited with Laffitte IV. M. Madeleine in Mourning V. Vague Flashes on the Horiz on VI. Father Fauchelevent VII. Fauchelevent becomes a Gardener in Paris VIII. M adame Victurnien expends Thirty Francs on Morality IX. Madame Victurnien's Succe ss X. Result of the Success XI. Christus nos Liberavit XII. M. Bamatabois's Inac tivity XIII. The Solution of Some Questions connected with the Municipal Police BOOK SIXTH.--JAVERT I. The Beginning of Repose II. How Jean may become Champ BOOK SEVENTH.--THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR I. Sister Simplice II. The Perspicacity of Master Scaufflaire III. A Tempest in a Skull IV. Forms assumed by Suffering during Sleep V. Hindrances VI. Sister Si mplice put to the Proof VII. The Traveller on his Arrival takes Precautions for Departure VIII. An Entrance by Favor IX. A Place where Convictions are in Proces s of Formation X. The System of Denials XI. Champmathieu more and more Astonishe d BOOK EIGHTH.--A COUNTER-BLOW I. In what Mirror M. Madeleine contemplates his Hair II. Fantine Happy III. Jav ert Satisfied IV. Authority reasserts its Rights V. A Suitable Tomb

VOLUME II BOOK FIRST.--WATERLOO

CHAPTER I. What is met with on the Way from Nivelles II. Hougomont III. The Eighteenth of June, 1815 IV. A V. The Quid Obscurum of Battles VI. Four o'clock in the Afterno on VII. Napoleon in a Good Humor VIII. The Emperor puts a Question to the Guide Lacoste IX. The Unexpected X. The Plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean XI. A Bad Guide to Napoleon; a Good Guide to Bulow XII. The Guard XIII. The Catastrophe XIV. The La st Square XV. Cambronne XVI. Quot Libras in Duce? XVII. Is Waterloo to be consid ered Good? XVIII. A Recrudescence of Divine Right XIX. The Battle-Field at Night BOOK SECOND.--THE SHIP ORION I. Number 24,601 becomes Number 9,430 II. In which the reader will peruse Two V erses which are of the Devil's Composition possibly III. The Ankle-Chain must ha ve undergone a Certain Preparatory Manipulation to be thus broken with a Blow fr om a Hammer BOOK THIRD.--ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN I. The Water Question at Montfermeil II. Two Complete Portraits III. Men must h ave Wine, and Horses must have Water IV. Entrance on the Scene of a Doll V. The Little One All Alone VI. Which possibly proves Boulatruelle's Intelligence VII. Cosette Side by Side with the Stranger in the Dark VIII. The Unpleasantness of r eceiving into One's House a Poor Man who may be a Rich Man IX. Thenardier at his Manoeuvres X. He who seeks to better himself may render his Situation Worse XI. Number 9,430 reappears, and Cosette wins it in the Lottery BOOK FOURTH.--THE GORBEAU HOVEL I. Master Gorbeau II. A Nest for Owl and a Warbler III. Two Misfortunes make On e Piece of Good Fortune IV. The Remarks of the Principal Tenant V. A Five-Franc Piece falls on the Ground and produces a Tumult BOOK FIFTH.--FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK I. The Zigzags of Strategy II. It is Lucky that the Pont d'Austerlitz bears Car riages III. To Wit, the Plan of Paris in 1727 IV. The Gropings of Flight V. Whic h would be Impossible with Gas Lanterns VI. The Beginning of an Enigma VII. Cont inuation of the Enigma VIII. The Enigma becomes Doubly Mysterious IX. The Man wi th the Bell X. Which explains how Javert got on the Scent BOOK SIXTH.--LE PETIT-PICPUS I. Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus II. The Obedience of Martin Verga III. Austeritie s IV. Gayeties V. Distractions VI. The Little Convent VII. Some Silhouettes of t his Darkness VIII. Post Corda Lapides IX. A Century under a Guimpe X. Origin of the Perpetual Adoration XI. End of the Petit-Picpus BOOK SEVENTH.--PARENTHESIS I. The Convent as an Abstract Idea II. The Convent as an Historical Fact III. O n What Conditions One can respect the Past IV. The Convent from the Point of Vie w of Principles V. Prayer VI. The Absolute Goodness of Prayer VII. Precautions t o be observed in Blame VIII. Faith, Law BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM I. Which treats of the Manner of entering a Convent II. Fauchelevent in the Pre sence of a Difficulty III. Mother Innocente IV. In which Jean Valjean has quite

the Air of having read Austin Castillejo V. It is not Necessary to be Drunk in o rder to be Immortal VI. Between Four Planks VII. In which will be found the Orig in of the Saying: Don't lose the Card VIII. A Successful Interrogatory IX. Clois tered VOLUME III BOOK FIRST.--PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM I. Parvulus II. Some of his Particular Characteristics III. He is Agreeable IV. He may be of Use V. His Frontiers VI. A Bit of History VII. The Gamin should ha ve his Place in the Classifications of India VIII. In which the Reader will find a Charming Saying of the Last King IX. The Old Soul of Gaul X. Ecce Paris, ecce Homo XI. To Scoff, to Reign XII. The Future Latent in the People XIII. Little G avroche BOOK SECOND.--THE GREAT BOURGEOIS I. Ninety Years and Thirty-two Teeth II. Like Master, Like House III. Luc-Espri t IV. A Centenarian Aspirant V. Basque and Nicolette VI. In which Magnon and her Two Children are seen VII. Rule: Receive No One except in the Evening VIII. Two do not make a Pair BOOK THIRD.--THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON I. An Ancient Salon II. One of the Red Spectres of that Epoch III. Requiescant IV. End of the Brigand V. The Utility of going to Mass, in order to become a Rev olutionist VI. The Consequences of having met a Warden VII. Some Petticoat VIII. Marble against Granite BOOK FOURTH.--THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC I. A Group which barely missed becoming Historic II. Blondeau's Funeral Oration by Bossuet III. Marius' Astonishments IV. The Back Room of the Cafe Musain V. E nlargement of Horizon VI. Res Angusta BOOK FIFTH.--THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE I. Marius Indigent II. Marius Poor III. Marius Grown Up IV. M. Mabeuf V. Povert y a Good Neighbor for Misery VI. The Substitute BOOK SIXTH.--THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS I. The Sobriquet; Mode of Formation of Family Names II. Lux Facta Est III. Effe ct of the Spring IV. Beginning of a Great Malady V. Divers Claps of Thunder fall on Ma'am Bougon VI. Taken Prisoner VII. Adventures of the Letter U delivered ov er to Conjectures VIII. The Veterans themselves can be Happy IX. Eclipse BOOK SEVENTH.--PATRON MINETTE I. Mines and Miners II. The Lowest Depths III. Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, an d Montparnasse IV. Composition of the Troupe BOOK EIGHTH.--THE WICKED POOR MAN I. Marius, while seeking a Girl in a Bonnet encounters a Man in a Cap II. Treas ure Trove III. Quadrifrons IV. A Rose in Misery V. A Providential Peep-Hole VI. The Wild Man in his Lair VII. Strategy and Tactics VIII. The Ray of Light in the Hovel IX. Jondrette comes near Weeping X. Tariff of Licensed Cabs, Two Francs a n Hour XI. Offers of Service from Misery to Wretchedness XII. The Use made of M.

Leblanc's Five-Franc Piece XIII. Solus cum Solo, in Loco Remoto, non cogitabunt ur orare Pater Noster XIV. In which a Police Agent bestows Two Fistfuls on a Law yer XV. Jondrette makes his Purchases XVI. In which will be found the Words to a n English Air which was in Fashion in 1832 XVII. The Use made of Marius' Five-Fr anc Piece XVIII. Marius' Two Chairs form a Vis-a-Vis XIX. Occupying One's Self w ith Obscure Depths XX. The Trap XXI. One should always begin by arresting the Vi ctims XXII. The Little One who was crying in Volume Two

VOLUME IV BOOK FIRST.--A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY I. Well Cut II. Badly Sewed III. Louis Philippe IV. Cracks beneath the Foundati on V. Facts whence History springs and which History ignores VI. Enjolras and hi s Lieutenants BOOK SECOND.--EPONINE I. The Lark's Meadow II. Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of Pri sons III. Apparition to Father Mabeuf IV. An Apparition to Marius BOOK THIRD.--THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET I. The House with a Secret II. Jean Valjean as a National Guard III. Foliis ac Frondibus IV. Change of Gate V. The Rose perceives that it is an Engine of War V I. The Battle Begun VII. To One Sadness oppose a Sadness and a Half VIII. The Ch ain-Gang BOOK FOURTH.--SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT TO BE SUCCOR FROM ON HIGH I. A Wound without, Healing within II. Mother Plutarque finds no Difficulty in explaining a Phenomenon BOOK FIFTH.--THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING I. Solitude and Barracks Combined II. Cosette's Apprehensions III. Enriched wit h Commentaries by Toussaint IV. A Heart beneath a Stone V. Cosette after the Let ter VI. Old People are made to go out opportunely BOOK SIXTH.--LITTLE GAVROCHE I. The Malicious Playfulness of the Wind II. In which Little Gavroche extracts Profit from Napoleon the Great III. The Vicissitudes of Flight BOOK SEVENTH.--SLANG I. Origin II. Roots III. Slang which weeps and Slang which laughs IV. The Two D uties: To Watch and to Hope BOOK EIGHTH.--ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS I. Full Light II. The Bewilderment hadow IV. A Cab runs in English and rius becomes Practical once more to . The Old Heart and the Young Heart of Perfect Happiness III. The Beginning of S barks in Slang V. Things of the Night VI. Ma the Extent of Giving Cosette his Address VII in the Presence of Each Other

BOOK NINTH.--WHITHER ARE THEY GOING?

I. Jean Valjean II. Marius III. M. Mabeuf BOOK TENTH.--THE 5TH OF JUNE, 1832 I. The Surface of the Question II. The Root of the Matter III. A Burial; an Occ asion to be born again IV. The Ebullitions of Former Days V. Originality of Pari s BOOK ELEVENTH.--THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE HURRICANE I. Some Explanations with Regard to the Origin of Gavroche's Poetry. The Influe nce of an Academician on this Poetry II. Gavroche on the March III. Just Indigna tion of a Hair-dresser IV. The Child is amazed at the Old Man V. The Old Man VI. Recruits BOOK TWELFTH.--CORINTHE I. History of Corinthe from its Foundation II. Preliminary Gayeties III. Night begins to descend upon Grantaire IV. An Attempt to console the Widow Hucheloup V . Preparations VI. Waiting VII. The Man recruited in the Rue des Billettes VIII. Many Interrogation Points with Regard to a Certain Le Cabuc, whose Name may not have been Le Cabuc BOOK THIRTEENTH.--MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW I. From the Rue Plumet to the Quartier Saint-Denis II. An Owl's View of Paris I II. The Extreme Edge BOOK FOURTEENTH.--THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR I. The Flag: Act First II. The Flag: Act Second III. Gavroche would have done b etter to accept Enjolras' Carbine IV. The Barrel of Powder V. End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire VI. The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life VII. Gavroche a s a Profound Calculator of Distances BOOK FIFTEENTH.--THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME I. A Drinker is a Babbler II. The Street Urchin an Enemy of Light III. While Co sette and Toussaint are Asleep IV. Gavroche's Excess of Zeal

VOLUME V BOOK FIRST.--THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS I. The Charybdis of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the Scylla of the Faubourg d u Temple II. What Is to Be Done in the Abyss if One Does Not Converse III. Light and Shadow IV. Minus Five, Plus One V. The Horizon Which One Beholds from the S ummit of a Barricade VI. Marius Haggard, Javert Laconic VII. The Situation Becom es Aggravated VIII. The Artillery-men Compel People to Take Them Seriously IX. E mployment of the Old Talents of a Poacher and That Infallible Marksmanship Which Influenced the Condemnation of 1796 X. Dawn XI. The Shot Which Misses Nothing a nd Kills No One XII. Disorder a Partisan of Order XIII. Passing Gleams XIV. Wher ein Will Appear the Name of Enjolras' Mistress XV. Gavroche Outside XVI. How fro m a Brother One Becomes a Father XVII. Mortuus Pater Filium Moriturum Expectat X VIII. The Vulture Becomes Prey XIX. Jean Valjean Takes His Revenge XX. The Dead Are in the Right and the Living Are Not in the Wrong XXI. The Heroes XXII. Foot to Foot XXIII. Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk XXIV. Prisoner

BOOK SECOND.--THE INTESTINE OF THE LEVIATHAN I. The Land Impoverished by the Sea II. Ancient History of the Sewer III. Brune seau IV. V. Present Progress VI. Future Progress BOOK THIRD.--MUD BUT THE SOUL I. The Sewer and Its Surprises II. Explanation III. The "Spun" Man IV. He Also Bears His Cross V. In the Case of Sand, as in That of Woman, There Is a Fineness Which Is Treacherous VI. The Fontis VII. One Sometimes Runs Aground When One Fa ncies That One Is Disembarking VIII. The Torn Coat-Tail IX. Marius Produces on S ome One Who Is a Judge of the Matter, the Effect of Being Dead X. Return of the Son Who Was Prodigal of His Life XI. Concussion in the Absolute XII. The Grandfa ther BOOK FOURTH.--JAVERT DERAILED I. BOOK FIFTH.--GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER I. In Which the Tree with the Zinc Plaster Appears Again II. Marius, Emerging f rom Civil War, Makes Ready for Domestic War III. Marius Attacked IV. Mademoisell e Gillenormand Ends by No Longer Thinking It a Bad Thing That M. Fauchelevent Sh ould Have Entered With Something Under His Arm V. Deposit Your Money in a Forest Rather than with a Notary VI. The Two Old Men Do Everything, Each One After His Own Fashion, to Render Cosette Happy VII. The Effects of Dreams Mingled with Ha ppiness VIII. Two Men Impossible to Find BOOK SIXTH.--THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT I. The 16th of February, 1833 II. Jean Valjean Still Wears His Arm in a Sling I II. The Inseparable IV. The Immortal Liver BOOK SEVENTH.--THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP I. The Seventh Circle and the Eighth Heaven II. The Obscurities Which a Revelat ion Can Contain BOOK EIGHTH.--FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT I. The Lower Chamber II. Another Step Backwards III. They Recall the Garden of the Rue Plumet IV. Attraction and Extinction BOOK NINTH.--SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN I. Pity for the Unhappy, but Indulgence for the Happy II. Last Flickerings of a Lamp Without Oil III. A Pen Is Heavy to the Man Who Lifted the Fauchelevent's C art IV. A Bottle of Ink Which Only Succeeded in Whitening V. A Night Behind Whic h There Is Day VI. The Grass Covers and the Rain Effaces

Les Miserables VOLUME I.

FANTINE.

PREFACE So long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of damnation pronounced by society, artificially creating hells amid the civilization of ear th, and adding the element of human fate to divine destiny; so long as the three great problems of the century-- the degradation of man through pauperism, the c orruption of woman through hunger, the crippling of children through lack of lig ht-- are unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the wor ld;--in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance a nd poverty exist on earth, books of the nature of Les Miserables cannot fail to be of use. HAUTEVILLE HOUSE, 1862.

FANTINE BOOK FIRST--A JUST MAN

CHAPTER I M. MYRIEL In 1815, M. Charles-Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D---- He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age; he had occupied the see of D---- since 1 806. Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of e xactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the dioce se. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myr iel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to t he nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the hei r of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in a ccordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary famili es. In spite of this marriage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegan t, graceful, intelligent; the whole of the first portion of his life had been de voted to the world and to gallantry. The Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation; the parlia mentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were dispersed. M. Charles My riel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning of the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from which she had long suffered. He had no child

ren. What took place next in the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French socie ty of the olden days, the fall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of '93, which were, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants who viewed them from a distance, with the magnifying powers of terror,--did these cause the ideas of re nunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of these distr actions, these affections which absorbed his life, suddenly smitten with one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by striking to hi s heart, a man whom public catastrophes would not shake, by striking at his exis tence and his fortune? No one could have told: all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest. In 1804, M. Myriel was the Cure of B---- [Brignolles]. He was already advanced in years, and lived in a very retired manner. About the epoch of the coronation, some petty affair connected with his curacy-just what, is not precisely known--took him to Paris. Among other powerful pers ons to whom he went to solicit aid for his parishioners was M. le Cardinal Fesch . One day, when the Emperor had come to visit his uncle, the worthy Cure, who wa s waiting in the anteroom, found himself present when His Majesty passed. Napole on, on finding himself observed with a certain curiosity by this old man, turned round and said abruptly:-"Who is this good man who is staring at me?" "Sire," said M. Myriel, "you are looking at a good man, and I at a great man. E ach of us can profit by it." That very evening, the Emperor asked the Cardinal the name of the Cure, and som e time afterwards M. Myriel was utterly astonished to learn that he had been app ointed Bishop of D---What truth was there, after all, in the stories which were invented as to the e arly portion of M. Myriel's life? No one knew. Very few families had been acquai nted with the Myriel family before the Revolution. M. Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer in a little town, where the re are many mouths which talk, and very few heads which think. He was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishop, and because he was a bishop. But after all , the rumors with which his name was connected were rumors only,--noise, sayings , words; less than words-- palabres, as the energetic language of the South expr esses it. However that may be, after nine years of episcopal power and of residence in D---, all the stories and subjects of conversation which engross petty towns and petty people at the outset had fallen into profound oblivion. No one would have dared to mention them; no one would have dared to recall them. M. Myriel had arrived at D---- accompanied by an elderly spinster, Mademoiselle Baptistine, who was his sister, and ten years his junior. Their only domestic was a female servant of the same age as Mademoiselle Baptis tine, and named Madame Magloire, who, after having been the servant of M. le Cur e, now assumed the double title of maid to Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Monse igneur. Mademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature; she realized t he ideal expressed by the word "respectable"; for it seems that a woman must nee ds be a mother in order to be venerable. She had never been pretty; her whole li fe, which had been nothing but a succession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of pallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years she ha

d acquired what may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been leanness in her youth had become transparency in her maturity; and this diaphaneity allowed the angel to be seen. She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her person seemed mad e of a shadow; there was hardly sufficient body to provide for sex; a little mat ter enclosing a light; large eyes forever drooping;-- a mere pretext for a soul' s remaining on the earth. Madame Magloire was a little, fat, white old woman, corpulent and bustling; alw ays out of breath,--in the first place, because of her activity, and in the next , because of her asthma. On his arrival, M. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with the honors required by the Imperial decrees, which class a bishop immediately after a majo r-general. The mayor and the president paid the first call on him, and he, in tu rn, paid the first call on the general and the prefect. The installation over, the town waited to see its bishop at work.

CHAPTER II M. MYRIEL BECOMES M. WELCOME The episcopal palace of D---- adjoins the hospital. The episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful house, built of stone at the begi nning of the last century by M. Henri Puget, Doctor of Theology of the Faculty o f Paris, Abbe of Simore, who had been Bishop of D---- in 1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence. Everything about it had a grand air,--the apartme nts of the Bishop, the drawing-rooms, the chambers, the principal courtyard, whi ch was very large, with walks encircling it under arcades in the old Florentine fashion, and gardens planted with magnificent trees. In the dining-room, a long and superb gallery which was situated on the ground-floor and opened on the gard ens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My Lords Charles Brulart de Genlis, archbishop; Prince d'Embrun; Antoine de Mesgrigny, the capuc hin, Bishop of Grasse; Philippe de Vendome, Grand Prior of France, Abbe of Saint Honore de Lerins; Francois de Berton de Crillon, bishop, Baron de Vence; Cesar de Sabran de Forcalquier, bishop, Seignor of Glandeve; and Jean Soanen, Priest o f the Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the king, bishop, Seignor of Senez. The p ortraits of these seven reverend personages decorated this apartment; and this m emorable date, the 29th of July, 1714, was there engraved in letters of gold on a table of white marble. The hospital was a low and narrow building of a single story, with a small gard en. Three days after his arrival, the Bishop visited the hospital. The visit ended, he had the director requested to be so good as to come to his house. "Monsieur the director of the hospital," said he to him, "how many sick people have you at the present moment?"

"Twenty-six, Monseigneur." "That was the number which I counted," said the Bishop. "The beds," pursued the director, "are very much crowded against each other." "That is what I observed." "The halls are nothing but rooms, and it is with difficulty that the air can be changed in them." "So it seems to me." "And then, when there is a ray of sun, the garden is very small for the convale scents." "That was what I said to myself." "In case of epidemics,--we have had the typhus fever this year; we had the swea ting sickness two years ago, and a hundred patients at times,--we know not what to do." "That is the thought which occurred to me." "What would you have, Monseigneur?" said the director. "One must resign one's s elf." This conversation took place in the gallery dining-room on the ground-floor. The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he turned abruptly to the directo r of the hospital. "Monsieur," said he, "how many beds do you think this hall alone would hold?" "Monseigneur's dining-room?" exclaimed the stupefied director. The Bishop cast a glance round the apartment, and seemed to be taking measures and calculations with his eyes. "It would hold full twenty beds," said he, as though speaking to himself. Then, raising his voice:-"Hold, Monsieur the director of the hospital, I will tell you something. There is evidently a mistake here. There are thirty-six of you, in five or six small r ooms. There are three of us here, and we have room for sixty. There is some mist ake, I tell you; you have my house, and I have yours. Give me back my house; you are at home here." On the following day the thirty-six patients were installed in the Bishop's pal ace, and the Bishop was settled in the hospital. M. Myriel had no property, his family having been ruined by the Revolution. His sister was in receipt of a yearly income of five hundred francs, which sufficed for her personal wants at the vicarage. M. Myriel received from the State, in h is quality of bishop, a salary of fifteen thousand francs. On the very day when he took up his abode in the hospital, M. Myriel settled on the disposition of th is sum once for all, in the following manner. We transcribe here a note made by his own hand:--

NOTE ON THE REGULATION OF MY HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES. For the little seminary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1,500 livres Society of the mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 " For the Lazarists of Montdidier . . . . . . . . . . 100 " Seminary for foreign missions in Paris . . . . . . 200 " Co ngregation of the Holy Spirit . . . . . . . . . . 150 " Religious establishments of the Holy Land . . . . . 100 " Charitable maternity societies . . . . . . . . . . 300 " Extra, for that of Arles . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 " Work for the amelioration of prisons . . . . . . . 400 " Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners . . . 500 " To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt 1,00 0 " Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the diocese . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2,000 " Public granary of the Hautes-Alpes . . . . . . . . 100 " Congregation of the ladies of D----, of Manosque, and of Sisteron, for the gratuitous instruction of poor girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1, 500 " For the poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6,000 " My personal exp enses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1,000 " ------ Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15,000 " M. Myriel made no change in this arrangement during the entire period that he o ccupied the see of D---- As has been seen, he called it regulating his household expenses. This arrangement was accepted with absolute submission by Mademoiselle Baptisti ne. This holy woman regarded Monseigneur of D---- as at one and the same time he r brother and her bishop, her friend according to the flesh and her superior acc ording to the Church. She simply loved and venerated him. When he spoke, she bow ed; when he acted, she yielded her adherence. Their only servant, Madame Magloir e, grumbled a little. It will be observed that Monsieur the Bishop had reserved for himself only one thousand livres, which, added to the pension of Mademoisell e Baptistine, made fifteen hundred francs a year. On these fifteen hundred franc s these two old women and the old man subsisted. And when a village curate came to D----, the Bishop still found means to entert ain him, thanks to the severe economy of Madame Magloire, and to the intelligent administration of Mademoiselle Baptistine. One day, after he had been in D---- about three months, the Bishop said:-"And still I am quite cramped with it all!" "I should think so!" exclaimed Madame Magloire. "Monseigneur has not even claim ed the allowance which the department owes him for the expense of his carriage i n town, and for his journeys about the diocese. It was customary for bishops in former days." "Hold!" cried the Bishop, "you are quite right, Madame Magloire." And he made his demand. Some time afterwards the General Council took this demand under consideration, and voted him an annual sum of three thousand francs, under this heading: Allowa nce to M. the Bishop for expenses of carriage, expenses of posting, and expenses of pastoral visits. This provoked a great outcry among the local burgesses; and a senator of the Em pire, a former member of the Council of the Five Hundred which favored the 18 Br umaire, and who was provided with a magnificent senatorial office in the vicinit y of the town of D----, wrote to M. Bigot de Preameneu, the minister of public w orship, a very angry and confidential note on the subject, from which we extract these authentic lines:--

"Expenses of carriage? What can be done with it in a town of less than four tho usand inhabitants? Expenses of journeys? What is the use of these trips, in the first place? Next, how can the posting be accomplished in these mountainous part s? There are no roads. No one travels otherwise than on horseback. Even the brid ge between Durance and Chateau-Arnoux can barely support ox-teams. These priests are all thus, greedy and avaricious. This man played the good priest when he fi rst came. Now he does like the rest; he must have a carriage and a posting-chais e, he must have luxuries, like the bishops of the olden days. Oh, all this pries thood! Things will not go well, M. le Comte, until the Emperor has freed us from these black-capped rascals. Down with the Pope! [Matters were getting embroiled with Rome.] For my part, I am for Caesar alone." Etc., etc. On the other hand, this affair afforded great delight to Madame Magloire. "Good ," said she to Mademoiselle Baptistine; "Monseigneur began with other people, bu t he has had to wind up with himself, after all. He has regulated all his charit ies. Now here are three thousand francs for us! At last!" That same evening the Bishop wrote out and handed to his sister a memorandum co nceived in the following terms:-EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE AND CIRCUIT. For furnishing meat soup to the patients in the hospital. 1,500 livres For the maternity charitable society of Aix . . . . . . . 250 " For the maternity charit able society of Draguignan . . . 250 " For foundlings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500 " For orphans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 0 " ----- Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3,000 " Such was M. Myriel's budget. As for the chance episcopal perquisites, the fees for marriage bans, dispensati ons, private baptisms, sermons, benedictions, of churches or chapels, marriages, etc., the Bishop levied them on the wealthy with all the more asperity, since h e bestowed them on the needy. After a time, offerings of money flowed in. Those who had and those who lacked knocked at M. Myriel's door,--the latter in search of the alms which the former came to deposit. In less than a year the Bishop had become the treasurer of all benevolence and the cashier of all those in distress. Considerable sums of money passed through his hands, but nothing could induce him to make any change whate ver in his mode of life, or add anything superfluous to his bare necessities. Far from it. As there is always more wretchedness below than there is brotherho od above, all was given away, so to speak, before it was received. It was like w ater on dry soil; no matter how much money he received, he never had any. Then h e stripped himself. The usage being that bishops shall announce their baptismal names at the head o f their charges and their pastoral letters, the poor people of the country-side had selected, with a sort of affectionate instinct, among the names and prenomen s of their bishop, that which had a meaning for them; and they never called him anything except Monseigneur Bienvenu [Welcome]. We will follow their example, an d will also call him thus when we have occasion to name him. Moreover, this appe llation pleased him. "I like that name," said he. "Bienvenu makes up for the Monseigneur." We do not claim that the portrait herewith presented is probable; we confine ou rselves to stating that it resembles the original.

CHAPTER III A HARD BISHOPRIC FOR A GOOD BISHOP The Bishop did not omit his pastoral visits because he had converted his carria ge into alms. The diocese of D---- is a fatiguing one. There are very few plains and a great many mountains; hardly any roads, as we have just seen; thirty-two curacies, forty-one vicarships, and two hundred and eighty-five auxiliary chapel s. To visit all these is quite a task. The Bishop managed to do it. He went on foot when it was in the neighborhood, i n a tilted spring-cart when it was on the plain, and on a donkey in the mountain s. The two old women accompanied him. When the trip was too hard for them, he we nt alone. One day he arrived at Senez, which is an ancient episcopal city. He was mounted on an ass. His purse, which was very dry at that moment, did not permit him any other equipage. The mayor of the town came to receive him at the gate of the to wn, and watched him dismount from his ass, with scandalized eyes. Some of the ci tizens were laughing around him. "Monsieur the Mayor," said the Bishop, "and Mes sieurs Citizens, I perceive that I shock you. You think it very arrogant in a po or priest to ride an animal which was used by Jesus Christ. I have done so from necessity, I assure you, and not from vanity." In the course of these trips he was kind and indulgent, and talked rather than preached. He never went far in search of his arguments and his examples. He quot ed to the inhabitants of one district the example of a neighboring district. In the cantons where they were harsh to the poor, he said: "Look at the people of B riancon! They have conferred on the poor, on widows and orphans, the right to ha ve their meadows mown three days in advance of every one else. They rebuild thei r houses for them gratuitously when they are ruined. Therefore it is a country w hich is blessed by God. For a whole century, there has not been a single murdere r among them." In villages which were greedy for profit and harvest, he said: "Look at the peo ple of Embrun! If, at the harvest season, the father of a family has his son awa y on service in the army, and his daughters at service in the town, and if he is ill and incapacitated, the cure recommends him to the prayers of the congregati on; and on Sunday, after the mass, all the inhabitants of the village--men, wome n, and children--go to the poor man's field and do his harvesting for him, and c arry his straw and his grain to his granary." To families divided by questions o f money and inheritance he said: "Look at the mountaineers of Devolny, a country so wild that the nightingale is not heard there once in fifty years. Well, when the father of a family dies, the boys go off to seek their fortunes, leaving th e property to the girls, so that they may find husbands." To the cantons which h ad a taste for lawsuits, and where the farmers ruined themselves in stamped pape r, he said: "Look at those good peasants in the valley of Queyras! There are thr ee thousand souls of them. Mon Dieu! it is like a little republic. Neither judge nor bailiff is known there. The mayor does everything. He allots the imposts, t

axes each person conscientiously, judges quarrels for nothing, divides inheritan ces without charge, pronounces sentences gratuitously; and he is obeyed, because he is a just man among simple men." To villages where he found no schoolmaster, he quoted once more the people of Queyras: "Do you know how they manage?" he sa id. "Since a little country of a dozen or fifteen hearths cannot always support a teacher, they have school-masters who are paid by the whole valley, who make t he round of the villages, spending a week in this one, ten days in that, and ins truct them. These teachers go to the fairs. I have seen them there. They are to be recognized by the quill pens which they wear in the cord of their hat. Those who teach reading only have one pen; those who teach reading and reckoning have two pens; those who teach reading, reckoning, and Latin have three pens. But wha t a disgrace to be ignorant! Do like the people of Queyras!" Thus he discoursed gravely and paternally; in default of examples, he invented parables, going directly to the point, with few phrases and many images, which c haracteristic formed the real eloquence of Jesus Christ. And being convinced him self, he was persuasive.

CHAPTER IV WORKS CORRESPONDING TO WORDS His conversation was gay and affable. He put himself on a level with the two ol d women who had passed their lives beside him. When he laughed, it was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire liked to call him Your Grace [Votre Grandeur]. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of the upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of st ature, he could not reach it. "Madame Magloire," said he, "fetch me a chair. My greatness [grandeur] does not reach as far as that shelf." One of his distant relatives, Madame la Comtesse de Lo, rarely allowed an oppor tunity to escape of enumerating, in his presence, what she designated as "the ex pectations" of her three sons. She had numerous relatives, who were very old and near to death, and of whom her sons were the natural heirs. The youngest of the three was to receive from a grand-aunt a good hundred thousand livres of income ; the second was the heir by entail to the title of the Duke, his uncle; the eld est was to succeed to the peerage of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to listen in silence to these innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On one oc casion, however, he appeared to be more thoughtful than usual, while Madame de L o was relating once again the details of all these inheritances and all these "e xpectations." She interrupted herself impatiently: "Mon Dieu, cousin! What are y ou thinking about?" "I am thinking," replied the Bishop, "of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine,--`Place your hopes in the man from whom you do not inherit.'" At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of t he country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the fe udal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page: "What a stout back Death has!" he exclaimed. "What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to pre

ss the tomb into the service of vanity!" He was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillery, which almost always conceal ed a serious meaning. In the course of one Lent, a youthful vicar came to D----, and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably eloquent. The subject of his se rmon was charity. He urged the rich to give to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he represented as charming and desirable. Among the audience there was a wealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a usurer, named M. Ge borand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacture of coarse cloth, serges, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M. Geborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that sermon, it was observed that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old beggar-women at the door of the cathedral. T here were six of them to share it. One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of bestowing this charity, and said to his sister, with a smile, "There is M. Geborand purchasing paradise for a sou." When it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a refusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which induced reflection. On ce he was begging for the poor in a drawing-room of the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier, a wealthy and avaricious old man, who contrived to be, at one and the same time, an ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This va riety of man has actually existed. When the Bishop came to him, he touched his a rm, "You must give me something, M. le Marquis." The Marquis turned round and an swered dryly, "I have poor people of my own, Monseigneur." "Give them to me," re plied the Bishop. One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral:-"My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hundred and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but three openings; eighteen h undred and seventeen thousand hovels which have but two openings, the door and o ne window; and three hundred and forty-six thousand cabins besides which have bu t one opening, the door. And this arises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows. Just put poor families, old women and little children, in th ose buildings, and behold the fevers and maladies which result! Alas! God gives air to men; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God. I n the department of the Isere, in the Var, in the two departments of the Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows; they transp ort their manure on the backs of men; they have no candles, and they burn resino us sticks, and bits of rope dipped in pitch. That is the state of affairs throug hout the whole of the hilly country of Dauphine. They make bread for six months at one time; they bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this bre ad up with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to render it eatable. My brethren, have pity! behold the suffering on all sides of you!" Born a Provencal, he easily familiarized himself with the dialect of the south. He said, "En be! moussu, ses sage?" as in lower Languedoc; "Onte anaras passa?" as in the Basses-Alpes; "Puerte un bouen moutu embe un bouen fromage grase," as in upper Dauphine. This pleased the people extremely, and contributed not a lit tle to win him access to all spirits. He was perfectly at home in the thatched c ottage and in the mountains. He understood how to say the grandest things in the most vulgar of idioms. As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts. Moreover, he was the same towards people of the world and towards the lower cla sses. He condemned nothing in haste and without taking circumstances into accoun t. He said, "Examine the road over which the fault has passed." Being, as he described himself with a smile, an ex-sinner, he had none of the a sperities of austerity, and he professed, with a good deal of distinctness, and

without the frown of the ferociously virtuous, a doctrine which may be summed up as follows:-"Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his temptation. He drags it with him and yields to it. He must watch it, cheek it, repress it, and obey it only at the last extremity. There may be some fault even in this obedie nce; but the fault thus committed is venial; it is a fall, but a fall on the kne es which may terminate in prayer. "To be a saint is the exception; to be an upright man is the rule. Err, fall, s in if you will, but be upright. "The least possible sin is the law of man. No sin at all is the dream of the an gel. All which is terrestrial is subject to sin. Sin is a gravitation." When he saw everyone h! oh!" he said, with ll the world commits. haste to make protest exclaiming very loudly, and growing angry very quickly, "O a smile; "to all appearance, this is a great crime which a These are hypocrisies which have taken fright, and are in and to put themselves under shelter."

He was indulgent towards women and poor people, on whom the burden of human soc iety rest. He said, "The faults of women, of children, of the feeble, the indige nt, and the ignorant, are the fault of the husbands, the fathers, the masters, t he strong, the rich, and the wise." He said, moreover, "Teach ciety is culpable, in that ble for the night which it committed. The guilty one person who has created the those who are ignorant as many things as possible; so it does not afford instruction gratis; it is responsi produces. This soul is full of shadow; sin is therein is not the person who has committed the sin, but the shadow."

It will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of judging things : I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel. One day he heard a criminal case, which was in preparation and on the point of trial, discussed in a drawing-room. A wretched man, being at the end of his reso urces, had coined counterfeit money, out of love for a woman, and for the child which he had had by her. Counterfeiting was still punishable with death at that epoch. The woman had been arrested in the act of passing the first false piece m ade by the man. She was held, but there were no proofs except against her. She a lone could accuse her lover, and destroy him by her confession. She denied; they insisted. She persisted in her denial. Thereupon an idea occurred to the attorn ey for the crown. He invented an infidelity on the part of the lover, and succee ded, by means of fragments of letters cunningly presented, in persuading the unf ortunate woman that she had a rival, and that the man was deceiving her. Thereup on, exasperated by jealousy, she denounced her lover, confessed all, proved all. The man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with his accomplice. They were relating the matter, and each one was expressing enthusiasm over the cleve rness of the magistrate. By bringing jealousy into play, he had caused the truth to burst forth in wrath, he had educed the justice of revenge. The Bishop liste ned to all this in silence. When they had finished, he inquired,-"Where are this man and woman to be tried?" "At the Court of Assizes." He went on, "And where will the advocate of the crown be tried?" A tragic event occurred at D---- A man was condemned to death for murder. He wa

s a wretched fellow, not exactly educated, not exactly ignorant, who had been a mountebank at fairs, and a writer for the public. The town took a great interest in the trial. On the eve of the day fixed for the execution of the condemned ma n, the chaplain of the prison fell ill. A priest was needed to attend the crimin al in his last moments. They sent for the cure. It seems that he refused to come , saying, "That is no affair of mine. I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task, and with that mountebank: I, too, am ill; and besides, it is not my place. " This reply was reported to the Bishop, who said, "Monsieur le Cure is right: i t is not his place; it is mine." He went instantly to the prison, descended to the cell of the "mountebank," cal led him by name, took him by the hand, and spoke to him. He passed the entire da y with him, forgetful of food and sleep, praying to God for the soul of the cond emned man, and praying the condemned man for his own. He told him the best truth s, which are also the most simple. He was father, brother, friend; he was bishop only to bless. He taught him everything, encouraged and consoled him. The man w as on the point of dying in despair. Death was an abyss to him. As he stood trem bling on its mournful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was not sufficiently ig norant to be absolutely indifferent. His condemnation, which had been a profound shock, had, in a manner, broken through, here and there, that wall which separa tes us from the mystery of things, and which we call life. He gazed incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches, and beheld only darkness. The Bi shop made him see light. On the following day, when they came to fetch the unhappy wretch, the Bishop wa s still there. He followed him, and exhibited himself to the eyes of the crowd i n his purple camail and with his episcopal cross upon his neck, side by side wit h the criminal bound with cords. He mounted the tumbril with him, he mounted the scaffold with him. The sufferer , who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day, was radiant. He fel t that his soul was reconciled, and he hoped in God. The Bishop embraced him, an d at the moment when the knife was about to fall, he said to him: "God raises fr om the dead him whom man slays; he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Fat her once more. Pray, believe, enter into life: the Father is there." When he des cended from the scaffold, there was something in his look which made the people draw aside to let him pass. They did not know which was most worthy of admiratio n, his pallor or his serenity. On his return to the humble dwelling, which he de signated, with a smile, as his palace, he said to his sister, "I have just offic iated pontifically." Since the most sublime things are often those which are the least understood, t here were people in the town who said, when commenting on this conduct of the Bi shop, "It is affectation." This, however, was a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms. The popula ce, which perceives no jest in holy deeds, was touched, and admired him. As for the Bishop, it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine, and it was a long time before he recovered from it. In fact, when the scaffold is there, all erected and prepared, it has something about it which produces hallucination. One may feel a certain indifference to t he death penalty, one may refrain from pronouncing upon it, from saying yes or n o, so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes: but if one enco unters one of them, the shock is violent; one is forced to decide, and to take p art for or against. Some admire it, like de Maistre; others execrate it, like Be ccaria. The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it i s not neutral, and it does not permit you to remain neutral. He who sees it shiv ers with the most mysterious of shivers. All social problems erect their interro

gation point around this chopping-knife. The scaffold is a vision. The scaffold is not a piece of carpentry; the scaffold is not a machine; the scaffold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood, iron and cords. It seems as though it were a being, possessed of I know not what sombre initiat ive; one would say that this piece of carpenter's work saw, that this machine he ard, that this mechanism understood, that this wood, this iron, and these cords were possessed of will. In the frightful meditation into which its presence cast s the soul the scaffold appears in terrible guise, and as though taking part in what is going on. The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, it eats flesh, it drinks blood; the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpenter, a spectre which seems to live with a horrible vita lity composed of all the death which it has inflicted. Therefore, the impression was terrible and profound; on the day following the e xecution, and on many succeeding days, the Bishop appeared to be crushed. The al most violent serenity of the funereal moment had disappeared; the phantom of soc ial justice tormented him. He, who generally returned from all his deeds with a radiant satisfaction, seemed to be reproaching himself. At times he talked to hi mself, and stammered lugubrious monologues in a low voice. This is one which his sister overheard one evening and preserved: "I did not think that it was so mon strous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch t hat unknown thing?" In course of time these impressions weakened and probably vanished. Nevertheles s, it was observed that the Bishop thenceforth avoided passing the place of exec ution. M. Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and dying. H e did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty and his greatest la bor. Widowed and orphaned families had no need to summon him; he came of his own accord. He understood how to sit down and hold his peace for long hours beside the man who had lost the wife of his love, of the mother who had lost her child. As he knew the moment for silence he knew also the moment for speech. Oh, admir able consoler! He sought not to efface sorrow by forgetfulness, but to magnify a nd dignify it by hope. He said:-"Have a care of the manner in which you turn towards the dead. Think not of tha t which perishes. Gaze steadily. You will perceive the living light of your well -beloved dead in the depths of heaven." He knew that faith is wholesome. He soug ht to counsel and calm the despairing man, by pointing out to him the resigned m an, and to transform the grief which gazes upon a grave by showing him the grief which fixes its gaze upon a star.

CHAPTER V MONSEIGNEUR BIENVENU MADE HIS CASSOCKS LAST TOO LONG The private life of M. Myriel was filled with the same thoughts as his public l

ife. The voluntary poverty in which the Bishop of D---- lived, would have been a solemn and charming sight for any one who could have viewed it close at hand. Like all old men, and like the majority of thinkers, he slept little. This brie f slumber was profound. In the morning he meditated for an hour, then he said hi s mass, either at the cathedral or in his own house. His mass said, he broke his fast on rye bread dipped in the milk of his own cows. Then he set to work. A Bishop is a very busy man: he must every day receive the secretary of the bis hopric, who is generally a canon, and nearly every day his vicars-general. He ha s congregations to reprove, privileges to grant, a whole ecclesiastical library to examine,-- prayer-books, diocesan catechisms, books of hours, etc.,--charges to write, sermons to authorize, cures and mayors to reconcile, a clerical corres pondence, an administrative correspondence; on one side the State, on the other the Holy See; and a thousand matters of business. What time was left to him, after these thousand details of business, and his of fices and his breviary, he bestowed first on the necessitous, the sick, and the afflicted; the time which was left to him from the afflicted, the sick, and the necessitous, he devoted to work. Sometimes he dug in his garden; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them garde ning. "The mind is a garden," said he. Towards mid-day, when the weather was fine, he went forth and took a stroll in the country or in town, often entering lowly dwellings. He was seen walking alon e, buried in his own thoughts, his eyes cast down, supporting himself on his lon g cane, clad in his wadded purple garment of silk, which was very warm, wearing purple stockings inside his coarse shoes, and surmounted by a flat hat which all owed three golden tassels of large bullion to droop from its three points. It was a perfect festival wherever he appeared. One would have said that his pr esence had something warming and luminous about it. The children and the old peo ple came out to the doorsteps for the Bishop as for the sun. He bestowed his ble ssing, and they blessed him. They pointed out his house to any one who was in ne ed of anything. Here and there he halted, accosted the little boys and girls, and smiled upon t he mothers. He visited the poor so long as he had any money; when he no longer h ad any, he visited the rich. As he made his cassocks last a long while, and did not wish to have it noticed, he never went out in the town without his wadded purple cloak. This inconvenien ced him somewhat in summer. On his return, he dined. The dinner resembled his breakfast. At half-past eight in the evening he supped with his sister, Madame Magloire st anding behind them and serving them at table. Nothing could be more frugal than this repast. If, however, the Bishop had one of his cures to supper, Madame Magl oire took advantage of the opportunity to serve Monseigneur with some excellent fish from the lake, or with some fine game from the mountains. Every cure furnis hed the pretext for a good meal: the Bishop did not interfere. With that excepti on, his ordinary diet consisted only of vegetables boiled in water, and oil soup . Thus it was said in the town, when the Bishop does not indulge in the cheer of a cure, he indulges in the cheer of a trappist. After supper he conversed for half an hour with Mademoiselle Baptistine and Mad ame Magloire; then he retired to his own room and set to writing, sometimes on l oose sheets, and again on the margin of some folio. He was a man of letters and rather learned. He left behind him five or six very curious manuscripts; among o

thers, a dissertation on this verse in Genesis, In the beginning, the spirit of God floated upon the waters. With this verse he compares three texts: the Arabic verse which says, The winds of God blew; Flavius Josephus who says, A wind from above was precipitated upon the earth; and finally, the Chaldaic paraphrase of Onkelos, which renders it, A wind coming from God blew upon the face of the wate rs. In another dissertation, he examines the theological works of Hugo, Bishop o f Ptolemais, great-grand-uncle to the writer of this book, and establishes the f act, that to this bishop must be attributed the divers little works published du ring the last century, under the pseudonym of Barleycourt. Sometimes, in the midst of his reading, no matter what the book might be which he had in his hand, he would suddenly fall into a profound meditation, whence he only emerged to write a few lines on the pages of the volume itself. These line s have often no connection whatever with the book which contains them. We now ha ve under our eyes a note written by him on the margin of a quarto entitled Corre spondence of Lord Germain with Generals Clinton, Cornwallis, and the Admirals on the American station. Versailles, Poincot, book-seller; and Paris, Pissot, book seller, Quai des Augustins. Here is the note:-"Oh, you who are! "Ecclesiastes calls you the All-powerful; the Maccabees call you the Creator; t he Epistle to the Ephesians calls you liberty; Baruch calls you Immensity; the P salms call you Wisdom and Truth; John calls you Light; the Books of Kings call y ou Lord; Exodus calls you Providence; Leviticus, Sanctity; Esdras, Justice; the creation calls you God; man calls you Father; but Solomon calls you Compassion, and that is the most beautiful of all your names." Toward nine o'clock in the evening the two women retired and betook themselves to their chambers on the first floor, leaving him alone until morning on the gro und floor. It is necessary that we should, in this place, give an exact idea of the dwelli ng of the Bishop of D----

CHAPTER VI WHO GUARDED HIS HOUSE FOR HIM The house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground floor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three chambers on the first, a nd an attic above. Behind the house was a garden, a quarter of an acre in extent . The two women occupied the first floor; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on the street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedr oom, and the third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory, ex cept by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without passing throu gh the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the oratory, there was a detache d alcove with a bed, for use in cases of hospitality. The Bishop offered this be

d to country curates whom business or the requirements of their parishes brought to D---The pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to the hous e, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a kitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the garden a stable, which had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital, and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk they gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to t he sick people in the hospital. "I am paying my tithes," he said. His bedroom was tolerably large, and rather difficult to warm in bad weather. A s wood is extremely dear at D----, he hit upon the idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the cow-shed. Here he passed his evenings during season s of severe cold: he called it his winter salon. In this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other furniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated chairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an antique sideboard, painted pink, in water colors. Out of a similar sideboard, properly draped with white napery and imita tion lace, the Bishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory. His wealthy penitents and the sainted women of D---- had more than once assesse d themselves to raise the money for a new altar for Monseigneur's oratory; on ea ch occasion he had taken the money and had given it to the poor. "The most beaut iful of altars," he said, "is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thank ing God." In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an arm-chair, also in straw, in his bedroom. When, by chance, he received seven or eight persons a t one time, the prefect, or the general, or the staff of the regiment in garriso n, or several pupils from the little seminary, the chairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the stable, the prie-Dieu from the oratory, and the arm-cha ir from the bedroom: in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for the visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest. It sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party; the Bishop then reli eved the embarrassment of the situation by standing in front of the chimney if i t was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it was summer. There was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was half go ne from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service only when propp ed against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine had also in her own room a very lar ge easy-chair of wood, which had formerly been gilded, and which was covered wit h flowered pekin; but they had been obliged to hoist this bergere up to the firs t story through the window, as the staircase was too narrow; it could not, there fore, be reckoned among the possibilities in the way of furniture. Mademoiselle Baptistine's ambition had been to be able to purchase a set of dra wing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht velvet, stamped with a rose pattern, and w ith mahogany in swan's neck style, with a sofa. But this would have cost five hu ndred francs at least, and in view of the fact that she had only been able to la y by forty-two francs and ten sous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by renouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained hi s ideal? Nothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop's bedchamber . A glazed door opened on the garden; opposite this was the bed,--a hospital bed of iron, with a canopy of green serge; in the shadow of the bed, behind a curta in, were the utensils of the toilet, which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world: there were two doors, one near the chimney, opening into t

he oratory; the other near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookc ase was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney was of wood painted to represent marble, and habitually without fire. In the chimney st ood a pair of firedogs of iron, ornamented above with two garlanded vases, and f lutings which had formerly been silvered with silver leaf, which was a sort of e piscopal luxury; above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the sil ver worn off, fixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame from which the gilding had fallen; near the glass door a large table with an inkstand , loaded with a confusion of papers and with huge volumes; before the table an a rm-chair of straw; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu, borrowed from the oratory. Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one the Abbe of Chaliot, bisho p of Saint Claude; the other, the Abbe Tourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abbe of Grand-Champ, order of Citeaux, diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there , and had left them. They were priests, and probably donors--two reasons for res pecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been a ppointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his benefice, on th e same day, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pictures d own to dust, the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper, yellowed by time, and attached to the back of the p ortrait of the Abbe of Grand-Champ with four wafers. At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff, which finall y became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a new one, Madame Magloi re was forced to take a large seam in the very middle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often called attention to it: "How delightful that i s!" he said. All the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground floor as wel l as those on the first floor, were white-washed, which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals. However, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the paper wh ich had been washed over, paintings, ornamenting the apartment of Mademoiselle B aptistine, as we shall see further on. Before becoming a hospital, this house ha d been the ancient parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red bricks, which were washed every week, with straw mat s in front of all the beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two women, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. This was the sole luxur y which the Bishop permitted. He said, "That takes nothing from the poor." It must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former possessio ns six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle, which Madame Magloire contempla ted every day with delight, as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linen c loth. And since we are now painting the Bishop of D---- as he was in reality, we must add that he had said more than once, "I find it difficult to renounce eati ng from silver dishes." To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, whic h he had inherited from a great-aunt. These candlesticks held two wax candles, a nd usually figured on the Bishop's chimney-piece. When he had any one to dinner, Madame Magloire lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table. In the Bishop's own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small cupboard , in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that the key was never removed.

The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which we have m entioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank. Anot her walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclos ed it. These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box. In three of these, Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire ha d once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice: "Monseigneur, you who turn everyt hing to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot. It would be better to gro w salads there than bouquets." "Madame Magloire," retorted the Bishop, "you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful." He added after a pause, "Mo re so, perhaps." This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds. He was no t as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not t he slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu against Lin naeus. He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He respected learned men great ly; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-p ot painted green. The house had not a single door which could be locked. The door of the dining-r oom, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral square, had former ly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison. The Bishop ha d had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by nig ht or by day, with anything except the latch. All that the first passerby had to do at any hour, was to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very mu ch tried by this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D---- had said to them, "Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you." They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it. Mada me Magloire alone had frights from time to time. As for the Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated, in the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible, "This is the shade of difference: the door of the phy sician should never be shut, the door of the priest should always be open." On another book, entitled Philosophy of the Medical Science, he had written thi s other note: "Am not I a physician like them? I also have my patients, and then , too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates." Again he wrote: "Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs shelter." It chanced that a worthy cure, I know not whether it was the cure of Couloubrou x or the cure of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him one day, probably a t the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether Monsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion, to a certain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the mercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he did not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said to him, "Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt eam," Unless t he Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch who guard it. Then he spoke of something else. He was fond of saying, "There is a bravery of the priest as well as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons,--only," he added, "ours must be tranquil."

CHAPTER VII CRAVATTE It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not omit, beca use it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a man the Bishop of D--- was. After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bes, who had infested the gorges o f Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in the mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the remnant of Gaspard Bes's t roop, in the county of Nice; then he made his way to Piedmont, and suddenly reap peared in France, in the vicinity of Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers , then at Tuiles. He hid himself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l'Aigle, and then ce he descended towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye an d Ubayette. He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the country-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He always escaped; sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold wretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arr ived. He was making his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and ur ged him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession of the mountains as far as Arche, and beyond; there was danger even with an escort; it merely exposed t hree or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose. "Therefore," said the Bishop, "I intend to go without escort." "You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!" exclaimed the mayor. "I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and shall s et out in an hour." "Set out?" "Set out." "Alone?" "Alone." "Monseigneur, you will not do that!" "There exists yonder in the mountains," said the Bishop, a tiny community no bi gger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of every thirty that t hey tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of various colors, and they play t he mountain airs on little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the go od God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?"

"But the brigands, Monseigneur?" "Hold," said the Bishop, "I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God." "But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!" "Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesu s has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?" "They will rob you, Monseigneur." "I have nothing." "They will kill you." "An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers? Bah! To wha t purpose?" "Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!" "I should beg alms of them for my poor." "Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your life!" "Monsieur le maire," said the Bishop, "is that really all? I am not in the worl d to guard my own life, but to guard souls." They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only by a ch ild who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited about the country -side, and caused great consternation. He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound at the residence o f his "good friends," the shepherds. He remained there for a fortnight, preachin g, administering the sacrament, teaching, exhorting. When the time of his depart ure approached, he resolved to chant a Te Deum pontifically. He mentioned it to the cure. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They could only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a few ancient chas ubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace. "Bah!" said the Bishop. "Let us announce our Te Deum from the pulpit, neverthel ess, Monsieur le Cure. Things will arrange themselves." They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the magnifice nce of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed to clothe the chor ister of a cathedral properly. While they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and deposited in th e presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen, who departed on the instan t. The chest was opened; it contained a cope of cloth of gold, a mitre ornamente d with diamonds, an archbishop's cross, a magnificent crosier,--all the pontific al vestments which had been stolen a month previously from the treasury of Notre Dame d'Embrun. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written, "Fr om Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu." "Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?" said the Bishop. Th en he added, with a smile, "To him who contents himself with the surplice of a c urate, God sends the cope of an archbishop."

"Monseigneur," murmured the cure, throwing back his head with a smile. "God--or the Devil." The Bishop looked steadily at the cure, and repeated with authority, "God!" When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as at a curi osity, all along the road. At the priest's house in Chastelar he rejoined Mademo iselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were waiting for him, and he said to his sister: "Well! was I in the right? The poor priest went to his poor mountain eers with empty hands, and he returns from them with his hands full. I set out b earing only my faith in God; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral." That evening, before he went to bed, he said again: "Let us never fear robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers. Let us fear oursel ves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the real murderers. The great da ngers lie within ourselves. What matters it what threatens our head or our purse ! Let us think only of that which threatens our soul." Then, turning to his sister: "Sister, never a precaution on the part of the pri est, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God permits. Let us con fine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a danger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our brother may not fall into sin on our accou nt." However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which we know ; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at the same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day. As to what became of "the treasure" of the cathedral of Embrun, we should be em barrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of very handsome things , very tempting things, and things which were very well adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed; it only remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause it to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. Howeve r, we make no assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found am ong the Bishop's papers, which may bear some relation to this matter, and which is couched in these terms, "The question is, to decide whether this should be tu rned over to the cathedral or to the hospital."

CHAPTER VIII PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way, heedles s of those things which present obstacles, and which are called conscience, swor n faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his goal, without once flinch ing in the line of his advancement and his interest. He was an old attorney, sof tened by success; not a bad man by any means, who rendered all the small service s in his power to his sons, his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his frie

nds, having wisely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good wi ndfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was intelligent, and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple of Epicurus; while he was, in reality, only a product of Pigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and eternal things, and at the "Crotchets of that good old fellow the Bishop." He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in the p resence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him. On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what, Count*** [thi s senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At dessert, the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still perfectly dignified, exclaimed:-"Egad, Bishop, let's have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a bishop t o look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am going to make a co nfession to you. I have a philosophy of my own." "And you are right," replied the Bishop. "As one makes one's philosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator." The senator was encouraged, and went on:-"Let us be good fellows." "Good devils even," said the Bishop. "I declare to you," continued the senator, "that the Marquis d'Argens, Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the philosophers in my librar y gilded on the edges." "Like yourself, Count," interposed the Bishop. The senator resumed:-"I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist, a belie ver in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire made sport of Nee dham, and he was wrong, for Needham's eels prove that God is useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies the fiat lux. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger; you have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the Eternal Father? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for nothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Do wn with that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me in pe ace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make confession to m y pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you that I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who preaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last extremity. 'Tis the counsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciat ion; why? Sacrifice; to what end? I do not see one wolf immolating himself for t he happiness of another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top; l et us have a superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the top, if one sees no further than the end of other people's noses? Let us live merrily. L ife is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on high, below, anywhere, I d on't believe; not one single word of it. Ah! sacrifice and renunciation are reco mmended to me; I must take heed to everything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the just and the unjust, over the fas and the nefas. Why? B ecause I shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What a fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person who can catch me. H ave a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you can. Let us tell the truth , we who are initiated, and who have raised the veil of Isis: there is no such t hing as either good or evil; there is vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us g et to the bottom of it. Let us go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of it! We must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and s

eize it. Then it gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh. I am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a waiting for dead men's shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it, if you like! What a fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be angels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my assistance: is it not Tertullian who says that t he blessed shall travel from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppe rs of the stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta! What twaddle a ll these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say that in th e Moniteur, egad! but I may whisper it among friends. Inter pocula. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let slip the prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of th e infinite! I'm not such a fool. I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did I exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A little dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this eart h? The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me? To noth ingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is made. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the tooth than the grass. Such is my wisd om. After which, go whither I push thee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls into the great hole. End. Finis. Total liquidation. T his is the vanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of t here being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables of nurses ; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness. You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul--it makes no difference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things. Make use of your I while you have it. In truth, Bi shop, I tell you that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don't let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be som ething for those who are down,--for the barefooted beggars, knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimeras, the soul, immortality, paradise, the star s, are provided for them to swallow. They gobble it down. They spread it on thei r dry bread. He who has nothing else has the good. God. That is the least he can have. I oppose no objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The good God is good for the populace." The Bishop clapped his hands. "That's talking!" he exclaimed. "What an excellent and really marvellous thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can have it. Ah! when one does h ave it, one is no longer a dupe, one does not stupidly allow one's self to be ex iled like Cato, nor stoned like Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d'Arc. Tho se who have succeeded in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of fe eling themselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour everything without uneasiness,--places, sinecures, dignities, power, whether well or ill ac quired, lucrative recantations, useful treacheries, savory capitulations of cons cience,--and that they shall enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. H ow agreeable that is! I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Neverthe less, it is impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great lord s have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves, which is exqui site, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all sauces, and which seas ons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This philosophy has been extracted fro m the depths, and unearthed by special seekers. But you are good-natured princes , and you do not think it a bad thing that belief in the good God should constit ute the philosophy of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the truffled turkey of the poor."

CHAPTER IX THE BROTHER AS DEPICTED BY THE SISTER In order to furnish an idea of the private establishment of the Bishop of D---, and of the manner in which those two sainted women subordinated their actions, their thoughts, their feminine instincts even, which are easily alarmed, to the habits and purposes of the Bishop, without his even taking the trouble of speak ing in order to explain them, we cannot do better than transcribe in this place a letter from Mademoiselle Baptistine to Madame the Vicomtess de Boischevron, th e friend of her childhood. This letter is in our possession. D----, Dec. 16, 18--. MY GOOD MADAM: Not a day passes without our speaking of y ou. It is our established custom; but there is another reason besides. Just imag ine, while washing and dusting the ceilings and walls, Madam Magloire has made s ome discoveries; now our two chambers hung with antique paper whitewashed over, would not discredit a chateau in the style of yours. Madam Magloire has pulled o ff all the paper. There were things beneath. My drawing-room, which contains no furniture, and which we use for spreading out the linen after washing, is fiftee n feet in height, eighteen square, with a ceiling which was formerly painted and gilded, and with beams, as in yours. This was covered with a cloth while this w as the hospital. And the woodwork was of the era of our grandmothers. But my roo m is the one you ought to see. Madam Magloire has discovered, under at least ten thicknesses of paper pasted on top, some paintings, which without being good ar e very tolerable. The subject is Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some ga rdens, the name of which escapes me. In short, where the Roman ladies repaired o n one single night. What shall I say to you? I have Romans, and Roman ladies [he re occurs an illegible word], and the whole train. Madam Magloire has cleaned it all off; this summer she is going to have some small injuries repaired, and the whole revarnished, and my chamber will be a regular museum. She has also found in a corner of the attic two wooden pier-tables of ancient fashion. They asked u s two crowns of six francs each to regild them, but it is much better to give th e money to the poor; and they are very ugly besides, and I should much prefer a round table of mahogany. I am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to the poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in the winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need. We are almost comfortably li ghted and warmed. You see that these are great treats. My brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a bishop ought to b e so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened. Whoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother's room. He fears nothing, even at nigh t. That is his sort of bravery, he says. He does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He exposes himsel f to all sorts of dangers, and he does not like to have us even seem to notice i t. One must know how to understand him. He goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter. He fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night. Last year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would not take us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had happened to him; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and said, "This is the way I have b

een robbed!" And then he opened a trunk full of jewels, all the jewels of the ca thedral of Embrun, which the thieves had given him. When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding him a litt le, taking care, however, not to speak except when the carriage was making a noi se, so that no one might hear me. At first I used to say to myself, "There are no dangers which will stop him; he is terrible." Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a sign to Madam Ma gloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself as he sees fit. I carry o ff Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray for him and fall asleep. I am at e ase, because I know that if anything were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Ma dam Magloire more trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms h is imprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we trembl e together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us to fear in this house? Ther e is always some one with us who is stronger than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here. This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to me. I u nderstand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to the care of Prov idence. That is the way one has to do with a man who possesses grandeur of soul. I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows everything, and t hat he has memories, because he is still a very good royalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago t here was a Raoul de Faux, a Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlem en, and one of whom was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy-Etienne-Alexan dre, and was commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of Bretag ne. His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de Gramont, son of the Du ke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of the French guards, and lieutenan t-general of the army. It is written Faux, Fauq, and Faoucq. Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative, Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in not wasting the few m oments which she passes with you in writing to me. She is well, works as you wou ld wish, and loves me. That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you reached me s afely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end, and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes. BAPTISTINE. P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who had on knee-caps, and he said, "What has he got on his knees?" He is a charming child! His little bro ther is dragging an old broom about the room, like a carriage, and saying, "Hu!" As will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how to mould themselves to the Bishop's ways with that special feminine genius which comprehe nds the man better than he comprehends himself. The Bishop of D----, in spite of the gentle and candid air which never deserted him, sometimes did things that w ere grand, bold, and magnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of th e fact. They trembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a remonstrance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They never in terfered with him by so much as a word or sign, in any action once entered upon. At certain moments, without his having occasion to mention it, when he was not even conscious of it himself in all probability, so perfect was his simplicity,

they vaguely felt that he was acting as a bishop; then they were nothing more th an two shadows in the house. They served him passively; and if obedience consist ed in disappearing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable delicac y of instinct, that certain cares may be put under constraint. Thus, even when b elieving him to be in peril, they understood, I will not say his thought, but hi s nature, to such a degree that they no longer watched over him. They confided h im to God. Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother's end would p rove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.

CHAPTER X THE BISHOP IN THE PRESENCE OF AN UNKNOWN LIGHT At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding p ages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits. In the country near D---- a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at o nce, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G---Member of the Convention, G---- was mentioned with a sort of horror in the litt le world of D---- A member of the Convention--can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other thou, and when they said "c itizen." This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the ki ng, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost's court, on the ret urn of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you pleas e; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An exampl e, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture. Was G---- a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of f erocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France. He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one kn ew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. Th ere were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, t he path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman. Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gaz ed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the for mer member of the Convention, and he said, "There is a soul yonder which is lone ly."

And he added, deep in his own mind, "I owe him a visit." But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appear ed to him after a moment's reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repuls ive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himsel f, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement. Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep! The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned. Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepher d, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and th at he would not live over night.--"Thank God!" some added. The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare c assock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure t o rise soon, and set out. The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern. It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the o utside. Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the arm-chair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun. Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the ol d man a jar of milk. While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: "Thank you," he said, "I need nothing." And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child. The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a ma n can still feel after a long life. "This is the first time since I have been here," said he, "that any one has ent ered here. Who are you, sir?" The Bishop answered:-"My name is Bienvenu Myriel." "Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?" "I am." The old man resumed with a half-smile

"In that case, you are my bishop?" "Something of that sort." "Enter, sir." The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop di d not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:-"I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill." "Monsieur," replied the old man, "I am going to recover." He paused, and then said:-"I shall die three hours hence." Then he continued:-"I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yes terday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at t hings. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come an d look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be wi tnesses at that moment. One has one's caprices; I should have liked to last unti l the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night th en. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight." The old man turned to the shepherd lad:-"Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired." The child entered the hut. The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himsel f:-"I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors." The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not thi nk he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these pet ty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on oc casion, was so fond of laughing at "His Grace," was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort "citizen." He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priest s, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mo od to be severe. Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest co rdiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which i s so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust. The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the membe

r of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sy mpathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effe ct of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G----, calm , his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians w ho form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Moham medan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mi staken the door. G---- seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was fre edom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G----, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below. There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt. "I congratulate you," said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. "You did not vote for the death of the king, after all." The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning un derlying the words "after all." He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face. "Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant." It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity. "What do you mean to say?" resumed the Bishop. "I mean to say that man has a tyrant,--ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by sc ience." "And conscience," added the Bishop. "It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we ha ve within us." Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him. The member of the Convention resumed:-"So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said `no.' I did not think that I had th e right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the en d of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of s lavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I vo ted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the ove rthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors cau ses light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vas e of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy." "Mixed joy," said the Bishop. "You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, whi

ch is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I a dmit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modifie d. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there." "You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath." "Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, i t may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softene d spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the conse cration of humanity." The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:-"Yes? '93!" The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almos t lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of excla mation:-"Ah, there you go; '93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burs t. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial." The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied :-"The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity , which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no erro r." And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, "Lo uis XVII.?" The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm. "Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand ti me for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hu ng up by the armpits in the Place de Greve, until death ensued, for the sole cri me of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the s ole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV." "Monsieur," said the Bishop, "I like not this conjunction of names." "Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?" A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken. The conventionary resumed:-"Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them . He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, w as a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, `Sinite parvulos,' he made no disti nction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring t

ogether the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, i s its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys." "That is true," said the Bishop in a low voice. "I persist," continued the conventionary G---- "You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, p rovided that you will weep with me over the children of the people." "I weep for all," said the Bishop. "Equally!" exclaimed conventionary G----; "and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer." Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefing er, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to t he Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost a n explosion. "Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not a ll, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclo sure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who hel ps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many w ays of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear t he sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fo rk of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personal ity. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to s ay, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and r evenues, who have vast prebends,-- the bishopric of D---- fifteen thousand franc s settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand franc s,-- who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hen s on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Chri st who went barefoot! You are a prelate,--revenues, palace, horses, servants, go od table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like th e rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; t his does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?" The Bishop hung his head and replied, "Vermis sum--I am a worm." "A worm of the earth in a carriage?" growled the conventionary. It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop's to be humble. The Bishop resumed mildly:-"So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off beh ind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove t hat clemency is not a duty, and that '93 was not inexorable.

The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cl oud. "Before replying to you," he said, "I beseech you to pardon me. I have just com mitted a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your argu ments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in th e debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise y ou to make no use of them in the future." "I thank you," said the Bishop. G---- resumed. "Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? Wh at were you saying to me? That '93 was inexorable?" "Inexorable; yes," said the Bishop. "What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?" "What think you of Bossuet chanting the Te Deum over the dragonnades?" The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a p oint of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he wa s offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have thei r fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of lo gic. The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of s oul in his eyes. He went on:-"Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart fr om the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, '93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole mona rchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier -Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Baville? Mailla rd is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchene senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tete i s a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nur sing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little on e, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner s aid to the woman, a mother and a nurse, `Abjure!' giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that to rture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the fut ure; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there com es forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the adv antage; moreover, I am dying." And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:-"Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, t his fact is recognized,--that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed."

The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu's resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:-"Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who i s an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race." The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowl y. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said , almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:-"O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!" The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock. After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:-"The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be w ithout limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. Ther e is, then, an I. That I of the infinite is God." The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shi ver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes close d. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through i n a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brou ght him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching. The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at t hose closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man. "This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?" The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was impri nted on his countenance. "Bishop," said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity o f soul than from the failing of his strength, "I have passed my life in meditati on, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles exis ted, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were o n the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead T ree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind u p the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of yo ur profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according

to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For man y years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think th ey have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visag e of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one m yself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it tha t you have come to ask of me?" "Your blessing," said the Bishop. And he knelt down. When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired. The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G----; he contented himself with pointing heavenward. From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers. Any allusion to "that old wretch of a G----" caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and t he reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection. This "pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment i n all the little local coteries. "Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? The re was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are back sliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been v ery curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil." One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addr essed this sally to him, "Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!"--"Oh! oh! that's a coarse color," replied the Bishop. "It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat."

CHAPTER XI A RESTRICTION We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves, were we to conclude from t his that Monseigneur Welcome was "a philosophical bishop," or a "patriotic cure. " His meeting, which may almost be designated as his union, with conventionary G ----, left behind it in his mind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him stil l more gentle. That is all.

Although Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politician, this is, perhaps , the place to indicate very briefly what his attitude was in the events of that epoch, supposing that Monseigneur Bienvenu ever dreamed of having an attitude. Let us, then, go back a few years. Some time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate, the Emperor had m ade him a baron of the Empire, in company with many other bishops. The arrest of the Pope took place, as every one knows, on the night of the 5th to the 6th of July, 1809; on this occasion, M. Myriel was summoned by Napoleon to the synod of the bishops of France and Italy convened at Paris. This synod was held at Notre -Dame, and assembled for the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the pre sidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one of the ninety-five bishops who atte nded it. But he was present only at one sitting and at three or four private con ferences. Bishop of a mountain diocese, living so very close to nature, in rusti city and deprivation, it appeared that he imported among these eminent personage s, ideas which altered the temperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to D---- He was interrogated as to this speedy return, and he replied: "I embarras sed them. The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them the effect of an open door." On another occasion he said, "What would you have? Those gentlemen are princes. I am only a poor peasant bishop." The fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is said tha t he chanced to remark one evening, when he found himself at the house of one of his most notable colleagues: "What beautiful clocks! What beautiful carpets! Wh at beautiful liveries! They must be a great trouble. I would not have all those superfluities, crying incessantly in my ears: `There are people who are hungry! There are people who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people!'" Let us remark, by the way, that the hatred of luxury is not an intelligent hatr ed. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts. Nevertheless, in churchmen , luxury is wrong, except in connection with representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have very little that is charitable about them. An opulent priest is a contradiction. The priest must keep close to the poor. Now, can one come in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all th ese misfortunes, and this poverty, without having about one's own person a littl e of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible to imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm? Can one imagine a workman who is working near a furnac e, and who has neither a singed hair, nor blackened nails, nor a drop of sweat, nor a speck of ashes on his face? The first proof of charity in the priest, in t he bishop especially, is poverty. This is, no doubt, what the Bishop of D---- thought. It must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call the "ideas of the century" on certain delicate points. He took very little part in the theologica l quarrels of the moment, and maintained silence on questions in which Church an d State were implicated; but if he had been strongly pressed, it seems that he w ould have been found to be an ultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making a portrait, and since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced t o add that he was glacial towards Napoleon in his decline. Beginning with 1813, he gave in his adherence to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He refused to see him, as he passed through on his return from the island of Elba, and he a bstained from ordering public prayers for the Emperor in his diocese during the Hundred Days. Besides his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, he had two brothers, one a general

, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable frequency. He was harsh f or a time towards the former, because, holding a command in Provence at the epoc h of the disembarkation at Cannes, the general had put himself at the head of tw elve hundred men and had pursued the Emperor as though the latter had been a per son whom one is desirous of allowing to escape. His correspondence with the othe r brother, the ex-prefect, a fine, worthy man who lived in retirement at Paris, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate. Thus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirit, his hour of bitter ness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment traversed this grand a nd gentle spirit occupied with eternal things. Certainly, such a man would have done well not to entertain any political opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning: we are not confounding what is called "political opinions" with th e grand aspiration for progress, with the sublime faith, patriotic, democratic, humane, which in our day should be the very foundation of every generous intelle ct. Without going deeply into questions which are only indirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say this: It would have been well if M onseigneur Bienvenu had not been a Royalist, and if his glance had never been, f or a single instant, turned away from that serene contemplation in which is dist inctly discernible, above the fictions and the hatreds of this world, above the stormy vicissitudes of human things, the beaming of those three pure radiances, truth, justice, and charity. While admitting that it was not for a political office that God created Monseig neur Welcome, we should have understood and admired his protest in the name of r ight and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but perilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which pleases us in people who are rising please s us less in the case of people who are falling. We only love the fray so long a s there is danger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone the right to be the exterminators of the last. He who has not been a stubborn ac cuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of ruin. The denunciator o f success is the only legitimate executioner of the fall. As for us, when Provid ence intervenes and strikes, we let it work. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 181 3 the cowardly breach of silence of that taciturn legislative body, emboldened b y catastrophe, possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a cri me to applaud, in 1814, in the presence of those marshals who betrayed; in the p resence of that senate which passed from one dunghill to another, insulting afte r having deified; in the presence of that idolatry which was loosing its footing and spitting on its idol,-- it was a duty to turn aside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air, when France was seized with a shiver at t heir sinister approach, when Waterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Na poleon, the mournful acclamation of the army and the people to the condemned of destiny had nothing laughable in it, and, after making all allowance for the des pot, a heart like that of the Bishop of D----, ought not perhaps to have failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by the embrace of a grea t nation and a great man on the brink of the abyss. With this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable, intelligent, h umble and dignified, beneficent and kindly, which is only another sort of benevo lence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It must be admitted, that even in the political views with which we have just reproached him, and which we are dispos ed to judge almost with severity, he was tolerant and easy, more so, perhaps, th an we who are speaking here. The porter of the town-hall had been placed there b y the Emperor. He was an old non-commissioned officer of the old guard, a member of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist as the eagle. Th is poor fellow occasionally let slip inconsiderate remarks, which the law then s tigmatized as seditious speeches. After the imperial profile disappeared from th e Legion of Honor, he never dressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so t hat he should not be obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the imperial effigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him; this made a hol

e, and he would not put anything in its place. "I will die," he said, "rather th an wear the three frogs upon my heart!" He liked to scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. "The gouty old creature in English gaiters!" he said; "let him take himself off to Prussia with that queue of his." He was happy to combine in the same imprecat ion the two things which he most detested, Prussia and England. He did it so oft en that he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house, with his wife and children, and without bread. The Bishop sent for him, reproved him gently, a nd appointed him beadle in the cathedral. In the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu had, by dint of holy deeds and gentle manners, filled the town of D---- with a sort of tender and filial rever ence. Even his conduct towards Napoleon had been accepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were, by the people, the good and weakly flock who adored their emperor, b ut loved their bishop.

CHAPTER XII THE SOLITUDE OF MONSEIGNEUR WELCOME A bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of little abbes, just a s a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what that charming Saint Fr ancois de Sales calls somewhere "les pretres blancs-becs," callow priests. Every career has its aspirants, who form a train for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power which has not its dependents. There is no fortune whic h has not its court. The seekers of the future eddy around the splendid present. Every metropolis has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses the lea st influence has about him his patrol of cherubim from the seminary, which goes the round, and maintains good order in the episcopal palace, and mounts guard ov er monseigneur's smile. To please a bishop is equivalent to getting one's foot i n the stirrup for a sub-diaconate. It is necessary to walk one's path discreetly ; the apostleship does not disdain the canonship. Just as there are bigwigs elsewhere, there are big mitres in the Church. These are the bishops who stand well at Court, who are rich, well endowed, skilful, ac cepted by the world, who know how to pray, no doubt, but who know also how to be g, who feel little scruple at making a whole diocese dance attendance in their p erson, who are connecting links between the sacristy and diplomacy, who are abbe s rather than priests, prelates rather than bishops. Happy those who approach th em! Being persons of influence, they create a shower about them, upon the assidu ous and the favored, and upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasi ng, of large parishes, prebends, archidiaconates, chaplaincies, and cathedral po sts, while awaiting episcopal honors. As they advance themselves, they cause the ir satellites to progress also; it is a whole solar system on the march. Their r adiance casts a gleam of purple over their suite. Their prosperity is crumbled u p behind the scenes, into nice little promotions. The larger the diocese of the patron, the fatter the curacy for the favorite. And then, there is Rome. A bisho p who understands how to become an archbishop, an archbishop who knows how to be come a cardinal, carries you with him as conclavist; you enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you receive the pallium, and behold! you are an auditor, then a pa pal chamberlain, then monsignor, and from a Grace to an Eminence is only a step,

and between the Eminence and the Holiness there is but the smoke of a ballot. E very skull-cap may dream of the tiara. The priest is nowadays the only man who c an become a king in a regular manner; and what a king! the supreme king. Then wh at a nursery of aspirations is a seminary! How many blushing choristers, how man y youthful abbes bear on their heads Perrette's pot of milk! Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call itself vocation? in good faith, perchance, and deceiv ing itself, devotee that it is. Monseigneur Bienvenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not accounted among the big m itres. This was plain from the complete absence of young priests about him. We h ave seen that he "did not take" in Paris. Not a single future dreamed of engraft ing itself on this solitary old man. Not a single sprouting ambition committed t he folly of putting forth its foliage in his shadow. His canons and grand-vicars were good old men, rather vulgar like himself, walled up like him in this dioce se, without exit to a cardinalship, and who resembled their bishop, with this di fference, that they were finished and he was completed. The impossibility of gro wing great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well understood, that no sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they got themselves recom mended to the archbishops of Aix or of Auch, and went off in a great hurry. For, in short, we repeat it, men wish to be pushed. A saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation is a dangerous neighbor; he might communicate to you, by contagio n, an incurable poverty, an anchylosis of the joints, which are useful in advanc ement, and in short, more renunciation than you desire; and this infectious virt ue is avoided. Hence the isolation of Monseigneur Bienvenu. We live in the midst of a gloomy society. Success; that is the lesson which falls drop by drop from the slope of corruption. Be it said in passing, that success is a very hideous thing. Its false resembla nce to merit deceives men. For the masses, success has almost the same profile a s supremacy. Success, that Menaechmus of talent, has one dupe,--history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone grumble at it. In our day, a philosophy which is almost offic ial has entered into its service, wears the livery of success, and performs the service of its antechamber. Succeed: theory. Prosperity argues capacity. Win in the lottery, and behold! you are a clever man. He who triumphs is venerated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth! everything lies in that. Be lucky, and y ou will have all the rest; be happy, and people will think you great. Outside of five or six immense exceptions, which compose the splendor of a century, contem porary admiration is nothing but short-sightedness. Gilding is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival by pure chance, so long as you do arrive. The commo n herd is an old Narcissus who adores himself, and who applauds the vulgar herd. That enormous ability by virtue of which one is Moses, Aeschylus, Dante, Michae l Angelo, or Napoleon, the multitude awards on the spot, and by acclamation, to whomsoever attains his object, in whatsoever it may consist. Let a notary transf igure himself into a deputy: let a false Corneille compose Tiridate; let a eunuc h come to possess a harem; let a military Prudhomme accidentally win the decisiv e battle of an epoch; let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army of the Sambre-and-Meuse, and construct for himself, out of this cardboard, sold as leather, four hundred thousand francs of income; let a pork-packer espouse u sury, and cause it to bring forth seven or eight millions, of which he is the fa ther and of which it is the mother; let a preacher become a bishop by force of h is nasal drawl; let the steward of a fine family be so rich on retiring from ser vice that he is made minister of finances,--and men call that Genius, just as th ey call the face of Mousqueton Beauty, and the mien of Claude Majesty. With the constellations of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in t he soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.

CHAPTER XIII WHAT HE BELIEVED We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D---- on the score of orthodoxy. In t he presence of such a soul we feel ourselves in no mood but respect. The conscie nce of the just man should be accepted on his word. Moreover, certain natures be ing given, we admit the possible development of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs from our own. What did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery? These secrets of the inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where souls enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the difficulties of faith never reso lved themselves into hypocrisy in his case. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. "Credo in Patrem," he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the conscience, and which whispers to a man, "Thou art with God!" The point which we consider it our duty to note is, that outside of and beyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love. In was in that qu arter, quia multum amavit,--because he loved much--that he was regarded as vulne rable by "serious men," "grave persons" and "reasonable people"; favorite locuti ons of our sad world where egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this excess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as w e have already pointed out, and which, on occasion, extended even to things. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every man, even the best, has within him a thoughtless harshness which he reserves for animals. The Bishop of D---- had none of that harshness, which is peculiar to many priest s, nevertheless. He did not go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have weig hed this saying of Ecclesiastes: "Who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goe th?" Hideousness of aspect, deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did not arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It seemed as t hough he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of life which is appar ent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for them. He seemed at times to b e asking God to commute these penalties. He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in nature. This revery sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. O ne morning he was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister was w alking behind him, unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at something on t he ground; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say:-"Poor beast! It is not its fault!" Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness? Puerile the y may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to Saint Francis d'Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his ankle in his effort to avoid ste pping on an ant. Thus lived this just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garde n, and then there was nothing more venerable possible. Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth, and eve n in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate, and, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of nature than the resul t of a grand conviction which had filtered into his heart through the medium of

life, and had trickled there slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock, there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are uneffaceable; these formations are indestructible. In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth birthda y, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall; he was rather p lump; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond of taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm, and his form was but slightly bent, a detail from wh ich we do not pretend to draw any conclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty , held himself erect and smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bis hop. Monseigneur Welcome had what the people term a "fine head," but so amiable was he that they forgot that it was fine. When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his charms, and o f which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him, and joy seem ed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh and ruddy complexion, his very wh ite teeth, all of which he had preserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which cause the remark to be made of a man, "He 's a good fellow"; and of an old man, "He is a fine man." That, it will be recal led, was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first encounter, and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing, in fact, but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours, and beheld him in the least degre e pensive, the fine man became gradually transfigured, and took on some imposing quality, I know not what; his broad and serious brow, rendered august by his wh ite locks, became august also by virtue of meditation; majesty radiated from his goodness, though his goodness ceased not to be radiant; one experienced somethi ng of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling angel slowly unfol d his wings, without ceasing to smile. Respect, an unutterable respect, penetrat ed you by degrees and mounted to your heart, and one felt that one had before hi m one of those strong, thoroughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it can no longer be anything but gentle. As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion, alms-givin g, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit of land, fraternit y, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence, study, work, filled every d ay of his life. Filled is exactly the word; certainly the Bishop's day was quite full to the brim, of good words and good deeds. Nevertheless, it was not comple te if cold or rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden b efore going to bed, and after the two women had retired. It seemed to be a sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in the presence o f the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advance d hour of the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adori ng, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved am id the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers o ffer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation, he co uld not have told himself, probably, what was passing in his spirit; he felt som ething take its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysterious exch ange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe! He thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity, that st range mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more strange; of all the in finities, which pierced their way into all his senses, beneath his eyes; and, wi thout seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not s tudy God; he was dazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms, which communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them, cr eate individualities in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable in the inf

inite, and, through light, produce beauty. These conjunctions are formed and dis solved incessantly; hence life and death. He seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back against a decrepit vine; he gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his fruit-trees. Th is quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so encumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and satisfied his wants. What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his life, wher e there was so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime and contemplatio n at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the heavens for a ceiling, suffi cient to enable him to adore God in his most divine works, in turn? Does not thi s comprehend all, in fact? and what is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, and immensity in which to dream. At one's feet that whi ch can be cultivated and plucked; over head that which one can study and meditat e upon: some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky.

CHAPTER XIV WHAT HE THOUGHT One last word. Since this sort of details might, particularly at the present moment, and to us e an expression now in fashion, give to the Bishop of D---- a certain "pantheist ical" physiognomy, and induce the belief, either to his credit or discredit, tha t he entertained one of those personal philosophies which are peculiar to our ce ntury, which sometimes spring up in solitary spirits, and there take on a form a nd grow until they usurp the place of religion, we insist upon it, that not one of those persons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would have thought himself authori zed to think anything of the sort. That which enlightened this man was his heart . His wisdom was made of the light which comes from there. No systems; many works. Abstruse speculations contain vertigo; no, there is not hing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses. The apostle may be dari ng, but the bishop must be timid. He would probably have felt a scruple at sound ing too far in advance certain problems which are, in a manner, reserved for ter rible great minds. There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma; t hose gloomy openings stand yawning there, but something tells you, you, a passer -by in life, that you must not enter. Woe to him who penetrates thither! Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure speculation, situat ed, so to speak, above all dogmas, propose their ideas to God. Their prayer auda ciously offers discussion. Their adoration interrogates. This is direct religion , which is full of anxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cli ffs. Human meditation has no limits. At his own risk and peril, it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say, that by a sort of splendi d reaction, it with it dazzles nature; the mysterious world which surrounds us r

enders back what it has received; it is probable that the contemplators are cont emplated. However that may be, there are on earth men who--are they men?-- perce ive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery the heights of the absolut e, and who have the terrible vision of the infinite mountain. Monseigneur Welcom e was one of these men; Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius. He would have fear ed those sublimities whence some very great men even, like Swedenborg and Pascal , have slipped into insanity. Certainly, these powerful reveries have their mora l utility, and by these arduous paths one approaches to ideal perfection. As for him, he took the path which shortens,-- the Gospel's. He did not attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah's mantle; he p rojected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events; he did not see to condense in flame the light of things; he had nothing of the prophet and nothin g of the magician about him. This humble soul loved, and that was all. That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is probable: but one can no more pray too much than one can love too much; and if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts, Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome would be heretics. He inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe appeare d to him like an immense malady; everywhere he felt fever, everywhere he heard t he sound of suffering, and, without seeking to solve the enigma, he strove to dr ess the wound. The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him; he was occupied only in finding for himself, and in inspiring others with t he best way to compassionate and relieve. That which exists was for this good an d rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation. There are men who toil at extracting gold; he toiled at the extraction of pity. Universal misery was his mine. The sadness which reigned everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness. Love each other; he declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was the whole of his doctrine. One day, that man who believed himself to be a "philosopher," the senator who has already been alluded to, said to the Bishop: "Just survey the spectacle of the world: all wa r against all; the strongest has the most wit. Your love each other is nonsense. "--"Well," replied Monseigneur Welcome, without contesting the point, "if it is nonsense, the soul should shut itself up in it, as the pearl in the oyster." Thu s he shut himself up, he lived there, he was absolutely satisfied with it, leavi ng on one side the prodigious questions which attract and terrify, the fathomles s perspectives of abstraction, the precipices of metaphysics--all those profundi ties which converge, for the apostle in God, for the atheist in nothingness; des tiny, good and evil, the way of being against being, the conscience of man, the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal, the transformation in death, the recapitu lation of existences which the tomb contains, the incomprehensible grafting of s uccessive loves on the persistent I, the essence, the substance, the Nile, and t he Ens, the soul, nature, liberty, necessity; perpendicular problems, sinister o bscurities, where lean the gigantic archangels of the human mind; formidable aby sses, which Lucretius, Manou, Saint Paul, Dante, contemplate with eyes flashing lightning, which seems by its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaz e forth there. Monseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterio us questions without scrutinizing them, and without troubling his own mind with them, and who cherished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness.

BOOK SECOND--THE FALL

CHAPTER I THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D---- The few inhabitants who wer e at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wre tched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the pr ime of life. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string; trousers of blue drilling, worn and threadba re, white on one knee and torn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patch ed on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed soldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormo us, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; a shaved head and a long beard. The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not what sordi d quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, fo r it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time . No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came he? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entrance into D---- by t he same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walkin g all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town w hich is situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the boul evard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end of the promena de. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who followed him saw him st op again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain in the marke t-place. On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left, and dir ected his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the stone bench which Genera l Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D---- the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted the gendarme. The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at him, follow ed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the town-hall. There then existed at D---- a fine inn at the sign of the Cross of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another Labarre, who kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble, and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Em peror's landing, many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard t o this inn of the Three Dauphins. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised a

s a carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls of gold to the ci tizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered Grenoble he had refused to i nstall himself at the hotel of the prefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, "I am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance"; and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory of the Labarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre of the Cross of Colbas, at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, "That is the cousin of the man of Grenoble." The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the country-side . He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stove s were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the fireplace. The host, who was als o the chief cook, was going from one stew-pan to another, very busily superinten ding an excellent dinner designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversa tion, and laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has tra velled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking. The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said, without rais ing his eyes from his stoves:-"What do you wish, sir?" "Food and lodging," said the man. "Nothing easier," replied the host. At that moment he turned his head, took in the traveller's appearance with a single glance, and added, "By paying for it." The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse, and answered, "I have money." "In that case, we are at your service," said the host. The man ut it on mself on are cold put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, p the ground near the door, retained his stick in his hand, and seated hi a low stool close to the fire. D---- is in the mountains. The evenings there in October.

But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller. "Will dinner be ready soon?" said the man. "Immediately," replied the landlord. While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, t he worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off th e corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window. O n the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then i ntrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion's ear , and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall. The traveller saw nothing of all this. Once more he inquired, "Will dinner be ready soon?" "Immediately," responded the host.

The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, li ke a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tos sed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the d irection of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene. "I cannot receive you, sir," said he. The man half rose. "What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in adv ance? I have money, I tell you." "It is not that." "What then?" "You have money--" "Yes," said the man. "And I," said the host, "have no room." The man resumed tranquilly, "Put me in the stable." "I cannot." "Why?" "The horses take up all the space." "Very well!" retorted the man; "a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner." "I cannot give you any dinner." This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grav e. He rose. "Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have t ravelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat." "I have nothing," said the landlord. The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves: "N othing! and all that?" "All that is engaged." "By whom?" "By messieurs the wagoners." "How many are there of them?" "Twelve." "There is enough food there for twenty."

"They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance." The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, "I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain." Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, "G o away!" At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as h e opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: "Stop! there's enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?" So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had jus t travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. Th e man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause. "I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away!" The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited on the ground, and took his departure. He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture, keeping clos e to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single ti me. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the Cross of Colbas standing on his threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the passers-b y in the street, talking vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divine d that his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town. He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. The y know but too well the evil fate which follows them. Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing at rand om streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue, as is often the c ase when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night wa s drawing near. He glanced about him, to see whether he could not discover some shelter. The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble public hou se, some hovel, however lowly. Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. H e proceeded thither. It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de Chaffaut. The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interi or of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking ther e. The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubble d over the flame. The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is by two do ors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filled with manure. Th

e traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and opened the door. "Who goes there?" said the master. "Some one who wants supper and bed." "Good. We furnish supper and bed here." He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp illuminated hi m on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack. The host said to him, "There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the pot. Com e and warm yourself, comrade." He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his feet, wh ich were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was emitted by the pot . All that could be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, which was well p ulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort, mingled with that other poign ant aspect which habitual suffering bestows. It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy w as strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood. One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before enter ing the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Lab arre's. It chanced that he had that very morning encountered this unprepossessin g stranger on the road between Bras d'Asse and--I have forgotten the name. I thi nk it was Escoublon. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extr emely weary, had requested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmong er had made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a m ember half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas. From where he sat he made an imperceptible sign to the tave rn-keeper. The tavern-keeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low to ne. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections. The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shou lder of the man, and said to him:-"You are going to get out of here." The stranger turned round and replied gently, "Ah! You know?--" "Yes." "I was sent away from the other inn." "And you are to be turned out of this one." "Where would you have me go?" "Elsewhere." The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed. As he went out, some children who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas, an d who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at him. He retraced his s

teps in anger, and threatened them with his stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds. He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to a bell. He rang. The wicket opened. "Turnkey," said he, removing his cap politely, "will you have the kindness to a dmit me, and give me a lodging for the night?" A voice replied:-"The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be admitted." The wicket closed again. He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them are e nclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street. In the mids t of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a small house of a single story , the window of which was lighted up. He peered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in p rinted cotton stuff, and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a doub le-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the ro om. A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewter j ug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smoking soup-tureen . At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursi ng another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother wa s smiling. The stranger paused a moment in revery before this tender and calming spectacle . What was taking place within him? He alone could have told. It is probable tha t he thought that this joyous house would be hospitable, and that, in a place wh ere he beheld so much happiness, he would find perhaps a little pity. He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock. They did not hear him. He tapped again. He heard the woman say, "It seems to me, husband, that some one is knocking." "No," replied the husband. He tapped a third time. The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened. He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a huge leath er apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a hammer, a red handkerc hief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdle, a s in a pocket, caused to bulge out. He carried his head thrown backwards; his sh irt, widely opened and turned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick eyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of his face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his own ground , which is indescribable. "Pardon me, sir," said the wayfarer, "Could you, in consideration of payment, g

ive me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?" "Who are you?" demanded the master of the house. The man replied: "I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all day long . I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?-- if I pay?" "I would not refuse," said the peasant, "to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?" "There is no room." "Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Lab arre?" "Yes." "Well?" The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know. He did not receive me ." "Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?" The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He did not receive me ei ther." The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyed the ne wcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder:-"Are you the man?--" He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed th e lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall. Meanwhile, at the words, Are you the man? the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered, and with frightene d eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, "Tso-maraude."[1] [1] Patois of the French Alps: chat de maraude, rascally marauder. All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to one's self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as one scrutinizes a viper , the master of the house returned to the door and said:-"Clear out!" "For pity's sake, a glass of water," said the man. "A shot from my gun!" said the peasant. Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two large bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the sound of a bar of iron w hich was placed against it was audible outside. Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the light of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens which bordered t he street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed ov

er the wooden fence resolutely, and found himself in the garden. He approached t he hut; its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture, and it resembled t hose buildings which road-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought without doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he was suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter from the c old. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night. He threw himself fl at on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was warm there, and he found a tole rably good bed of straw. He lay, for a moment, stretched out on this bed, withou t the power to make a movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious growl be came audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined in th e darkness at the entrance of the hut. It was a dog's kennel. He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the kennel in the best way he c ould, not without enlarging the rents in his rags. He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in order t o keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manoeuvre with his stick whi ch masters in that sort of fencing designate as la rose couverte. When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim, "I am not even a dog!" He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town, hoping to fi nd some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford him shelter. He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he felt himsel f far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazed searchingly abou t him. He was in a field. Before him was one of those low hills covered with clo se-cut stubble, which, after the harvest, resemble shaved heads. The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was a bout to rise, and as there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the bri ghtness of twilight, these clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whit ish arch, whence a gleam of light fell upon the earth. The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a particularly s inister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and mean, was outlined vagu e and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole effect was hideous, petty, lugub rious, and narrow. There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree, which wri thed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer. This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of intelligen ce and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious aspects of things; nev ertheless, there was something in that sky, in that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly desolate, that after a moment of immobility and r every he turned back abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile. He retraced his steps; the gates of D---- were closed. D----, which had sustain

ed sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in 1815 by ancient w alls flanked by square towers which have been demolished since. He passed throug h a breach and entered the town again. It might have been eight o'clock in the evening. As he was not acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random. In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he passed throu gh the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church. At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is there tha t the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard to the army, brough t from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon himself, were printed for the first time. Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down on a st one bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office. At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man stretched o ut in the shadow. "What are you doing there, my friend?" said she. He answered harshly and angrily: "As you see, my good woman, I am sleeping." Th e good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was the Marquise de R---"On this bench?" she went on. "I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years," said the man; "to-day I hav e a mattress of stone." "You have been a soldier?" "Yes, my good woman, a soldier." "Why do you not go to the inn?" "Because I have no money." "Alas!" said Madame de R----, "I have only four sous in my purse." "Give it to me all the same." The man took the four sous. Madame de R---- continued: "You cannot obtain lodgi ngs in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is impossible for you t o pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no doubt. Some one might have gi ven you a lodging out of charity." "I have knocked at all doors." "Well?" "I have been driven away everywhere." The "good woman" touched the man's arm, and pointed out to him on the other sid e of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the Bishop's palace. "You have knocked at all doors?" "Yes." "Have you knocked at that one?"

"No." "Knock there."

CHAPTER II PRUDENCE COUNSELLED TO WISDOM. That evening, the Bishop of D----, after his promenade through the town, remain ed shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work on Duties, whi ch was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully compiling everything tha t the Fathers and the doctors have said on this important subject. His book was divided into two parts: firstly, the duties of all; secondly, the duties of each individual, according to the class to which he belongs. The duties of all are t he great duties. There are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards God (Matt. vi.); duties towards one's self (Matt. v. 29, 30); duties tow ards one's neighbor (Matt. vii. 12); duties towards animals (Matt. vi. 20, 25). As for the other duties the Bishop found them pointed out and prescribed elsewhe re: to sovereigns and subjects, in the Epistle to the Romans; to magistrates, to wives, to mothers, to young men, by Saint Peter; to husbands, fathers, children and servants, in the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithful, in the Epistle to the Hebrews; to virgins, in the Epistle to the Corinthians. Out of these prec epts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole, which he desired to pre sent to souls. At eight o'clock he was still at work, writing with a good deal of inconvenienc e upon little squares of paper, with a big book open on his knees, when Madame M agloire entered, according to her wont, to get the silver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop, knowing that the table was set, and t hat his sister was probably waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the dining-room. The dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, which had a door ope ning on the street (as we have said), and a window opening on the garden. Madame Magloire was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the table. As she performed this service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle Baptistine. A lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace. A wood fire was bu rning there. One can easily picture to one's self these two women, both of whom were over si xty years of age. Madame Magloire small, plump, vivacious; Mademoiselle Baptisti ne gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than her brother, dressed in a gown o f puce-colored silk, of the fashion of 1806, which she had purchased at that dat e in Paris, and which had lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which pos sess the merit of giving utterance in a single word to an idea which a whole pag e would hardly suffice to express, Madame Magloire had the air of a peasant, and

Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a lady. Madame Magloire wore a white quilted ca p, a gold Jeannette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her neck, the only bit of femi nine jewelry that there was in the house, a very white fichu puffing out from a gown of coarse black woollen stuff, with large, short sleeves, an apron of cotto n cloth in red and green checks, knotted round the waist with a green ribbon, wi th a stomacher of the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse sho es on her feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseilles. Mademoiselle Baptistine's gown was cut on the patterns of 1806, with a short waist, a narrow , sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps and buttons. She concealed her g ray hair under a frizzed wig known as the baby wig. Madame Magloire had an intel ligent, vivacious, and kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised , and her upper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather c rabbed and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace, she talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom; but as soon as Monseigneur began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed passively like her mistress. Mademo iselle Baptistine did not even speak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasi ng him. She had never been pretty, even when she was young; she had large, blue, prominent eyes, and a long arched nose; but her whole visage, her whole person, breathed forth an ineffable goodness, as we stated in the beginning. She had al ways been predestined to gentleness; but faith, charity, hope, those three virtu es which mildly warm the soul, had gradually elevated that gentleness to sanctit y. Nature had made her a lamb, religion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virg in! Sweet memory which has vanished! Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at the episcopal resi dence that evening, that there are many people now living who still recall the m ost minute details. At the moment when the Bishop entered, Madame Magloire was talking with conside rable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine on a subject which wa s familiar to her and to which the Bishop was also accustomed. The question conc erned the lock upon the entrance door. It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame Magloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken of a prowler of evil appearanc e; a suspicious vagabond had arrived who must be somewhere about the town, and t hose who should take it into their heads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant encounters. The police was very badly organized, moreov er, because there was no love lost between the Prefect and the Mayor, who sought to injure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to play t he part of their own police, and to guard themselves well, and care must be take n to duly close, bar and barricade their houses, and to fasten the doors well. Madame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just come from his room, where it was rather cold. He seated himself in front of the fire, and warmed himself, and then fell to thinking of other things. He did not take up th e remark dropped with design by Madame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoise lle Baptistine, desirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her b rother, ventured to say timidly:-"Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother?" "I have heard something of it in a vague way," replied the Bishop. Then half-tu rning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees, and raising towards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew joyous, and which was illum inated from below by the firelight,--"Come, what is the matter? What is the matt er? Are we in any great danger?" Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a little wit hout being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a bare-footed vagabon

d, a sort of dangerous mendicant, was at that moment in the town. He had present ed himself at Jacquin Labarre's to obtain lodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had been seen to arrive by the way of the boulevard G assendi and roam about the streets in the gloaming. A gallows-bird with a terrib le face. "Really!" said the Bishop. This willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed to her to indicate that the Bishop was on the point of becoming alarmed; she pursued triu mphantly:-"Yes, Monseigneur. That is how it is. There will be some sort of catastrophe in this town to-night. Every one says so. And withal, the police is so badly regul ated" (a useful repetition). "The idea of living in a mountainous country, and n ot even having lights in the streets at night! One goes out. Black as ovens, ind eed! And I say, Monseigneur, and Mademoiselle there says with me--" "I," interrupted his sister, "say nothing. What my brother does is well done." Madame Magloire continued as though there had been no protest:-"We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur will permit, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and replace the ancient locks on the doors; we have them, and it is only the work of a moment; for I sa y that nothing is more terrible than a door which can be opened from the outside with a latch by the first passer-by; and I say that we need bolts, Monseigneur, if only for this night; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always saying `c ome in'; and besides, even in the middle of the night, O mon Dieu! there is no n eed to ask permission." At that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door. "Come in," said the Bishop.

CHAPTER III THE HEROISM OF PASSIVE OBEDIENCE. The door opened. It opened wide with a rapid movement, as though some one had given it an energe tic and resolute push. A man entered. We already know the man. It was the wayfarer whom we have seen wandering about in search of shelter. He entered, advanced a step, and halted, leaving the door open behind him. He h

ad his knapsack on his shoulders, his cudgel in his hand, a rough, audacious, we ary, and violent expression in his eyes. The fire on the hearth lighted him up. He was hideous. It was a sinister apparition. Madame Magloire had not even the strength to utter a cry. She trembled, and sto od with her mouth wide open. Mademoiselle Baptistine turned round, beheld the man entering, and half started up in terror; then, turning her head by degrees towards the fireplace again, sh e began to observe her brother, and her face became once more profoundly calm an d serene. The Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man. As he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the new-comer what he desired, the man rested both hands on his staff, directed his gaze at the old man and the two wo men, and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he said, in a loud voice:-"See here. My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict from the galleys. I have pas sed nineteen years in the galleys. I was liberated four days ago, and am on my w ay to Pontarlier, which is my destination. I have been walking for four days sin ce I left Toulon. I have travelled a dozen leagues to-day on foot. This evening, when I arrived in these parts, I went to an inn, and they turned me out, becaus e of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the town-hall. I had to do it. I w ent to an inn. They said to me, `Be off,' at both places. No one would take me. I went to the prison; the jailer would not admit me. I went into a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and chased me off, as though he had been a man. One would have s aid that he knew who I was. I went into the fields, intending to sleep in the op en air, beneath the stars. There were no stars. I thought it was going to rain, and I re-entered the town, to seek the recess of a doorway. Yonder, in the squar e, I meant to sleep on a stone bench. A good woman pointed out your house to me, and said to me, `Knock there!' I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? I have money--savings. One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous, which I earned in the galleys by my labor, in the course of nineteen years. I will pay. What is that to me? I have money. I am very weary; twelve leagues on foot; I am very hungry. Are you willing that I should remain?" "Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place." The man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the table. " Stop," he resumed, as though he had not quite understood; "that's not it. Did yo u hear? I am a galley-slave; a convict. I come from the galleys." He drew from h is pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. "Here's my passport. Yellow, as you see. This serves to expel me from every place where I go. Will y ou read it? I know how to read. I learned in the galleys. There is a school ther e for those who choose to learn. Hold, this is what they put on this passport: ` Jean Valjean, discharged convict, native of'--that is nothing to you--`has been nineteen years in the galleys: five years for house-breaking and burglary; fourt een years for having attempted to escape on four occasions. He is a very dangero us man.' There! Every one has cast me out. Are you willing to receive me? Is thi s an inn? Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?" "Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will put white sheets on the bed in th e alcove." We have already explained the character of the two women's obedience. Madame Magloire retired to execute these orders. The Bishop turned to the man. "Sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We are going to sup in a few moments, and yo

ur bed will be prepared while you are supping." At this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expression of his face, up to that time sombre and harsh, bore the imprint of stupefaction, of doubt, of joy, and became extraordinary. He began stammering like a crazy man:-"Really? What! You will keep me? You do not drive me forth? A convict! You call me sir! You do not address me as thou? `Get out of here, you dog!' is what peop le always say to me. I felt sure that you would expel me, so I told you at once who I am. Oh, what a good woman that was who directed me hither! I am going to s up! A bed with a mattress and sheets, like the rest of the world! a bed! It is n ineteen years since I have slept in a bed! You actually do not want me to go! Yo u are good people. Besides, I have money. I will pay well. Pardon me, monsieur t he inn-keeper, but what is your name? I will pay anything you ask. You are a fin e man. You are an inn-keeper, are you not?" "I am," replied the Bishop, "a priest who lives here." "A priest!" said the man. "Oh, what a fine priest! Then you are not going to de mand any money of me? You are the cure, are you not? the cure of this big church ? Well! I am a fool, truly! I had not perceived your skull-cap." As he spoke, he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner, replaced his passport in his pocket, and seated himself. Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildl y at him. He continued: "You are humane, Monsieur le Cure; you have not scorned me. A good priest is a very good thing. Then you do not require me to pay?" "No," said the Bishop; "keep your money. How much have you? Did you not tell me one hundred and nine francs?" "And fifteen sous," added the man. "One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous. And how long did it take you to earn that?" "Nineteen years." "Nineteen years!" The Bishop sighed deeply. The man continued: "I have still the whole of my money. In four days I have spe nt only twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload some wagons at Grasse . Since you are an abbe, I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys. And one day I saw a bishop there. Monseigneur is what they call him. He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is the cure who rules over the other cures, y ou understand. Pardon me, I say that very badly; but it is such a far-off thing to me! You understand what we are! He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it glittered in th e bright light of midday. We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with c annons with lighted matches facing us. We could not see very well. He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not hear. That is what a bishop is like." While he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had remaine d wide open. Madame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon, which she placed on the table.

"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "place those things as near the fire as pos sible." And turning to his guest: "The night wind is harsh on the Alps. You must be cold, sir." Each time that he uttered the word sir, in his voice which was so gently grave and polished, the man's face lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is like a glass o f water to one of the shipwrecked of the Medusa. Ignominy thirsts for considerat ion. "This lamp gives a very bad light," said the Bishop. Madame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver candlesticks fro m the chimney-piece in Monseigneur's bed-chamber, and placed them, lighted, on t he table. "Monsieur le Cure," said the man, "you are good; you do not despise me. You rec eive me into your house. You light your candles for me. Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate man." The Bishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand. "You could n ot help telling me who you were. This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but w hether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. And do not thank me; do not say that I receive you in my house. No one is at hom e here, except the man who needs a refuge. I say to you, who are passing by, tha t you are much more at home here than I am myself. Everything here is yours. Wha t need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me you had one which I knew." The man opened his eyes in astonishment. "Really? You knew what I was called?" "Yes," replied the Bishop, "you are called my brother." "Stop, Monsieur le Cure," exclaimed the man. "I was very hungry when I entered here; but you are so good, that I no longer know what has happened to me." The Bishop looked at him, and said,-"You have suffered much?" "Oh, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil , the convicts, the thrashings, the double chain for nothing, the cell for one w ord; even sick and in bed, still the chain! Dogs, dogs are happier! Nineteen yea rs! I am forty-six. Now there is the yellow passport. That is what it is like." "Yes," resumed the Bishop, "you have come from a very sad place. Listen. There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that sad place wi th thoughts of hatred and of wrath against mankind, you are deserving of pity; i f you emerge with thoughts of good-will and of peace, you are more worthy than a ny one of us." In the meantime, Madame Magloire had served supper: soup, made with water, oil, bread, and salt; a little bacon, a bit of mutton, figs, a fresh cheese, and a l arge loaf of rye bread. She had, of her own accord, added to the Bishop's ordina ry fare a bottle of his old Mauves wine.

The Bishop's face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is peculiar t o hospitable natures. "To table!" he cried vivaciously. As was his custom when a stranger supped with him, he made the man sit on his right. Mademoiselle Baptis tine, perfectly peaceable and natural, took her seat at his left. The Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself, according to his cus tom. The man began to eat with avidity. All at once the Bishop said: "It strikes me there is something missing on this table." Madame Magloire had, in fact, only placed the three sets of forks and spoons wh ich were absolutely necessary. Now, it was the usage of the house, when the Bish op had any one to supper, to lay out the whole six sets of silver on the table-c loth--an innocent ostentation. This graceful semblance of luxury was a kind of c hild's play, which was full of charm in that gentle and severe household, which raised poverty into dignity. Madame Magloire understood the remark, went out without saying a word, and a mo ment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded by the Bishop were glittering upon the cloth, symmetrically arranged before the three persons seat ed at the table.

CHAPTER IV DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER. Now, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannot do bett er than to transcribe here a passage from one of Mademoiselle Baptistine's lette rs to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversation between the convict and the B ishop is described with ingenious minuteness. ". . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a sta rving man. However, after supper he said: "`Monsieur le Cure of the good God, all this is far too good for me; but I must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them keep a better tabl e than you do.' "Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:-"`They are more fatigued than I.' "`No,' returned the man, `they have more money. You are poor; I see that plainl y. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a cure? Ah, if the good God were but just, you certainly ought to be a cure!' "`The good God is more than just,' said my brother. "A moment later he added:--

"`Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going?' "`With my road marked out for me.' "I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:-"`I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If the nights are cold, the days are hot.' "`You are going to a good country,' said my brother. `During the Revolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comte at first, and there I lived fo r some time by the toil of my hands. My will was good. I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose. There are paper mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil factories, watch factories on a large scale, steel mills, copper works, twenty i ron foundries at least, four of which, situated at Lods, at Chatillon, at Audinc ourt, and at Beure, are tolerably large.' "I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which my brother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me:-"`Have we not some relatives in those parts, my dear sister?' "I replied,-"`We did have some; among others, M. de Lucenet, who was captain of the gates a t Pontarlier under the old regime.' "`Yes,' resumed my brother; `but in '93, one had no longer any relatives, one h ad only one's arms. I worked. They have, in the country of Pontarlier, whither y ou are going, Monsieur Valjean, a truly patriarchal and truly charming industry, my sister. It is their cheese-dairies, which they call fruitieres.' "Then my brother, while urging the man to eat, explained to him, with great min uteness, what these fruitieres of Pontarlier were; that they were divided into t wo classes: the big barns which belong to the rich, and where there are forty or fifty cows which produce from seven to eight thousand cheeses each summer, and the associated fruitieres, which belong to the poor; these are the peasants of m id-mountain, who hold their cows in common, and share the proceeds. `They engage the services of a cheese-maker, whom they call the grurin; the grurin receives the milk of the associates three times a day, and marks the quantity on a double tally. It is towards the end of April that the work of the cheese-dairies begin s; it is towards the middle of June that the cheese-makers drive their cows to t he mountains.' "The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him drink that good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself, because he says that wine is expe nsive. My brother imparted all these details with that easy gayety of his with w hich you are acquainted, interspersing his words with graceful attentions to me. He recurred frequently to that comfortable trade of grurin, as though he wished the man to understand, without advising him directly and harshly, that this wou ld afford him a refuge. One thing struck me. This man was what I have told you. Well, neither during supper, nor during the entire evening, did my brother utter a single word, with the exception of a few words about Jesus when he entered, w hich could remind the man of what he was, nor of what my brother was. To all app earances, it was an occasion for preaching him a little sermon, and of impressin g the Bishop on the convict, so that a mark of the passage might remain behind. This might have appeared to any one else who had this, unfortunate man in his ha nds to afford a chance to nourish his soul as well as his body, and to bestow up on him some reproach, seasoned with moralizing and advice, or a little commisera

tion, with an exhortation to conduct himself better in the future. My brother di d not even ask him from what country he came, nor what was his history. For in h is history there is a fault, and my brother seemed to avoid everything which cou ld remind him of it. To such a point did he carry it, that at one time, when my brother was speaking of the mountaineers of Pontarlier, who exercise a gentle la bor near heaven, and who, he added, are happy because they are innocent, he stop ped short, fearing lest in this remark there might have escaped him something wh ich might wound the man. By dint of reflection, I think I have comprehended what was passing in my brother's heart. He was thinking, no doubt, that this man, wh ose name is Jean Valjean, had his misfortune only too vividly present in his min d; that the best thing was to divert him from it, and to make him believe, if on ly momentarily, that he was a person like any other, by treating him just in his ordinary way. Is not this indeed, to understand charity well? Is there not, dea r Madame, something truly evangelical in this delicacy which abstains from sermo n, from moralizing, from allusions? and is not the truest pity, when a man has a sore point, not to touch it at all? It has seemed to me that this might have be en my brother's private thought. In any case, what I can say is that, if he ente rtained all these ideas, he gave no sign of them; from beginning to end, even to me he was the same as he is every evening, and he supped with this Jean Valjean with the same air and in the same manner in which he would have supped with M. Gedeon le Provost, or with the curate of the parish. "Towards the end, when he had reached the figs, there came a knock at the door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little one in her arms. My brother kissed the c hild on the brow, and borrowed fifteen sous which I had about me to give to Moth er Gerbaud. The man was not paying much heed to anything then. He was no longer talking, and he seemed very much fatigued. After poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure, my brother said grace; then he turned to the man and said to him, `Yo u must be in great need of your bed.' Madame Magloire cleared the table very pro mptly. I understood that we must retire, in order to allow this traveller to go to sleep, and we both went up stairs. Nevertheless, I sent Madame Magloire down a moment later, to carry to the man's bed a goat skin from the Black Forest, whi ch was in my room. The nights are frigid, and that keeps one warm. It is a pity that this skin is old; all the hair is falling out. My brother bought it while h e was in Germany, at Tottlingen, near the sources of the Danube, as well as the little ivory-handled knife which I use at table. "Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in the drawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired to our own chambers, witho ut saying a word to each other."

CHAPTER V TRANQUILLITY After bidding his sister good night, Monseigneur Bienvenu took one of the two s ilver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and said to hi m,-"Monsieur, I will conduct you to your room."

The man followed him. As might have been observed from what has been said above, the house was so arr anged that in order to pass into the oratory where the alcove was situated, or t o get out of it, it was necessary to traverse the Bishop's bedroom. At the moment when he was crossing this apartment, Madame Magloire was putting away the silverware in the cupboard near the head of the bed. This was her last care every evening before she went to bed. The Bishop installed his guest in the alcove. A fresh white bed had been prepar ed there. The man set the candle down on a small table. "Well," said the Bishop, "may you pass a good night. To-morrow morning, before you set out, you shall drink a cup of warm milk from our cows." "Thanks, Monsieur l'Abbe," said the man. Hardly had he pronounced these words full of peace, when all of a sudden, and w ithout transition, he made a strange movement, which would have frozen the two s ainted women with horror, had they witnessed it. Even at this day it is difficul t for us to explain what inspired him at that moment. Did he intend to convey a warning or to throw out a menace? Was he simply obeying a sort of instinctive im pulse which was obscure even to himself? He turned abruptly to the old man, fold ed his arms, and bending upon his host a savage gaze, he exclaimed in a hoarse v oice:-"Ah! really! You lodge me in your house, close to yourself like this?" He broke off, and added with a laugh in which there lurked something monstrous: -"Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I have not been an assass in?" The Bishop replied:-"That is the concern of the good God." Then gravely, and moving his lips like one who is praying or talking to himself , he raised two fingers of his right hand and bestowed his benediction on the ma n, who did not bow, and without turning his head or looking behind him, he retur ned to his bedroom. When the alcove was in use, a large serge curtain drawn from wall to wall conce aled the altar. The Bishop knelt before this curtain as he passed and said a bri ef prayer. A moment later he was in his garden, walking, meditating, conteplatin g, his heart and soul wholly absorbed in those grand and mysterious things which God shows at night to the eyes which remain open. As for the man, he was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit by the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with his nostrils after the manner of convicts, he dropped, all dressed as he was, upon the bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep. Midnight struck as the Bishop returned from his garden to his apartment. A few minutes later all were asleep in the little house.

CHAPTER VI JEAN VALJEAN Towards the middle of the night Jean Valjean woke. Jean Valjean came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He had not learned to rea d in his childhood. When he reached man's estate, be became a tree-pruner at Fav erolles. His mother was named Jeanne Mathieu; his father was called Jean Valjean or Vlajean, probably a sobriquet, and a contraction of viola Jean, "here's Jean ." Jean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposition which constitute s the peculiarity of affectionate natures. On the whole, however, there was some thing decidedly sluggish and insignificant about Jean Valjean in appearance, at least. He had lost his father and mother at a very early age. His mother had die d of a milk fever, which had not been properly attended to. His father, a tree-p runer, like himself, had been killed by a fall from a tree. All that remained to Jean Valjean was a sister older than himself,--a widow with seven children, boy s and girls. This sister had brought up Jean Valjean, and so long as she had a h usband she lodged and fed her young brother. The husband died. The eldest of the seven children was eight years old. The you ngest, one. Jean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took the father's plac e, and, in his turn, supported the sister who had brought him up. This was done simply as a duty and even a little churlishly on the part of Jean Valjean. Thus his youth had been spent in rude and ill-paid toil. He had never known a "kind w oman friend" in his native parts. He had not had the time to fall in love. He returned at night weary, and ate his broth without uttering a word. His sist er, mother Jeanne, often took the best part of his repast from his bowl while he was eating,--a bit of meat, a slice of bacon, the heart of the cabbage,--to giv e to one of her children. As he went on eating, with his head bent over the tabl e and almost into his soup, his long hair falling about his bowl and concealing his eyes, he had the air of perceiving nothing and allowing it. There was at Fav erolles, not far from the Valjean thatched cottage, on the other side of the lan e, a farmer's wife named Marie-Claude; the Valjean children, habitually famished , sometimes went to borrow from Marie-Claude a pint of milk, in their mother's n ame, which they drank behind a hedge or in some alley corner, snatching the jug from each other so hastily that the little girls spilled it on their aprons and down their necks. If their mother had known of this marauding, she would have pu nished the delinquents severely. Jean Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie -Claude for the pint of milk behind their mother's back, and the children were n ot punished. In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out as a hay-mak er, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did whatever he could. H is sister worked also but what could she do with seven little children? It was a

sad group enveloped in misery, which was being gradually annihilated. A very ha rd winter came. Jean had no work. The family had no bread. No bread literally. S even children! One Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker on the Church Square at Faveroll es, was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a violent blow on the grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed through a hole made by a b low from a fist, through the grating and the glass. The arm seized a loaf of bre ad and carried it off. Isabeau ran out in haste; the robber fled at the full spe ed of his legs. Isabeau ran after him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but his arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean. This took place in 1795. Jean Valjean was taken before the tribunals of the tim e for theft and breaking and entering an inhabited house at night. He had a gun which he used better than any one else in the world, he was a bit of a poacher, and this injured his case. There exists a legitimate prejudice against poachers. The poacher, like the smuggler, smacks too strongly of the brigand. Nevertheles s, we will remark cursorily, there is still an abyss between these races of men and the hideous assassin of the towns. The poacher lives in the forest, the smug gler lives in the mountains or on the sea. The cities make ferocious men because they make corrupt men. The mountain, the sea, the forest, make savage men; they develop the fierce side, but often without destroying the humane side. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Code were explicit. There occur formidable hours in our civilization; there are moments when the penal law s decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minute is that in which society draws back and consummates the irreparable abandonment of a sentient being! Jean Valjean w as condemned to five years in the galleys. On the 22d of April, 1796, the victory of Montenotte, won by the general-in-chi ef of the army of Italy, whom the message of the Directory to the Five Hundred, of the 2d of Floreal, year IV., calls Buona-Parte, was announced in Paris; on th at same day a great gang of galley-slaves was put in chains at Bicetre. Jean Val jean formed a part of that gang. An old turnkey of the prison, who is now nearly eighty years old, still recalls perfectly that unfortunate wretch who was chain ed to the end of the fourth line, in the north angle of the courtyard. He was se ated on the ground like the others. He did not seem to comprehend his position, except that it was horrible. It is probable that he, also, was disentangling fro m amid the vague ideas of a poor man, ignorant of everything, something excessiv e. While the bolt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his head with heav y blows from the hammer, he wept, his tears stifled him, they impeded his speech ; he only managed to say from time to time, "I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles." Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it gradually seven tim es, as though he were touching in succession seven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was divined that the thing which he had done, whatever it was, he had done for the sake of clothing and nourishing seven little children. He set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of twenty-seven days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he was clothed in the red cassock . All that had constituted his life, even to his name, was effaced; he was no lo nger even Jean Valjean; he was number 24,601. What became of his sister? What be came of the seven children? Who troubled himself about that? What becomes of the handful of leaves from the young tree which is sawed off at the root? It is always the same story. These poor living beings, these creatures of God, henceforth without support, without guide, without refuge, wandered away at rand om,--who even knows?-- each in his own direction perhaps, and little by little b uried themselves in that cold mist which engulfs solitary destinies; gloomy shad es, into which disappear in succession so many unlucky heads, in the sombre marc h of the human race. They quitted the country. The clock-tower of what had been

their village forgot them; the boundary line of what had been their field forgot them; after a few years' residence in the galleys, Jean Valjean himself forgot them. In that heart, where there had been a wound, there was a scar. That is all . Only once, during all the time which he spent at Toulon, did he hear his siste r mentioned. This happened, I think, towards the end of the fourth year of his c aptivity. I know not through what channels the news reached him. Some one who ha d known them in their own country had seen his sister. She was in Paris. She liv ed in a poor street Rear Saint-Sulpice, in the Rue du Gindre. She had with her o nly one child, a little boy, the youngest. Where were the other six? Perhaps she did not know herself. Every morning she went to a printing office, No. 3 Rue du Sabot, where she was a folder and stitcher. She was obliged to be there at six o'clock in the morning--long before daylight in winter. In the same building wit h the printing office there was a school, and to this school she took her little boy, who was seven years old. But as she entered the printing office at six, an d the school only opened at seven, the child had to wait in the courtyard, for t he school to open, for an hour--one hour of a winter night in the open air! They would not allow the child to come into the printing office, because he was in t he way, they said. When the workmen passed in the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated on the pavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast a sleep in the shadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it raine d, an old woman, the portress, took pity on him; she took him into her den, wher e there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs, and the little on e slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the cat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock the school opened, and he entered. That is what was told to Jean Valjean. They talked to him about it for one day; it was a moment, a flash, as though a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of those things whom he had lov ed; then all closed again. He heard nothing more forever. Nothing from them ever reached him again; he never beheld them; he never met them again; and in the co ntinuation of this mournful history they will not be met with any more. Towards the end of this fourth year Jean Valjean's turn to escape arrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. He escaped. He wander ed for two days in the fields at liberty, if being at liberty is to be hunted, t o turn the head every instant, to quake at the slightest noise, to be afraid of everything,--of a smoking roof, of a passing man, of a barking dog, of a gallopi ng horse, of a striking clock, of the day because one can see, of the night beca use one cannot see, of the highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On the eve ning of the second day he was captured. He had neither eaten nor slept for thirt y-six hours. The maritime tribunal condemned him, for this crime, to a prolongat ion of his term for three years, which made eight years. In the sixth year his t urn to escape occurred again; he availed himself of it, but could not accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at roll-call. The cannon were fired, and at ni ght the patrol found him hidden under the keel of a vessel in process of constru ction; he resisted the galley guards who seized him. Escape and rebellion. This case, provided for by a special code, was punished by an addition of five years, two of them in the double chain. Thirteen years. In the tenth year his turn cam e round again; he again profited by it; he succeeded no better. Three years for this fresh attempt. Sixteen years. Finally, I think it was during his thirteenth year, he made a last attempt, and only succeeded in getting retaken at the end of four hours of absence. Three years for those four hours. Nineteen years. In O ctober, 1815, he was released; he had entered there in 1796, for having broken a pane of glass and taken a loaf of bread. Room for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time, during his studies on th e penal question and damnation by law, that the author of this book has come acr oss the theft of a loaf of bread as the point of departure for the disaster of a destiny. Claude Gaux had stolen a loaf; Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf. English statistics prove the fact that four thefts out of five in London have hunger fo

r their immediate cause. Jean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged impassi ve. He had entered in despair; he emerged gloomy. What had taken place in that soul?

CHAPTER VII THE INTERIOR OF DESPAIR Let us try to say it. It is necessary that society should look at these things, because it is itself which creates them. He was, as we have said, an ignorant man, but he was not a fool. The light of n ature was ignited in him. Unhappiness, which also possesses a clearness of visio n of its own, augmented the small amount of daylight which existed in this mind. Beneath the cudgel, beneath the chain, in the cell, in hardship, beneath the bu rning sun of the galleys, upon the plank bed of the convict, he withdrew into hi s own consciousness and meditated. He constituted himself the tribunal. He began by putting himself on trial. He recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man unjustly punished. He ad mitted that he had committed an extreme and blameworthy act; that that loaf of b read would probably not have been refused to him had he asked for it; that, in a ny case, it would have been better to wait until he could get it through compass ion or through work; that it is not an unanswerable argument to say, "Can one wa it when one is hungry?" That, in the first place, it is very rare for any one to die of hunger, literally; and next, that, fortunately or unfortunately, man is so constituted that he can suffer long and much, both morally and physically, wi thout dying; that it is therefore necessary to have patience; that that would ev en have been better for those poor little children; that it had been an act of m adness for him, a miserable, unfortunate wretch, to take society at large violen tly by the collar, and to imagine that one can escape from misery through theft; that that is in any case a poor door through which to escape from misery throug h which infamy enters; in short, that he was in the wrong. Then he asked himself-Whether he had been the only one in fault in his fatal history. Whether it was not a serious thing, that he, a laborer, out of work, that he, an industrious ma n, should have lacked bread. And whether, the fault once committed and confessed , the chastisement had not been ferocious and disproportioned. Whether there had not been more abuse on the part of the law, in respect to the penalty, than the re had been on the part of the culprit in respect to his fault. Whether there ha

d not been an excess of weights in one balance of the scale, in the one which co ntains expiation. Whether the over-weight of the penalty was not equivalent to t he annihilation of the crime, and did not result in reversing the situation, of replacing the fault of the delinquent by the fault of the repression, of convert ing the guilty man into the victim, and the debtor into the creditor, and of ran ging the law definitely on the side of the man who had violated it. Whether this penalty, complicated by successive aggravations for attempts at es cape, had not ended in becoming a sort of outrage perpetrated by the stronger up on the feebler, a crime of society against the individual, a crime which was bei ng committed afresh every day, a crime which had lasted nineteen years. He asked himself whether human society could have the right to force its member s to suffer equally in one case for its own unreasonable lack of foresight, and in the other case for its pitiless foresight; and to seize a poor man forever be tween a defect and an excess, a default of work and an excess of punishment. Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods made by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration. These questions put and answered, he judged society and condemned it. He condemned it to his hatred. He made it responsible for the fate which he was suffering, and he said to hims elf that it might be that one day he should not hesitate to call it to account. He declared to himself that there was no equilibrium between the harm which he h ad caused and the harm which was being done to him; he finally arrived at the co nclusion that his punishment was not, in truth, unjust, but that it most assured ly was iniquitous. Anger may be both foolish and absurd; one can be irritated wrongfully; one is e xasperated only when there is some show of right on one's side at bottom. Jean V aljean felt himself exasperated. And besides, human society had done him nothing but harm; he had never seen any thing of it save that angry face which it calls Justice, and which it shows to t hose whom it strikes. Men had only touched him to bruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, o f his sister, had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than hi s hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed. There was at Toulon a school for the convicts, kept by the Ignorantin friars, w here the most necessary branches were taught to those of the unfortunate men who had a mind for them. He was of the number who had a mind. He went to school at the age of forty, and learned to read, to write, to cipher. He felt that to fort ify his intelligence was to fortify his hate. In certain cases, education and en lightenment can serve to eke out evil. This is a sad thing to say; after having judged society, which had caused his u nhappiness, he judged Providence, which had made society, and he condemned it al so. Thus during nineteen years of torture and slavery, this soul mounted and at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side, and darkness on the other.

Jean Valjean had not, as we have seen, an evil nature. He was still good when h e arrived at the galleys. He there condemned society, and felt that he was becom ing wicked; he there condemned Providence, and was conscious that he was becomin g impious. It is difficult not to indulge in meditation at this point. Does human nature thus change utterly and from top to bottom? Can the man creat ed good by God be rendered wicked by man? Can the soul be completely made over b y fate, and become evil, fate being evil? Can the heart become misshapen and con tract incurable deformities and infirmities under the oppression of a disproport ionate unhappiness, as the vertebral column beneath too low a vault? Is there no t in every human soul, was there not in the soul of Jean Valjean in particular, a first spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world, immortal in the ot her, which good can develop, fan, ignite, and make to glow with splendor, and wh ich evil can never wholly extinguish? Grave and obscure questions, to the last of which every physiologist would prob ably have responded no, and that without hesitation, had he beheld at Toulon, du ring the hours of repose, which were for Jean Valjean hours of revery, this gloo my galley-slave, seated with folded arms upon the bar of some capstan, with the end of his chain thrust into his pocket to prevent its dragging, serious, silent , and thoughtful, a pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath, condem ned by civilization, and regarding heaven with severity. Certainly,--and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact,-- the observing phy siologist would have beheld an irremediable misery; he would, perchance, have pi tied this sick man, of the law's making; but he would not have even essayed any treatment; he would have turned aside his gaze from the caverns of which he woul d have caught a glimpse within this soul, and, like Dante at the portals of hell , he would have effaced from this existence the word which the finger of God has , nevertheless, inscribed upon the brow of every man,--hope. Was this state of his soul, which we have attempted to analyze, as perfectly cl ear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to render it for those who read us? Did Jea n Valjean distinctly perceive, after their formation, and had he seen distinctly during the process of their formation, all the elements of which his moral mise ry was composed? Had this rough and unlettered man gathered a perfectly clear pe rception of the succession of ideas through which he had, by degrees, mounted an d descended to the lugubrious aspects which had, for so many years, formed the i nner horizon of his spirit? Was he conscious of all that passed within him, and of all that was working there? That is something which we do not presume to stat e; it is something which we do not even believe. There was too much ignorance in Jean Valjean, even after his misfortune, to prevent much vagueness from still l ingering there. At times he did not rightly know himself what he felt. Jean Valj ean was in the shadows; he suffered in the shadows; he hated in the shadows; one might have said that he hated in advance of himself. He dwelt habitually in thi s shadow, feeling his way like a blind man and a dreamer. Only, at intervals, th ere suddenly came to him, from without and from within, an access of wrath, a su rcharge of suffering, a livid and rapid flash which illuminated his whole soul, and caused to appear abruptly all around him, in front, behind, amid the gleams of a frightful light, the hideous precipices and the sombre perspective of his d estiny. The flash passed, the night closed in again; and where was he? He no longer kne w. The peculiarity of pains of this nature, in which that which is pitiless--tha t is to say, that which is brutalizing--predominates, is to transform a man, lit tle by little, by a sort of stupid transfiguration, into a wild beast; sometimes into a ferocious beast.

Jean Valjean's successive and obstinate attempts at escape would alone suffice to prove this strange working of the law upon the human soul. Jean Valjean would have renewed these attempts, utterly useless and foolish as they were, as often as the opportunity had presented itself, without reflecting for an instant on t he result, nor on the experiences which he had already gone through. He escaped impetuously, like the wolf who finds his cage open. Instinct said to him, "Flee! " Reason would have said, "Remain!" But in the presence of so violent a temptati on, reason vanished; nothing remained but instinct. The beast alone acted. When he was recaptured, the fresh severities inflicted on him only served to render h im still more wild. One detail, which we must not omit, is that he possessed a physical strength wh ich was not approached by a single one of the denizens of the galleys. At work, at paying out a cable or winding up a capstan, Jean Valjean was worth four men. He sometimes lifted and sustained enormous weights on his back; and when the occ asion demanded it, he replaced that implement which is called a jack-screw, and was formerly called orgueil [pride], whence, we may remark in passing, is derive d the name of the Rue Montorgueil, near the Halles [Fishmarket] in Paris. His co mrades had nicknamed him Jean the Jack-screw. Once, when they were repairing the balcony of the town-hall at Toulon, one of those admirable caryatids of Puget, which support the balcony, became loosened, and was on the point of falling. Jea n Valjean, who was present, supported the caryatid with his shoulder, and gave t he workmen time to arrive. His suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts who were forever dr eaming of escape, ended by making a veritable science of force and skill combine d. It is the science of muscles. An entire system of mysterious statics is daily practised by prisoners, men who are forever envious of the flies and birds. To climb a vertical surface, and to find points of support where hardly a projectio n was visible, was play to Jean Valjean. An angle of the wall being given, with the tension of his back and legs, with his elbows and his heels fitted into the unevenness of the stone, he raised himself as if by magic to the third story. He sometimes mounted thus even to the roof of the galley prison. He spoke but little. He laughed not at all. An excessive emotion was required t o wring from him, once or twice a year, that lugubrious laugh of the convict, wh ich is like the echo of the laugh of a demon. To all appearance, he seemed to be occupied in the constant contemplation of something terrible. He was absorbed, in fact. Athwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and a crushed intelli gence, he was confusedly conscious that some monstrous thing was resting on him. In that obscure and wan shadow within which he crawled, each time that he turne d his neck and essayed to raise his glance, he perceived with terror, mingled wi th rage, a sort of frightful accumulation of things, collecting and mounting abo ve him, beyond the range of his vision,-- laws, prejudices, men, and deeds,--who se outlines escaped him, whose mass terrified him, and which was nothing else th an that prodigious pyramid which we call civilization. He distinguished, here an d there in that swarming and formless mass, now near him, now afar off and on in accessible table-lands, some group, some detail, vividly illuminated; here the g alley-sergeant and his cudgel; there the gendarme and his sword; yonder the mitr ed archbishop; away at the top, like a sort of sun, the Emperor, crowned and daz zling. It seemed to him that these distant splendors, far from dissipating his n ight, rendered it more funereal and more black. All this-- laws, prejudices, dee ds, men, things--went and came above him, over his head, in accordance with the complicated and mysterious movement which God imparts to civilization, walking o ver him and crushing him with I know not what peacefulness in its cruelty and in exorability in its indifference. Souls which have fallen to the bottom of all po ssible misfortune, unhappy men lost in the lowest of those limbos at which no on

e any longer looks, the reproved of the law, feel the whole weight of this human society, so formidable for him who is without, so frightful for him who is bene ath, resting upon their heads. In this situation Jean Valjean meditated; and what could be the nature of his m editation? If the grain of millet beneath the millstone had thoughts, it would, doubtless, think that same thing which Jean Valjean thought. All these things, realities full of spectres, phantasmagories full of realities , had eventually created for him a sort of interior state which is almost indesc ribable. At times, amid his convict toil, he paused. He fell to thinking. His reason, at one and the same time riper and more troubled than of yore, rose in revolt. Eve rything which had happened to him seemed to him absurd; everything that surround ed him seemed to him impossible. He said to himself, "It is a dream." He gazed a t the galley-sergeant standing a few paces from him; the galley-sergeant seemed a phantom to him. All of a sudden the phantom dealt him a blow with his cudgel. Visible nature hardly existed for him. It would almost be true to say that ther e existed for Jean Valjean neither sun, nor fine summer days, nor radiant sky, n or fresh April dawns. I know not what vent-hole daylight habitually illumined hi s soul. To sum up, in conclusion, that which can be summed up and translated into posit ive results in all that we have just pointed out, we will confine ourselves to t he statement that, in the course of nineteen years, Jean Valjean, the inoffensiv e tree-pruner of Faverolles, the formidable convict of Toulon, had become capabl e, thanks to the manner in which the galleys had moulded him, of two sorts of ev il action: firstly, of evil action which was rapid, unpremeditated, dashing, ent irely instinctive, in the nature of reprisals for the evil which he had undergon e; secondly, of evil action which was serious, grave, consciously argued out and premeditated, with the false ideas which such a misfortune can furnish. His del iberate deeds passed through three successive phases, which natures of a certain stamp can alone traverse,--reasoning, will, perseverance. He had for moving cau ses his habitual wrath, bitterness of soul, a profound sense of indignities suff ered, the reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the just, if there a re any such. The point of departure, like the point of arrival, for all his thou ghts, was hatred of human law; that hatred which, if it be not arrested in its d evelopment by some providential incident, becomes, within a given time, the hatr ed of society, then the hatred of the human race, then the hatred of creation, a nd which manifests itself by a vague, incessant, and brutal desire to do harm to some living being, no matter whom. It will be perceived that it was not without reason that Jean Valjean's passport described him as a very dangerous man. From year to year this soul had dried away slowly, but with fatal sureness. Whe n the heart is dry, the eye is dry. On his departure from the galleys it had bee n nineteen years since he had shed a tear.

CHAPTER VIII BILLOWS AND SHADOWS A man overboard! What matters it? The vessel does not halt. The wind blows. That sombre ship has a path which it is forced to pursue. It passes on. The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges, he rises again to the surface; he calls, he stretches out his arms; he is not heard. The vessel, trembling unde r the hurricane, is wholly absorbed in its own workings; the passengers and sail ors do not even see the drowning man; his miserable head is but a speck amid the immensity of the waves. He gives vent to desperate cries from out of the depths . What a spectre is that retreating sail! He gazes and gazes at it frantically. It retreats, it grows dim, it diminishes in size. He was there but just now, he was one of the crew, he went and came along the deck with the rest, he had his p art of breath and of sunlight, he was a living man. Now, what has taken place? H e has slipped, he has fallen; all is at an end. He is in the tremendous sea. Under foot he has nothing but what flees and crumb les. The billows, torn and lashed by the wind, encompass him hideously; the toss ings of the abyss bear him away; all the tongues of water dash over his head; a populace of waves spits upon him; confused openings half devour him; every time that he sinks, he catches glimpses of precipices filled with night; frightful an d unknown vegetations seize him, knot about his feet, draw him to them; he is co nscious that he is becoming an abyss, that he forms part of the foam; the waves toss him from one to another; he drinks in the bitterness; the cowardly ocean at tacks him furiously, to drown him; the enormity plays with his agony. It seems a s though all that water were hate. Nevertheless, he struggles. He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes an effort; he swims. He, his petty strength all exhausted instantly, combats the inexhaustibl e. Where, then, is the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale shadows of the hor izon. The wind blows in gusts; all the foam overwhelms him. He raises his eyes and be holds only the lividness of the clouds. He witnesses, amid his death-pangs, the immense madness of the sea. He is tortured by this madness; he hears noises stra nge to man, which seem to come from beyond the limits of the earth, and from one knows not what frightful region beyond. There are birds in the clouds, just as there are angels above human distresses; but what can they do for him? They sing and fly and float, and he, he rattles i n the death agony. He feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sky, at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud. Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength is exhausted; that ship, that distant thing in which there were men, has vanished; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf; he sinks, he stiffens himself, he twists himself; he feels under him the monstrous billows of the invisible; he shouts. There are no more men. Where is God?

He shouts. Help! Help! He still shouts on. Nothing on the horizon; nothing in heaven. He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are deaf. He be seeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite. Around him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and nonsentient tumult, the unde fined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue. Beneath him the d epths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy adventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold paralyzes him. His hands contract c onvulsively; they close, and grasp nothingness. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, gusts , useless stars! What is to be done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, he chooses the alternative of death; he resists not; he lets himself go; he abando ns his grip; and then he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary depths of e ngulfment. Oh, implacable march of human societies! Oh, losses of men and of souls on the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip! Disastrous absence of he lp! Oh, moral death! The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling their co ndemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness. The soul, going down stream in this gulf, may become a corpse. Who shall resusc itate it?

CHAPTER IX NEW TROUBLES When the hour came for him to take his departure from the galleys, when Jean Va ljean heard in his ear the strange words, Thou art free! the moment seemed impro bable and unprecedented; a ray of vivid light, a ray of the true light of the li ving, suddenly penetrated within him. But it was not long before this ray paled. Jean Valjean had been dazzled by the idea of liberty. He had believed in a new life. He very speedily perceived what sort of liberty it is to which a yellow pa ssport is provided. And this was encompassed with much bitterness. He had calculated that his earni ngs, during his sojourn in the galleys, ought to amount to a hundred and seventy -one francs. It is but just to add that he had forgotten to include in his calcu lations the forced repose of Sundays and festival days during nineteen years, wh ich entailed a diminution of about eighty francs. At all events, his hoard had b een reduced by various local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs fi fteen sous, which had been counted out to him on his departure. He had understoo d nothing of this, and had thought himself wronged. Let us say the word--robbed. On the day following his liberation, he saw, at Grasse, in front of an orange-f

lower distillery, some men engaged in unloading bales. He offered his services. Business was pressing; they were accepted. He set to work. He was intelligent, r obust, adroit; he did his best; the master seemed pleased. While he was at work, a gendarme passed, observed him, and demanded his papers. It was necessary to s how him the yellow passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed his labor. A little while before he had questioned one of the workmen as to the amount which they e arned each day at this occupation; he had been told thirty sous. When evening ar rived, as he was forced to set out again on the following day, he presented hims elf to the owner of the distillery and requested to be paid. The owner did not u tter a word, but handed him fifteen sous. He objected. He was told, "That is eno ugh for thee." He persisted. The master looked him straight between the eyes, an d said to him "Beware of the prison." There, again, he considered that he had been robbed. Society, the State, by diminishing his hoard, had robbed him wholesale. Now it was the individual who was robbing him at retail. Liberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the galleys, but not from the sentence. That is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen in what manner he was rece ived at D----

CHAPTER X THE MAN AROUSED As the Cathedral clock struck two in the morning, Jean Valjean awoke. What woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty years since h e had slept in a bed, and, although he had not undressed, the sensation was too novel not to disturb his slumbers. He had slept more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away. He was accustom ed not to devote many hours to repose. He opened his eyes and stared into the gloom which surrounded him; then he clos ed them again, with the intention of going to sleep once more. When many varied sensations have agitated the day, when various matters preoccu py the mind, one falls asleep once, but not a second time. Sleep comes more easi ly than it returns. This is what happened to Jean Valjean. He could not get to s leep again, and he fell to thinking. He was at one of those moments when the thoughts which one has in one's mind ar e troubled. There was a sort of dark confusion in his brain. His memories of the olden time and of the immediate present floated there pell-mell and mingled con fusedly, losing their proper forms, becoming disproportionately large, then sudd enly disappearing, as in a muddy and perturbed pool. Many thoughts occurred to h

im; but there was one which kept constantly presenting itself afresh, and which drove away all others. We will mention this thought at once: he had observed the six sets of silver forks and spoons and the ladle which Madame Magloire had pla ced on the table. Those six sets of silver haunted him.--They were there.--A few paces distant.-Just as he was traversing the adjoining room to reach the one in which he then w as, the old servant-woman had been in the act of placing them in a little cupboa rd near the head of the bed.-- He had taken careful note of this cupboard.--On t he right, as you entered from the dining-room.--They were solid.--And old silver .-- From the ladle one could get at least two hundred francs.-- Double what he h ad earned in nineteen years.--It is true that he would have earned more if "the administration had not robbed him." His mind wavered for a whole hour in fluctuations with which there was certainl y mingled some struggle. Three o'clock struck. He opened his eyes again, drew hi mself up abruptly into a sitting posture, stretched out his arm and felt of his knapsack, which he had thrown down on a corner of the alcove; then he hung his l egs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the floor, and thus found h imself, almost without knowing it, seated on his bed. He remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitude, which would have been sug gestive of something sinister for any one who had seen him thus in the dark, the only person awake in that house where all were sleeping. All of a sudden he sto oped down, removed his shoes and placed them softly on the mat beside the bed; t hen he resumed his thoughtful attitude, and became motionless once more. Throughout this hideous meditation, the thoughts which we have above indicated moved incessantly through his brain; entered, withdrew, re-entered, and in a man ner oppressed him; and then he thought, also, without knowing why, and with the mechanical persistence of revery, of a convict named Brevet, whom he had known i n the galleys, and whose trousers had been upheld by a single suspender of knitt ed cotton. The checkered pattern of that suspender recurred incessantly to his m ind. He remained in this situation, and would have so remained indefinitely, even un til daybreak, had not the clock struck one--the half or quarter hour. It seemed to him that that stroke said to him, "Come on!" He rose to his feet, hesitated still another moment, and listened; all was quie t in the house; then he walked straight ahead, with short steps, to the window, of which he caught a glimpse. The night was not very dark; there was a full moon , across which coursed large clouds driven by the wind. This created, outdoors, alternate shadow and gleams of light, eclipses, then bright openings of the clou ds; and indoors a sort of twilight. This twilight, sufficient to enable a person to see his way, intermittent on account of the clouds, resembled the sort of li vid light which falls through an air-hole in a cellar, before which the passersb y come and go. On arriving at the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no gr ating; it opened in the garden and was fastened, according to the fashion of the country, only by a small pin. He opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated the room abruptly, he closed it again immediately. He scrutinized the garden with that attentive gaze which studies rather than looks. The garden was enclosed by a tolerably low white wall, easy to climb. Far away, at the ext remity, he perceived tops of trees, spaced at regular intervals, which indicated that the wall separated the garden from an avenue or lane planted with trees. Having taken this survey, he executed a movement like that of a man who has mad e up his mind, strode to his alcove, grasped his knapsack, opened it, fumbled in it, pulled out of it something which he placed on the bed, put his shoes into o ne of his pockets, shut the whole thing up again, threw the knapsack on his shou

lders, put on his cap, drew the visor down over his eyes, felt for his cudgel, w ent and placed it in the angle of the window; then returned to the bed, and reso lutely seized the object which he had deposited there. It resembled a short bar of iron, pointed like a pike at one end. It would have been difficult to disting uish in that darkness for what employment that bit of iron could have been desig ned. Perhaps it was a lever; possibly it was a club. In the daytime it would have been possible to recognize it as nothing more than a miner's candlestick. Convicts were, at that period, sometimes employed in qua rrying stone from the lofty hills which environ Toulon, and it was not rare for them to have miners' tools at their command. These miners' candlesticks are of m assive iron, terminated at the lower extremity by a point, by means of which the y are stuck into the rock. He took the candlestick in his right hand; holding his breath and trying to dea den the sound of his tread, he directed his steps to the door of the adjoining r oom, occupied by the Bishop, as we already know. On arriving at this door, he found it ajar. The Bishop had not closed it.

CHAPTER XI WHAT HE DOES Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound. He gave the door a push. He pushed it gently with the tip of his finger, lightly, with the furtive and u neasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering. The door yielded to this pressure, and made an imperceptible and silent movemen t, which enlarged the opening a little. He waited a moment; then gave the door a second and a bolder push. It continued to yield in silence. The opening was now large enough to allow him to pass. But near the door there stood a little table, which formed an embarras sing angle with it, and barred the entrance. Jean Valjean recognized the difficulty. It was necessary, at any cost, to enlar ge the aperture still further. He decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push, more energe tic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry. Jean Valjean shuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment.

In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenly assumed a terrible life, and t hat it was barking like a dog to arouse every one, and warn and to wake those wh o were asleep. He halted, shuddering, bewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire ho usehold, like the shock of an earthquake; the door, pushed by him, had taken the alarm, and had shouted; the old man would rise at once; the two old women would shriek out; people would come to their assistance; in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an uproar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thought himself lost. He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt, not daring to make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door had fallen wide open. He ventured to peep into the next room. Nothing had stirred there. He lent an ear. Nothing was moving in the house. The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened any one. This first danger was past; but there still reigned a frightful tumult within h im. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he had thought himself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought now was to finish as soon as possible. He t ook a step and entered the room. This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague and confused for ms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were papers scattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool, an arm-chair heaped with clothing, a p rie-Dieu, and which at that hour were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Je an Valjean advanced with precaution, taking care not to knock against the furnit ure. He could hear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil breathin g of the sleeping Bishop. He suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived there sooner th an he had thought for. Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with s ombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens. At the moment whe n Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpo se, and a ray of light, traversing the long window, suddenly illuminated the Bis hop's pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely dressed, on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps, in a garment of brown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. His head was thrown back on the pillow, i n the careless attitude of repose; his hand, adorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed. His whole face was illumined with a vague expression of sa tisfaction, of hope, and of felicity. It was more than a smile, and almost a rad iance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was i nvisible. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven. A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop. It was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for that heaven was within h im. That heaven was his conscience. At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itself, so to speak, upon th at inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It remained, howev er, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That moon in the sky, that slu mbering nature, that garden without a quiver, that house which was so calm, the

hour, the moment, the silence, added some solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aur eole that white hair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was confidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant. There was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august, without bei ng himself aware of it. Jean Valjean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron candlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had he beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral world has no grander spectac le than this: a troubled and uneasy conscience, which has arrived on the brink o f an evil action, contemplating the slumber of the just. That slumber in that isolation, and with a neighbor like himself, had about it something sublime, of which he was vaguely but imperiously conscious. No one could have told what was passing within him, not even himself. In order to attempt to form an idea of it, it is necessary to think of the most violent o f things in the presence of the most gentle. Even on his visage it would have be en impossible to distinguish anything with certainty. It was a sort of haggard a stonishment. He gazed at it, and that was all. But what was his thought? It woul d have been impossible to divine it. What was evident was, that he was touched a nd astounded. But what was the nature of this emotion? His eye never quitted the old man. The only thing which was clearly to be infer red from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange indecision. One would ha ve said that he was hesitating between the two abysses,-- the one in which one l oses one's self and that in which one saves one's self. He seemed prepared to cr ush that skull or to kiss that hand. At the expiration of a few minutes his left arm rose slowly towards his brow, a nd he took off his cap; then his arm fell back with the same deliberation, and J ean Valjean fell to meditating once more, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right hand, his hair bristling all over his savage head. The Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that terrifying gaze. The gleam of the moon rendered confusedly visible the crucifix over the chimney -piece, which seemed to be extending its arms to both of them, with a benedictio n for one and pardon for the other. Suddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow; then stepped rapidly past t he bed, without glancing at the Bishop, straight to the cupboard, which he saw n ear the head; he raised his iron candlestick as though to force the lock; the ke y was there; he opened it; the first thing which presented itself to him was the basket of silverware; he seized it, traversed the chamber with long strides, wi thout taking any precautions and without troubling himself about the noise, gain ed the door, re-entered the oratory, opened the window, seized his cudgel, bestr ode the window-sill of the ground-floor, put the silver into his knapsack, threw away the basket, crossed the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger, and fle d.

CHAPTER XII THE BISHOP WORKS The next morning at sunrise Monseigneur Bienvenu was strolling in his garden. M adame Magloire ran up to him in utter consternation. "Monseigneur, Monseigneur!" she exclaimed, "does your Grace know where the bask et of silver is?" "Yes," replied the Bishop. "Jesus the Lord be blessed!" she resumed; "I did not know what had become of it ." The Bishop had just picked up the basket in a flower-bed. He presented it to Ma dame Magloire. "Here it is." "Well!" said she. "Nothing in it! And the silver?" "Ah," returned the Bishop, "so it is the silver which troubles you? I don't kno w where it is." "Great, good God! It is stolen! That man who was here last night has stolen it. " In a twinkling, with all the vivacity of an alert old woman, Madame Magloire ha d rushed to the oratory, entered the alcove, and returned to the Bishop. The Bis hop had just bent down, and was sighing as he examined a plant of cochlearia des Guillons, which the basket had broken as it fell across the bed. He rose up at Madame Magloire's cry. "Monseigneur, the man is gone! The silver has been stolen!" As she uttered this exclamation, her eyes fell upon a corner of the garden, whe re traces of the wall having been scaled were visible. The coping of the wall ha d been torn away. "Stay! yonder is the way he went. He jumped over into Cochefilet Lane. Ah, the abomination! He has stolen our silver!" The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he raised his grave eyes, and sai d gently to Madame Magloire:-"And, in the first place, was that silver ours?" Madame Magloire was speechless. Another silence ensued; then the Bishop went on :-"Madame Magloire, I have for a long time detained that silver wrongfully. It be longed to the poor. Who was that man? A poor man, evidently." "Alas! Jesus!" returned Madame Magloire. "It is not for my sake, nor for Mademo iselle's. It makes no difference to us. But it is for the sake of Monseigneur. W hat is Monseigneur to eat with now?"

The Bishop gazed at her with an air of amazement. "Ah, come! Are there no such things as pewter forks and spoons?" Madame Magloire shrugged her shoulders. "Pewter has an odor." "Iron forks and spoons, then." Madame Magloire made an expressive grimace. "Iron has a taste." "Very well," said the Bishop; "wooden ones then." A few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean Valjean had sat on the previous evening. As he ate his breakfast, Monseigneur Welcome r emarked gayly to his sister, who said nothing, and to Madame Magloire, who was g rumbling under her breath, that one really does not need either fork or spoon, e ven of wood, in order to dip a bit of bread in a cup of milk. "A pretty idea, truly," said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went and came, "to take in a man like that! and to lodge him close to one's self! And how fortu nate that he did nothing but steal! Ah, mon Dieu! it makes one shudder to think of it!" As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door. "Come in," said the Bishop. The door opened. A singular and violent group made its appearance on the thresh old. Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar. The three men were genda rmes; the other was Jean Valjean. A brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was standin g near the door. He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a military salute . "Monseigneur--" said he. At this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed, raised his head with an air of stupefaction. "Monseigneur!" he murmured. "So he is not the cure?" "Silence!" said the gendarme. "He is Monseigneur the Bishop." In the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his great age permitted. "Ah! here you are!" he exclaimed, looking at Jean Valjean. "I am glad to see yo u. Well, but how is this? I gave you the candlesticks too, which are of silver l ike the rest, and for which you can certainly get two hundred francs. Why did yo u not carry them away with your forks and spoons?" Jean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the venerable Bishop with an e xpression which no human tongue can render any account of.

"Monseigneur," said the brigadier of gendarmes, "so what this man said is true, then? We came across him. He was walking like a man who is running away. We sto pped him to look into the matter. He had this silver--" "And he told you," interposed the Bishop with a smile, "that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had passed the night? I see how the matter stands. And you have brought him back here? It is a mistake." "In that case," replied the brigadier, "we can let him go?" "Certainly," replied the Bishop. The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled. "Is it true that I am to be released?" he said, in an almost inarticulate voice , and as though he were talking in his sleep. "Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?" said one of the gendarmes. "My friend," resumed the Bishop, "before you go, here are your candlesticks. Ta ke them." He stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them to Jean Valjean. The two women looked on without uttering a word, without a gesture, without a look which could disconcert the Bishop. Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks mechanic ally, and with a bewildered air. "Now," said the Bishop, "go in peace. By the way, when you return, my friend, i t is not necessary to pass through the garden. You can always enter and depart t hrough the street door. It is never fastened with anything but a latch, either b y day or by night." Then, turning to the gendarmes:-"You may retire, gentlemen." The gendarmes retired. Jean Valjean was like a man on the point of fainting. The Bishop drew near to him, and said in a low voice:-"Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money in becom ing an honest man." Jean Valjean, who had no recollection of ever having promised anything, remaine d speechless. The Bishop had emphasized the words when he uttered them. He resum ed with solemnity:-"Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is you r soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God."

CHAPTER XIII LITTLE GERVAIS Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a v ery hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented the mselves to him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the whole morning, without having eaten anything and without fe eling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage; he did not know against whom it was directed. He could not ha ve told whether he was touched or humiliated. There came over him at moments a s trange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed the hardness acquired d uring the last twenty years of his life. This state of mind fatigued him. He per ceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice of his mi sfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace this. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison w ith the gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in this way; it woul d have agitated him less. Although the season was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late flowers in the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories of his childhood. The se memories were almost intolerable to him, it was so long since they had recurr ed to him. Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long. As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, whic h was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D---- A path which intersected the plain passed a few paces from t he bush. In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous s ound became audible. He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his bac k, One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers. Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and p layed at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand--his whole fortu ne, probably. Among this money there was one forty-sou piece. The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and tossed u p his handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand. This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the brushwo

od until it reached Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean set his foot upon it. In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of hi m. He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man. The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see there was not a p erson on the plain or on the path. The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense heig ht. The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam the savage face of Jean Valje an. "Sir," said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is compose d of ignorance and innocence, "my money." "What is your name?" said Jean Valjean. "Little Gervais, sir." "Go away," said Jean Valjean. "Sir," resumed the child, "give me back my money." Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply. The child began again, "My money, sir." Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth. "My piece of money!" cried the child, "my white piece! my silver!" It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displ ace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure. "I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!" The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eye s were troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretche d out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, "Who's there?" "I, sir," replied the child. "Little Gervais! I! Give me back my forty sous, if you please! Take your foot away, sir, if you please!" Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing:-"Come now, will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we'll see!" "Ah! It's still you!" said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his f oot still resting on the silver piece, he added:-"Will you take yourself off!" The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, an d after a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top of his speed, wit hout daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry.

Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance, and J ean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own revery. At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared. The sun had set. The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day; it is probable that he was feverish. He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child's fli ght. The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixe d ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound a ttention the shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen i n the grass. All at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of eve ning. He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and bu tton his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel. At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. "What is this?" he muttered between his teeth . He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze fr om the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thin g which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him. At the expiration in, seized it, and the plain, at the as he stood there eking refuge. of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver co straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which is se

He saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight. He said, "Ah!" and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disa ppeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing. Then he shouted with all his might:-"Little Gervais! Little Gervais!" He paused and waited. There was no reply. The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space. There was n othing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost, and a silence whi ch engulfed his voice. An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort of lugu brious life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One w ould have said that they were threatening and pursuing some one. He set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from time to time he h alted and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate that it was possible to hear, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais!"

Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and would hav e taken good care not to show himself. But the child was no doubt already far aw ay. He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said:-"Monsieur le Cure, have you seen a child pass?" "No," said the priest. "One named Little Gervais?" "I have seen no one." He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed them to the priest. "Monsieur le Cure, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Cure, he was a lit tle lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards, you know?" "I have not seen him." "Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me?" "If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons p ass through these parts. We know nothing of them." Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence, and gave them to the priest. "For your poor," he said. Then he added, wildly:-"Monsieur l'Abbe, have me arrested. I am a thief." The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed. Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first taken. In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or crouching down; i t turned out to be nothing but brushwood or rocks nearly on a level with the ear th. At length, at a spot where three paths intersected each other, he stopped. T he moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last t ime, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais! Little Gervais!" His shout died away in th e mist, without even awakening an echo. He murmured yet once more, "Little Gerva is!" but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible power had suddenly over whelmed him with the weight of his evil conscience; he fell exhausted, on a larg e stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried, "I am a wretch!" Then his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that he had we pt in nineteen years. When Jean Valjean left the Bishop's house, he was, as we have seen, quite throw n out of everything that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to th

e evidence of what was going on within him. He hardened himself against the ange lic action and the gentle words of the old man. "You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to the good God." This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pr ide, which is the fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable atta ck which had moved him yet; that his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if he yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be conqu ered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man. In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what mig ht result to him from his adventure at D----? Did he understand all those myster ious murmurs which warn or importune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destin y; that there no longer remained a middle course for him; that if he were not he nceforth the best of men, he would be the worst; that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than the convict; that if he wished to become good be must become an angel; that if he wished to remain e vil, he must become a monster? Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused w ay? Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does form the education of the intell igence; nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of, rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwin g him into an unutterable and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the Bishop had hurt h is soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark . The future life, the possible life which offered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors and anxiety. He no longer knew where he really was. Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict ha d been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue. That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same man, that everything about him was changed, that it was no longer in hi s power to make it as though the Bishop had not spoken to him and had not touche d him. In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed him of his forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it; was this the last effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had br ought away from the galleys,-- a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less tha n that. Let us say it simply, it was not he who stole; it was not the man; it wa s the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that mo ney, while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto unhea rd-of thoughts besetting it. When intelligence re-awakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror. It was because,--strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the sit uation in which he found himself,--in stealing the money from that child, he had

done a thing of which he was no longer capable. However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him; it abr uptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind, and dispersed it, placed o n one side the thick obscurity, and on the other the light, and acted on his sou l, in the state in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a tr oubled mixture by precipitating one element and clarifying the other. First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, lik e one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return h is money to him; then, when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the moment when he exclaimed "I am a wretch!" he had just perceived what he was, and he was already separated from himself to such a degre e, that he seemed to himself to be no longer anything more than a phantom, and a s if he had, there before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, J ean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack filled with st olen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects. Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a visiona ry. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean , that sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking hims elf who that man was, and he was horrified by him. His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in which revery is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beholds t he object which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from one's sel f, the figures which one has in one's own mind. Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light w hich he at first took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a h uman form and that this torch was the Bishop. His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it,-- the Bisho p and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the secon d. By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasie s, in proportion as his revery continued, as the Bishop grew great and resplende nt in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time h e was no longer anything more than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bish op alone remained; he filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnific ent radiance. Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more w eakness than a woman, with more fright than a child. As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul; an extraor dinary light; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first f ault, his long expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his d ismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had happened to him at the Bishop's, the last thing that he had done, that theft of forty so us from a child, a crime all the more cowardly, and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's pardon,--all this recurred to his mind and appea red clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his soul, and it seemed fri ghtful to him. In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and this sou l. It seemed to him that he beheld Satan by the light of Paradise. How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept? Whither did

he go! No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, and who arrived a t D---- about three o'clock in the morning, saw, as he traversed the street in w hich the Bishop's residence was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneel ing on the pavement in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur Welcome.

BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817

CHAPTER I THE YEAR 1817 1817 is the year which Louis XVIII., with a certain royal assurance which was n ot wanting in pride, entitled the twenty-second of his reign. It is the year in which M. Bruguiere de Sorsum was celebrated. All the hairdressers' shops, hoping for powder and the return of the royal bird, were besmeared with azure and deck ed with fleurs-de-lys. It was the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sun day as church-warden in the church-warden's pew of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, in hi s costume of a peer of France, with his red ribbon and his long nose and the maj esty of profile peculiar to a man who has performed a brilliant action. The bril liant action performed by M. Lynch was this: being mayor of Bordeaux, on the 12t h of March, 1814, he had surrendered the city a little too promptly to M. the Du ke d'Angouleme. Hence his peerage. In 1817 fashion swallowed up little boys of f rom four to six years of age in vast caps of morocco leather with ear-tabs resem bling Esquimaux mitres. The French army was dressed in white, after the mode of the Austrian; the regiments were called legions; instead of numbers they bore th e names of departments; Napoleon was at St. Helena; and since England refused hi m green cloth, he was having his old coats turned. In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Made moiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned; Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso. There were still Prussians in France. M. Delalot was a personage. Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand, then th e head, of Pleignier, of Carbonneau, and of Tolleron. The Prince de Talleyrand, grand chamberlain, and the Abbe Louis, appointed minister of finance, laughed as they looked at each other, with the laugh of the two augurs; both of them had c elebrated, on the 14th of July, 1790, the mass of federation in the Champ de Mar s; Talleyrand had said it as bishop, Louis had served it in the capacity of deac on. In 1817, in the side-alleys of this same Champ de Mars, two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted blue, with traces of eagles and bees, from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns which two years before had upheld the Emperor's platform in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the bivou ac of Austrians encamped near Gros-Caillou. Two or three of these columns had di sappeared in these bivouac fires, and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this remarkable point: that it had been held in th e month of June and in the Field of March (Mars). In this year, 1817, two things were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuff-box a la Charter. The most rec ent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun, who had thrown his brother's hea d into the fountain of the Flower-Market.

They had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Department, on account of the lack of news from that fatal frigate, The Medusa, which was destined to cover Chaumar eix with infamy and Gericault with glory. Colonel Selves was going to Egypt to b ecome Soliman-Pasha. The palace of Thermes, in the Rue de La Harpe, served as a shop for a cooper. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny, the little shed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the n aval astronomer under Louis XVI., was still to be seen. The Duchesse de Duras re ad to three or four friends her unpublished Ourika, in her boudoir furnished by X. in sky-blue satin. The N's were scratched off the Louvre. The bridge of Auste rlitz had abdicated, and was entitled the bridge of the King's Garden [du Jardin du Roi], a double enigma, which disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jard in des Plantes at one stroke. Louis XVIII., much preoccupied while annotating Ho race with the corner of his finger-nail, heroes who have become emperors, and ma kers of wooden shoes who have become dauphins, had two anxieties,--Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau. The French Academy had given for its prize subject, The Happin ess procured through Study. M. Bellart was officially eloquent. In his shadow co uld be seen germinating that future advocate-general of Broe, dedicated to the s arcasms of Paul-Louis Courier. There was a false Chateaubriand, named Marchangy, in the interim, until there should be a false Marchangy, named d'Arlincourt. Cl aire d'Albe and Malek-Adel were masterpieces; Madame Cottin was proclaimed the c hief writer of the epoch. The Institute had the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte, stricken from its list of members. A royal ordinance erected Angouleme into a n aval school; for the Duc d'Angouleme, being lord high admiral, it was evident th at the city of Angouleme had all the qualities of a seaport; otherwise the monar chical principle would have received a wound. In the Council of Ministers the qu estion was agitated whether vignettes representing slack-rope performances, whic h adorned Franconi's advertising posters, and which attracted throngs of street urchins, should be tolerated. M. Paer, the author of Agnese, a good sort of fell ow, with a square face and a wart on his cheek, directed the little private conc erts of the Marquise de Sasenaye in the Rue Ville l'Eveque. All the young girls were singing the Hermit of Saint-Avelle, with words by Edmond Geraud. The Yellow Dwarf was transferred into Mirror. The Cafe Lemblin stood up for the Emperor, a gainst the Cafe Valois, which upheld the Bourbons. The Duc de Berri, already sur veyed from the shadow by Louvel, had just been married to a princess of Sicily. Madame de Stael had died a year previously. The body-guard hissed Mademoiselle M ars. The grand newspapers were all very small. Their form was restricted, but th eir liberty was great. The Constitutionnel was constitutional. La Minerve called Chateaubriand Chateaubriant. That t made the good middle-class people laugh hea rtily at the expense of the great writer. In journals which sold themselves, pro stituted journalists, insulted the exiles of 1815. David had no longer any talen t, Arnault had no longer any wit, Carnot was no longer honest, Soult had won no battles; it is true that Napoleon had no longer any genius. No one is ignorant o f the fact that letters sent to an exile by post very rarely reached him, as the police made it their religious duty to intercept them. This is no new fact; Des cartes complained of it in his exile. Now David, having, in a Belgian publicatio n, shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had been written to him , it struck the royalist journals as amusing; and they derided the prescribed ma n well on this occasion. What separated two men more than an abyss was to say, t he regicides, or to say the voters; to say the enemies, or to say the allies; to say Napoleon, or to say Buonaparte. All sensible people were agreed that the er a of revolution had been closed forever by King Louis XVIII., surnamed "The Immo rtal Author of the Charter." On the platform of the Pont-Neuf, the word Redivivu s was carved on the pedestal that awaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Piet, in th e Rue Therese, No. 4, was making the rough draft of his privy assembly to consol idate the monarchy. The leaders of the Right said at grave conjunctures, "We mus t write to Bacot." MM. Canuel, O'Mahoney, and De Chappedelaine were preparing th e sketch, to some extent with Monsieur's approval, of what was to become later o n "The Conspiracy of the Bord de l'Eau"--of the waterside. L'Epingle Noire was a lready plotting in his own quarter. Delaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M.

Decazes, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every mornin g at his window at No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominique, clad in footed trousers, and slip pers, with a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed on a mirror, a complete set of dentist's instruments spread out before him, cleanin g his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated The Monarchy according to th e Charter to M. Pilorge, his secretary. Criticism, assuming an authoritative ton e, preferred Lafon to Talma. M. de Feletez signed himself A.; M. Hoffmann signed himself Z. Charles Nodier wrote Therese Aubert. Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called themselves colleges. The collegians, decorated on the collar with a golde n fleur-de-lys, fought each other apropos of the King of Rome. The counter-polic e of the chateau had denounced to her Royal Highness Madame, the portrait, every where exhibited, of M. the Duc d'Orleans, who made a better appearance in his un iform of a colonel-general of hussars than M. the Duc de Berri, in his uniform o f colonel-general of dragoons-- a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was h aving the dome of the Invalides regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked t hemselves what M. de Trinquelague would do on such or such an occasion; M. Claus el de Montals differed on divers points from M. Clausel de Coussergues; M. de Sa laberry was not satisfied. The comedian Picard, who belonged to the Academy, whi ch the comedian Moliere had not been able to do, had The Two Philiberts played a t the Odeon, upon whose pediment the removal of the letters still allowed THEATR E OF THE EMPRESS to be plainly read. People took part for or against Cugnet de M ontarlot. Fabvier was factious; Bavoux was revolutionary. The Liberal, Pelicier, published an edition of Voltaire, with the following title: Works of Voltaire, of the French Academy. "That will attract purchasers," said the ingenious editor . The general opinion was that M. Charles Loyson would be the genius of the cent ury; envy was beginning to gnaw at him--a sign of glory; and this verse was comp osed on him:-"Even when Loyson steals, one feels that he has paws." As Cardinal Fesch refused to resign, M. de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie, administ ered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of Dappes was begun betwe en Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterwards General Dufour. S aint-Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Four ier at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some garret an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to mak e his mark; a note to a poem by Millevoye introduced him to France in these term s: a certain Lord Baron. David d'Angers was trying to work in marble. The Abbe C aron was speaking, in terms of praise, to a private gathering of seminarists in the blind alley of Feuillantines, of an unknown priest, named Felicite-Robert, w ho, at a latter date, became Lamennais. A thing which smoked and clattered on th e Seine with the noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of th e Tuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV.; it was a piece of mechan ism which was not good for much; a sort of plaything, the idle dream of a dreamridden inventor; an utopia--a steamboat. The Parisians stared indifferently at t his useless thing. M. de Vaublanc, the reformer of the Institute by a coup d'eta t, the distinguished author of numerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after having created them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to have M. Delaveau for prefect of police, on account of his piety. Dupuytren and Recamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre of the School of Medicine, and threatened eac h other with their fists on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis and the other on nature, tried to please bigoted reacti on by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons flatter Moses. M. Francois de Neufchateau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmen tier, made a thousand efforts to have pomme de terre [potato] pronounced parment iere, and succeeded therein not at all. The Abbe Gregoire, ex-bishop, ex-convent ionary, ex-senator, had passed, in the royalist polemics, to the state of "Infam ous Gregoire." The locution of which we have made use--passed to the state of--h

as been condemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch of th e Pont de Jena, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining a perture made by Blucher to blow up the bridge had been stopped up, was still rec ognizable on account of its whiteness. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the Comte d'Artois enter Notre Dame, had said aloud: "Sapristi! I regret the time when I saw Bonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvage, arm in arm." A s editious utterance. Six months in prison. Traitors showed themselves unbuttoned; men who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of battle made no secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the light of day, in the cynicism of ric hes and dignities; deserters from Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazenness of th eir well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monarchy in the most ba refaced manner. This is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year 1817, and is now for gotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars, and cannot do otherwise; the infinity would overwhelm it. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial,-- there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in v egetation,--are useful. It is of the physiognomy of the years that the physiogno my of the centuries is composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians arran ged "a fine farce."

CHAPTER II A DOUBLE QUARTETTE These Parisians came, one from Toulouse, another from Limoges, the third from C ahors, and the fourth from Montauban; but they were students; and when one says student, one says Parisian: to study in Paris is to be born in Paris. These young men were insignificant; every one has seen such faces; four specime ns of humanity taken at random; neither good nor bad, neither wise nor ignorant, neither geniuses nor fools; handsome, with that charming April which is called twenty years. They were four Oscars; for, at that epoch, Arthurs did not yet exi st. Burn for him the perfumes of Araby! exclaimed romance. Oscar advances. Oscar , I shall behold him! People had just emerged from Ossian; elegance was Scandina vian and Caledonian; the pure English style was only to prevail later, and the f irst of the Arthurs, Wellington, had but just won the battle of Waterloo. These Oscars bore the names, one of Felix Tholomyes, of Toulouse; the second, L istolier, of Cahors; the next, Fameuil, of Limoges; the last, Blachevelle, of Mo ntauban. Naturally, each of them had his mistress. Blachevelle loved Favourite, so named because she had been in England; Listolier adored Dahlia, who had taken for her nickname the name of a flower; Fameuil idolized Zephine, an abridgment of Josephine; Tholomyes had Fantine, called the Blonde, because of her beautiful , sunny hair. Favourite, Dahlia, Zephine, and Fantine were four ravishing young women, perfum ed and radiant, still a little like working-women, and not yet entirely divorced from their needles; somewhat disturbed by intrigues, but still retaining on the ir faces something of the serenity of toil, and in their souls that flower of ho

nesty which survives the first fall in woman. One of the four was called the you ng, because she was the youngest of them, and one was called the old; the old on e was twenty-three. Not to conceal anything, the three first were more experienc ed, more heedless, and more emancipated into the tumult of life than Fantine the Blonde, who was still in her first illusions. Dahlia, Zephine, and especially Favourite, could not have said as much. There h ad already been more than one episode in their romance, though hardly begun; and the lover who had borne the name of Adolph in the first chapter had turned out to be Alphonse in the second, and Gustave in the third. Poverty and coquetry are two fatal counsellors; one scolds and the other flatters, and the beautiful dau ghters of the people have both of them whispering in their ear, each on its own side. These badly guarded souls listen. Hence the falls which they accomplish, a nd the stones which are thrown at them. They are overwhelmed with splendor of al l that is immaculate and inaccessible. Alas! what if the Jungfrau were hungry? Favourite having been in England, was admired by Dahlia and Zephine. She had ha d an establishment of her own very early in life. Her father was an old unmarrie d professor of mathematics, a brutal man and a braggart, who went out to give le ssons in spite of his age. This professor, when he was a young man, had one day seen a chambermaid's gown catch on a fender; he had fallen in love in consequenc e of this accident. The result had been Favourite. She met her father from time to time, and he bowed to her. One morning an old woman with the air of a devotee , had entered her apartments, and had said to her, "You do not know me, Mamemois elle?" "No." "I am your mother." Then the old woman opened the sideboard, and at e and drank, had a mattress which she owned brought in, and installed herself. T his cross and pious old mother never spoke to Favourite, remained hours without uttering a word, breakfasted, dined, and supped for four, and went down to the p orter's quarters for company, where she spoke ill of her daughter. It was having rosy nails that were too er, to others perhaps, to idleness. How wishes to remain virtuous must not have ad conquered Fameuil by her roguish and ." pretty which had drawn Dahlia to Listoli could she make such nails work? She who pity on her hands. As for Zephine, she h caressing little way of saying "Yes, sir

The young men were comrades; the young girls were friends. Such loves are alway s accompanied by such friendships. Goodness and philosophy are two distinct things; the proof of this is that, aft er making all due allowances for these little irregular households, Favourite, Z ephine, and Dahlia were philosophical young women, while Fantine was a good girl . Good! some one will exclaim; and Tholomyes? Solomon would reply that love forms a part of wisdom. We will confine ourselves to saying that the love of Fantine was a first love, a sole love, a faithful love. She alone, of all the four, was not called "thou" by a single one of them. Fantine was one of those beings who blossom, so to speak, from the dregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most unfathomable depths of social shad ow, she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. She was born at M. sur M. Of what parents? Who can say? She had never known father or mother . She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At th e epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she ha d no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very s mall child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she rece ived the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained. She was called litt

le Fantine. No one knew more than that. This human creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of ten, Fantine quitted the town and went to service w ith some farmers in the neighborhood. At fifteen she came to Paris "to seek her fortune." Fantine was beautiful, and remained pure as long as she could. She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but he r gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth. She worked for her living; then, still for the sake of her living,-- for the he art, also, has its hunger,--she loved. She loved Tholomyes. An amour for him; passion for her. The streets of the Latin quarter, filled wit h throngs of students and grisettes, saw the beginning of their dream. Fantine h ad long evaded Tholomyes in the mazes of the hill of the Pantheon, where so many adventurers twine and untwine, but in such a way as constantly to encounter him again. There is a way of avoiding which resembles seeking. In short, the eclogu e took place. Blachevelle, Listolier, and Fameuil formed a sort of group of which Tholomyes w as the head. It was he who possessed the wit. Tholomyes was the antique old student; he was rich; he had an income of four th ousand francs; four thousand francs! a splendid scandal on Mount Sainte-Geneviev e. Tholomyes was a fast man of thirty, and badly preserved. He was wrinkled and toothless, and he had the beginning of a bald spot, of which he himself said wit h sadness, the skull at thirty, the knee at forty. His digestion was mediocre, a nd he had been attacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion as his youth disappeared, gayety was kindled; he replaced his teeth with buffooneries, his h air with mirth, his health with irony, his weeping eye laughed incessantly. He w as dilapidated but still in flower. His youth, which was packing up for departur e long before its time, beat a retreat in good order, bursting with laughter, an d no one saw anything but fire. He had had a piece rejected at the Vaudeville. H e made a few verses now and then. In addition to this he doubted everything to t he last degree, which is a vast force in the eyes of the weak. Being thus ironic al and bald, he was the leader. Iron is an English word. Is it possible that iro ny is derived from it? One day Tholomyes took the three others aside, with the gesture of an oracle, a nd said to them:-"Fantine, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite have been teasing us for nearly a year to give them a surprise. We have promised them solemnly that we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me in particular, just as the old women in N aples cry to Saint Januarius, `Faccia gialluta, fa o miracolo, Yellow face, perf orm thy miracle,' so our beauties say to me incessantly, `Tholomyes, when will y ou bring forth your surprise?' At the same time our parents keep writing to us. Pressure on both sides. The moment has arrived, it seems to me; let us discuss t he question." Thereupon, Tholomyes lowered his voice and articulated something so mirthful, t hat a vast and enthusiastic grin broke out upon the four mouths simultaneously, and Blachevelle exclaimed, "That is an idea." A smoky tap-room presented itself; they entered, and the remainder of their con fidential colloquy was lost in shadow. The result of these shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took place on th e following Sunday, the four young men inviting the four young girls.

CHAPTER III FOUR AND FOUR It is hard nowadays to picture to one's self what a pleasure-trip of students a nd grisettes to the country was like, forty-five years ago. The suburbs of Paris are no longer the same; the physiognomy of what may be called circumparisian li fe has changed completely in the last half-century; where there was the cuckoo, there is the railway car; where there was a tender-boat, there is now the steamb oat; people speak of Fecamp nowadays as they spoke of Saint-Cloud in those days. The Paris of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts. The four couples conscientiously went through with all the country follies poss ible at that time. The vacation was beginning, and it was a warm, bright, summer day. On the preceding day, Favourite, the only one who knew how to write, had w ritten the following to Tholomyes in the name of the four: "It is a good hour to emerge from happiness." That is why they rose at five o'clock in the morning. T hen they went to Saint-Cloud by the coach, looked at the dry cascade and exclaim ed, "This must be very beautiful when there is water!" They breakfasted at the T ete-Noir, where Castaing had not yet been; they treated themselves to a game of ring-throwing under the quincunx of trees of the grand fountain; they ascended D iogenes' lantern, they gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment of th e Pont de Sevres, picked bouquets at Pateaux, bought reed-pipes at Neuilly, ate apple tarts everywhere, and were perfectly happy. The young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their cage. It w as a perfect delirium. From time to time they bestowed little taps on the young men. Matutinal intoxication of life! adorable years! the wings of the dragonfly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you rambled through th e brushwood, holding aside the branches, on account of the charming head which i s coming on behind you? Have you slid, laughing, down a slope all wet with rain, with a beloved woman holding your hand, and crying, "Ah, my new boots! what a s tate they are in!" Let us say at once that that merry obstacle, a shower, was lacking in the case of this good-humored party, although Favourite had said as they set out, with a magisterial and maternal tone, "The slugs are crawling in the paths,--a sign of rain, children." All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a good fellow who had an Eleonore, M. le Chevalier de Labouisse, as he strolled that day bene ath the chestnut-trees of Saint-Cloud, saw them pass about ten o'clock in the mo rning, and exclaimed, "There is one too many of them," as he thought of the Grac es. Favourite, Blachevelle's friend, the one aged three and twenty, the old one, ran on in front under the great green boughs, jumped the ditches, stalked distr actedly over bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of a yo ung female faun. Zephine and Dahlia, whom chance had made beautiful in such a wa y that they set each off when they were together, and completed each other, neve r left each other, more from an instinct of coquetry than from friendship, and c linging to each other, they assumed English poses; the first keepsakes had just

made their appearance, melancholy was dawning for women, as later on, Byronism d awned for men; and the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Zephine and Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil, who were enga ged in discussing their professors, explained to Fantine the difference that exi sted between M. Delvincourt and M. Blondeau. Blachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite's single-b ordered, imitation India shawl of Ternaux's manufacture, on his arm on Sundays. Tholomyes followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt the for ce of government in him; there was dictation in his joviality; his principal orn ament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern of nankeen, with straps of braided copper wire; he carried a stout rattan worth two hundred francs in his h and, and, as he treated himself to everything, a strange thing called a cigar in his mouth. Nothing was sacred to him; he smoked. "That Tholomyes is astounding!" said the others, with veneration. "What trouser s! What energy!" As for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had evidently recei ved an office from God,--laughter. She preferred to carry her little hat of sewe d straw, with its long white strings, in her hand rather than on her head. Her t hick blond hair, which was inclined to wave, and which easily uncoiled, and whic h it was necessary to fasten up incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galat ea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mou th voluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of Erigone, had an air of enc ouraging the audacious; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over the jollity of the lower part of the face as though to call a halt. There was somet hing indescribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress. She wore a go wn of mauve barege, little reddish brown buskins, whose ribbons traced an X on h er fine, white, open-worked stockings, and that sort of muslin spencer, a Marsei lles invention, whose name, canezou, a corruption of the words quinze aout, pron ounced after the fashion of the Canebiere, signifies fine weather, heat, and mid day. The three others, less timid, as we have already said, wore low-necked dres ses without disguise, which in summer, beneath flower-adorned hats, are very gra ceful and enticing; but by the side of these audacious outfits, blond Fantine's canezou, with its transparencies, its indiscretion, and its reticence, concealin g and displaying at one and the same time, seemed an alluring godsend of decency , and the famous Court of Love, presided over by the Vicomtesse de Cette, with t he sea-green eyes, would, perhaps, have awarded the prize for coquetry to this c anezou, in the contest for the prize of modesty. The most ingenious is, at times , the wisest. This does happen. Brilliant of face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue, heavy lids, f eet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a white skin which, he re and there allowed the azure branching of the veins to be seen, joy, a cheek t hat was young and fresh, the robust throat of the Juno of AEgina, a strong and s upple nape of the neck, shoulders modelled as though by Coustou, with a voluptuo us dimple in the middle, visible through the muslin; a gayety cooled by dreamine ss; sculptural and exquisite--such was Fantine; and beneath these feminine adorn ments and these ribbons one could divine a statue, and in that statue a soul. Fantine was beautiful, without being too conscious of it. Those rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful who silently confront everything with perfec tion, would have caught a glimpse in this little working-woman, through the tran sparency of her Parisian grace, of the ancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in the two ways-- style and rhyt hm. Style is the form of the ideal; rhythm is its movement. We have said that Fantine was joy; she was also modesty.

To an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from her athwar t all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love affair, was an invin cible expression of reserve and modesty. She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of difference which separates Psyche from Venus . Fantine had the long, white, fine fingers of the vestal virgin who stirs the a shes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothi ng to Tholomyes, as we shall have more than ample opportunity to see, her face i n repose was supremely virginal; a sort of serious and almost austere dignity su ddenly overwhelmed her at certain times, and there was nothing more singular and disturbing than to see gayety become so suddenly extinct there, and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without any transition state. This sudden and sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the disdain of a goddess. Her brow, her n ose, her chin, presented that equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct fro m equilibrium of proportion, and from which harmony of countenance results; in t he very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose from the up per lip, she had that imperceptible and charming fold, a mysterious sign of chas tity, which makes Barberousse fall in love with a Diana found in the treasures o f Iconia. Love is a fault; so be it. Fantine was innocence floating high over fault.

CHAPTER IV THOLOMYES IS SO MERRY THAT HE SINGS A SPANISH DITTY That day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. All nature seemed to be having a holiday, and to be laughing. The flower-beds of Saint-Cloud perfumed the air; the breath of the Seine rustled the leaves vaguely; the branches gesti culated in the wind, bees pillaged the jasmines; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the yarrow, the clover, and the sterile oats; in the august pa rk of the King of France there was a pack of vagabonds, the birds. The four merry couples, mingled with the sun, the fields, the flowers, the tree s, were resplendent. And in this community of Paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing, chasing butterflies, plucking convolvulus, wetting their pink, open-work stockings in th e tall grass, fresh, wild, without malice, all received, to some extent, the kis ses of all, with the exception of Fantine, who was hedged about with that vague resistance of hers composed of dreaminess and wildness, and who was in love. "Yo u always have a queer look about you," said Favourite to her. Such things are joys. These passages of happy couples are a profound appeal to life and nature, and make a caress and light spring forth from everything. There was once a fairy who created the fields and forests expressly for those in love ,--in that eternal hedge-school of lovers, which is forever beginning anew, and which will last as long as there are hedges and scholars. Hence the popularity o f spring among thinkers. The patrician and the knife-grinder, the duke and the p eer, the limb of the law, the courtiers and townspeople, as they used to say in

olden times, all are subjects of this fairy. They laugh and hunt, and there is i n the air the brilliance of an apotheosis--what a transfiguration effected by lo ve! Notaries' clerks are gods. And the little cries, the pursuits through the gr ass, the waists embraced on the fly, those jargons which are melodies, those ado rations which burst forth in the manner of pronouncing a syllable, those cherrie s torn from one mouth by another,--all this blazes forth and takes its place amo ng the celestial glories. Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly. They think t hat this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets, painters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it, so greatly are they dazzled by it. T he departure for Cythera! exclaims Watteau; Lancret, the painter of plebeians, c ontemplates his bourgeois, who have flitted away into the azure sky; Diderot str etches out his arms to all these love idyls, and d'Urfe mingles druids with them . After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's Square to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that epoch, was attracting all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It wa s an odd and charming shrub with a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and as fine as threads, were covered with a million tiny white ros ettes; this gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers. There was always an admiring crowd about it. After viewing the shrub, Tholomyes exclaimed, "I offer you asses!" and having a greed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned by way of Vanvres and Issy. At Issy an incident occurred. The truly national park, at that time ow ned by Bourguin the contractor, happened to be wide open. They passed the gates, visited the manikin anchorite in his grotto, tried the mysterious little effect s of the famous cabinet of mirrors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a m illionaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus. They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees celebrated by the Abbe de Bernis. A s he swung these beauties, one after the other, producing folds in the flutterin g skirts which Greuze would have found to his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Toulousan Tholomyes, who was somewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosa, sang, to a melancholy chant, the old ballad gallega, probably inspire d by some lovely maid dashing in full flight upon a rope between two trees:-"Soy de Badajoz, "Badajoz is my home, Amor me llama, And Love is my name; Toda mi alma, To my eyes in flame, Es en mi ojos, All my soul doth come; Porque ensen as, For instruction meet A tuas piernas. I receive at thy feet" Fantine alone refused to swing. "I don't like to have people put on airs like that," muttered Favourite, with a good deal of acrimony. After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight; they crossed the Seine in a boat, and proceeding from Passy on foot they reached the barrier of l'Etoile. Th ey had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember; but bah! there is no such thing as fatigue on Sunday, said Favourite; on Sunday fat igue does not work. About three o'clock the four couples, frightened at their happiness, were slidi ng down the Russian mountains, a singular edifice which then occupied the height s of Beaujon, and whose undulating line was visible above the trees of the Champ s Elysees. From time to time Favourite exclaimed:-"And the surprise? I claim the surprise."

"Patience," replied Tholomyes.

CHAPTER V AT BOMBARDA'S The Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bomba rda's public house, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-E lysees by that famous restaurant-keeper, Bombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley. A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been oblig ed to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd); two windows w hence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay and the river; a magnificent A ugust sunlight lightly touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triump hant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, an d bottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on the ta ble, some disorder beneath it; "They made beneath the table A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable ," says Moliere. This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o'clock in the mornin g, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon. The sun was setting; their ap petites were satisfied. The Champs-Elysees, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but ligh t and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marly, thos e neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and c oming. A squadron of magnificent body-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concord e, which had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happy promena ders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button-holes in the year 1817. Here a nd there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passersby, who fo rmed into circles and applauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was dest ined to strike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain:-"Rendez-nous notre pere de Gand, Rendez-nous notre pere." "Give us back our father from Ghent, Give us back our father." Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated wi th the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses; other

s were engaged in drinking; some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their la ughter was audible. Every thing was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace a nd profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private repor t of Chief of Police Angeles to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris , terminated with these lines:-"Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The populace is res tless in the provinces; it is not in Paris. These are very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing t o be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable t hat the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty year s; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Re volution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble." Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat so despised by Count Angles possessed t he esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and a s though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piraeus, there stood o n the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuou s police of the Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too "rose-colored" a light; it is not so much of "an amiable rabble" as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek: no one sleeps more sound ly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not be trusted nevertheless; he is rea dy for any sort of cool deed; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is wo rthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 1 0th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon's stay a nd Danton's resource. Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled with wrath, is ep ic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys. Take care! he will mak e of the first Rue Grenetat which comes to hand Caudine Forks. When the hour str ikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in stature; this little man will arise , and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixe d with arms, conquers Europe. He sings; it is his delight. Proportion his song t o his nature, and you will see! As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Car magnole, he only overthrows Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaise, and he w ill free the world. This note jotted down on the margin of Angles' report, we will return to our fo ur couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.

CHAPTER VI A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER Chat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one as the ot

her; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke. Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyes was drinking. Zephine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Sa int-Cloud. Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said:-"Blachevelle, I adore you." This called forth a question from Blachevelle:-"What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you?" "I!" cried Favourite. "Ah! Do not say that even in jest! If you were to cease t o love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I w ould throw you into the water, I would have you arrested." Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed:-"Yes, I would scream to the police! Ah! I should not restrain myself, not at al l! Rabble!" Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eye s proudly. Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:-"So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours?" "I? I detest him," replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again. "He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, that young man; do you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profes sion. I love actors. As soon as he comes in, his mother says to him: `Ah! mon Di eu! my peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my head!' So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know w hat? so that he can be heard down stairs! He earns twenty sous a day at an attor ney's by penning quibbles. He is the son of a former precentor of Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me so, that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me: `Mamselle, make your gloves int o fritters, and I will eat them.' It is only artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very nice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that lit tle fellow. Never mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him--how I lie! Hey! How I do lie!" Favourite paused, and then went on:-"I am sad, you see, Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer; the wind i rritates me; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very stingy; there are hard ly any green peas in the market; one does not know what to eat. I have the splee n, as the English say, butter is so dear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life."

CHAPTER VII THE WISDOM OF THOLOMYES In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously all at once; it was no longer anything but noise. Tholomyes intervened. "Let us not talk at random nor too fast," he exclaimed. "Let us reflect, if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation empties the mind in a stupid way. R unning beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with th e feast. Let us eat with meditation; let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the springtime; if it makes haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen! Grimod de la Reyniere agrees with Talleyrand." A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group. "Leave us in peace, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle. "Down with the tyrant!" said Fameuil. "Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!" cried Listolier. "Sunday exists," resumed Fameuil. "We are sober," added Listolier. "Tholomyes," remarked Blachevelle, "contemplate my calmness [mon calme]." "You are the Marquis of that," retorted Tholomyes. This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool. The Mar quis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the frogs held thei r peace. "Friends," cried Tholomyes, with the accent of a man who had recovered his empi re, "Come to yourselves. This pun which has fallen from the skies must not be re ceived with too much stupor. Everything which falls in that way is not necessari ly worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The pun is the dung of the mind which soars . The jest falls, no matter where; and the mind after producing a piece of stupi dity plunges into the azure depths. A whitish speck flattened against the rock d oes not prevent the condor from soaring aloft. Far be it from me to insult the p un! I honor it in proportion to its merits; nothing more. All the most august, t he most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity, have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on St. Peter, Moses on Isaac, AEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observe that Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Actium, and that had it not been for it, no one would have remembe red the city of Toryne, a Greek name which signifies a ladle. That once conceded , I return to my exhortation. I repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no hubbub, no excess; even in witticisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on words. Listen to m e. I have the prudence of Amphiaraus and the baldness of Caesar. There must be a limit, even to rebuses. Est modus in rebus. "There must be a limit, even to dinners. You are fond of apple turnovers, ladie

s; do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter of turnovers, good sense and art are requisite. Gluttony chastises the glutton, Gula punit Gulax. Indige stion is charged by the good God with preaching morality to stomachs. And rememb er this: each one of our passions, even love, has a stomach which must not be fi lled too full. In all things the word finis must be written in good season; self -control must be exercised when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt must be draw n on appetite; one must set one's own fantasy to the violin, and carry one's sel f to the post. The sage is the man who knows how, at a given moment, to effect h is own arrest. Have some confidence in me, for I have succeeded to some extent i n my study of the law, according to the verdict of my examinations, for I know t he difference between the question put and the question pending, for I have sust ained a thesis in Latin upon the manner in which torture was administered at Rom e at the epoch when Munatius Demens was quaestor of the Parricide; because I am going to be a doctor, apparently it does not follow that it is absolutely necess ary that I should be an imbecile. I recommend you to moderation in your desires. It is true that my name is Felix Tholomyes; I speak well. Happy is he who, when the hour strikes, takes a heroic resolve, and abdicates like Sylla or Origenes. " Favourite listened with profound attention. "Felix," said she, "what a pretty word! I love that name. It is Latin; it means prosper." Tholomyes went on:-"Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel the pri ck, to do without the nuptial bed, and to brave love? Nothing more simple. Here is the receipt: lemonade, excessive exercise, hard labor; work yourself to death , drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil, gorge yourself with nitrous beverages, and potions of nymphaeas; drink emulsions of poppies and agnus castus; season this with a strict diet, starve yourself, and add thereto cold baths, girdles of herb s, the application of a plate of lead, lotions made with the subacetate of lead, and fomentations of oxycrat." "I prefer a woman," said Listolier. "Woman," resumed Tholomyes; "distrust her. Woe to him who yields himself to the unstable heart of woman! Woman is perfidious and disingenuous. She detests the serpent from professional jealousy. The serpent is the shop over the way." "Tholomyes!" cried Blachevelle, "you are drunk!" "Pardieu," said Tholomyes. "Then be gay," resumed Blachevelle. "I agree to that," responded Tholomyes. And, refilling his glass, he rose. "Glory to wine! Nunc te, Bacche, canam! Pardon me ladies; that is Spanish. And the proof of it, senoras, is this: like people, like cask. The arrobe of Castile contains sixteen litres; the cantaro of Alicante, twelve; the almude of the Can aries, twenty-five; the cuartin of the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of T zar Peter, thirty. Long live that Tzar who was great, and long live his boot, wh ich was still greater! Ladies, take the advice of a friend; make a mistake in yo ur neighbor if you see fit. The property of love is to err. A love affair is not made to crouch down and brutalize itself like an English serving-maid who has c allouses on her knees from scrubbing. It is not made for that; it errs gayly, ou

r gentle love. It has been said, error is human; I say, error is love. Ladies, I idolize you all. O Zephine, O Josephine, face more than irregular, you would be charming were you not all askew. You have the air of a pretty face upon which s ome one has sat down by mistake. As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses! one day w hen Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Guerin-Boisseau, he espied a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which displayed her legs. Thi s prologue pleased him, and Blachevelle fell in love. The one he loved was Favou rite. O Favourite, thou hast Ionian lips. There was a Greek painter named Euphor ion, who was surnamed the painter of the lips. That Greek alone would have been worthy to paint thy mouth. Listen! before thee, there was never a creature worth y of the name. Thou wert made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it like Eve; beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve; it is thou who hast created her. Thou deservest the letters-patent of the beautiful woman. O Favouri te, I cease to address you as `thou,' because I pass from poetry to prose. You w ere speaking of my name a little while ago. That touched me; but let us, whoever we may be, distrust names. They may delude us. I am called Felix, and I am not happy. Words are liars. Let us not blindly accept the indications which they aff ord us. It would be a mistake to write to Liege[2] for corks, and to Pau for glo ves. Miss Dahlia, were I in your place, I would call myself Rosa. A flower shoul d smell sweet, and woman should have wit. I say nothing of Fantine; she is a dre amer, a musing, thoughtful, pensive person; she is a phantom possessed of the fo rm of a nymph and the modesty of a nun, who has strayed into the life of a grise tte, but who takes refuge in illusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into t he azure without very well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and who, with her eyes fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden where there are more birds th an are in existence. O Fantine, know this: I, Tholomyes, I am all illusion; but she does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras! as for the rest, everyth ing about her is freshness, suavity, youth, sweet morning light. O Fantine, maid worthy of being called Marguerite or Pearl, you are a woman from the beauteous Orient. Ladies, a second piece of advice: do not marry; marriage is a graft; it takes well or ill; avoid that risk. But bah! what am I saying? I am wasting my w ords. Girls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise men c an say will not prevent the waistcoat-makers and the shoe-stitchers from dreamin g of husbands studded with diamonds. Well, so be it; but, my beauties, remember this, you eat too much sugar. You have but one fault, O woman, and that is nibbl ing sugar. O nibbling sex, your pretty little white teeth adore sugar. Now, heed me well, sugar is a salt. All salts are withering. Sugar is the most desiccatin g of all salts; it sucks the liquids of the blood through the veins; hence the c oagulation, and then the solidification of the blood; hence tubercles in the lun gs, hence death. That is why diabetes borders on consumption. Then, do not crunc h sugar, and you will live. I turn to the men: gentlemen, make conquest, rob eac h other of your well-beloved without remorse. Chassez across. In love there are no friends. Everywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is open. No quart er, war to the death! a pretty woman is a casus belli; a pretty woman is flagran t misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats. Woman is man's right. Romulus carried off the Sabines; William carried off the S axon women; Caesar carried off the Roman women. The man who is not loved soars l ike a vulture over the mistresses of other men; and for my own part, to all thos e unfortunate men who are widowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonapart e to the army of Italy: "Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has it." [2] Liege: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on peau, skin. Tholomyes paused. "Take breath, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle. At the same moment Blachevelle, supported by Listolier and Fameuil, struck up t o a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the first words which c

ome to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the wind, which have their birth in the vapor of pi pes, and are dissipated and take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group replied to Tholomyes' harangue:-"The father turkey-cocks so grave Some money to an agent gave, That master good Clermont-Tonnerre Might be made pope on Saint Johns' day fair. But this good Cl ermont could not be Made pope, because no priest was he; And then their agent, w hose wrath burned, With all their money back returned." This was not calculated to calm Tholomyes' improvisation; he emptied his glass, filled, refilled it, and began again:-"Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither prudes nor pr udent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be merry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating! Indigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting, the female! Joy in the depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great diamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festiva l everywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the Allee de l'Observatoire! O pensive infantry soldiers! O all those charming nurses who, while they guard th e children, amuse themselves! The pampas of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odeon. My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is beautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has sneezed out the humming bird. Embrace me, Fantine!" He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.

CHAPTER VIII THE DEATH OF A HORSE "The dinners are better at Edon's than at Bombarda's," exclaimed Zephine. "I prefer Bombarda to Edon," declared Blachevelle. "There is more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are mirrors [glaces] on the wa lls." "I prefer them [glaces, ices] on my plate," said Favourite. Blachevelle persisted:-"Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda's and of bone at Edo n's. Now, silver is more valuable than bone." "Except for those who have a silver chin," observed Tholomyes. He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda's windows.

A pause ensued. "Tholomyes," exclaimed Fameuil, "Listolier and I were having a discussion just now." "A discussion is a good thing," replied Tholomyes; "a quarrel is better." "We were disputing about philosophy." "Well?" "Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?" "Desaugiers," said Tholomyes. This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:-"I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonse nse. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one la ughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogis m. That is fine. There are still human beings here below who know how to open an d close the surprise box of the paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are dri nking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the le vel of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those thre e hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes." Again Fameuil interrupted him:-"Tholomyes, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?" "Ber--" "Quin?" "No; Choux." And Tholomyes continued:-"Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chaeronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt. Apulei us tells us of them. Alas! always the same, and nothing new; nothing more unpubl ished by the creator in creation! Nil sub sole novum, says Solomon; amor omnibus idem, says Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Clou d, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an epoch when women had , as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn. Aspasia was a creature in whom two extrem es of womanhood met; she was the goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut . Aspasia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus." Tholomyes, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a Beauceron mare, old and thin, a nd one fit for the knacker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda's, the worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any f urther. This incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant ca rter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, Matin (the jade)

, backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell, never to rise a gain. On hearing the hubbub made by the passersby, Tholomyes' merry auditors tur ned their heads, and Tholomyes took advantage of the opportunity to bring his al locution to a close with this melancholy strophe:-"Elle etait de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses[3] Ont le meme destin; Et, ross e, elle a vecu ce que vivant les rosses, L'espace d'un matin!" [3] She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages share the same fate ; and a jade herself, she lived, as jades live, for the space of a morning (or j ade). "Poor horse!" sighed Fantine. And Dahlia exclaimed:-"There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pit iful fool as that!" At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looked r esolutely at Tholomyes and said:-"Come, now! the surprise?" "Exactly. The moment has arrived," replied Tholomyes. "Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment, ladies." "It begins with a kiss," said Blachevelle. "On the brow," added Tholomyes. Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress's brow; then all four filed out th rough the door, with their fingers on their lips. Favourite clapped her hands on their departure. "It is beginning to be amusing already," said she. "Don't be too long," murmured Fantine; "we are waiting for you."

CHAPTER IX A MERRY END TO MIRTH When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the window-sill s, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one window to the other. They saw the young men emerge from the Cafe Bombarda arm in arm. The latter tur ned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in that dusty Sunday thro ng which makes a weekly invasion into the Champs-Elysees.

"Don't be long!" cried Fantine. "What are they going to bring us?" said Zephine. "It will certainly be something pretty," said Dahlia. "For my part," said Favourite, "I want it to be of gold." Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees, and which diverted them greatly. It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences. Nearly al l the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the Champs-Elysees. Th e majority followed the quay and went through the Passy Barrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily har nessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads whi ch immediately disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a fo rge, with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements, changing a ll the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the young girls. Favouri te exclaimed:-"What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away." It chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with difficult y through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out again at a gallop. T his surprised Fantine. "That's odd!" said she. "I thought the diligence never stopped." Favourite shrugged her shoulders. "This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of curiosity . She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case: I am a traveller; I say to the diligence, `I will go on in advance; you shall pick me up on the quay as you pass.' The diligence passes, sees me, halts, and takes me. That is done eve ry day. You do not know life, my dear." In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a movement, l ike a person who is just waking up. "Well," said she, "and the surprise?" "Yes, by the way," joined in Dahlia, "the famous surprise?" "They are a very long time about it!" said Fantine. As Fantine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at dinner entere d. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter. "What is that?" demanded Favourite. The waiter replied:-"It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies." "Why did you not bring it at once?" "Because," said the waiter, "the gentlemen ordered me not to deliver it to the

ladies for an hour." Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter's hand. It was, in fact, a letter. "Stop!" said she; "there is no address; but this is what is written on it--" "THIS IS THE SURPRISE." She tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read [she knew how to read]:-"OUR BELOVED:-"You must know that we have parents. Parents--you do not know much about such t hings. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is puerile a nd honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks implore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons; they desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read thi s, five fiery horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up our stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the arms o f Lafitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties! We return to society, to du ty, to respectability, at full trot, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be, like the rest of the w orld, prefects, fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Ven erate us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us wi th speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu. "For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you no grudg e for that. "Signed: BLACHEVELLE. FAMUEIL. LISTOLIER. FELIX THOLOMYES. "Postscriptum. The dinner is paid for." The four young women looked at each other. Favourite was the first to break the silence. "Well!" she exclaimed, "it's a very pretty farce, all the same." "It is very droll," said Zephine. "That must have been Blachevelle's idea," resumed Favourite. "It makes me in lo ve with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure, indeed ." "No," said Dahlia; "it was one of Tholomyes' ideas. That is evident. "In that case," retorted Favourite, "death to Blachevelle, and long live Tholom yes!" "Long live Tholomyes!" exclaimed Dahlia and Zephine. And they burst out laughing. Fantine laughed with the rest. An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first lo ve affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomyes as to a husb and, and the poor girl had a child.

BOOK FOURTH.--TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON'S POWER

CHAPTER I ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER There was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first quarter of this century , a sort of cook-shop which no longer exists. This cook-shop was kept by some pe ople named Thenardier, husband and wife. It was situated in Boulanger Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat against the wall. Upon this board was pa inted something which resembled a man carrying another man on his back, the latt er wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red sp ots represented blood; the rest of the picture consisted of smoke, and probably represented a battle. Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF SERGEANT OF WAT ERLOO (Au Sargent de Waterloo). Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of a hostelry. Nevert heless, the vehicle, or, to speak more accurately, the fragment of a vehicle, wh ich encumbered the street in front of the cook-shop of the Sergeant of Waterloo, one evening in the spring of 1818, would certainly have attracted, by its mass, the attention of any painter who had passed that way. It was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are used in wooded tracts of country, and which serve to transport thick planks and the trunks of trees. This fore-carriage was composed of a massive iron axle-tree with a pivot, into w hich was fitted a heavy shaft, and which was supported by two huge wheels. The w hole thing was compact, overwhelming, and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carr iage of an enormous cannon. The ruts of the road had bestowed on the wheels, the fellies, the hub, the axle, and the shaft, a layer of mud, a hideous yellowish daubing hue, tolerably like that with which people are fond of ornamenting cathe drals. The wood was disappearing under mud, and the iron beneath rust. Under the axle-tree hung, like drapery, a huge chain, worthy of some Goliath of a convict . This chain suggested, not the beams, which it was its office to transport, but the mastodons and mammoths which it might have served to harness; it had the ai r of the galleys, but of cyclopean and superhuman galleys, and it seemed to have been detached from some monster. Homer would have bound Polyphemus with it, and Shakespeare, Caliban. Why was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the street? In the first place, to encumber the street; next, in order that it might finish the process of rusting. There is a throng of institutions in the old social order, which one comes across in this fashion as one walks about outdoors, and which have no oth er reasons for existence than the above. The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle, and in the lo op, as in the rope of a swing, there were seated and grouped, on that particular evening, in exquisite interlacement, two little girls; one about two years and a half old, the other, eighteen months; the younger in the arms of the other. A handkerchief, cleverly knotted about them, prevented their falling out. A mother

had caught sight of that frightful chain, and had said, "Come! there's a playth ing for my children." The two children, who were dressed prettily and with some elegance, were radian t with pleasure; one would have said that they were two roses amid old iron; the ir eyes were a triumph; their fresh cheeks were full of laughter. One had chestn ut hair; the other, brown. Their innocent faces were two delighted surprises; a blossoming shrub which grew near wafted to the passers-by perfumes which seemed to emanate from them; the child of eighteen months displayed her pretty little b are stomach with the chaste indecency of childhood. Above and around these two d elicate heads, all made of happiness and steeped in light, the gigantic fore-car riage, black with rust, almost terrible, all entangled in curves and wild angles , rose in a vault, like the entrance of a cavern. A few paces apart, crouching d own upon the threshold of the hostelry, the mother, not a very prepossessing wom an, by the way, though touching at that moment, was swinging the two children by means of a long cord, watching them carefully, for fear of accidents, with that animal and celestial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At every backwa rd and forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident sound, which resembled a cry of rage; the little girls were in ecstasies; the setting sun mingled in t his joy, and nothing could be more charming than this caprice of chance which ha d made of a chain of Titans the swing of cherubim. As she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in a discordant voice a romanc e then celebrated:-"It must be, said a warrior." Her song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented her hearing and see ing what was going on in the street. In the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was beginning the first co uplet of the romance, and suddenly she heard a voice saying very near her ear:-"You have two beautiful children there, Madame." "To the fair and tender Imogene--" replied the mother, continuing her romance; then she turned her head. A woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This woman also had a child, whi ch she carried in her arms. She was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, which seemed very heavy. This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures that it is possible to behold. lt was a girl, two or three years of age. She could have entered into co mpetition with the two other little ones, so far as the coquetry of her dress wa s concerned; she wore a cap of fine linen, ribbons on her bodice, and Valencienn es lace on her cap. The folds of her skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, and dimpled leg. She was admirably rosy and healthy. The littl e beauty inspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks. Of her eyes nothing could be known, except that they must be very large, and that they had magnificent lashes. She was asleep. She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar to her age. The arm s of mothers are made of tenderness; in them children sleep profoundly. As for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty-stricken. She was dressed like a working-woman who is inclined to turn into a peasant again. She was youn g. Was she handsome? Perhaps; but in that attire it was not apparent. Her hair,

a golden lock of which had escaped, seemed very thick, but was severely conceale d beneath an ugly, tight, close, nun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile disp lays beautiful teeth when one has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did not seem to have been dry for a very long time. She was pale; she had a very weary a nd rather sickly appearance. She gazed upon her daughter asleep in her arms with the air peculiar to a mother who has nursed her own child. A large blue handker chief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a fichu, and concealed her fig ure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and all dotted with freckles, her forefing er was hardened and lacerated with the needle; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff, a linen gown, and coarse shoes. It was Fantine. It was Fantine, but difficult to recognize. Nevertheless, on scrutinizing her a ttentively, it was evident that she still retained her beauty. A melancholy fold , which resembled the beginning of irony, wrinkled her right cheek. As for her t oilette, that aerial toilette of muslin and ribbons, which seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music, full of bells, and perfumed with lilacs had vanished li ke that beautiful and dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken for diamonds in the sunlight; it melts and leaves the branch quite black. Ten months had elapsed since the "pretty farce." What had taken place during those ten months? It can be divined. After abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine had immediately lost sig ht of Favourite, Zephine and Dahlia; the bond once broken on the side of the men , it was loosed between the women; they would have been greatly astonished had a ny one told them a fortnight later, that they had been friends; there no longer existed any reason for such a thing. Fantine had remained alone. The father of h er child gone,--alas! such ruptures are irrevocable,-- she found herself absolut ely isolated, minus the habit of work and plus the taste for pleasure. Drawn awa y by her liaison with Tholomyes to disdain the pretty trade which she knew, she had neglected to keep her market open; it was now closed to her. She had no reso urce. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not know how to write; in her chi ldhood she had only been taught to sign her name; she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle to Tholomyes, then a second, then a third. Tholomyes replied to none of them. Fantine heard the gossips say, as they looked at her child: "Wh o takes those children seriously! One only shrugs one's shoulders over such chil dren!" Then she thought of Tholomyes, who had shrugged his shoulders over his ch ild, and who did not take that innocent being seriously; and her heart grew gloo my toward that man. But what was she to do? She no longer knew to whom to apply. She had committed a fault, but the foundation of her nature, as will be remembe red, was modesty and virtue. She was vaguely conscious that she was on the verge of falling into distress, and of gliding into a worse state. Courage was necess ary; she possessed it, and held herself firm. The idea of returning to her nativ e town of M. sur M. occurred to her. There, some one might possibly know her and give her work; yes, but it would be necessary to conceal her fault. In a confus ed way she perceived the necessity of a separation which would be more painful t han the first one. Her heart contracted, but she took her resolution. Fantine, a s we shall see, had the fierce bravery of life. She had already valiantly renoun ced finery, had dressed herself in linen, and had put all her silks, all her orn aments, all her ribbons, and all her laces on her daughter, the only vanity whic h was left to her, and a holy one it was. She sold all that she had, which produ ced for her two hundred francs; her little debts paid, she had only about eighty francs left. At the age of twenty-two, on a beautiful spring morning, she quitt ed Paris, bearing her child on her back. Any one who had seen these two pass wou ld have had pity on them. This woman had, in all the world, nothing but her chil d, and the child had, in all the world, no one but this woman. Fantine had nurse d her child, and this had tired her chest, and she coughed a little. We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Felix Tholomyes. Let us confin

e ourselves to saying, that, twenty years later, under King Louis Philippe, he w as a great provincial lawyer, wealthy and influential, a wise elector, and a ver y severe juryman; he was still a man of pleasure. Towards the middle of the day, after having, from time to time, for the sake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four sous a league, in what was then k nown as the Petites Voitures des Environs de Paris, the "little suburban coach s ervice," Fantine found herself at Montfermeil, in the alley Boulanger. As she passed the Thenardier hostelry, the two little girls, blissful in the mo nster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and she had halted in front of that vi sion of joy. Charms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this mother. She gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of angels is an announcement of Paradise. She thought that, above this inn, she beheld the mysterious HERE of P rovidence. These two little creatures were evidently happy. She gazed at them, s he admired them, in such emotion that at the moment when their mother was recove ring her breath between two couplets of her song, she could not refrain from add ressing to her the remark which we have just read:-"You have two pretty children, Madame." The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed on their young. The mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the wayfarer sit down on t he bench at the door, she herself being seated on the threshold. The two women b egan to chat. "My name is Madame Thenardier," said the mother of the two little girls. "We ke ep this inn." Then, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed humming between her te eth:-"It must be so; I am a knight, And I am off to Palestine." This Madame Thenardier was a sandy-complexioned woman, thin and angular-- the t ype of the soldier's wife in all its unpleasantness; and what was odd, with a la nguishing air, which she owed to her perusal of romances. She was a simpering, b ut masculine creature. Old romances produce that effect when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shop woman. She was still young; she was barely thirty. If t his crouching woman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame of a pera mbulating colossus suitable for fairs, might have frightened the traveller at th e outset, troubled her confidence, and disturbed what caused what we have to rel ate to vanish. A person who is seated instead of standing erect--destinies hang upon such a thing as that. The traveller told her story, with slight modifications. That she was a working-woman; that her husband was dead; that her work in Paris had failed her, and that she was on her way to seek it elsewhere, in her own na tive parts; that she had left Paris that morning on foot; that, as she was carry ing her child, and felt fatigued, she had got into the Villemomble coach when sh e met it; that from Villemomble she had come to Montfermeil on foot; that the li ttle one had walked a little, but not much, because she was so young, and that s he had been obliged to take her up, and the jewel had fallen asleep. At this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate kiss, which woke her. Th

e child opened her eyes, great blue eyes like her mother's, and looked at--what? Nothing; with that serious and sometimes severe air of little children, which i s a mystery of their luminous innocence in the presence of our twilight of virtu e. One would say that they feel themselves to be angels, and that they know us t o be men. Then the child began to laugh; and although the mother held fast to he r, she slipped to the ground with the unconquerable energy of a little being whi ch wished to run. All at once she caught sight of the two others in the swing, s topped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration. Mother Thenardier released her daughters, made them descend from the swing, and said:-"Now amuse yourselves, all three of you." Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expiration of a minu te the little Thenardiers were playing with the new-comer at making holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure. The new-comer was very gay; the goodness of the mother is written in the gayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of wood which served her for a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly. The grave-digger's business be comes a subject for laughter when performed by a child. The two women pursued their chat. "What is your little one's name?" "Cosette." For Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child's name was Euphrasie. But out of Euphras ie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and graceful instinct of mothers an d of the populace which changes Josepha into Pepita, and Francoise into Sillette . It is a sort of derivative which disarranges and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists. We have known a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon. "How old is she?" "She is going on three." "That is the age of my eldest." In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an attitude of profound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened; a big worm had emerged from th e ground, and they were afraid; and they were in ecstasies over it. Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have said that there were thr ee heads in one aureole. "How easily children get acquainted at once!" exclaimed Mother Thenardier; "one would swear that they were three sisters!" This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been waiting for. She seized the Thenardier's hand, looked at her fixedly, and said:-"Will you keep my child for me?" The Thenardier made one of those movements of surprise which signify neither as sent nor refusal.

Cosette's mother continued:-"You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My work will not permit it. With a child one can find no situation. People are ridiculous in the country. I t was the good God who caused me to pass your inn. When I caught sight of your l ittle ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed me. I said: `Here is a good mother. That is just the thing; that will make three sisters.' And the n, it will not be long before I return. Will you keep my child for me?" "I must see about it," replied the Thenardier. "I will give you six francs a month." Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:-"Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in advance." "Six times seven makes forty-two," said the Thenardier. "I will give it," said the mother. "And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses," added the man's voic e. "Total, fifty-seven francs," said Madame Thenardier. And she hummed vaguely, wi th these figures:-"It must be, said a warrior." "I will pay it," said the mother. "I have eighty francs. I shall have enough le ft to reach the country, by travelling on foot. I shall earn money there, and as soon as I have a little I will return for my darling." The man's voice resumed:-"The little one has an outfit?" "That is my husband," said the Thenardier. "Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure.--I understood perfectly that i t was your husband.--And a beautiful outfit, too! a senseless outfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns like a lady. It is here, in my carpet-bag." "You must hand it over," struck in the man's voice again. "Of course I shall give it to you," said the mother. "It would be very queer if I were to leave my daughter quite naked!" The master's face appeared. "That's good," said he. The bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night at the inn, gave up her money and left her child, fastened her carpet-bag once more, now reduced in volu me by the removal of the outfit, and light henceforth and set out on the followi ng morning, intending to return soon. People arrange such departures tranquilly; but they are despairs! A neighbor of the Thenardiers met this mother as she was setting out, and came back with the remark:--

"I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough to rend yo ur heart." When Cosette's mother had taken her departure, the man said to the woman:-"That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten francs which falls due to-morrow; I lacked fifty francs. Do you know that I should have had a bailiff a nd a protest after me? You played the mouse-trap nicely with your young ones." "Without suspecting it," said the woman.

CHAPTER II FIRST SKETCH OF TWO UNPREPOSSESSING FIGURES The mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen; but the cat rejoices ev en over a lean mouse. Who were these Thenardiers? Let us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch later on. These beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse people who have been successful, and of intelligent people who have descended in the scale, whic h is between the class called "middle" and the class denominated as "inferior," and which combines some of the defects of the second with nearly all the vices o f the first, without possessing the generous impulse of the workingman nor the h onest order of the bourgeois. They were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull fire chances to warm them u p, easily become monstrous. There was in the woman a substratum of the brute, an d in the man the material for a blackguard. Both were susceptible, in the highes t degree, of the sort of hideous progress which is accomplished in the direction of evil. There exist crab-like souls which are continually retreating towards t he darkness, retrograding in life rather than advancing, employing experience to augment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming more and more impregnated with an ever-augmenting blackness. This man and woman possessed such souls. Thenardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiognomist. One can only lo ok at some men to distrust them; for one feels that they are dark in both direct ions. They are uneasy in the rear and threatening in front. There is something o f the unknown about them. One can no more answer for what they have done than fo r what they will do. The shadow which they bear in their glance denounces them. From merely hearing them utter a word or seeing them make a gesture, one obtains a glimpse of sombre secrets in their past and of sombre mysteries in their futu re. This Thenardier, if he himself was to be believed, had been a soldier-- a serge

ant, he said. He had probably been through the campaign of 1815, and had even co nducted himself with tolerable valor, it would seem. We shall see later on how m uch truth there was in this. The sign of his hostelry was in allusion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it himself; for he knew how to do a little of everything, and badly. It was at the epoch when the ancient classical romance which, after having been Clelie, was no longer anything but Lodoiska, still noble, but ever more and mor e vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle de Scuderi to Madame Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame de Lafayette to Madame Barthelemy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the portresses of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some extent. Madame Thenardier was just intelligent enough to read this sort of books . She lived on them. In them she drowned what brains she possessed. This had giv en her, when very young, and even a little later, a sort of pensive attitude tow ards her husband, a scamp of a certain depth, a ruffian lettered to the extent o f the grammar, coarse and fine at one and the same time, but, so far as sentimen talism was concerned, given to the perusal of Pigault-Lebrun, and "in what conce rns the sex," as he said in his jargon--a downright, unmitigated lout. His wife was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later on, when her hair, arrang ed in a romantically drooping fashion, began to grow gray, when the Magaera bega n to be developed from the Pamela, the female Thenardier was nothing but a coars e, vicious woman, who had dabbled in stupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonse nse with impunity. The result was that her eldest daughter was named Eponine; as for the younger, the poor little thing came near being called Gulnare; I know n ot to what diversion, effected by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil, she owed the fact that she merely bore the name of Azelma. However, we will remark by the way, everything was not ridiculous and superfici al in that curious epoch to which we are alluding, and which may be designated a s the anarchy of baptismal names. By the side of this romantic element which we have just indicated there is the social symptom. It is not rare for the neatherd 's boy nowadays to bear the name of Arthur, Alfred, or Alphonse, and for the vic omte--if there are still any vicomtes--to be called Thomas, Pierre, or Jacques. This displacement, which places the "elegant" name on the plebeian and the rusti c name on the aristocrat, is nothing else than an eddy of equality. The irresist ible penetration of the new inspiration is there as everywhere else. Beneath thi s apparent discord there is a great and a profound thing,-- the French Revolutio n.

CHAPTER III THE LARK It is not all in all sufficient to be wicked in order to prosper. The cook-shop was in a bad way. Thanks to the traveller's fifty-seven francs, Thenardier had been able to avoid a protest and to honor his signature. On the following month they were again in need of money. The woman took Cosette's outfit to Paris, and pawned it at the p awnbroker's for sixty francs. As soon as that sum was spent, the Thenardiers gre

w accustomed to look on the little girl merely as a child whom they were caring for out of charity; and they treated her accordingly. As she had no longer any c lothes, they dressed her in the cast-off petticoats and chemises of the Thenardi er brats; that is to say, in rags. They fed her on what all the rest had left--a little better than the dog, a little worse than the cat. Moreover, the cat and the dog were her habitual table-companions; Cosette ate with them under the tabl e, from a wooden bowl similar to theirs. The mother, who had established herself, as we shall see later on, at M. sur M. , wrote, or, more correctly, caused to be written, a letter every month, that sh e might have news of her child. The Thenardiers replied invariably, "Cosette is doing wonderfully well." At the expiration of the first six months the mother sent seven francs for the seventh month, and continued her remittances with tolerable regularity from mont h to month. The year was not completed when Thenardier said: "A fine favor she i s doing us, in sooth! What does she expect us to do with her seven francs?" and he wrote to demand twelve francs. The mother, whom they had persuaded into the b elief that her child was happy, "and was coming on well," submitted, and forward ed the twelve francs. Certain natures cannot love on the one hand without hating on the other. Mother Thenardier loved her two daughters passionately, which caused her to hate the s tranger. It is sad to think that the love of a mother can possess villainous aspects. Li ttle as was the space occupied by Cosette, it seemed to her as though it were ta ken from her own, and that that little child diminished the air which her daught ers breathed. This woman, like many women of her sort, had a load of caresses an d a burden of blows and injuries to dispense each day. If she had not had Cosett e, it is certain that her daughters, idolized as they were, would have received the whole of it; but the stranger did them the service to divert the blows to he rself. Her daughters received nothing but caresses. Cosette could not make a mot ion which did not draw down upon her head a heavy shower of violent blows and un merited chastisement. The sweet, feeble being, who should not have understood an ything of this world or of God, incessantly punished, scolded, ill-used, beaten, and seeing beside her two little creatures like herself, who lived in a ray of dawn! Madame Thenardier was vicious with Cosette. Eponine and Azelma were vicious. Ch ildren at that age are only copies of their mother. The size is smaller; that is all. A year passed; then another. People in the village said:-"Those Thenardiers are good people. They are not rich, and yet they are bringin g up a poor child who was abandoned on their hands!" They thought that Cosette's mother had forgotten her. In the meanwhile, Thenardier, having learned, it is impossible to say by what o bscure means, that the child was probably a bastard, and that the mother could n ot acknowledge it, exacted fifteen francs a month, saying that "the creature" wa s growing and "eating," and threatening to send her away. "Let her not bother me ," he exclaimed, "or I'll fire her brat right into the middle of her secrets. I must have an increase." The mother paid the fifteen francs. From year to year the child grew, and so did her wretchedness.

As long as Cosette was little, she was the scape-goat of the two other children ; as soon as she began to develop a little, that is to say, before she was even five years old, she became the servant of the household. Five years old! the reader will say; that is not probable. Alas! it is true. So cial suffering begins at all ages. Have we not recently seen the trial of a man named Dumollard, an orphan turned bandit, who, from the age of five, as the offi cial documents state, being alone in the world, "worked for his living and stole "? Cosette was made to run on errands, to sweep the rooms, the courtyard, the stre et, to wash the dishes, to even carry burdens. The Thenardiers considered themse lves all the more authorized to behave in this manner, since the mother, who was still at M. sur M., had become irregular in her payments. Some months she was i n arrears. If this mother had returned to Montfermeil at the end of these three years, she would not have recognized her child. Cosette, so pretty and rosy on her arrival in that house, was now thin and pale. She had an indescribably uneasy look. "Th e sly creature," said the Thenardiers. Injustice had made her peevish, and misery had made her ugly. Nothing remained to her except her beautiful eyes, which inspired pain, because, large as they we re, it seemed as though one beheld in them a still larger amount of sadness. It was a heart-breaking thing to see this poor child, not yet six years old, sh ivering in the winter in her old rags of linen, full of holes, sweeping the stre et before daylight, with an enormous broom in her tiny red hands, and a tear in her great eyes. She was called the Lark in the neighborhood. The populace, who are fond of thes e figures of speech, had taken a fancy to bestow this name on this trembling, fr ightened, and shivering little creature, no bigger than a bird, who was awake ev ery morning before any one else in the house or the village, and was always in t he street or the fields before daybreak. Only the little lark never sang.

BOOK FIFTH.--THE DESCENT.

CHAPTER I THE HISTORY OF A PROGRESS IN BLACK GLASS TRINKETS And in the meantime, what had become of that mother who according to the people at Montfermeil, seemed to have abandoned her child? Where was she? What was she doing?

After leaving her little Cosette with the Thenardiers, she had continued her jo urney, and had reached M. sur M. This, it will be remembered, was in 1818. Fantine had quitted her province ten years before. M. sur M. had changed its as pect. While Fantine had been slowly descending from wretchedness to wretchedness , her native town had prospered. About two years previously one of those industrial facts which are the grand ev ents of small districts had taken place. This detail is important, and we regard it as useful to develop it at length; w e should almost say, to underline it. From time immemorial, M. sur M. had had for its special industry the imitation of English jet and the black glass trinkets of Germany. This industry had always vegetated, on account of the high price of the raw material, which reacted on t he manufacture. At the moment when Fantine returned to M. sur M., an unheard-of transformation had taken place in the production of "black goods." Towards the c lose of 1815 a man, a stranger, had established himself in the town, and had bee n inspired with the idea of substituting, in this manufacture, gum-lac for resin , and, for bracelets in particular, slides of sheet-iron simply laid together, f or slides of soldered sheet-iron. This very small change had effected a revolution. This very small change had, in fact, prodigiously reduced the cost of the raw m aterial, which had rendered it possible in the first place, to raise the price o f manufacture, a benefit to the country; in the second place, to improve the wor kmanship, an advantage to the consumer; in the third place, to sell at a lower p rice, while trebling the profit, which was a benefit to the manufacturer. Thus three results ensued from one idea. In less than three years the inventor of this process had become rich, which is good, and had made every one about him rich, which is better. He was a stranger in the Department. Of his origin, nothing was known; of the beginning of his ca reer, very little. It was rumored that he had come to town with very little mone y, a few hundred francs at the most. It was from this slender capital, enlisted in the service of an ingenious idea, developed by method and thought, that he had drawn his own fortune, and the for tune of the whole countryside. On his arrival at M. sur M. he had only the garments, the appearance, and the l anguage of a workingman. It appears that on the very day when he made his obscure entry into the little town of M. sur M., just at nightfall, on a December evening, knapsack on back an d thorn club in hand, a large fire had broken out in the town-hall. This man had rushed into the flames and saved, at the risk of his own life, two children who belonged to the captain of the gendarmerie; this is why they had forgotten to a sk him for his passport. Afterwards they had learned his name. He was called Fat her Madeleine.

CHAPTER II MADELEINE He was a man about fifty years of age, who had a preoccupied air, and who was g ood. That was all that could be said about him. Thanks to the rapid progress of the industry which he had so admirably re-const ructed, M. sur M. had become a rather important centre of trade. Spain, which co nsumes a good deal of black jet, made enormous purchases there each year. M. sur M. almost rivalled London and Berlin in this branch of commerce. Father Madelei ne's profits were such, that at the end of the second year he was able to erect a large factory, in which there were two vast workrooms, one for the men, and th e other for women. Any one who was hungry could present himself there, and was s ure of finding employment and bread. Father Madeleine required of the men good w ill, of the women pure morals, and of all, probity. He had separated the work-ro oms in order to separate the sexes, and so that the women and girls might remain discreet. On this point he was inflexible. It was the only thing in which he wa s in a manner intolerant. He was all the more firmly set on this severity, since M. sur M., being a garrison town, opportunities for corruption abounded. Howeve r, his coming had been a boon, and his presence was a godsend. Before Father Mad eleine's arrival, everything had languished in the country; now everything lived with a healthy life of toil. A strong circulation warmed everything and penetra ted everywhere. Slack seasons and wretchedness were unknown. There was no pocket so obscure that it had not a little money in it; no dwelling so lowly that ther e was not some little joy within it. Father Madeleine gave employment to every one. He exacted but one thing: Be an honest man. Be an honest woman. As we have said, in the midst of this activity of which he was the cause and th e pivot, Father Madeleine made his fortune; but a singular thing in a simple man of business, it did not seem as though that were his chief care. He appeared to be thinking much of others, and little of himself. In 1820 he was known to have a sum of six hundred and thirty thousand francs lodged in his name with Laffitt e; but before reserving these six hundred and thirty thousand francs, he had spe nt more than a million for the town and its poor. The hospital was badly endowed; he founded six beds there. M. sur M. is divided into the upper and the lower town. The lower town, in which he lived, had but o ne school, a miserable hovel, which was falling to ruin: he constructed two, one for girls, the other for boys. He allotted a salary from his own funds to the t wo instructors, a salary twice as large as their meagre official salary, and one day he said to some one who expressed surprise, "The two prime functionaries of the state are the nurse and the schoolmaster." He created at his own expense an infant school, a thing then almost unknown in France, and a fund for aiding old and infirm workmen. As his factory was a centre, a new quarter, in which there were a good many indigent families, rose rapidly around him; he established ther e a free dispensary. At first, when they watched his beginnings, the good souls said, "He's a jolly fellow who means to get rich." When they saw him enriching the country before he enriched himself, the good souls said, "He is an ambitious man." This seemed al

l the more probable since the man was religious, and even practised his religion to a certain degree, a thing which was very favorably viewed at that epoch. He went regularly to low mass every Sunday. The local deputy, who nosed out all riv alry everywhere, soon began to grow uneasy over this religion. This deputy had b een a member of the legislative body of the Empire, and shared the religious ide as of a father of the Oratoire, known under the name of Fouche, Duc d'Otrante, w hose creature and friend he had been. He indulged in gentle raillery at God with closed doors. But when he beheld the wealthy manufacturer Madeleine going to lo w mass at seven o'clock, he perceived in him a possible candidate, and resolved to outdo him; he took a Jesuit confessor, and went to high mass and to vespers. Ambition was at that time, in the direct acceptation of the word, a race to the steeple. The poor profited by this terror as well as the good God, for the honor able deputy also founded two beds in the hospital, which made twelve. Nevertheless, in 1819 a rumor one morning circulated through the town to the ef fect that, on the representations of the prefect and in consideration of the ser vices rendered by him to the country, Father Madeleine was to be appointed by th e King, mayor of M. sur M. Those who had pronounced this new-comer to be "an amb itious fellow," seized with delight on this opportunity which all men desire, to exclaim, "There! what did we say!" All M. sur M. was in an uproar. The rumor wa s well founded. Several days later the appointment appeared in the Moniteur. On the following day Father Madeleine refused. In this same year of 1819 the products of the new process invented by Madeleine figured in the industrial exhibition; when the jury made their report, the King appointed the inventor a chevalier of the Legion of Honor. A fresh excitement i n the little town. Well, so it was the cross that he wanted! Father Madeleine re fused the cross. Decidedly this man was an enigma. The good souls got out of their predicament b y saying, "After all, he is some sort of an adventurer." We have seen that the country owed much to him; the poor owed him everything; h e was so useful and he was so gentle that people had been obliged to honor and r espect him. His workmen, in particular, adored him, and he endured this adoratio n with a sort of melancholy gravity. When he was known to be rich, "people in so ciety" bowed to him, and he received invitations in the town; he was called, in town, Monsieur Madeleine; his workmen and the children continued to call him Fat her Madeleine, and that was what was most adapted to make him smile. In proporti on as he mounted, throve, invitations rained down upon him. "Society" claimed hi m for its own. The prim little drawing-rooms on M. sur M., which, of course, had at first been closed to the artisan, opened both leaves of their folding-doors to the millionnaire. They made a thousand advances to him. He refused. This time the good gossips had no trouble. "He is an ignorant man, of no educat ion. No one knows where he came from. He would not know how to behave in society . It has not been absolutely proved that he knows how to read." When they saw him making money, they said, "He is a man of business." When they saw him scattering his money about, they said, "He is an ambitious man." When h e was seen to decline honors, they said, "He is an adventurer." When they saw hi m repulse society, they said, "He is a brute." In 1820, five years after his arrival in M. sur M., the services which he had r endered to the district were so dazzling, the opinion of the whole country round about was so unanimous, that the King again appointed him mayor of the town. He again declined; but the prefect resisted his refusal, all the notabilities of t he place came to implore him, the people in the street besought him; the urging was so vigorous that he ended by accepting. It was noticed that the thing which seemed chiefly to bring him to a decision was the almost irritated apostrophe ad

dressed to him by an old woman of the people, who called to him from her thresho ld, in an angry way: "A good mayor is a useful thing. Is he drawing back before the good which he can do?" This was the third phase of his ascent. Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Ma deleine. Monsieur Madeleine became Monsieur le Maire.

CHAPTER III SUMS DEPOSITED WITH LAFFITTE On the other hand, he remained as simple as on the first day. He had gray hair, a serious eye, the sunburned complexion of a laborer, the thoughtful visage of a philosopher. He habitually wore a hat with a wide brim, and a long coat of coa rse cloth, buttoned to the chin. He fulfilled his duties as mayor; but, with tha t exception, he lived in solitude. He spoke to but few people. He avoided polite attentions; he escaped quickly; he smiled to relieve himself of the necessity o f talking; he gave, in order to get rid of the necessity for smiling, The women said of him, "What a good-natured bear!" His pleasure consisted in strolling in the fields. He always took his meals alone, with an open book before him, which he read. He had a well-selected little library. He loved books; books are cold but safe fri ends. In proportion as leisure came to him with fortune, he seemed to take advan tage of it to cultivate his mind. It had been observed that, ever since his arri val at M. sur M.. his language had grown more polished, more choice, and more ge ntle with every passing year. He liked to carry a gun with him on his strolls, b ut he rarely made use of it. When he did happen to do so, his shooting was somet hing so infallible as to inspire terror. He never killed an inoffensive animal. He never shot at a little bird. Although he was no longer young, it was thought that he was still prodigiously strong. He offered his assistance to any one who was in need of it, lifted a hor se, released a wheel clogged in the mud, or stopped a runaway bull by the horns. He always had his pockets full of money when he went out; but they were empty o n his return. When he passed through a village, the ragged brats ran joyously af ter him, and surrounded him like a swarm of gnats. It was thought that he must, in the past, have lived a country life, since he k new all sorts of useful secrets, which he taught to the peasants. He taught them how to destroy scurf on wheat, by sprinkling it and the granary and inundating the cracks in the floor with a solution of common salt; and how to chase away we evils by hanging up orviot in phrasie. Stop! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece, and I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see Cosette again soon. Mon Dieu! how wrong it is not to see one's children for years! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good M. le Maire is to go! it is ve ry cold! it is true; he had on his cloak, at least? he will be here to-morrow, w ill he not? to-morrow will be a festival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you mus

t remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montf ermeil is! I took that journey on foot once; it was very long for me, but the di ligences go very quickly! he will be here to-morrow with Cosette: how far is it from here to Montfermeil?" The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, "Oh, I think that be will be here to-morrow." "To-morrow! to-morrow!" said Fantine, "I shall see Cosette to-morrow! you see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill; I am mad; I could dance if any one wished it." A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not have unders tood the change; she was all rosy now; she spoke in a lively and natural voice; her whole face was one smile; now and then she talked, she laughed softly; the j oy of a mother is almost infantile. "Well," resumed the nun, "now that you are happy, mind me, and do not talk any more." Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice: "Yes, lie down aga in; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister Simplice is right; eve ry one here is right." And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to stare al l about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air, and she said nothing more. The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall into a doze. Between seven and eight o'clock the doctor came; not hearing any sound, he thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly, and approached the bed on tiptoe; h e opened the curtains a little, and, by the light of the taper, he saw Fantine's big eyes gazing at him. She said to him, "She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed, will she not, sir?" The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added:-"See! there is just room." The doctor took Sister Simplice aside, and she explained matters to him; that M . Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their doubt they had not th ought it well to undeceive the invalid, who believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil; that it was possible, after all, that her guess was correct: the do ctor approved. He returned to Fantine's bed, and she went on:-"You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good morning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can hear her asleep; h er little gentle breathing will do me good." "Give me your hand," said the doctor. She stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh:-"Ah, hold! in truth, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will arrive to-mo rrow." The doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had decreas

ed; her pulse had regained its strength; a sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn-out creature. "Doctor," she went on, "did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has gone to ge t that mite of a child?" The doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emotions should be avoided ; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchona, and, in case the fever should inc rease again during the night, a calming potion. As he took his departure, he sai d to the sister:-"She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should actually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises so astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all those things are such mysteries: we may be abl e to save her."

CHAPTER VII THE TRAVELLER ON HIS ARRIVAL TAKES PRECAUTIONS FOR DEPARTURE It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cart, which we left on the road, entered the porte-cochere of the Hotel de la Poste in Arras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted from it, responded with an abs tracted air to the attentions of the people of the inn, sent back the extra hors e, and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable; then he open ed the door of a billiard-room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there, and leaned his elbows on a table; he had taken fourteen hours for the jou rney which he had counted on making in six; he did himself the justice to acknow ledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom, he was not sorry. The landlady of the hotel entered. "Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper?" He made a sign of the head in the negative. "The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued." Here he broke his silence. "Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow morning?" "Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least." He inquired:-"Is not the posting-station located here?" "Yes, sir."

The hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport, and inquired w hether there was any way of returning that same night to M. sur M. by the mail-w agon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced to be vacant; he engaged it and paid for it. "Monsieur," said the clerk, "do not fail to be here ready to start at pr ecisely one o'clock in the morning." This done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town. He was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were dark, and he walked on at ra ndom; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the passers-by. He crossed t he little river Crinchon, and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys wher e he lost his way. A citizen was passing along with a lantern. After some hesita tion, he decided to apply to this man, not without having first glanced behind a nd in front of him, as though he feared lest some one should hear the question w hich he was about to put. "Monsieur," said he, "where is the court-house, if you please." "You do not belong in town, sir?" replied the bourgeois, who was an oldish man; "well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the court-house, tha t is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture; for the court-hous e is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are holding their si ttings provisionally in the prefecture." "Is it there that the Assizes are held?" he asked. "Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop's palace befo re the Revolution. M. de Conzie, who was bishop in '82, built a grand hall there . It is in this grand hall that the court is held." On the way, the bourgeois said to him:-"If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings general ly close at six o'clock." When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to him four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy building. "Upon my word, sir, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do se four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light there, not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a se? Are you a witness?" He replied:-"I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers." "That is different," said the bourgeois. "Stop, sir; here is the door where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase." He conformed to the bourgeois's directions, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people, and where groups, intermingled with lawyers in the ir gowns, were whispering together here and there. It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men robed in black, murmuring together in low voices, on the threshold of the halls of justic e. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words. Condemnation s pronounced in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups seem you see tho so they are are holding criminal ca

to the passing and thoughtful observer so many sombre hives where buzzing spirit s construct in concert all sorts of dark edifices. This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of the episc opal palace, and served as the large hall of the palace of justice. A double-lea ved door, which was closed at that moment, separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting. The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer whom he met. "What stage have they reached, sir?" he asked. "It is finished," said the lawyer. "Finished!" This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round. "Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative?" "No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced?" "Of course. Nothing else was possible." "To penal servitude?" "For life." He continued, in a voice so weak that it was barely audible:-"Then his identity was established?" "What identity?" replied the lawyer. "There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child; the infanticide wa s proved; the jury threw out the question of premeditation, and she was condemne d for life." "So it was a woman?" said he. "Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking?" "Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still lighted ?" "For another case, which was begun about two hours ago. "What other case?" "Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a man arr ested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's a bandit's phiz for you! I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone." "Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?" said he. "I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you might make an effort."

"Where is the entrance?" "Through yonder large door." The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had, in turn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled, he breath ed freely once more; but he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure. He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket o f the session was very heavy; the president had appointed for the same day two s hort and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide, and now they had rea ched the convict, the old offender, the "return horse." This man had stolen appl es, but that did not appear to be entirely proved; what had been proved was, tha t he had already been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad asp ect to his case. However, the man's examination and the depositions of the witne sses had been completed, but the lawyer's plea, and the speech of the public pro secutor were still to come; it could not be finished before midnight. The man wo uld probably be condemned; the attorney-general was very clever, and never misse d his culprits; he was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses. An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Assizes. He inqui red of this usher:-"Will the door be opened soon, sir?" "It will not be opened at all," replied the usher. "What! It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing su spended?" "The hearing has just been begun again," replied the usher, "but the door will not be opened again." "Why?" "Because the hall is full." "What! There is not room for one more?" "Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now." The usher added after a pause: "There are, to tell the truth, two or three extr a places behind Monsieur le President, but Monsieur le President only admits pub lic functionaries to them." So saying, the usher turned his back. He retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber, and slowly descended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him si nce the preceding evening was not yet ended; and every moment he encountered som e new phase of it. On reaching the landing-place, he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his poc ket-book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote ra pidly, by the light of the street lantern, this line: M. Madeleine, Mayor of M. sur M.; then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way t hrough the crowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and sai

d in an authoritative manner:-"Take this to Monsieur le President." The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed.

CHAPTER VIII AN ENTRANCE BY FAVOR Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. enjoyed a sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais; it had eventually passed the confines of a small distr ict and had been spread abroad through two or three neighboring departments. Bes ides the service which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the bl ack jet industry, there was not one out of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other arrondiss ements. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credi t and his funds the linen factory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at Fre vent, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche. Everywhere t he name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douai envied t he happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor. The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over this session of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted, in common with the rest of the world, with this name which was so profoundly and universally honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which connected the council-chamber with the court-r oom, bent over the back of the President's arm-chair and handed him the paper on which was inscribed the line which we have just perused, adding: "The gentleman desires to be present at the trial," the President, with a quick and deferentia l movement, seized a pen and wrote a few words at the bottom of the paper and re turned it to the usher, saying, "Admit him." The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the door of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the usher had left him. In the midst of his revery he heard some one saying to him, "Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?" It was the s follie costose della giovinezza e della e t\'88 meno giovane; mentre ha gi\'88 quasi toccato il fondo e anche assaporato u n po' la feccia di quel programma di lusso, di godimenti, di squisite ed estreme raffinatezze che fa fremere ogni temperamento nobile e ardente. Egli non \'8f, dopo tutto questo, n\'8f un vizioso, n\'8f uno scettico, in fatto di sensazioni umane. Ha avuto del gusto, un vivacissimo gusto per tutti i piaceri; ma non ha l asciato che la depravazione toccasse il suo cervello; ma la sua stanchezza delle cose \'8f malinconica, non cinica.\ Paolo Herz \'8f un uomo eminentemente porta to all'amore. Dopo aver percorso tutte le vie dove vibra la vita, egli ha ritrov ato, non so in quale pozzo, la Verit\'88; ed Essa gli ha detto una cosa antichis sima: solo l'amore vale la pena di vivere. Dotato di un temperamento caldo e viv ido, di una fantasia esuberante e gagliarda, di un profondo segreto senso di poe sia, queste sue qualit\'88 che, applicate a un'ambizione, ad un'arte, a un apost

olato, avrebbero reso illustre il suo nome, gli sono servite solamente per amare e per essere amato, per ricercare, per raccogliere e per chiudere nell'amore tu tte le varie forme della felice attivit\'88 umana, per serrare nel piccolo giro di un amore muliebre ogni desiderio, ogni speranza, ogni finalit\'88.\ Egli, per \'98, non \'8f un Don Giovanni. Nella sua anima esiste una limpida corrente sent imentale che viene a temperare tutte le fiamme troppo improvvise, troppo violent e, troppo fugaci. Sentimentalit\'88 costante, latente, intimissima, conservatric e di dolcezze miti e nascoste, evocatrice di dilette e predilette immagini, ramm entatrice di una figura femminile, ahi, indimenticabile, la figura materna, tutt a piena di grazia e di modesta seduzione. Sentimentalit\'88 persino eccessiva, i n un uomo come Paolo Herz, e anche non scevra di strani tranelli e destinata a p rocurargli le pi\'9d elevate gioie del cuore, ma, fatalmente, anche a condurlo s u per l'erta tribolata del dolore. Forte della sua salute, della sua bellezza, d ella sua fortuna, della sua libert\'88, corazzato in questa lucente e salda arma tura che gli ha concesso Iddio, destinato alle vittorie, figliuolo primogenito d el trionfo, Paolo Herz non ha che questo lato debole, in s\'8f, questa sentiment alit\'88 celata, ma prepotente sovra ogni altro istinto, sovra ogni altra inclin azione. Ci\'98 che rende quest'uomo altero e robusto, fragile come un fanciullo, \'8f appunto questa larga fiumana sentimentale che confonde e affoga le sue for ze, in qualunque ora di battaglia. Quante volte, nell'orgoglio maschile, egli ha tentato di liberarsi, di diventare duro e freddo, di non tremare per un ricordo , di non impallidire per un nome, di non vibrare di piet\'88 per uno sguardo vel ato di lagrime, di non fremere di tenerezza dinanzi a un volto smorto di malata: vanamente. I suoi avi di Germania gli hanno trasmessa questa eredit\'88 del sen timento, molle e rorida, e il sangue bruciante meridionale, col suo effuso ardor e non \'8f giunto a inaridirla. Pure, sino a trentaquattro anni, Paolo Herz ha a mato ed \'8f stato amato, senza che l'amore, anche a grandi altezze di temperatu ra, gli infliggesse le torture che subiscono gli animi deboli: nessuna tragica l otta interiore lo ha travolto. Egli si \'8f incontrato in due o tre donne, qualc una semplice e umile, qualche altra superba e appassionata; ed egli ha dato e ha ricevuto felicit\'88, ha dato e ha ricevuto spasimo, ebbrezza, delirio, in uno scambio abbastanza giusto. \'e9 stato amato, per quanto ha amato: combinazione r ara, rarissima, che \'8f data in sorte solo a coloro che la vita vuole favorire. Herz \'8f stato molto innamorato, molto fedele, molto passionale e insieme molt o sentimentale, senza soffrire troppo, poich\'8f le donne che lo hanno amato, er ano alla sua altezza. Cos\'93 gli \'8f entrata nell'anima una fatale fiducia di se stesso e dell'amore; egli ha finito di temere le debolezze del suo temperamen to; egli \'8f stato \f2\i certo \f0\i0 di vincere \f2\i sempre \f0\i0 , vincere dandosi all'amore, naturalmente, tutto quanto, ma dandosi in una perfetta armoni a di abbandono, ricevendo per quanto dava, inteso per quanto intendeva, compreso e preso per quanto egli comprendeva e prendeva: e non soffrendo. I suoi amori, prima dei trentaquattro anni, sono fioriti senza catastrofi, dolcemente, lascian do nel suo cuore e nel cuore della donna gi\'88 amata, gi\'88 amante, un profumo soave. Ci\'98 ha ancora aumentato la sua fiducia nel sentimento e in se medesim o, e lo ha imbaldanzito sino al punto di credersi intangibile al dolore di amore ; egli ha perduto ogni criterio della infelicit\'88 e della miseria morale che v iene dall'amore, massime di quella miseria e di quell'infelicit\'88, che noi ste ssi portiamo nell'amore. Infine, Paolo Herz \'8f diventato un essere fiero della propria forza morale amorosa, della propria sapienza amorosa, fiero di tutto co noscere e di tutto poter vincere, nulla temendo, nulla vedendo, nulla rammentand o, cieco come tutti i fortunati, sui moti improvvisi e inaspettati della vita e sulle contraddizioni crudeli della fortuna.\ In questa istoria d'amore, Paolo He rz \'8f il traditore.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa140\ql\qnatural \cf0 \ \pard\pardeft ab720\sa300\ql\qnatural \cf0 II.\ Luisa Cima ha ventisei anni. \'e9 piccola di s tatura, minuta di linee ma non troppo scarna: anzi le spalle hanno una curva mol le, le braccia sono rotondette, il collo \'8f pienotto, tanto che ella guadagna sempre nei vestiti da teatro e da ballo, dove tutto questo si pu\'98 mostrare nu do. Per\'98 sembra cos\'93 esile, cos\'93 fragile che un nulla pare debba spezza rla. La sua carnagione \'8f di un pallore trasparente che non \'8f senza grazia, poich\'8f si attribuisce a malattia, di cui ella sia convalescente o ad emozion

e di cui sia in preda: mentre quel pallore \'8f naturale, ella \'8f in perfetto stato di salute e delle sue emozioni nessuno ha saputo mai nulla. Spesso, per\'9 8, quando Luisa Cima ride, o quando cammina presto, o quando balla, ondate lievi di sangue passano sotto quella carnagione bianca e se le tolgono la sua aria in teressante, la fanno ridiventare giovanissima, una fanciulla che sia sposa da un anno.\ I capelli di Luisa Cima sono nerissimi, di una grande finezza, morbidi, cos\'93 lucidi che paiono bagnati e malgrado che sieno molti, per la loro finezz a e per la la loro morbidezza, si possono chiudere in un pugno: ella li rialza p oco pi\'9d su della nuca, in molle disordine, con una grossa forcinella di tarta ruga bionda, una sola, che ne trapassa il nodo e lo sostiene: qualche ciocchetta lieve ne sfugge: sotto la linea nera che essi formano, rialzati tutti sulla fro nte e sulle tempie, la fronte si distacca, pi\'9d vividamente pallida. Gli occhi di Luisa Cima sono oscuri, di tinta incerta. Ma oscuri, non neri: vi \'8f chi l i ha visti marrone oscuro e chi grigio scuri: mai neri. La loro espressione \'8f sempre duplice: tenerezza e malizia, miste insieme. Spesso vi \'8f lotta intima , fra queste due espressioni: vince l'una o l'altra, secondo il momento. Talvolt a la tenerezza degli occhi di Luisa va sino al languore e quasi quasi vorrebbe f ar credere a un sentimento segreto: talvolta la malizia sopraff\'88 la tenerezza e diventa impertinente, prepotente, provocante. Ma il loro stato naturale d'esp ressione, di questi occhi, \'8f una dolcezza infantile mista a una scintillante malizia. A guardarli bene, per\'98, questi occhi sono scoraggianti. La sua limpi dit\'88 \'8f assoluta. Mai profondit\'88 di pensiero li fa maggiori di s\'8f, ma i velo di lacrime li intorbida, mai nuvola di tristezza li appanna: quello sguar do non \'8f mai errabondo, mai sognante, mai vago: ha una nitidit\'88, una preci sione, che taglia di un colpo solo, tutti i vagabondaggi della fantasia. Niente di segreto.--Essi non mostrano che quello che sono. E cos\'93, questi sono since ri, perch\'8f dicono, senza reticenze e senza indecisioni, lo stato di animo di Luisa Cima: tenerezza molta mista di malizia. E sono sempre le stesse parole, po ich\'8f gli occhi sono sempre gli stessi e non altro.\ La bocca di Luisa \'8f fo rmata di labbra sottili e pallidette nel loro roseo tenue: i minuti denti, bianc hissimi, nel sorriso che li scopre tutti, lasciano vedere una gengiva esangue an che essa. Luisa sorride quasi sempre: a bocca chiusa e pensosa, il suo volto \'8 f molto meno seducente, come accade a tante altre donne. Invecchia, questo volto : impallidisce anche pi\'9d. Ella, quindi, sorride facilmente, di tutto, anche q uando dice qualche cosa di serio, anche quando dice, spesso, qualche cosa di dur o. La sua voce \'8f infantile, un po' trillante, un po' roca, un po' interrotta, spesso, da improvvisi languori, da stanchezze brevi: Luisa parla presto, molto, restando talvolta senza fiato, con le labbra schiuse, come un uccellino che abb ia allora finito di cantare. Le mani sono magrette, lunghette, bianche, con le u nghie scintillanti, troppo scintillanti, come l'onice: ella cambia nervosamente spesso, gli anelli, troppo numerosi, anelli gemmati da una mano all'altra, con u n moto quasi continuo. Luisa Cima porta dei vestiti senza strascico, rotondi, se mplici: delle giacchettine attillate e brevi, delle mantelline da bimba, delle g randi cravatte di merletto dove, la sua testina pare che s'immerga per disparire : dei colletti di pelliccia tutti irti dove essa sembra, ancora una volta, un uc cellino freddoloso: dei cappellini fatti con un fiore e con un nastro, con una f arfalla e una veletta, dei cappellini fatti di niente. Sulla sua piccola persona vi \'8f sempre una cosetta carina e originale, una fibbia, un fermaglio, un nod o di nastro, un gingillo sospeso alla cintura, qualche cosa di luminoso e di vez zoso, talvolta di vezzoso e di abbagliante che attira gli occhi e li respinge. E lla, porta degli orecchini enormi e pesanti, di smeraldi, di turchesi, alle sue piccole orecchie troppo bianche: dieci o dodici cerchiolini di oro, sottilissimi , al braccio, che tintinniscono sempre e a cui \'8f sospesa una perlina. Si dice che le perline formino un nome. Quale nome? Forse due nomi, perch\'8f sono molt e. Moltissimi anelli, dei ventaglietti antichi e preziosi, ma sempre preziosi: e i guanti, solo i guanti, sulla sua persona, oltraggiosamente profumati.\ Poich\ '8f nella donna bisogna desumere il suo tipo morale specialmente dal suo tipo fi sico, dal suo modo di vestire, di camminare, di parlare: da quanto si \'8f detto , Luisa Cima pare una di quelle creature deboli, gracili, che traggono, per cont rasto, vivacit\'88 dalla loro debolezza e che hanno delle vibrazioni squisite ne

lla loro gracilit\'88. Ella pare, anche, delicatissima come se uscisse allora da una infermit\'88 che l'ha estenuata e come se riprendesse allora le sue giovani li e tenere energie. Certo \'8f questo: che non possedendo nessuna bellezza, non avendo nessuna formosit\'88, non facendo mostra di nessuna grande qualit\'88 es tetica palese, questa donna \'8f seducente. Quando \'8f in una sala, in un teatr o, dove deve tacere, stare quieta, in silenzio e al riposo, ella sembra una donn ina insignificante, poco sana anche, anemica, senza nessun genere di attrazione: e pu\'98 essere, \'8f trascurata. Ma, l'ora passa: ella si muove, si leva, parl a, sorride, va, viene, compare e scompare, gira, danza, pare che si spezzi in du e, si gitta estenuata in una poltroncina, coi grandi occhi limpidi, maliziosi e teneri bene aperti, con la bocca socchiusa e la sua attrazione vincola, lentamen te. L'uomo ha cominciato per considerarla come un qualunque inutile e trascurabi le piccolo elemento muliebre: poi, la sua attenzione benevola ha pensato che Lui sa Cima sia una cosetta carina e infine, infine, quando il fascino si \'8f svilu ppato, che Luisa Cima sia un prezioso piccolo gioiello. Sovratutto poich\'8f l'u omo \'8f un buon tiranno pietoso, un affettuoso tiranno protettore, lo lusinga l a debolezza di questo tenue fiorellino, mancante di colore, piccolo fiore freddo --le manine lunghette e magrette di Luisa Cima sono sempre fredde--e la vanit\'8 8 della protezione lo spinge alla compassione e la compassione tende all'uomo, d a quella donna, il suo maggiore tranello. Oh la donna sa farsi anche pi\'9d minu ta, pi\'9d piccina, tutta trepida di misteriose paure, tutta tremante di freddo a un soffio, con quel volto da cui sparisce cos\'93 facilmente il sangue, dove s olo i maliziosi, assai pi\'9d maliziosi che teneri occhi vivono alacremente: ell a chiede, in silenzio, di essere protetta, sorretta, presa, chiusa nelle braccia , difesa contro tutto e contro tutti, carezzata sino alla volutt\'88, anche sino al delirio, lo chiede col tenerissimo languore del suo sguardo, in cui la maliz ia nasconde il suo trionfo!\ Cos\'93, desumendo sempre da quello che essa fa, qu ello che Luisa \'8f, si forma la figura morale di una donnina perfida. La parola perfida non basta: si pu\'98 arrivare a perversa. Questa donna, sovra tutto, no n ama che se stessa, cos\'93 follemente, che quasi mai l'egoismo fu spinto a tal e estremo segno. Ella si adora. Quando pare che ella ami follemente qualcuno, \' 8f per qualche segreta soddisfazione crudele del suo egoismo. La medesima felici t\'88 che d\'88 al suo amante \'8f fatta di egoismo e di perversione. Ne ha avut i due, di amanti, oltre il marito: il terzo amante \'8f stato Paolo Herz. Ebbene , tutti e quattro, poich\'8f il marito anche \'8f stato suo amante, poich\'8f el la \'8f ritornata a lui tre volte tutti e quattro sono stati presi ed abbandonat i, cos\'93, per capriccio caldo che parea passione, sono stati lasciati per fast idio improvviso; e niuno l'ha dimenticata, mai, neppure il marito, tutti hanno d esiderato il suo amore, ardentemente, dopo l'abbandono. La sua perversione ha se duzioni latenti, prima, poi palesi, poi sfrontate: e infine, ella rimane nel san gue di coloro che l'hanno amata, come una infermit\'88 corrompitrice. Nell'egual modo come una donna leale, nobile e generosa ha bisogno di vivere continuatamen te nell'esercizio di queste virt\'9d, e di questi puri elementi nutrisce con com piacenza l'anima sua, cos\'93 Luisa Cima chiede, per esser felice, di poter comp ire gli atti capricciosi e crudeli che le ispirano i suoi istinti di perfidia e di perversione. Ella non sa n\'8f amare n\'8f vivere che cos\'93: obbedendo alla mobilit\'88 del suo temperamento, vincendo un uomo ogni volta che le piace di v incerlo, inebbriandolo di amore e di dolore, abbandonandolo solo, fiacco, perdut o, quando quest'uomo non le piace pi\'9d, tradendolo immancabilmente, colmandolo di quante amarezze una vera perfidia possa versare nel cuore di amante, non sol o tradendolo, ma avvelenandolo, non solo tradendolo, ma ridendo di lui, altrove, con altri, togliendoli, cos\'93, l'ultimo dovere e la ultima illusione. Pure, q uesta natura muliebre ha grandi scoppii di sincerit\'88: la verit\'88 brutale le piace. Essa, a un certo momento, non si cura di fingere pi\'9d. Come \'8f, \'8f . Ella non inganna: non tradisce. Quando ha tradito, lo dice, lo dichiara, lo so stiene, lo proclama, se ne vanta. Chi la vuole, deve accettarla come \'8f. Chi l a prende, si d\'88 al pi\'9d orribile fra i perigli sentimentali.\ Luisa Cima, i n questa storia di amore, \'8f la tradita.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa140\ql\qnatural \cf0 \ \pard\pardeftab720\sa300\ql\qnatural \cf0 III.\ Ch\'8erie non \'8f un no me, naturalmente, \'8f un soprannome. Nessuno sa troppo bene come Ch\'8erie si s

ia chiamata, al fonte battesimale e quale cognome ella porti, sui registri dello stato civile. Forse, a furia di udirsi chiamare Ch\'8erie, ella stessa ha dimen ticato il suo vero nome. Fu il primo uomo che l'ha amata, quello che la chiam\'9 8 Ch\'8erie, o sua madre, o un indifferente, o ella stessa si applic\'98 questo vezzeggiativo francese? Chi lo sa! Nessuno, forse ha pensato mai a domandargliel o: forse, perch\'8f accanto a lei si pensa a tutt'altro che a fare delle indagin i sul suo nome: forse, perch\'8f queste due sillabe sono cos\'93 ben dette, per indicarla! Ella, del resto, \'8f muta su questo: se un raro imprudente le chiede l'origine del dolce appellativo, ella china i suoi begli occhi verde acqua, e n on risponde. D'altronde, dapertutto, per dire di lei, non la si nomina che come Ch\'8erie: il suo nome \'8f ripetuto spesso, nei colloqui dei giovanotti alla mo da, massime fra quelli pi\'9d intelligenti e pi\'9d veri amatori delle donne: an che le signore, talvolta, parlano di lei, ma quando sono sole e di sfuggita. Ell a non firma che Ch\'8erie i suoi biglietti mancanti di ortografia, ma non mancan ti di grazia. Questo soprannome, infine, ha un carattere soave e familiare che s e contrasta con la vita di Ch\'8erie, risponde abbastanza al tipo muliebre che e lla rappresenta.\ Ch\'8erie non \'8f pi\'9d tanto giovane, ha circa trent'anni. Ma come a venti anni, ella ha sempre la medesima foresta arruffata di capelli bi ondi, dove, qua e l\'88, una scintilla di oro si accende; nei suoi begli occhi g lauchi frangiati di biondo, \'8f sempre un perenne riso di giovinezza, e la bocc a tagliata classicamente, simile a quella di una olimpiaca Diana, ha una fresche zza umida incantevole. Non invecchier\'88 tanto presto, Ch\'8erie, poich\'8f il segreto della giovent\'9d \'8f nel genere della sua belt\'88, un po' confuso, un po' originale, in certi lineamenti squisito, in alcuni altri molto scorretto. E lla \'8f troppo alta: ma la sua persona \'8f snella, ha proprio quella flessuosi t\'88 che s\'93 facilmente si attribuisce alle donne di persona svelta, ma che \ '8f raramente reale. La carnagione \'8f un po' rossastra, di una tinta sgradita che, in alcuni giorni, diventa color mattone; ma i suoi occhi sono immensi, o se mbrano immensi, giacch\'8f la pupilla azzurro verdina ha intorno una cornea non bianca, dai riflessi azzurri, ma la lieve ombra che \'8f sotto le palpebre, ha a nche qualche cosa di azzurro: ed \'8f miope, Ch\'8erie, con questi grandi occhi nuotanti nelle tinte glauche, il che le d\'88 un'aria sognante. D'altronde, savi amente, ella non adopera mai l'occhialino, lasciando ai suoi occhi vedere solo q uello che vogliono e non togliendo loro nessuna di quelle contemplazioni vaghe e d errabonde. Ella ha il collo un po' troppo lungo, le spalle larghe, la cintura strettissima, il passo lieve e due o tre movimenti leggiadrissimi del capo.\ Ma la cosa pi\'9d seducente, in Ch\'8erie, la cosa che vi attrae, che vi prende, ch e vi tiene, che vi soggioca, \'8f la voce. Qual voce! Bassa e velata, quasi semp re, questa voce dicendo parole pi\'9d insignificanti, par sempre emozionata: tal volta vivida e sonante, in un'armonia di canto, pare che dia forza e lietezza a chi l'ascolta. La voce di Ch\'8erie \'8f insinuante, \'8f toccante, \'8f candida , \'8f amorosa: ella \'8f gi\'88 scomparsa e quella voce vibra ancora nel vostro cuore, con musicalit\'88 sentimentali, e certe frasi dette da quella voce, semb ra che contengano delle melodie sconosciute. Ella sa bene questo, Ch\'8erie! E c onoscendovi, dandovi un lungo sguardo dei suoi immensi occhi color dell'acqua ma rina, dicendovi: \f2\i buona sera \f0\i0 , ella sa di suscitare non so quale pic colo poema nelle anime pi\'9d inaridite. Molti l'hanno voluta conoscere, solo pe r udirla a parlare, e, dopo, non hanno saputo staccarsene che a forza. Ella non ha mai cantato, per\'98. Una strana avventura, \'8f accaduta, a Ch\'8erie, in un veglione. Una signora della grande societ\'88, il cui marito era folle di Ch\'8 erie, si \'8f mascherata per trovare la sua rivale, per parlarle, per ingiuriarl a, forse, per fare uno scandalo, certamente. La dama \'8f entrata nel palco di C h\'8erie e sono rimaste insieme mezz'ora, parlando a bassa voce, sul davanti del palco, guardandosi a traverso i buchi delle mascherine: lo scandalo non vi \'8f stato, giacch\'8f, a un certo momento, la dama si \'8f levata, ha salutato quie tamente ed \'8f uscita. Dopo, interrogata, ha detto: \f2\i mio marito ha ragione \f0\i0 . Del resto, la dama \'8f un po' strana e Ch\'8erie, pare, le abbia risp osto con molta dolcezza e con molta umilt\'88.\ Ch\'8erie \'8f, relativamente, o nesta. Non ha mai due amanti, nello stesso tempo; non ha mai preso, solo per il denaro, un amante brutto, vecchio o ladro; odia i banchieri e gli ebrei; e se le

\'8f capitato che il suo amante fosse egualmente ricco, giovane e bello, ella g li ha dato uno o due anni di amore, gli \'8f stata fedele, gli ha fatto spendere una quantit\'88 di denaro, lo ha lasciato solo quando costui ha voluto esser la sciato e ha tenuto sempre due o tre mesi di lutto. Le si conoscono anche degli a mori di cuore. Essa \'8f ricca, infine. Vi \'8f chi \'8f restato legato, a lei, come si resta difficilmente legati a una Ch\'8erie: e chi ha voluto assicurarle una fortuna. Essa d\'88 da vivere a una quantit\'88 di parenti poveri, marita le sue cameriere, partecipa segretamente a tutte le questue e a tutte le sottoscri zioni, ha delle devozioni speciali per certi santi e una paura orribile della mo rte.\ La sua casa, d'altra parte, \'8f elegantissima: ella ama le grandi serre, i grandi saloni, i mobili larghi e scolpiti-- \f2\i che dureranno pi\'9d di noi \f0\i0 , ella dice, con una lieve malinconia--i quadri antichi. I salottini, i m obilucci, i gingilletti, le statuine le sono antipatici. \'e9 troppo alta, per p oterli amare, porta sempre dei vestiti o neri, o bianchi: bianco sul nero, talvo lta, e nero sul bianco: ha delle scarpette nere senza tacco, con grandi fibbie d i argento, di strass: porta dei mantelli ampii, foderati di magnifiche e nobili pelliccie e dei fili di perle, in tutte le grandezze e in tutte le ore, al collo . Sta pi\'9d volentieri in piedi che seduta, pi\'9d seduta che sdraiata: e ama d i cavalcare, di remare, di ballare. \'e9 sana: o pare sana. Sta pi\'9d volentier i sul mare che sulla montagna. Nel suo mondo la ritengono come una donna sentime ntale, troppo, e troppo pretensiosa, quindi. Le piace di cenare, ma odia i disco rsi liberi; beve e mangia benissimo, ma ha un inconsiderato amore per i fiori; n on \'8f mai triste, ma \'8f capace di guardare la luna con occhi pensosi, Chi, f ra le sue amiche, la chiama una \f2\i posatrice \f0\i0 , chi una seccatrice: qua lcuna confessa che ella \'8f buona.\ S\'93, Ch\'8erie \'8f sentimentale, buona e anche un poco sciocca, Ha una sentimentalit\'88 tutta superficiale e una fantas ia molto limitata. Le cose che dice sono, spesso, molto ingenue o molto sceme, m a le dice con grazia e sovra tutto con una voce! Sa qualche verso, ma per lo pi\ '9d, ne sbaglia l'autore: legge, ogni tanto, qualche libro, ma Ohnet \'8f il suo autore preferito. Le piacciono gli eroi poveri e nobili, le eroine che muoiono, anzi che peccare: ma tutto ci\'98 \'8f simile a quello che pu\'98 sentire una m odistina o una onesta fanciulla un po' esaltata. Salvo che nella sua societ\'88 di donne volgari e mal educate, di creature corrotte e avide, ella sembra un fio re di poesia, talvolta, mentre, poveretta, ha un piccolo cervello e una piccola anima. Per lei si va in rovina, egualmente, ma senza essere urtati in certi biso gni di finezza e di delicatezza; e quanti hanno finito per esserle grati di ci\' 98, malgrado la loro rovina! Qualcuno, si \'8f illuso su lei: ha creduto di trov are in Ch\'8erie della passione, della intensit\'88, della profondit\'88: ha sup posto che grandi misteri fossero nascosti in quella anima: ha voluto attribuirle un desiderio d'ideale, combattuto dalla sua vilt\'88: ha creduto che ella tenes se a redimersi. Costui ha avuto delle delusioni gravi. Ch\'8erie non \'8f nulla di tutto questo: non pensa a nessuna di queste cose: quando gliele dicono, non l e capisce: quando gliele ripetono, si sforza per comprendere, ma finisce per sec carsi ed esce in un discorso qualunque. Non bisogna dunque lasciarsi ingannare d alle inflessioni malinconiche della sua voce, quando tramonta il sole: dalle lac rime che velano i suoi grandi occhi, quando vede uno spettacolo pietoso: da cert e furtive strette di mano, quando ode un bel discorso eloquente: da certi segni di croce che ella fa, quando lampeggia e tuona. Bisogna pensare sovra ogni altra cosa che ella \'8f una donna fatta per l'amore, che ella \'8f buonina, ma che \ '8f anche un poco stupida. Per aggiungere un ultimo tratto, Ch\'8erie \'8f quasi sempre allegra: il che \'8f consolante, per chi la conosce e per chi le vuol be ne. Ella crede che l'allegria conservi la salute e la belt\'88; e a trenta anni, per questo, pare molto pi\'9d giovane.\ Questa Ch\'8erie, nella istoria di amor e che qui racconto, \'8f la complice necessaria del tradimento fatto da Paolo He rz a Luisa Cima.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa140\ql\qnatural \cf0 \ \pard\pardeftab720 \sa300\ql\qnatural \cf0 IV.\ Ogni tanto nella buona societ\'88, si parlava dell' amore di Luisa Cima e di Paolo Herz:\ --Sar\'88 una passione fugace, vedrete--di ceva un uomo, che se ne intendeva molto--Paolo si stancher\'88 presto.\ --Del re sto, sembra che l'ami molto poco--soggiungeva uno scettico.\ --E Luisa \'8f prop rio una creatura nulla. Che ci trova, poi Paolo?--osservava un'amica di Maria.\

Costoro e gli altri sbagliavano assai sul conto di Paolo Herz e del suo amore. E gli era preso seriamente. Non sapeva neppur lui come era accaduto. La prima volt a che egli aveva vista Luisa Cima gli era parsa nulla. Varie altre volte, il suo giudizio non si era modificato. Una sera, per\'98, ella teneva nelle mani un fi ore di asfodelo, dal lungo gambo: e gli aveva parlato prestamente, ridendo, batt endogli sul braccio con quel leggiero fiore, guardandolo con tenerezza e con mal izia. Egli aveva ripensato a quel viso espressivo, pallidissimo sorridendo di co mpassione e di compiacenza. Ed \'8f tutto. Pi\'9d tardi, negli spasimi della pas sione mortale, perversamente, Luisa Cima gli aveva narrata la leggenda orientale dell'asfodelo e della montagna. Una montagna esiste, salda, forte, incrollabile , in un paese d'Oriente: non l'hanno vinta n\'8f i cataclismi della natura, n\'8 f le mani degli uomini. Ma vi \'8f anche un piccolo fiore fatato, l'asfodelo: es so, gracile, tenuto da una mano gracile, batte sulla montagna: e la montagna tre ma.\ --Io possiedo il magico fiore--soggiunse lei ridendo, mostrando tutti i den ti fitti e minuti, attraverso le labbra rosee e le gengive esangui.\ Ma ci\'98 f u pi\'9d tardi, molto pi\'9d tardi! Paolo Herz non ebbe sentore del suo gran per iglio, che quando egli era completamente indifeso, senz'arme, senza forza e senz a volont\'88. In realt\'88, Paolo Herz si lasci\'98 andare a questo amore per Lu isa Cima con una spensieratezza baldanzosa di uomo provato dalla passione e che \'8f certo di dominare il proprio destino amoroso. E, in principio, questo amore che in lui doveva mettere radici cos\'93 profonde e cos\'93 vitali, non parve, forse, un \f2\i flirt \f0\i0 molto leggiadro e molto fine a cui Luisa si abbando nava con rossori di emozione di novella iniziata, in cui Paolo aveva l'aria di u n maestro tranquillo, severo e pieno d'esperienza. Ella manteneva quel suo conte gno infantile, di una semplicit\'88 assoluta quell'aspetto di creatura debole e vezzosa che si accosta, tremando, alle grandi ore tempestose, che ne \'8f sgomen ta ed attratta, che, considerando il pericolo con occhio di dubbio e di paura, p ur sembra decisa ad affrontarlo. Quasi quasi, in alcuni momenti, Paolo Herz sent iva una piet\'88 grande di questa donnina che invocava cos\'93 audacemente e imp rudentemente i folli ardori delle supreme febbri, e la guardava con occhio pieno d'indulgenza e di compassione, domandando a se stesso, se non fosse pi\'9d ones to avvertirla, che le povere bianche dita, dalle unghie cos\'93 scintillanti, si sarebbero bruciate, a scherzare col fuoco.\ La piet\'88! Era un sentimento che preponderava, nel cuore di Paolo, per Luisa e che, forse, era l'origine di tutti gli altri. Piet\'88 dell'uomo sano per la personcina malatticia, della persona forte per l'essere debole, del carattere saldo e leale per un carattere incerto, puerile, fatto di bizzarre fluttuazioni; piet\'88 per quel volto tenue, per que i capelli troppo morbidi e troppo fini, per quelle cose pallidamente rosee, labb ra, gengive, unghie! La piet\'88, sovra tutto, per questa creatura cos\'93 picci na e cos\'93 fragile, che era negata a tutte le lotte gravi dell'esistenza e a t utte le vittorie clamorose, che si doveva contentare di mezzi piaceri, di mezzi amori, di mezzi trionfi, per questa povera piccola cara che a tante, tante cose belle e alte della vita doveva rinunciare. Ah come la perversa leggeva negli occ hi di Paolo, il poema amorosissimo di questa piet\'88, e come sapeva sospingerla e allargarla, come sapeva usarne, perch\'8f questo uomo fosse completamente suo , preso dal pallido viso senza bellezza, dalla piccola persona senza nobilt\'88 di linee, preso da quel tipo cos\'93 capriccioso e fugace, preso da quella volub ilit\'88 puerile, preso da quell'insieme di graziose miserie femminili, per la p iet\'88! Come ella sfruttava, a suo favore, questa immensa piet\'88, facendosi c ontentare in tutti i suoi capricci, dettando lei tutte le condizioni di quell'am ore, imponendo la sua volont\'88 di donna debole, piegando quella volont\'88 di uomo forte, imperiosa nella sua grazia morbosa, inquietante nei suoi turbamenti improvvisi, suggestiva di tutte la stranezze e pallida persuaditrice di ogni biz zarria!\ N\'8f solo la sicura e schietta forza di quest'uomo doveva esser vinta dalla debolezza di quella donna, rinnovando anche una volta, come per migliaia d i anni, le antiche favole delle seduzioni ebree e greche, ma la fantasia e i sen si di Paolo Herz dovevano subire le lusinghe pi\'9d inaspettate, dovevano esser tormentati e carezzati da un'insaziabile curiosit\'88. Colui che aveva assunto p er la sua et\'88, per la sua conoscenza della vita, per la sua esperienza dell'a more, la posizione di maestro, di guida, di consigliere, in questo che egli chia

mava, senza saper di dire cos\'93 bene, l'ultimo amore della sua vita, si trov\' 98 innanzi a una scolara stupefaciente. Vi era in Luisa Cima un cos\'93 singolar miscuglio di corruzione spirituale e di giovanile poesia, di candore e di menzo gna, di gelido calcolo e di squisita grazia, che Paolo Herz passava di sorpresa in sorpresa, che tornava a casa, dopo i convegni di amore, disgustato, incantato , irritato, estasiato, sempre in preda a una esaltazione. Ella si mostrava a lui in tutte le sue faccie, in tutti gli aspetti di un temperamento egoistico e imp erioso ella era impertinente e affettuosa, mai soddisfatta, gelosissima, civetti ssima, narrando tutte le sue conquiste, violando tutte le delicatezze dell'amore , senza scrupoli, senza carit\'88, disumana, o pure talmente ammaliatrice, che l asciava il suo amante confuso nell'ebbrezza, ebbrezza orribile, ma che importa? Ebbrezza!\ Quando egli si accorse che, a trentasei anni, essendo uscito salvo, i ncolume da due o tre violente passioni, avendo penetrato l'anima femminile in tu tte le condizioni e in tutti i paesi con lo sguardo freddo dell'osservatore, ave ndo saputo molte, troppe, delle verit\'88 dell'esistenza, avendo la piena coscie nza del proprio valore e del proprio diritto, quando si accorse, dico, che egli apparteneva, spirito e sensi, a quella piccola donna, dalla testina bruna su cui parea si levasse il ciuffetto lucido di penne di un uccellino, e che egli era u n suo prigioniero per la vita e per la morte, era tardi, era troppo tardi. Sent\ '93 il peso del ferro, ai polsi, ma non pi\'9d il vigore per iscuoterlo. Atroce scoperta e atroce giornata! Ella era stata, in quel giorno, assolutamente perfid a, assolutamente cattiva, con lui: e invano egli aveva voluto, sorridendo, dirad are questa mala volont\'88 perversa che animava Luisa Cima. Il piccolo idolo gia pponese, ridendo di un crudel riso, mostrava i suoi dentini minuti e le pallide gengive, crollava la testina, scuoteva le spalle e diventava anche pi\'9d malvag ia. Paolo Herz ebbe un moto d'ira, il primo. Part\'93 da quella casa, pensando c he ella non lo avrebbe richiamato. No. Canticchiava ella, come un fanciulletto. Suppose che, giunto a casa sua, un biglietto lo avrebbe richiamato. No. Si tortu r\'98 tutto il pomeriggio, non uscendo, attendendo questo appello. No. Anzi qual cuno gli disse che Luisa Cima era andata alla passeggiata, e che dei giovanotti l'accompagnavano e che ella rideva.\ --Rideva?\ --S\'93, rideva--ripetette l'ami co.\ Alla sera, come l'ora avanzava, solo, desolato, disperato, Paolo Herz and\' 98 alla casa di Luisa Cima affrontando tutti i rischi di questa visita in un'ora insolita. Per fortuna, ella era sola, leggeva, bevendo una tazza di the. Il suo viso era sereno, n\'8f avevano traccie di lacrime i suoi occhi: gi\'88 egli non l'aveva mai vista piangere. Ella rosicchiava dei biscotti inglesi. Muto, imbara zzato, con un dolor vivo nel volto, Paolo Herz la guardava: ed ella non comprese , non volle comprendere: egli dovette dirle tutta la sua spasimante giornata, di cui Luisa si meravigliava molto, con un'aria di disinvolta innocenza: e infine, quando egli scoppi\'98 in rimproveri e delle lacrime di collera gli sgorgarono dagli occhi, ella trov\'98 modo di dargli tutti i torti e lo obblig\'98 a chiede rle perdono. Obblig\'98? Fu lui che, contrito, compunto, persuaso di aver maltra ttato un angelo bianco e piccino, convinto di essere il pi\'9d ingiusto e il pi\ '9d villano fra gli uomini, s'inginocchi\'98 innanzi a Luisa per impetrare la su a grazia. Con quale stento gli fu accordata, come cadde dall'alto, come parve pr oprio una degnazione sovrana! Ma la ottenne. Era tardi, quando usc\'93 da quella casa, folle di gioia. Il cielo stellato brillava sul suo capo; i sentori della primavera olezzavano intorno a lui; la terra pareva elastica, sotto il suo passo : e a un tratto, il cielo gli parve funebre, un odore di morte gli sal\'93 al ce rvello e la terra rote\'98 sotto di lui, ed egli intese che era perduto, si sent \'93 perduto, perduto.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa140\ql\qnatural \cf0 \ \pard\pardef tab720\sa300\ql\qnatural \cf0 V.\ Ogni tanto, nei giorni lunghi e agitati, eppur e monotoni e tetri dell'abbandono, Paolo Herz si metteva a calcolare mentalmente per quanto tempo Luisa Cima lo avesse amato. Nella realt\'88 delle parole, ella gli aveva detto di volergli bene, per pi\'9d di un anno, di seguito: ma l'infel icissimo amante abbandonato, si rendeva adesso, un conto ben preciso delle menzo gne di Luisa e riducendo, riducendo, togliendo tutto il periodo preliminare in c ui Luisa Cima lo aveva amato un pochino, togliendo tutto l'estremo periodo in cu i la perversa donna lo aveva amato sempre meno, sempre meno, egli, nella realt\' 88 dei fatti aveva limitato questo amore a quattro mesi, dall'aprile al luglio,

dalle prime rose agli ultimi papaveri. Quattro mesi! Che sono, innanzi alla vita di un uomo? Un soffio fugace: il tempo di un bacio, di un sorriso, di uno sguar do incantato e incantevole, null'altro. In quei quattro mesi, come se fosse stat a travolta dal vortice della focosa e indomata passione di Paolo Herz, la donna era stata veramente sua, in una di quelle unioni profonde, cos\'93 rare, cos\'93 preziose e che vincono per sempre le anime che comprendono l'amore. Forse, Luis a non aveva fatto che subire l'impeto sentimentale e il trasporto sensuale di Pa olo Herz, essendo ella creatura di tempra e di fibra molto pi\'9d tenue, molto p i\'9d inerte; forse, ella era stata solo l'eco di quella voce calda e vibrante d i passione, alla cui armonia, dice il divino poeta germanico, rispondono i cieli commossi e palpitano le lontanissime stelle: forse ella non era stato che l'ist rumento sonoro e vuoto di quella magnifica sinfonia. Ma per quattro mesi, in una primavera estasiante di luce e di profumi, in un'estate ardente di cui ogni not te era indimenticabile, l'illusione era stata perfetta e niun acido corrosivo di riflessione amara, di ricordo doloroso, di rimpianto inconsolabile poteva morde re questo periodo di amore. Egli non indagava. Sentiva di essere stato amato; se ntiva di aver tenuto fra le braccia un essere vivo e innamorato, fremente di leg giadria e di entusiasmo, giocondo e felice; sentiva che una giovinezza seducente , piena di una delicata poesia, gli era appartenuta, esclusivamente, e gli aveva data una ragione suprema all'esistenza. Quando gi\'88, in lui, gli anni avevano fatto il loro lavoro di stanchezza, di delusione, di segreto affralimento; quan do tanti piccoli e teneri ideali erano tramontati, in lui; quando, anche lui, po rtava nel suo cuore il cimitero delle speranze pi\'9d balde, questa donna, quest a Luisa Cima, nei cui incerti occhi rideva il sorriso della tenerezza e della fu rberia, questa donnina breve e snella, e fine, e infinitamente cara, gli aveva d imostrato che gli anni si obliano, quando si ama; che tutte le delusioni sparisc ono, quando si nutre la illusione dell'amore e che non vi sono morti, dove vive l'amore. Quattro mesi! Niente: e tutto.\ Ma dietro questo tutto delirava lo spir ito di Paolo Herz, nell'abbandono e il suo corpo soffriva, come se fosse crocefi sso. Giacch\'8f ella lo aveva lasciato. Cos\'93. Non aveva voluto pi\'9d saperne di lui. Aveva finto per poco tempo, verso la fine. Era crudele, Luisa: ma molto logica, nella sua crudelt\'88. Quando non si ama pi\'9d, non si ama pi\'9d. Man c\'98 ai convegni. Non rispose alle lettere. Non volle capire l'interrogazione d isperata degli occhi di Paolo Herz, quando lo incontrava fra le persone: lo sfug g\'93, per quanto le era possibile, innanzi a una persecuzione ostinata, accanit a che egli la faceva. Infine, ebbero un colloquio. Fredda muta, ma tranquilla, e lla lo sogguardava, con gli occhi limpidi, dallo sguardo nitido e duro.\ --Di' c he non mi ami pi\'9d!--grid\'98 lui, in un accesso di furore, pronunciando la fr ase per lui terribile--Di' che non mi ami, non mentire pi\'9d, bugiarda, bugiard a!\ --Non mento, Paolo. Non ti amo pi\'9d.\ Esterrefatto, egli tacque. E nelle d ue o tre altre volte, quando annoiata, gelida, infastidita volgarmente, ella ven ne a lui, la stessa verit\'88 nuda e semplice sgorgava da quelle rosee labbra.\ --Non ti amo. Non ti amo.\ --Ma perch\'8f, ma perch\'8f?--gridava Paolo, folle d i collera e di dolore.\ --Cos\'93.\ --Non sai la ragione?\ --Non la so. Non ti a mo, ecco.\ --Sei una scellerata, sei un'infame.\ --Sar\'88: ma non ti amo.\ Che dire? Che fare? Chi non ama, non ama. L'uomo tradito, almeno, pu\'98 uccidere. M a chi non \'8f pi\'9d amato, non ha neppure il diritto di uccidere, egli ha avut o la sua parte di bene, quando \'8f finita, non vi \'8f pi\'9d nulla da chiedere , nulla da pretendere. Che fare? Imporre l'amore? Come, come? Esso non s'impone, che quando l'altro non ha cominciato ad amare ancora; non gi\'88, quando ha fin ito. Creare dal niente, con un miracolo, si pu\'98: far risorgere un un morto, n o. Che fare? Domandare la piet\'88 della menzogna, la carit\'88 dell'inganno? Lu isa Cima non possedeva n\'8f il dono della carit\'88, n\'8f quello della piet\'8 8: e si seccava di mentire, allo scopo odioso di prolungare una falsa posizione. Che fare? Provocare in duello qualcuno? Chi? Perch\'8f? Luisa Cima non aveva tr ovato il successore, ancora. L'occhio avido e geloso di Pietro Herz che la sorve gliava, dappertutto, non aveva ancora scovato il rivale. Ella svolazzava, lieta, tenera, brillante, capricciosa, e libera, libera, sovra tutto, godendo tutta la sua libert\'88, con una volutt\'88 che ella non nascondeva. Che fare? Uccidersi ? Ma Paolo Herz, ardentissimamente innamorato, non finiva mai di sperare che Lui

sa Cima sarebbe ritornata a lui, un giorno, pi\'9d tardi, pi\'9d tardi.\ --Tanto l'amer\'98--pensava che ella s'intenerir\'88, E poi, si ricorder\'88... --quale amore simile al nostro?\ Tenace e inutile speranza. Ella non voleva tornare, el la non era tenera che superficialmente e tenera solo quando amava: ella si ricor dava, sorridendo e non rimpiangendo; il suo arido cuore non si dilatava, nella n ostalgia, mai! Ella non riceveva pi\'9d le lettere di Paolo Herz, restituendogli ele chiuse; ella non andava, dove lo poteva incontrare, o vi andava serena in ta nta indifferenza, da essere scoraggiante; ella resistette a qualunque tentativo, dei pi\'9d folli nell'audacia, che egli facesse, per avere un colloquio; ella n on sapeva, non voleva sapere quante notti egli passasse sotto le sue finestre, v egliando, con gli occhi rossi dalle lacrime, col passo di un fantasma. Nulla!\ D el resto, non aveva ella ragione, innanzi alla ragione, di agire cos\'93? Torto poteva averlo; Luisa Cima, innanzi al cuore umano e alle sue arcane leggi: ma el la si rideva di questo cuore umano, come di un fiore rettorico.\ Il dolore per l 'abbandono di Luisa Cima ebbe in Paolo Herz uno stadio acuto di una violenza fol le ed inane. Egli commise una quantit\'88 di atti irragionevoli, furiosi e straz ianti nello stesso tempo, ma che non ottennero nessun risultato, n\'8f di riapri re il picciolo duro cuore di Luisa, oramai serrato per sempre all'amore di Paolo , n\'8f di placare il tormento dell'abbandonato. Egli dimentic\'98 ogni dignit\' 88 di uomo, innanzi a lei, arrivando a tutte le vilt\'88 e arrivandoci inutilmen te, egli si degrad\'98 in tutte le concessioni, in tutte le umiliazioni senza ri cavarne il pi\'9d semplice compenso, la finzione della piet\'88, in Maria: giuns e, Paolo Herz, uomo, intelligente, fiero, nobile a farsi disprezzare ed anche, a meritare il disprezzo di quella femminetta frivola e crudele. Fu, anche, Paolo Herz, senza pudore nella sua disperazione: non avendo n\'8f forza, n\'8f energia per reprimerla, per dissimularla, egli la mostr\'98 a tutti, agli amici e agli indifferenti, ai parenti e agli estranei, egli trascin\'98 questa disperazione d ell'abbandono, dappertutto, nelle vie e nei caff\'8f, nei salotti intimi e nei t eatri, nelle conversazioni lunghe e folte di confidenze, come nei discorsetti br evi e leggieri. Per qualche tempo, egli attir\'98 schiette compassioni e false c ompassioni: il compatirlo, l'esecrare Luisa, fu di moda: poi, la gente s'infasti d\'93 di questo volto tetro; e il ridicolo fin\'93 per affogarlo. Vari dettero r agione a Luisa Cima; era troppo noioso, troppo affliggente, Paolo Herz, ed ella aveva fatto benissimo a piantarlo. Anzi, Luisa attrasse a s\'8f molte simpatie; divent\'98 oggetto di curiosit\'88 amorosa; e l'abbandono di cui ella aveva deso lato il cuore di Paolo, le conquist\'98 due o tre amori, in cui ella poteva sceg liere, se volesse, il miglior successore. A un certo punto, dunque, quattro mesi dopo l'abbandono, Paolo Herz si trov\'98 in uno stato d'anima, anche pi\'9d atr oce di quattro mesi prima: non solo senz'amore, ma senza stima: non solo senza f elicit\'88, ma senza coraggio per sopportare l'infelicit\'88: non solo triste mo rtalmente, ma avvilito: non solo assorbito in un'idea ed in una immagine ma inca pace di trovar distrazione: non solo disprezzato, ma disprezzantesi. Tutto il su o mondo interno era crollato: e nessuno, nessuno, n\'8f gli altri, n\'8f egli st esso potevano ricostruirlo. Pensava, spesso, di dover morire; decideva, spesso, di uccidersi. Ma Luisa la piccoletta timida, la paurosetta vezzosa, aveva anche reso vile Paolo. Egli non combatteva neanche pi\'9d col dolore, come le creature umane che hanno ancora una volont\'88, correndo l'alternativa di vincere il dol ore o di farsene vincere. No. Egli si lasciava colare a fondo, ma senza naufragi o completo, ma senza catastrofe. La gente levava le spalle, infastidita, vedendo lo. \f2\i \'e9 un imbecille \f0\i0 --dichiaravano gravemente molti sciocchi. Pao lo trovava che quegli sciocchi avevano ragione.\ Fu verso il novembre che Luisa Cima part\'93, col marito. Una terza luna di miele, si diceva, e non era quasi u na malignit\'88, tanto ella stessa lo faceva intravvedere, tanto ne sorrideva, c on una gran tenerezza negli occhi scintillanti. Paolo Herz, non lo seppe che die ci giorni dopo la partenza: e nella immensa fiacchezza sua, non fece un passo pe r raggiungerla. Vagamente, nella sua testa si formava il progetto di uccidere il marito di Luisa, cos\'93, un progetto nebuloso e velato: ma il suo spirito a po co a poco cadeva in un torpore grande, quello che sovraggiunge dopo i grandi esa ltamenti. Una sonnolenza morale e anche fisica finiva per dominare la sua vita, quella dei bimbi che hanno troppo pianto. L'autunno era molto triste: e in cerca

di maggior silenzio, di maggior tristezza, egli and\'98 via, una mattina, recan dosi in un lontano e brutto paese di provincia, dove aveva una casa, dei beni, d ei coloni. Intendiamoci, non era in campagna, non era in una villa, non era in u na fattoria: ma proprio in una casa provinciale, fredda, nuda, polverosa: in un paese pieno di gente meschina e goffa: in un ambiente cos\'93 assolutamente dive rso, cos\'93 contrario a ogni poesia, a ogni estetica, a ogni eleganza, che Paol o Herz potette veramente credere di essere lontano seimila miglia di cammino e c ento anni di tempo, dall'ambiente dove aveva amato Luisa.\ Fu in questo paese an tipatico e in quella solinga casa che il dolore di Paolo Herz, si fece meno acut o e pi\'9d profondo: fu col\'88, dove nulla e nessuno parlava al suo cuore e all a sua fantasia, che egli entr\'98 in quel pericoloso, fatale periodo della famil iarit\'88 col dolore. L'eccitamento folle era caduto: l'alta temperatura si era abbassata: l'acuzie si era moderata: ma l'infermo era entrato in una morbosit\'8 8 cronica, anche pi\'9d temibile, poich\'8f di queste non si guarisce. Innamorat issimo: non con la passione acre e mordente di un uomo che il giorno prima poggi ava il suo capo sovra un seno amato e che \'8f stato brutalmente scacciato da qu esto seno, ma col desiderio languido e lacrimoso di chi tende le braccia a una f igura sparente, e le braccia ricadono vuote sul freddo e anelante petto. Non pi\ '9d, nel sangue, il bollore vulcanico che consuma l'energia e che lascia solo ro vine fumanti, sul suo passaggio: ma il gelido, tenace brivido della solitudine a morosa, questo ribrezzo grande del non esser pi\'9d amati, questo sgomento quasi infantile di chi si sente non protetto da nessun amore. La violenza era distrut ta: ma restava la perseveranza, l'ostinazione, queste forme cos\'93 spaventose d el sentimento. Giacch\'8f, in questa trasformazione dello stato d'anima di Paolo Herz, tutto il vecchio fondo sentimentale, soffocato nell'anima, prendeva il di sopra, si allargava, si effondeva dovunque, si costituiva permanentemente. Le cr eature passionali sono, infine, le pi\'9d fortunate, nelle battaglie dell'amore: la vittoria \'8f rapida, l'intensit\'88 del trionfo \'8f inebbriante, il dolore della fine \'8f alto, ma breve, la loro guarigione \'8f facile, ed \'8f spontan ea. Le anime sentimentali sono destinate alle lunghe e tenaci sofferenze, quasi sempre inutili e quasi sempre incapaci d'ispirare piet\'88.\ Cos\'93, l'ossessio ne che l'immagine di Luisa Cima esercitava, in quel lontano paese, in quella bru ttissima casa, sullo spirito e sui nervi di Paolo Herz, diventava sempre meno se nsuale. Le scene di grande ebbrezza che, nei primi tempi, lo avevano torturato s ino al delirio, adesso si allontanavano nelle brume della memoria: e tutto quell o che era affetto, tenerezza, effusione di amore candido e buono, si faceva pi\' 9d preciso, pi\'9d assorbente.\ Inconsolabile rimpianto non tanto dei baci arden ti, delle supreme gioie, quanto delle miti carezze, delle dolci parole, delle vo ci amorose, delle soavi comunioni dello spirito! Inconsolabile, inconsolabile, i l povero deserto cuore sentimentale, perch\'8f gli era mancato per sempre il pas colo dei suoi pi\'9d alti e pi\'9d puri desideri, perch\'8f gli era stato tolto l'amore, l'amore caro e bello, l'amore tutto giovinezza e tutto innocenza, l'amo re che \'8f sorriso, giocondit\'88, festa celata del cuore e fulgore di luce neg li occhi! Nei lunghi sogni Paolo Herz cercava di ricordare tutto, ogni scena, og ni motto, ogni intonazione del volto di Luisa, quando era giunta al convegno, qu ando ne era partita, cercava di fissare tutta la istoria sentimentale di questo amore: e nell'impeto solitario di un cuore ammalato della nostalgia d'amore, sal ivano ai suoi occhi le dolenti lacrime che nessuna mano di donna avrebbe rasciug ato mai pi\'9d. Poche, scarse, rare, gelide lacrime che chiunque ha amato con te nacia, con fedelt\'88, anche nell'abbandono, conosce bene: e che sono pi\'9d ama re e pi\'9d corrodenti di tutti i singulti della passione. Gli si gelavano sulle palpebre, sulle guance, mentre il pallido viso dell'abbandonato ancora pi\'9d s i scolorava, nel lento, molle e ostinato dolore.\ Cos\'93 il suo amore per Luisa Cima, distaccato dalla immagine viva e parlante, finiva per adorare un fantasma assai pi\'9d bello, assai pi\'9d gentile: questo amore diventato solitario, mon ologo profondo di dolore, prima, di mestizia, poi, si sollevava dai bisogni terr eni; questo amore, nell'abbandono, obbliava le oramai lontane feste della passio ne, e si spiritualizzava. Dai sensi liberati, dai nervi placati, dalle fibre ato nizzate, l'amore di Paolo Herz per Luisa Cima, passava nelle contemplazioni dolc i e dolenti sentimentali, viaggiava nelle purissime regioni dell'anima.\ E nel s

ilenzio della gran casa deserta di provincia, in un'ora alta della notte, solo c on la sua coscienza e con Dio, innanzi alle lontane stelle, egli giur\'98, a se stesso e all'arcano Spirito delle anime, che, per sempre, egli non avrebbe amato che Luisa Cima sino alla morte, e che giammai avrebbe violato la fedelt\'88 a q uesto amore. Quello che egli non aveva mai voluto giurare, nella pienezza dell'a more corrisposto, nelle ore pi\'9d alte e pi\'9d larghe di felicit\'88, lo giur\ '98 quando era stato abbandonato, quando la creatura crudele e perversa gli avev a volto le spalle. Era uomo, allora, ed era nel massimo vigore della sua salute e della sua mente; egli conosceva tutte le invincibili miserie della natura uman a, tutti gli errori del sentimento, tutti i tranelli degli istinti, e sapeva ben e che non si pu\'98 giurare, quando si ama! Ma tolto bruscamente dalla realt\'88 palpitante della passione, gettato in pieno sogno di dolore, esaltato dal suo s pasimo, egli assurse ad un'idea pi\'9d nobile e pi\'9d pura di questo amore, egl i credette poterlo collocare a tale altezza che nessuna delle umane macchie pote sse lederlo. Quando Luisa Cima era nelle sue braccia, quando eran suoi la piccol a anima malvagia e il leggiadro piccolo corpo, non aveva avuto fede n\'8f in s\' 8f, n\'8f nel sentimento: quando ella si era a lui strappata, per sempre, giur\' 98, giur\'98 che egli sarebbe stato suo, non pi\'9d di nessun'altra, suo, suo, u nicamente suo.\ Egli navigava, cos\'93, in una allucinazione completa. Tutto il sentimentalismo della sua natura, adesso, trionfava sul resto della sua esistenz a o ne trasformava ogni manifestazione. Di nuovo, egli scriveva a Luisa Cima, og ni mattina, ogni sera, delle lunghe lettere, come ai bei tempi, quando le ore br evi del distacco erano ancora abbreviate da questa corrispondenza epistolare; eg li le faceva delle domande, delle interrogazioni quasi che ella fosse l\'93, per rispondergli, quasi che giammai si fosse interrotta la loro comunione di spirit o. Queste lettere, egli non le mandava; eppure bizzarramente, egli ne aspettava la risposta, egli riprendeva a scrivere, rimproverando dolcemente l'amata. La su a illusione talvolta, si prestava a miraggi incredibili. Egli si faceva portare, da un giardiniere che aveva il gusto dei fiori, in quell'atroce paese di provin cia, dei fasci di fiori, gli ultimi rami degli arbusti autunnali e li riuniva ne l modo che ad essa piaceva: e mettendoli nei vasi, pareva che preparasse tutta l a bellezza floreale di quell'antico nido d'amore, dove si vedevano, dove egli pa ssava tante ore, anche senza lei, prima che ella giungesse, nella impazienza del l'attesa, dopo che ella era partita, nella contemplazione serena della felicit\' 88. Ah non dovea pi\'9d giungere, Luisa, coi suoi piedini, trottanti nelle sue s carpette, col suo bel volto dietro la sottile veletta, ma che importa, egli l'as pettava ancora, egli l'aspettava sempre, egli l'amava ed era suo!\ Il suo squili brio si faceva pi\'9d grande, come il tempo passava. La solitudine di quelle tri sti giornate di autunno, in quella bruttissima casa vuota, l'aggirarsi sempre in quelle stanze deserte e sonore, il non uscir mai, il fuggire ogni contatto uman o, creavano a Paolo Herz un ambiente strano, ma pur confacente alla sua allucina zione sentimentale. Privato di ogni spettacolo umano e di ogni sua seduzione, di stratto da ogni cosa che questo segreto, taciturno amare non fosse, non sapendo, non volendo altro che amare solitariamente, sconsolatamente, disperatamente Lui sa Cima, tutto era favorevole a questo ultimo sviluppo del sentimento. Nulla che non fosse grigio e monotono e mesto, intorno a lui; non una, delle lusinghe del la vita che lo attirasse. In certi momenti, in una suprema menzogna che la sua a nima gli diceva, egli credeva di aver disciolti i legami duri che vincolano l'uo mo all'argilla: gli pareva di aver potuto compiere il miracolo di essere un'anim a, solamente un'anima, fatta di una purissima essenza spirituale, nudrita di amo r puro. Solingamente, egli ebbe un eccesso d'inane orgoglio. Gli sembr\'98 di es sere diventato una creatura perfetta. Egli solo sapeva amare. Cacciato via, egli si ostinava ad amare; abbandonato, egli restava costante; schernito, egli era a ncora l'umile adoratore; brutalmente vilipeso, egli restava buono, onesto, fedel e. Sovra tutto, fedele! In alto, in alto era messa Luisa, nel suo spirito e ness una mano poteva tentare di abbatterne la figura, di toglierle quel unico posto. Nessuna mano! E, superbamente, egli credette che giammai prima, giammai pi\'9d, nel mondo, una donna era stata amata, potesse essere amata, come Luisa Cima da P aolo Herz.\ Nella met\'88 di dicembre, in una notte freddissima, Paolo Herz deci se di partire; e all'alba livida, gelida, egli entr\'98 nel treno che lo doveva

ricondurre in citt\'88.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa140\ql\qnatural \cf0 \ \pard\parde ftab720\sa300\ql\qnatural \cf0 VI.\ Ch\'8erie era lunga distesa, sulle pelliccie bianche e morbide che coprivano un gran divano basso: e la sua testolina bionda arruffata si affondava nei piccoli e molli cuscini di seta bianca. Una gran ves taglia di mussolina di seta, tutta nera, a piegoline fitte, dal capo ai piedi, l a vestiva mollemente e appena lasciava vedere, nelle sue onde nere smorte, i lun ghi e sottili piedi, calzati di finissime scarpette nere, quasi senza tacco. Ell a era sola: e non faceva nulla. Non si annoiava neppure. Teneva le braccia incro ciate dietro il capo e guardava il soffitto a cassettoni del suo magnifico salon e, cos\'93 austero nel suo addobbo e nel suo mobilio. Ella non fumava, non dormi va, non sonnecchiava, non sognava: stava, cos\'93. Erano le tre pomeridiane, pio veva e il cielo era basso, plumbeo e triste. Paolo Herz entr\'98.\ --Oh caro uom o, vi si rivede!--ella disse, con una espressione molto gentile e non mancante d i cordialit\'88.\ --Non ero morto--egli rispose, formando un pallido sorriso.\ -Non l'ho mai pensato. Lontano, eh?--e gli dette la mano.\ Egli baci\'98 quella mano, lievemente, ma la trattenne un pochino sotto le sue labbra.\ --Lontano, s\ '93.\ --Un gran viaggio? Dove?\ --Che viaggio! Una dimora in provincia, niente a ltro, Ch\'8erie.\ --Noiosa?\ --No.\ --Triste, allora?\ --... s\'93.\ --Eravate v oi, triste?--domand\'98 ella, con la sua meravigliosa voce cantante un'armonia s trana.\ -... non so. Credo... credo che sia stato io, triste--Paolo Herz soggiun se, vagamente.\ --E vi siete consolato, Paolo?\ --M'immagino di no... certamente , no.\ --Eh! passer\'88--ella mormor\'98, con un tono di voce profondo e toccant e.\ --Questo dite voi, Ch\'8erie?\ --\'e9 cos\'93. Passer\'88\ Un silenzio. Egli era seduto accanto a lei, ma non vicinissimo. Adesso, ella teneva le braccia e le mani abbandonate lungo la persona. Sul nero, le mani erano candidissime: ma t roppo gemmate.\ --Dove siete stata, voi, Ch\'8erie?\ --A Saint-Moritz.\ --Bello, \'8f vero? Ci manco da tre anni.\ --Bellissimo. Ma quell'aria mi ha fatto male, un poco.\ --Qualche cosa pu\'98 farvi male, Ch\'8erie?\ --Pare. Ci respiravo ma le. Credereste, Paolo? Vi \'8f stato un medico malinconico che pretende essere a mmalato il mio cuore.\ --Il vostro cuore, Ch\'8erie?--e un po' di sorpresa gli s i dipinse sul volto.\ --Supponete che io non abbia cuore Herz? Quando vi voglio tanto bene--e la disinvoltura era velata da una espressione sincera.\ --Anche io ve ne voglio moltissimo; ma ci\'98 non prova nulla.\ --Nulla.\ --Come pu\'98 es sere ammalato, il vostro cuore? Siete cos\'93 florida e leggiadra!\ --Vi piaccio , eh?---diss'ella, con un sincero moto di soddisfazione, che quasi, escludeva la civetteria.\ --Assai.\ --Meno male--mormor\'98 la--donna, con un discreto sorri so.\ --Cio\'8f?\ --Era tempo che vi piacessi un poco, abbastanza, moltissimo--el la profer\'93, con la bella voce toccante.\ --Non \'8f mai tardi--egli soggiunse , con galanteria.\ --Allora, \'8f inteso che mi fate la corte?--disse Ch\'8erie, ridendo e battendo le mani.\ --\'e9 inteso.\ --Continuate, allora.\ Egli la gua rd\'98 trasognato, e tacque. Ch\'8erie si era subitamente fatta pensosa.\ --Siet e stata sola, a Saint-Moritz?--e fece uno sforzo per parlare.\ --Solissima.\ --E Carlo?\ --Carlo \'8f partito--ella disse, a bassa voce, voltando il capo in l\' 88.\ --E da quando?\ --Da luglio.\ A quella data, egli fece un fugace atto di so rpresa.\ --Ritorner\'88 presto?\ --No: non presto--e le candide dita scherzavano con una gran croce di turchesi che le pendeva sul petto.\ --Ma ritorna?\ --Fors e, no.\ --Dove \'8f andato?\ --In Australia.\ --E perch\'8f?\ --Era rovinato, po veretto--e la sua voce aveva una schietta intonazione di piet\'88.\ --Poveretto! \ --\'e9 incredibile quello che io spendo, senza accorgermene--confess\'98 Ch\'8 erie candidamente.\ --Vi voleva ancor bene, quando \'8f partito?\ --Un pochino, credo.\ --E voi?\ --Anche io, un pochino.\ --E... dunque?\ --A che serviva, rest are? Egli avrebbe sofferto molto pi\'9d: e mi secca, far soffrire.\ --Siete buon a, voi.\ --Non sempre, non sempre. Ma tutti siamo capaci di far male.\ --Tutti, tutti--egli ripetette, pian piano.\ Ella lo guardava, ora coi suoi begli occhi d i un cos\'93 largo e fluido azzurro.\ --Vi ha scritto, dall'Australia?\ --Due vo lte, delle lunghe lettere.\ --Gli avete risposto?\ --Non troppo--ella disse, lea lmente.\ --Perch\'8f non troppo?\ --A che lusingarlo?\ --Il cuore \'8f gi\'88 oc cupato, di nuovo?\ --No--dichiar\'98 Ch\'8erie, semplicemente.\ --E che fate?\ -Mi riposo.\ --Perch\'8f non amate un poco me?\ --Io vi amo---ella disse, con ch iarezza--ma non serve.\ --\'e9 una cosa molto graziosa essere amato--mormor\'98

lui, prendendo una delle mani di Ch\'8erie e tenendola fra le sue, senza stringe rla, giuocando con le bianche dita troppo gemmate.\ --Vi piace, Paolo?\ --Non mi \'8f mai piaciuto altro nella vita.\ --L'amore?\ --Essere amato, quando amavo.\ --E vi \'8f sempre accaduto, \'8f vero?\ --L'ho supposto--egli disse, con un so rriso fra ironico e mesto. Ma chi ne sa nulla!\ --E ora?\ --Ora... ora vuota, Ch \'8erie--soggiunse lui, con un sogghigno, per indicare che quella freddura non e ra il segnale dell'allegria.\ --Non vi amano?\ --No.\ --E perch\'8f?\ --Non ne s ono degno, pare.\ --Poveretto, poveretto--disse la biondissima, con la sua cara voce armoniosa.\ --Brava, compatitemi pure cos\'93. Ditemi delle altre parole di piet\'88, con la medesima voce.\ --Vi fan bene?\ --La vostra voce \'8f balsamic a.\ --Se la ferita \'8f troppo profonda, essa non guarisce, povero Paolo--diss'e lla, additando il cuore e sfiorandolo lievemente con la mano.\ --Provate, provat e.\ --E se sbaglio la cura?\ --Ci\'98 non guaster\'88 l'alta vostra reputazione sanitaria, Ch\'8erie.\ --Mi seccherebbe, non guarirvi--mormor\'98, un po' pensos a.\ --Perch\'8f? Per amor proprio?\ --Non so. Credete di essere il primo, venuto da me, in un giorno di tristezza, a piangere il suo dolore e a chiedere dei sor risi?\ --Non ignoro la vostra missione di consolatrice universale. Ma io non pia ngo, vedete. Sono sulla via della guarigione.\ --Da quando?\ --Da tre quarti d'o ra.\ --Benissimo, benissimo, fatemi la corte--e rise un poco.\ --Mi accettate?\ --Si accetta sempre un corteggiatore.\ --Poco buona, Ch\'8erie, in questo moment o!\ --Io? ella domand\'98, distratta, mentre egli le aveva preso le due mani e l e baciava, ora l'una, ora l'altra, con piccoli baci che parevano dei soffi.\ --L e vostre mani sono pi\'9d buone delle vostre parole--e si chin\'98 per darle un bacio sulle labbra.\ Ma ella, con moto vivace, sebbene senza ira, lo schiv\'98.\ --Cattiva!--egli disse con molta dolcezza, ma con una vera emozione nella voce. \ --Pessima--Ch\'8erie aggiunse, ridendo.\ --Me ne vado--e si alz\'98, Paolo, se nza guardarla.\ Ella lo segu\'93, con gli occhi, attentamente; ma quando ebbe fa tto pochi passi verso la porta, lo richiam\'98:\ --Paolo, Paolo!\ Qual voce, in quelle due sillabe! Che melodia tenue e soave! Egli ritorn\'98 e venne ad ingino cchiarsi presso il gran divano bianco dove ella giaceva.\ --Scellerata creatura, mi richiami, adesso?--e tent\'98 novellamente di baciarla.\ La resistenza fu pi \'9d debole. Un leggiero rossore si distendeva sulle guancie e sulla fronte dell a bellissima creatura.\ --Che vuoi, dunque?--ella domand\'98, a bassa voce, leva ndo la testina, per guardarlo negli occhi.\ --Che tu mi voglia bene, un poco.\ -Io te ne voglio.\ --Come agli altri tuoi amici?\ --... gi\'88.\ --Diversamente, voglio.\ --Tu vuoi essere amato, \f2\i pour tout de bon \f0\i0 ?\ --S\'93, cara .\ --Si dice Ch\'8erie e non cara.\ --Ch\'8erie, Ch\'8erie, Ch\'8erie!\ --Il mio cuore \'8f malato, non posso amarti.\ --Sono bugie dei medici.\ --Ti assicuro.. . pare che io lo abbia consumato.\ --Consumalo un pochino per me, Ch\'8erie.\ -Paolo, Paolo, io sono stata malata a Saint-Moritz.\ --Ch\'8erie, tu sempre cos\' 93 allegra, fai la Margherita Gauthier, adesso?\ --\'e9 una sciocchezza, io sto benone--proclam\'98 ella, con un grande scoppio di risa. I bianchissimi denti sc intillavano, fra le labbra umide.\ --Ridi, ridi ancora un poco--egli le disse an siosamente, tutto rinfrescato, tutto confortato da quella florida giovent\'9d, d a quella gaiezza serena, da quella bellezza deliziosa.\ --Io morir\'98 in una ri sata, sembra...--e rise ancora, cos\'93 seducentemente, che egli rest\'98 incant ato.\ --Tu sei la giovinezza; tu non puoi morire. Ch\'8erie, Ch\'8erie, tu avrai sempre venti anni!\ --Si ha venti anni, quando qualcuno ci ama.\ --Ti ama il mo ndo intiero, io credo.\ --Ma no.\ --Fa malissimo, allora.\ --Tu non mi ami, inta nto.\ --Io? No. Ti adoro.\ --Voi mentite, signore--ella grid\'98, con un tono de l \f2\i Padrone delle ferriere \f0\i0 .\ --Io ve lo giuro, signora marchesa---di sse lui, imitandola.\ --Su che lo giurate voi, dunque?\ --Su quanto ho di pi\'9d caro al mondo, signora, l'onore.\ --Non sugli avi vostri?\ --S\'93, su quei ted eschi che non ho mai conosciuti, su quegli Herz che non erano neppure dei filoso fi.\ --Ma che ti hanno lasciata una bella fortuna, Paolo.\ --Essa \'8f vostra, C h\'8erie.\ --No, no, non mi parlar di denaro, mi secchi--e impallid\'93, preoccu patissima.\ --Se vai in collera, sono pronto a dichiararmi un pezzente. Voi siet e amata da un gentiluomo povero, Ch\'8erie, poverissimo.\ --Giura che mi ami!\ -Io, Paolo Herz, sul mio onore e sulla mia coscienza, giuro di amare di ardente amore la signora Ch\'8erie...\ --Da quando?\ --Da un'ora e sette minuti, lo giur

o, con l'aiuto dell'orologio.\ --Scrivi ci\'98--ella disse, levandosi, portandol o presso un grande tavolino di legno scolpito, dove era un immenso calamaio dell 'Impero. Gli dette un largo foglio di carta bianca, una penna d'oca e chinandosi su lui, ripetette:\ --Scrivi.\ Ma mentre si chinava, ella non seppe schivarsi e d egli la baci\'98 fuggevolmente. N\'8f quelle labbra potettero frenare un sorri so.\ --Scrivi, scrivi--disse la bella voce, un po' velata.\ Invero, egli ebbe un minuto di esitazione, prima di scrivere: un leggiero pallore gli si distese sul volto: e parve che innanzi ai suoi occhi fluttuasse una immagine. Ma nell'aureo la bionda dei capelli arruffati di Ch\'8erie tante scintille correvano gaiamente , attraverso il fiore rosso della bocca schiusa come un anello, i bianchissimi d enti \f2\i guardavano \f0\i0 , guardavano ridendo e infondendo giocondit\'88. Pa olo Herz ebbe come una sferzata, come un sussulto di vita: una fiamma lieve fece dileguare il pallore del suo viso; egli scrisse, rapidamente. In piedi, fissand o sulla carta quei suoi grandi occhi, che nuotavano nell'azzurro, Ch\'8erie segu iva quella mano rapida che scriveva. Con un gesto immediato, ella vers\'98 sulle poche righe un'arena micacea, azzurra a scagliette d'oro, e ripiegato il foglio , lo ripose. Va bene?--egli domand\'98, voltandosi e sorridendo.\ --Benissimo--e lla rispose, con voce lenta, come pensando ad altro--\'e9 scritto, adesso.\ --Qu ello che \'8f scritto, \'8f scritto--e si lev\'98, portando negli occhi il desid erio di quella giovinezza, di quella bellezza.\ Mutamente, con dolcezza, ella si sciolse da quel tentativo di abbraccio.\ --Perch\'8f no, perch\'8f no?--egli do mand\'98, con ansia, con tristezza.\ --Cos\'93--ella disse, con una smorfietta g raziosa.\ --Se ho scritto!\ --Tanto meglio.\ --Siete voi una volgare civetta, Ch \'8erie?\ --Non so... non mi pare. Sono civetta molto, questo \'8f certo.\ --Io vi domandavo un po' di cuore, mia cara!\ --Malato?\ --Come me lo volete dare. Un pochino, mi basta.\ --Tutto, sarebbe troppo, \'8f vero? e lo guard\'98 negli oc chi, volendoli scrutare.\ --Quello che tu vuoi, cara--esclam\'98 lui, un po' fol lemente.\ --Tutto, per poco tempo, allora?---e di nuovo gli rivolse uno sguardo scrutatore.\ --Tutto, sempre, diletta!--esclam\'98 Paolo Herz, che adorava quell a donna poich\'8f gli piaceva enormemente.\ --Vieni questa sera--ella disse, pre sto, con una completa, tenera e appassionata dedizione, nella voce.\ --A che ora ?\ --Alle undici.\ Fu un soffio, quella voce, sulle due ultime parole; un soffio che era una carezza, un bacio, un abbandono. Egli s'inchin\'98 profondamente, i nnanzi a lei: le prese la mano, che ella gli stendeva e la baci\'98 appena, sfio randola sulle dita ripiegate.\ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .\ Nel cadente pomeriggio di autunno e nella sera, Paolo Herz port\ '98 nei sensi e nel cuore una ebbrezza di vita traboccante, come da tanto tempo non aveva mai provata. Una improvvisa primavera era rifiorita nella sua anima e gli parvero persino odorosi e voluttuosi i pallidi crisantemi, e ricche e appass ionate perfino le povere rose thea, fiori di novembre, che egli mand\'98, da tre o quattro fiorai, in casa di Ch\'8erie. Tutto un novello calore gli inondava il sangue e gli saliva, a sbuffi, al cervello, come se, debole e convalescente, eg li avesse bevuto un bicchiere di vino generoso. Egli and\'98 per le vie a piedi, guardando la gente e sorridendo ad essa, come se la conoscesse: si ferm\'98 a u na quantit\'88 di vetrine, incantato delle cose belle che serravano, e volendo c ercarne una bellissima per donarla a Ch\'8erie. Un bisogno pazzo lo assaliva di parlare, di ridere, di spendere molto denaro, di vivere largamente, con quella d onna accanto, immersa nelle pi\'9d raffinate e pi\'9d ardenti eleganze: un rigog lio di giovinezza eccitava tutto il suo organismo e gli dava un bisogno assoluto di esser felice materialmente e moralmente, nelle braccia di quella donna cos\' 93 giovane e cos\'93 bella, dalla voce cos\'93 toccante, dalle parole cos\'93 vo luttuosamente tenere e non scevre di malinconia.\ Innamoratissimo! In quelle non molte ore che lo dividevano dalle undici di sera, egli ebbe quasi sempre la all ucinazione fresca e fiammante, insieme, della persona di Ch\'8erie. Ora pareva c he lo guardassero quei grandi occhi azzurri, dalla cornea non bianca, tutta a ri flessi azzurri, dalle ombre azzurre, sotto le palpebre: e gli sembravano un mare di dolcezza, senza nessuna velatura di malizia, di perfidia, di quelle malaugur ate cose odiose, che tante volte appariscono, spesso involontariamente, negli al tri occhi femminili. Ora pareva che, innanzi a s\'8f, si muovesse l'alta persona un po' troppo alta, ma cos\'93 veramente flessuosa: e l'innamoratissimo pensava

che, Ch\'8erie, quando era sdraiata sul gran divano, sembrava pi\'9d piccola, p ur conservando la grazia e la nobilt\'88 della sua figura. Talvolta, in una allu cinazione anche pi\'9d palpabile, sotto i suoi occhi, a breve distanza, gli semb rava che apparissero e sparissero quelle mani bianche dalle dita troppo cariche di pietre preziose, dalle vene di una delicata tinta fra l'azzurro e il violaceo , dove vi fosse anche del grigio: e pi\'9d ancora, pi\'9d ancora, egli ebbe, due o tre volte, la sensazione di quel bacio, di quel solo bacio, che egli aveva da to sulla bella bocca e dalla quale lo aveva ricevuto, trovandovi il senso fuggev ole, ma profondo di un aroma misterioso. Egli si sorprese, o piuttosto non si so rprese punto, anzi si dilett\'98 a pronunziare spesso il nome della diletta, con lentezza e con passione, con una costante espressione di desiderio e d'invocazi one:\ --Ch\'8erie, Ch\'8erie, Ch\'8erie!\ Egli and\'98 in una trattoria di prim' ordine, verso le otto; e si ordin\'98 un pranzo squisito. Aveva un grande appeti to, egli che non mangiava da tanto tempo che per cibarsi: gli amici si accostaro no a lui, scambi\'98 saluti, parole, scherzi con tutti: offr\'93 del \f2\i kumme l \f0\i0 , delle sigarette. Rise molto.\ Ma temendo di sospingere troppo l'ebrez za che lo teneva dal pomeriggio, non volle bere vino e liquori: viceversa, fum\' 98 molto, cercando addormentar l'impazienza dei suoi nervo poignant and so terri ble as this face, wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil o f the good.

CHAPTER IV AUTHORITY REASSERTS ITS RIGHTS Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing, but the only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her. She could not endure that terrible f ace; she felt her life quitting her; she hid her face in both hands, and shrieke d in her anguish:-"Monsieur Madeleine, save me!" Jean Valjean--we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise-- had risen. He sa id to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices:-"Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come." Then he addressed Javert, and said:-"I know what you want." Javert replied:-"Be quick about it!" There lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words something in describably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, "Be quick about it!" he sai d "Bequiabouit."

No orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered: it was n o longer a human word: it was a roar. He did not proceed according to his custom, he did not enter into the matter, h e exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes, Jean Valjean was a sort of myster ious combatant, who was not to be laid hands upon, a wrestler in the dark whom h e had had in his grasp for the last five years, without being able to throw him. This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying, "Be quick about it!" As he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step; he hurled at Jean Valjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook, and with which he was accustom ed to draw wretches violently to him. It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very marrow of her bones two months previously. At Javert's exclamation, Fantine opened her eyes once more. But the mayor was t here; what had she to fear? Javert advanced to the middle of the room, and cried:-"See here now! Art thou coming?" The unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present excepting the nun and t he mayor. To whom could that abject use of "thou" be addressed? To her only. She shuddered. Then she beheld a most unprecedented thing, a thing so unprecedented that nothi ng equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest deliriums of fever. She beheld Javert, the police spy, seize the mayor by the collar; she saw the m ayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was coming to an end. Javert had, in fact, grasped Jean Valjean by the collar. "Monsieur le Maire!" shrieked Fantine. Javert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed all his gum s. "There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!" Jean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped the collar of his coat. He said:-"Javert--" Javert interrupted him: "Call me Mr. Inspector." "Monsieur," said Jean Valjean, "I should like to say a word to you in private." "Aloud! Say it aloud!" replied Javert; "people are in the habit of talking alou d to me." Jean Valjean went on in a lower tone:-"I have a request to make of you--" "I tell you to speak loud."

"But you alone should hear it--" "What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen." Jean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly and in a very low voice:"Grant me three days' grace! three days in which to go and fetch the child of t his unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You shall accompany me if y ou choose." "You are making sport of me!" cried Javert. "Come now, I did not think you such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in which to run away! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature's child! Ah! Ah! That's good! That 's really capital!" Fantine was seized with a fit of trembling. "My child!" she cried, "to go and fetch my child! She is not here, then! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire!" Javert stamped his foot. "And now there's the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy? It's a pr etty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates, and where women of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we are going to change all that; it is h igh time!" He stared intently at Fantine, and added, once more taking into his grasp Jean Valjean's cravat, shirt and collar:-"I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is no Monsieur l e Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean Valjean! And I have h im in my grasp! That's what there is!" Fantine raised herself in bed with a bound, supporting herself on her stiffened arms and on both hands: she gazed at Jean Valjean, she gazed at Javert, she gaz ed at the nun, she opened her mouth as though to speak; a rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat, her teeth chattered; she stretched out her arms in her agony, opening her hands convulsively, and fumbling about her like a drowning p erson; then suddenly fell back on her pillow. Her head struck the head-board of the bed and fell forwards on her breast, with gaping mouth and staring, sightless eyes. She was dead. Jean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert, and opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby; then he said to Javert:-"You have murdered that woman." "Let's have an end of this!" shouted Javert, in a fury; "I am not here to liste n to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard is below; march on instantly , or you'll get the thumb-screws!" In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead, which was in a decidedly decrepit state, and which served the sisters as a camp-bed when they were watchi

ng with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up to this bed, in a twinkling wrenched o ff the head-piece, which was already in a dilapidated condition, an easy matter to muscles like his, grasped the principal rod like a bludgeon, and glanced at J avert. Javert retreated towards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of ir on, walked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there he turned and sai d to Javert, in a voice that was barely audible:-"I advise you not to disturb me at this moment." One thing is certain, and that is, that Javert trembled. It did occur to him to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might avail himself o f that moment to effect his escape; so he remained, grasped his cane by the smal l end, and leaned against the door-post, without removing his eyes from Jean Val jean. Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed, and his brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of Fantine, which lay extended there. He remained thus, mute, absorbed, evidently with no further thou ght of anything connected with this life. Upon his face and in his attitude ther e was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this meditation he bent towards Fantine, and spoke to her in a low voice. What did he say to her? What could this man, who was reproved, say to that woma n, who was dead? What words were those? No one on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions which are, perhaps, sublime realities. The point as to which there exists no doubt is, that Sister Simplice, the sole witness of the incident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valje an whispered in Fantine's ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lips, and in those dim eyes, filled with the amazement of the tomb. Jean Valjean took Fantine's head in both his hands, and arranged it on the pill ow as a mother might have done for her child; then he tied the string of her che mise, and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That done, he closed her eyes. Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment. Death, that signifies entrance into the great light. Fantine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt down be fore that hand, lifted it gently, and kissed it. Then he rose, and turned to Javert. "Now," said he, "I am at your disposal."

CHAPTER V A SUITABLE TOMB

Javert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison. The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or rather, an extraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot conceal the fact, that at the single word, "He was a convict," nearly every one deserted him. In less than tw o hours all the good that he had done had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a "convict from the galleys." It is just to add that the details of what had ta ken place at Arras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the follo wing were to be heard in all quarters of the town:-"You don't know? He was a liberated convict!" "Who?" "The mayor." "Bah! M. Made leine?" "Yes." "Really?" "His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name, Bejean, Bojean, Boujean." "Ah! Good God!" "He has been arrested." "Arreste d!" "In prison, in the city prison, while waiting to be transferred." "Until he is transferred!" "He is to be transferred!" "Where is he to be taken?" "He will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago." "Wel l! I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He ref used the cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I alwa ys thought there was some evil history back of all that." The "drawing-rooms" particularly abounded in remarks of this nature. One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau Blanc, made the following remark, the depth of which it is impossible to fathom:-"I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!" It was thus that the phantom which had been called M. Madeleine vanished from M . sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town remained faithful to his mem ory. The old portress who had served him was among the number. On the evening of that day the worthy old in a thorough fright, and absorbed in sad sed all day, the carriage gate was bolted, one in the house but the two nuns, Sister e watching beside the body of Fantine. woman was sitting in her lodge, still reflections. The factory had been clo the street was deserted. There was no Perpetue and Sister Simplice, who wer

Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the good port ress rose mechanically, took from a drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, an d the flat candlestick which he used every evening to go up to his quarters; the n she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one side, as though she was expecting him. Then she sat down agai n on her chair, and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor, good old wom an bad done all this without being conscious of it. It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from her rev ery, and exclaimed, "Hold! My good God Jesus! And I hung his key on the nail!" At that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a hand passed through, sei zed the key and the candlestick, and lighted the taper at the candle which was b urning there. The portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping mouth, and a shriek w hich she confined to her throat. She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat. It was M. Madeleine. It was several seconds before she could speak; she had a seizure, as she said h

erself, when she related the adventure afterwards. "Good God, Monsieur le Maire," she cried at last, "I thought you were--" She stopped; the conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in respect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean was still Monsieur le Maire to her. He finished her thought. "In prison," said he. "I was there; I broke a bar of one of the windows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and here I am. I am going up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me. She is with that poor woman, no doubt." The old woman obeyed in all haste. He gave her no orders; he was quite sure that she would guard him better than h e should guard himself. No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the courtyard without open ing the big gates. He had, and always carried about him, a pass-key which opened a little side-door; but he must have been searched, and his latch-key must have been taken from him. This point was never explained. He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the top, he le ft his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door with very little no ise, went and closed his window and his shutters by feeling, then returned for h is candle and re-entered his room. It was a useful precaution; it will be recollected that his window could be see n from the street. He cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his bed which had no t been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder of the night before la st remained. The portress had "done up" his room; only she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of the cudgel and the fo rty-sou piece which had been blackened by the fire. He took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote: "These are the two tips of my iron -shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais, which I mention ed at the Court of Assizes," and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of ir on, and the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be seen on ent ering the room. From a cupboard he pulled out one of his old shirts, which he to re in pieces. In the strips of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver can dlesticks. He betrayed neither haste nor agitation; and while he was wrapping up the Bishop's candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was probabl y the prison-bread which he had carried with him in his flight. This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room when th e authorities made an examination later on. There came two taps at the door. "Come in," said he. It was Sister Simplice. She was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she carried trembled in her h and. The peculiar feature of the violences of destiny is, that however polished or cool we may be, they wring human nature from our very bowels, and force it to reappear on the surface. The emotions of that day had turned the nun into a wom

an once more. She had wept, and she was trembling. Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper, which he handed to the nun, saying, "Sister, you will give this to Monsieur le Cure." The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it. "You can read it," said he. She read:-"I beg Monsieur le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me. He will b e so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial, and of the funeral of th e woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor." The sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer a few inarticulate s ounds. She succeeded in saying, however:-"Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor, unhappy wo man?" "No," said he; "I am pursued; it would only end in their arresting me in that r oom, and that would disturb her." He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the staircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps, and the old portress saying in her loudes t and most piercing tones:-"My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the door." A man responded:-"But there is a light in that room, nevertheless." They recognized Javert's voice. The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner of the w all on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed himself in this ang le. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table. The door opened. Javert entered. The whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress were audible in the corridor. The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying. The candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very little light. Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement. It will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert, his element, the ve ry air he breathed, was veneration for all authority. This was impregnable, and admitted of neither objection nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the eccle siastical authority was the chief of all; he was religious, superficial and corr ect on this point as on all others. In his eyes, a priest was a mind, who never makes a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sins; they were souls walled in

from this world, with a single door which never opened except to allow the truth to pass through. On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire. But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement was to remain and to venture on at least one question. This was Sister Simplice, who had never told a lie in her life. Javert knew it, and held her in special veneration in consequence. "Sister," said he, "are you alone in this room?" A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress felt as though she sho uld faint. The sister raised her eyes and answered:-"Yes." "Then," resumed Javert, "you will excuse me if I persist; it is my duty; you ha ve not seen a certain person--a man--this evening? He has escaped; we are in sea rch of him--that Jean Valjean; you have not seen him?" The sister replied:-"No." She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other, without hesita tion, promptly, as a person does when sacrificing herself. "Pardon me," said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow. O sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you have rejoined your sist ers, the virgins, and your brothers, the angels, in the light; may this lie be c ounted to your credit in paradise! The sister's affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing that he did not eve n observe the singularity of that candle which had but just been extinguished, a nd which was still smoking on the table. An hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, was rapidly departing from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean Valjean. It has been est ablished by the testimony of two or three carters who met him, that he was carry ing a bundle; that he was dressed in a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse ? No one ever found out. But an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the fa ctory a few days before, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps that was the one. One last word about Fantine. We all have a mother,--the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother. The cure thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he really was, in reservi ng as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean had left for the poor. Who w as concerned, after all? A convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine, and reduced it to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave.

So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery which belongs to anybo dy and everybody, and where the poor are lost. Fortunately, God knows where to f ind the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade, among the first bones that ca me to hand; she was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown in to the public grave. Her grave resembled her bed. [The end of Volume I. "Fantine"]

VOLUME II. COSETTE BOOK FIRST.--WATERLOO

CHAPTER I WHAT IS MET WITH ON THE WAY FROM NIVELLES Last year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person who is te lling this story, was coming from Nivelles, and directing his course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved road, which undulated betwe en two rows of trees, over the hills which succeed each other, raise the road an d let it fall again, and produce something in the nature of enormous waves. He had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he perceived the sla te-roofed tower of Braine-l'Alleud, which has the form of a reversed vase. He ha d just left behind a wood upon an eminence; and at the angle of the cross-road, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet bearing the inscription Ancient Barrier N o. 4, a public house, bearing on its front this sign: At the Four Winds (Aux Qua tre Vents). Echabeau, Private Cafe. A quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little valley, where there is water which passes beneath an arch made through the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely planted but very green trees, which fills the v alley on one side of the road, is dispersed over the meadows on the other, and d isappears gracefully and as in order in the direction of Braine-l'Alleud. On the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart at the do or, a large bundle of hop-poles, a plough, a heap of dried brushwood near a flou rishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and a ladder suspended along an ol d penthouse with straw partitions. A young girl was weeding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably of some outside spectacle, such as a parish festiva l, was fluttering in the wind. At one corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla of ducks was navigating, a badly paved path plunged into the bushes. The wayfarer struck into this. After traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fifteenth century, sur mounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he found himself before

a large door of arched stone, with a rectilinear impost, in the sombre style of Louis XIV., flanked by two flat medallions. A severe facade rose above this doo r; a wall, perpendicular to the facade, almost touched the door, and flanked it with an abrupt right angle. In the meadow before the door lay three harrows, thr ough which, in disorder, grew all the flowers of May. The door was closed. The t wo decrepit leaves which barred it were ornamented with an old rusty knocker. The sun was charming; the branches had that soft shivering of May, which seems to proceed rather from the nests than from the wind. A brave little bird, probab ly a lover, was carolling in a distracted manner in a large tree. The wayfarer bent over and examined a rather large circular excavation, resembl ing the hollow of a sphere, in the stone on the left, at the foot of the pier of the door. At this moment the leaves of the door parted, and a peasant woman emerged. She saw the wayfarer, and perceived what he was looking at. "It was a French cannon-ball which made that," she said to him. And she added:"That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the hole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce the wood." "What is the name of this place?" inquired the wayfarer. "Hougomont," said the peasant woman. The traveller straightened himself up. He walked on a few paces, and went off t o look over the tops of the hedges. On the horizon through the trees, he perceiv ed a sort of little elevation, and on this elevation something which at that dis tance resembled a lion. He was on the battle-field of Waterloo.

CHAPTER II HOUGOMONT Hougomont,--this was a funereal spot, the beginning of the obstacle, the first resistance, which that great wood-cutter of Europe, called Napoleon, encountered at Waterloo, the first knot under the blows of his axe. It was a chateau; it is no longer anything but a farm. For the antiquary, Hougo mont is Hugomons. This manor was built by Hugo, Sire of Somerel, the same who en dowed the sixth chaplaincy of the Abbey of Villiers. The traveller pushed open the door, elbowed an ancient calash under the porch, and entered the courtyard.

The first thing which struck him in this paddock was a door of the sixteenth ce ntury, which here simulates an arcade, everything else having fallen prostrate a round it. A monumental aspect often has its birth in ruin. In a wall near the ar cade opens another arched door, of the time of Henry IV., permitting a glimpse o f the trees of an orchard; beside this door, a manure-hole, some pickaxes, some shovels, some carts, an old well, with its flagstone and its iron reel, a chicke n jumping, and a turkey spreading its tail, a chapel surmounted by a small belltower, a blossoming pear-tree trained in espalier against the wall of the chapel --behold the court, the conquest of which was one of Napoleon's dreams. This cor ner of earth, could he but have seized it, would, perhaps, have given him the wo rld likewise. Chickens are scattering its dust abroad with their beaks. A growl is audible; it is a huge dog, who shows his teeth and replaces the English. The English behaved admirably there. Cooke's four companies of guards there hel d out for seven hours against the fury of an army. Hougomont viewed on the map, as a geometrical plan, comprising buildings and en closures, presents a sort of irregular rectangle, one angle of which is nicked o ut. It is this angle which contains the southern door, guarded by this wall, whi ch commands it only a gun's length away. Hougomont has two doors,--the southern door, that of the chateau; and the northern door, belonging to the farm. Napoleo n sent his brother Jerome against Hougomont; the divisions of Foy, Guilleminot, and Bachelu hurled themselves against it; nearly the entire corps of Reille was employed against it, and miscarried; Kellermann's balls were exhausted on this h eroic section of wall. Bauduin's brigade was not strong enough to force Hougomon t on the north, and the brigade of Soye could not do more than effect the beginn ing of a breach on the south, but without taking it. The farm buildings border the courtyard on the south. A bit of the north door, broken by the French, hangs suspended to the wall. It consists of four planks na iled to two cross-beams, on which the scars of the attack are visible. The northern door, which was beaten in by the French, and which has had a piece applied to it to replace the panel suspended on the wall, stands half-open at t he bottom of the paddock; it is cut squarely in the wall, built of stone below, of brick above which closes in the courtyard on the north. It is a simple door f or carts, such as exist in all farms, with the two large leaves made of rustic p lanks: beyond lie the meadows. The dispute over this entrance was furious. For a long time, all sorts of imprints of bloody hands were visible on the door-posts . It was there that Bauduin was killed. The storm of the combat still lingers in this courtyard; its horror is visible there; the confusion of the fray was petrified there; it lives and it dies there ; it was only yesterday. The walls are in the death agony, the stones fall; the breaches cry aloud; the holes are wounds; the drooping, quivering trees seem to be making an effort to flee. This courtyard was more built up in 1815 than it is to-day. Buildings which hav e since been pulled down then formed redans and angles. The English barricaded themselves there; the French made their way in, but coul d not stand their ground. Beside the chapel, one wing of the chateau, the only r uin now remaining of the manor of Hougomont, rises in a crumbling state,--disemb owelled, one might say. The chateau served for a dungeon, the chapel for a block -house. There men exterminated each other. The French, fired on from every point ,--from behind the walls, from the summits of the garrets, from the depths of th e cellars, through all the casements, through all the air-holes, through every c rack in the stones,-- fetched fagots and set fire to walls and men; the reply to the grape-shot was a conflagration.

In the ruined wing, through windows garnished with bars of iron, the dismantled chambers of the main building of brick are visible; the English guards were in ambush in these rooms; the spiral of the staircase, cracked from the ground floo r to the very roof, appears like the inside of a broken shell. The staircase has two stories; the English, besieged on the staircase, and massed on its upper st eps, had cut off the lower steps. These consisted of large slabs of blue stone, which form a heap among the nettles. Half a score of steps still cling to the wa ll; on the first is cut the figure of a trident. These inaccessible steps are so lid in their niches. All the rest resembles a jaw which has been denuded of its teeth. There are two old trees there: one is dead; the other is wounded at its b ase, and is clothed with verdure in April. Since 1815 it has taken to growing th rough the staircase. A massacre took place in the chapel. The interior, which has recovered its calm , is singular. The mass has not been said there since the carnage. Nevertheless, the altar has been left there-- an altar of unpolished wood, placed against a b ackground of roughhewn stone. Four whitewashed walls, a door opposite the altar, two small arched windows; over the door a large wooden crucifix, below the cruc ifix a square air-hole stopped up with a bundle of hay; on the ground, in one co rner, an old window-frame with the glass all broken to pieces--such is the chape l. Near the altar there is nailed up a wooden statue of Saint Anne, of the fifte enth century; the head of the infant Jesus has been carried off by a large ball. The French, who were masters of the chapel for a moment, and were then dislodge d, set fire to it. The flames filled this building; it was a perfect furnace; th e door was burned, the floor was burned, the wooden Christ was not burned. The f ire preyed upon his feet, of which only the blackened stumps are now to be seen; then it stopped,-- a miracle, according to the assertion of the people of the n eighborhood. The infant Jesus, decapitated, was less fortunate than the Christ. The walls are covered with inscriptions. Near the feet of Christ this name is t o be read: Henquinez. Then these others: Conde de Rio Maior Marques y Marquesa d e Almagro (Habana). There are French names with exclamation points,--a sign of w rath. The wall was freshly whitewashed in 1849. The nations insulted each other there. It was at the door of this chapel that the corpse was picked up which held an a xe in its hand; this corpse was Sub-Lieutenant Legros. On emerging from the chapel, a well is visible on the left. There are two in th is courtyard. One inquires, Why is there no bucket and pulley to this? It is bec ause water is no longer drawn there. Why is water not drawn there? Because it is full of skeletons. The last person who drew water from the well was named Guillaume van Kylsom. He was a peasant who lived at Hougomont, and was gardener there. On the 18th of Ju ne, 1815, his family fled and concealed themselves in the woods. The forest surrounding the Abbey of Villiers sheltered these unfortunate people who had been scattered abroad, for many days and nights. There are at this day certain traces recognizable, such as old boles of burned trees, which mark the s ite of these poor bivouacs trembling in the depths of the thickets. Guillaume van Kylsom remained at Hougomont, "to guard the chateau," and conceal ed himself in the cellar. The English discovered him there. They tore him from h is hiding-place, and the combatants forced this frightened man to serve them, by administering blows with the flats of their swords. They were thirsty; this Gui llaume brought them water. It was from this well that he drew it. Many drank the re their last draught. This well where drank so many of the dead was destined to die itself.

After the engagement, they were in haste to bury the dead bodies. Death has a f ashion of harassing victory, and she causes the pest to follow glory. The typhus is a concomitant of triumph. This well was deep, and it was turned into a sepul chre. Three hundred dead bodies were cast into it. With too much haste perhaps. Were they all dead? Legend says they were not. It seems that on the night succee ding the interment, feeble voices were heard calling from the well. This well is isolated in the middle of the courtyard. Three walls, part stone, part brick, and simulating a small, square tower, and folded like the leaves of a screen, surround it on all sides. The fourth side is open. It is there that th e water was drawn. The wall at the bottom has a sort of shapeless loophole, poss ibly the hole made by a shell. This little tower had a platform, of which only t he beams remain. The iron supports of the well on the right form a cross. On lea ning over, the eye is lost in a deep cylinder of brick which is filled with a he aped-up mass of shadows. The base of the walls all about the well is concealed i n a growth of nettles. This well has not in front of it that large blue slab which forms the table for all wells in Belgium. The slab has here been replaced by a cross-beam, against which lean five or six shapeless fragments of knotty and petrified wood which re semble huge bones. There is no longer either pail, chain, or pulley; but there i s still the stone basin which served the overflow. The rain-water collects there , and from time to time a bird of the neighboring forests comes thither to drink , and then flies away. One house in this ruin, the farmhouse, is still inhabited . The door of this house opens on the courtyard. Upon this door, beside a pretty Gothic lock-plate, there is an iron handle with trefoils placed slanting. At th e moment when the Hanoverian lieutenant, Wilda, grasped this handle in order to take refuge in the farm, a French sapper hewed off his hand with an axe. The family who occupy the house had for their grandfather Guillaume van Kylsom, the old gardener, dead long since. A woman with gray hair said to us: "I was th ere. I was three years old. My sister, who was older, was terrified and wept. Th ey carried us off to the woods. I went there in my mother's arms. We glued our e ars to the earth to hear. I imitated the cannon, and went boum! boum!" A door opening from the courtyard on the left led into the orchard, so we were told. The orchard is terrible. It is in three parts; one might almost say, in three acts. The first part is a garden, the second is an orchard, the third is a wood. These three parts have a common enclosure: on the side of the entrance, the buildings of the chateau and the farm; on the left, a hedge; on the right, a wall; and at the end, a wall. Th e wall on the right is of brick, the wall at the bottom is of stone. One enters the garden first. It slopes downwards, is planted with gooseberry bushes, choked with a wild growth of vegetation, and terminated by a monumental terrace of cut stone, with balustrade with a double curve. It was a seignorial garden in the first French style which preceded Le Notre; t o-day it is ruins and briars. The pilasters are surmounted by globes which resem ble cannon-balls of stone. Forty-three balusters can still be counted on their s ockets; the rest lie prostrate in the grass. Almost all bear scratches of bullet s. One broken baluster is placed on the pediment like a fractured leg. It was in this garden, further down than the orchard, that six light-infantry m en of the 1st, having made their way thither, and being unable to escape, hunted down and caught like bears in their dens, accepted the combat with two Hanoveri an companies, one of which was armed with carbines. The Hanoverians lined this b alustrade and fired from above. The infantry men, replying from below, six again st two hundred, intrepid and with no shelter save the currant-bushes, took a qua

rter of an hour to die. One mounts a few steps and passes from the garden into the orchard, properly sp eaking. There, within the limits of those few square fathoms, fifteen hundred me n fell in less than an hour. The wall seems ready to renew the combat. Thirty-ei ght loopholes, pierced by the English at irregular heights, are there still. In front of the sixth are placed two English tombs of granite. There are loopholes only in the south wall, as the principal attack came from that quarter. The wall is hidden on the outside by a tall hedge; the French came up, thinking that the y had to deal only with a hedge, crossed it, and found the wall both an obstacle and an ambuscade, with the English guards behind it, the thirty-eight loopholes firing at once a shower of grape-shot and balls, and Soye's brigade was broken against it. Thus Waterloo began. Nevertheless, the orchard was taken. As they had no ladders, the French scaled it with their nails. They fought hand to hand amid the trees. All this grass has been soaked in blood. A battalion of Nassau, seven hundred strong, was overwhel med there. The outside of the wall, against which Kellermann's two batteries wer e trained, is gnawed by grape-shot. This orchard is sentient, like others, in the month of May. It has its buttercu ps and its daisies; the grass is tall there; the cart-horses browse there; cords of hair, on which linen is drying, traverse the spaces between the trees and fo rce the passer-by to bend his head; one walks over this uncultivated land, and o ne's foot dives into mole-holes. In the middle of the grass one observes an upro oted tree-bole which lies there all verdant. Major Blackmann leaned against it t o die. Beneath a great tree in the neighborhood fell the German general, Duplat, descended from a French family which fled on the revocation of the Edict of Nan tes. An aged and falling apple-tree leans far over to one side, its wound dresse d with a bandage of straw and of clayey loam. Nearly all the apple-trees are fal ling with age. There is not one which has not had its bullet or its biscayan.[6] The skeletons of dead trees abound in this orchard. Crows fly through their bra nches, and at the end of it is a wood full of violets. [6] A bullet as large as an egg. Bauduin, killed, Foy wounded, conflagration, massacre, carnage, a rivulet forme d of English blood, French blood, German blood mingled in fury, a well crammed w ith corpses, the regiment of Nassau and the regiment of Brunswick destroyed, Dup lat killed, Blackmann killed, the English Guards mutilated, twenty French battal ions, besides the forty from Reille's corps, decimated, three thousand men in th at hovel of Hougomont alone cut down, slashed to pieces, shot, burned, with thei r throats cut,--and all this so that a peasant can say to-day to the traveller: Monsieur, give me three francs, and if you like, I will explain to you the affai r of Waterloo!

CHAPTER III THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE, 1815

Let us turn back,--that is one of the story-teller's rights,-- and put ourselve s once more in the year 1815, and even a little earlier than the epoch when the action narrated in the first part of this book took place. If it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th of June, 1815, the fate of Europe would have been different. A few drops of water, more or less , decided the downfall of Napoleon. All that Providence required in order to mak e Waterloo the end of Austerlitz was a little more rain, and a cloud traversing the sky out of season sufficed to make a world crumble. The battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past eleven o'clock, and t hat gave Blucher time to come up. Why? Because the ground was wet. The artillery had to wait until it became a little firmer before they could manoeuvre. Napoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this. The foundation of this wonderful captain was the man who, in the report to the Directory on Ab oukir, said: Such a one of our balls killed six men. All his plans of battle wer e arranged for projectiles. The key to his victory was to make the artillery con verge on one point. He treated the strategy of the hostile general like a citade l, and made a breach in it. He overwhelmed the weak point with grape-shot; he jo ined and dissolved battles with cannon. There was something of the sharpshooter in his genius. To beat in squares, to pulverize regiments, to break lines, to cr ush and disperse masses,--for him everything lay in this, to strike, strike, str ike incessantly,-- and he intrusted this task to the cannon-ball. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius, rendered this gloomy athlete of the p ugilism of war invincible for the space of fifteen years. On the 18th of June, 1815, he relied all the more on his artillery, because he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred and fifty-nine mouths o f fire; Napoleon had two hundred and forty. Suppose the soil dry, and the artillery capable of moving, the action would hav e begun at six o'clock in the morning. The battle would have been won and ended at two o'clock, three hours before the change of fortune in favor of the Prussia ns. What amount of blame attaches to Napoleon for the loss of this battle? Is th e shipwreck due to the pilot? Was it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that complicated this epoch by an inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years of war worn out the blade as it had worn the scabbard, the soul as well as the body? Did the veteran make hi mself disastrously felt in the leader? In a word, was this genius, as many histo rians of note have thought, suffering from an eclipse? Did he go into a frenzy i n order to disguise his weakened powers from himself? Did he begin to waver unde r the delusion of a breath of adventure? Had he become--a grave matter in a gene ral--unconscious of peril? Is there an age, in this class of material great men, who may be called the giants of action, when genius grows short-sighted? Old ag e has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal; for the Dantes and Michael Angelos t o grow old is to grow in greatness; is it to grow less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napoleon lost the direct sense of victory? Had he reached the p oint where he could no longer recognize the reef, could no longer divine the sna re, no longer discern the crumbling brink of abysses? Had he lost his power of s centing out catastrophes? He who had in former days known all the roads to trium ph, and who, from the summit of his chariot of lightning, pointed them out with a sovereign finger, had he now reached that state of sinister amazement when he could lead his tumultuous legions harnessed to it, to the precipice? Was he seiz ed at the age of forty-six with a supreme madness? Was that titanic charioteer o f destiny no longer anything more than an immense dare-devil? We do not think so.

His plan of battle was, by the confession of all, a masterpiece. To go straight to the centre of the Allies' line, to make a breach in the enemy, to cut them i n two, to drive the British half back on Hal, and the Prussian half on Tongres, to make two shattered fragments of Wellington and Blucher, to carry Mont-Saint-J ean, to seize Brussels, to hurl the German into the Rhine, and the Englishman in to the sea. All this was contained in that battle, according to Napoleon. Afterw ards people would see. Of course, we do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle of Waterlo o; one of the scenes of the foundation of the story which we are relating is con nected with this battle, but this history is not our subject; this history, more over, has been finished, and finished in a masterly manner, from one point of vi ew by Napoleon, and from another point of view by a whole pleiad of historians.[ 7] [7] Walter Scott, Lamartine, Vaulabelle, Charras, Quinet, Thiers. As for us, we leave the historians at loggerheads; we are but a distant witness , a passer-by on the plain, a seeker bending over that soil all made of human fl esh, taking appearances for realities, perchance; we have no right to oppose, in the name of science, a collection of facts which contain illusions, no doubt; w e possess neither military practice nor strategic ability which authorize a syst em; in our opinion, a chain of accidents dominated the two leaders at Waterloo; and when it becomes a question of destiny, that mysterious culprit, we judge lik e that ingenious judge, the populace.

CHAPTER IV A Those persons who wish to gain a clear idea of the battle of Waterloo have only to place, mentally, on the ground, a capital A. The left limb of the A is the r oad to Nivelles, the right limb is the road to Genappe, the tie of the A is the hollow road to Ohain from Braine-l'Alleud. The top of the A is Mont-Saint-Jean, where Wellington is; the lower left tip is Hougomont, where Reille is stationed with Jerome Bonaparte; the right tip is the Belle-Alliance, where Napoleon was. At the centre of this chord is the precise point where the final word of the bat tle was pronounced. It was there that the lion has been placed, the involuntary symbol of the supreme heroism of the Imperial Guard. The triangle included in the top of the A, between the two limbs and the tie, i s the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. The dispute over this plateau constituted the whole battle. The wings of the two armies extended to the right and left of the two roads to Genappe and Nivelles; d'Erlon facing Picton, Reille facing Hill. Behind the tip of the A, behind the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, is the forest o f Soignes. As for the plain itself, let the reader picture to himself a vast undulating sw eep of ground; each rise commands the next rise, and all the undulations mount t

owards Mont-Saint-Jean, and there end in the forest. Two hostile troops on a field of battle are two wrestlers. It is a question of seizing the opponent round the waist. The one seeks to trip up the other. They c lutch at everything: a bush is a point of support; an angle of the wall offers t hem a rest to the shoulder; for the lack of a hovel under whose cover they can d raw up, a regiment yields its ground; an unevenness in the ground, a chance turn in the landscape, a cross-path encountered at the right moment, a grove, a ravi ne, can stay the heel of that colossus which is called an army, and prevent its retreat. He who quits the field is beaten; hence the necessity devolving on the responsible leader, of examining the most insignificant clump of trees, and of s tudying deeply the slightest relief in the ground. The two generals had attentively studied the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean, now call ed the plain of Waterloo. In the preceding year, Wellington, with the sagacity o f foresight, had examined it as the possible seat of a great battle. Upon this s pot, and for this duel, on the 18th of June, Wellington had the good post, Napol eon the bad post. The English army was stationed above, the French army below. It is almost superfluous here to sketch the appearance of Napoleon on horseback , glass in hand, upon the heights of Rossomme, at daybreak, on June 18, 1815. Al l the world has seen him before we can show him. That calm profile under the lit tle three-cornered hat of the school of Brienne, that green uniform, the white r evers concealing the star of the Legion of Honor, his great coat hiding his epau lets, the corner of red ribbon peeping from beneath his vest, his leather trouse rs, the white horse with the saddle-cloth of purple velvet bearing on the corner s crowned N's and eagles, Hessian boots over silk stockings, silver spurs, the s word of Marengo,--that whole figure of the last of the Caesars is present to all imaginations, saluted with acclamations by some, severely regarded by others. That figure stood for a long time wholly in the light; this arose from a certai n legendary dimness evolved by the majority of heroes, and which always veils th e truth for a longer or shorter time; but to-day history and daylight have arriv ed. That light called history is pitiless; it possesses this peculiar and divine qu ality, that, pure light as it is, and precisely because it is wholly light, it o ften casts a shadow in places where people had hitherto beheld rays; from the sa me man it constructs two different phantoms, and the one attacks the other and e xecutes justice on it, and the shadows of the despot contend with the brilliancy of the leader. Hence arises a truer measure in the definitive judgments of nati ons. Babylon violated lessens Alexander, Rome enchained lessens Caesar, Jerusale m murdered lessens Titus, tyranny follows the tyrant. It is a misfortune for a m an to leave behind him the night which bears his form.

CHAPTER V THE QUID OBSCURUM OF BATTLES Every one is acquainted with the first phase of this battle; a beginning which

was troubled, uncertain, hesitating, menacing to both armies, but still more so for the English than for the French. It had rained all night, the earth had been cut up by the downpour, the water h ad accumulated here and there in the hollows of the plain as if in casks; at som e points the gear of the artillery carriages was buried up to the axles, the cir cingles of the horses were dripping with liquid mud. If the wheat and rye trampl ed down by this cohort of transports on the march had not filled in the ruts and strewn a litter beneath the wheels, all movement, particularly in the valleys, in the direction of Papelotte would have been impossible. The affair began late. Napoleon, as we have already explained, was in the habit of keeping all his artillery well in hand, like a pistol, aiming it now at one point, now at another, of the battle; and it had been his wish to wait until the horse batteries could move and gallop freely. In order to do that it was necess ary that the sun should come out and dry the soil. But the sun did not make its appearance. It was no longer the rendezvous of Austerlitz. When the first cannon was fired, the English general, Colville, looked at his watch, and noted that i t was thirty-five minutes past eleven. The action was begun furiously, with more fury, perhaps, than the Emperor would have wished, by the left wing of the French resting on Hougomont. At the same t ime Napoleon attacked the centre by hurling Quiot's brigade on La Haie-Sainte, a nd Ney pushed forward the right wing of the French against the left wing of the English, which rested on Papelotte. The attack on Hougomont was something of a feint; the plan was to draw Wellingt on thither, and to make him swerve to the left. This plan would have succeeded i f the four companies of the English guards and the brave Belgians of Perponcher' s division had not held the position solidly, and Wellington, instead of massing his troops there, could confine himself to despatching thither, as reinforcemen ts, only four more companies of guards and one battalion from Brunswick. The attack of the right wing of the French on Papelotte was calculated, in fact , to overthrow the English left, to cut off the road to Brussels, to bar the pas sage against possible Prussians, to force Mont-Saint-Jean, to turn Wellington ba ck on Hougomont, thence on Braine-l'Alleud, thence on Hal; nothing easier. With the exception of a few incidents this attack succeeded Papelotte was taken; La H aie-Sainte was carried. A detail to be noted. There was in the English infantry, particularly in Kempt' s brigade, a great many raw recruits. These young soldiers were valiant in the p resence of our redoubtable infantry; their inexperience extricated them intrepid ly from the dilemma; they performed particularly excellent service as skirmisher s: the soldier skirmisher, left somewhat to himself, becomes, so to speak, his o wn general. These recruits displayed some of the French ingenuity and fury. This novice of an infantry had dash. This displeased Wellington. After the taking of La Haie-Sainte the battle wavered. There is in this day an obscure interval, from mid-day to four o'clock; the mid dle portion of this battle is almost indistinct, and participates in the sombren ess of the hand-to-hand conflict. Twilight reigns over it. We perceive vast fluc tuations in that fog, a dizzy mirage, paraphernalia of war almost unknown to-day , pendant colbacks, floating sabre-taches, cross-belts, cartridge-boxes for gren ades, hussar dolmans, red boots with a thousand wrinkles, heavy shakos garlanded with torsades, the almost black infantry of Brunswick mingled with the scarlet infantry of England, the English soldiers with great, white circular pads on the slopes of their shoulders for epaulets, the Hanoverian light-horse with their o blong casques of leather, with brass hands and red horse-tails, the Scotch with

their bare knees and plaids, the great white gaiters of our grenadiers; pictures , not strategic lines--what Salvator Rosa requires, not what is suited to the ne eds of Gribeauval. A certain amount of tempest is always mingled with a battle. Quid obscurum, qui d divinum. Each historian traces, to some extent, the particular feature which p leases him amid this pellmell. Whatever may be the combinations of the generals, the shock of armed masses has an incalculable ebb. During the action the plans of the two leaders enter into each other and become mutually thrown out of shape . Such a point of the field of battle devours more combatants than such another, just as more or less spongy soils soak up more or less quickly the water which is poured on them. It becomes necessary to pour out more soldiers than one would like; a series of expenditures which are the unforeseen. The line of battle wav es and undulates like a thread, the trails of blood gush illogically, the fronts of the armies waver, the regiments form capes and gulfs as they enter and withd raw; all these reefs are continually moving in front of each other. Where the in fantry stood the artillery arrives, the cavalry rushes in where the artillery wa s, the battalions are like smoke. There was something there; seek it. It has dis appeared; the open spots change place, the sombre folds advance and retreat, a s ort of wind from the sepulchre pushes forward, hurls back, distends, and dispers es these tragic multitudes. What is a fray? an oscillation? The immobility of a mathematical plan expresses a minute, not a day. In order to depict a battle, th ere is required one of those powerful painters who have chaos in their brushes. Rembrandt is better than Vandermeulen; Vandermeulen, exact at noon, lies at thre e o'clock. Geometry is deceptive; the hurricane alone is trustworthy. That is wh at confers on Folard the right to contradict Polybius. Let us add, that there is a certain instant when the battle degenerates into a combat, becomes specialize d, and disperses into innumerable detailed feats, which, to borrow the expressio n of Napoleon himself, "belong rather to the biography of the regiments than to the history of the army." The historian has, in this case, the evident right to sum up the whole. He cannot do more than seize the principal outlines of the str uggle, and it is not given to any one narrator, however conscientious he may be, to fix, absolutely, the form of that horrible cloud which is called a battle. This, which is true of all great armed encounters, is particularly applicable t o Waterloo. Nevertheless, at a certain moment in the afternoon the battle came to a point.

CHAPTER VI FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON Towards four o'clock the condition of the English army was serious. The Prince of Orange was in command of the centre, Hill of the right wing, Picton of the le ft wing. The Prince of Orange, desperate and intrepid, shouted to the Hollando-B elgians: "Nassau! Brunswick! Never retreat!" Hill, having been weakened, had com e up to the support of Wellington; Picton was dead. At the very moment when the English had captured from the French the flag of the 105th of the line, the Fren ch had killed the English general, Picton, with a bullet through the head. The b

attle had, for Wellington, two bases of action, Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte; Ho ugomont still held out, but was on fire; La Haie-Sainte was taken. Of the German battalion which defended it, only forty-two men survived; all the officers, exc ept five, were either dead or captured. Three thousand combatants had been massa cred in that barn. A sergeant of the English Guards, the foremost boxer in Engla nd, reputed invulnerable by his companions, had been killed there by a little Fr ench drummer-boy. Baring had been dislodged, Alten put to the sword. Many flags had been lost, one from Alten's division, and one from the battalion of Lunenbur g, carried by a prince of the house of Deux-Ponts. The Scotch Grays no longer ex isted; Ponsonby's great dragoons had been hacked to pieces. That valiant cavalry had bent beneath the lancers of Bro and beneath the cuirassiers of Travers; out of twelve hundred horses, six hundred remained; out of three lieutenant-colonel s, two lay on the earth,--Hamilton wounded, Mater slain. Ponsonby had fallen, ri ddled by seven lance-thrusts. Gordon was dead. Marsh was dead. Two divisions, th e fifth and the sixth, had been annihilated. Hougomont injured, La Haie-Sainte taken, there now existed but one rallying-poi nt, the centre. That point still held firm. Wellington reinforced it. He summone d thither Hill, who was at Merle-Braine; he summoned Chasse, who was at Braine-l 'Alleud. The centre of the English army, rather concave, very dense, and very compact, w as strongly posted. It occupied the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, having behind it the village, and in front of it the slope, which was tolerably steep then. It r ested on that stout stone dwelling which at that time belonged to the domain of Nivelles, and which marks the intersection of the roads--a pile of the sixteenth century, and so robust that the cannon-balls rebounded from it without injuring it. All about the plateau the English had cut the hedges here and there, made e mbrasures in the hawthorn-trees, thrust the throat of a cannon between two branc hes, embattled the shrubs. There artillery was ambushed in the brushwood. This p unic labor, incontestably authorized by war, which permits traps, was so well do ne, that Haxo, who had been despatched by the Emperor at nine o'clock in the mor ning to reconnoitre the enemy's batteries, had discovered nothing of it, and had returned and reported to Napoleon that there were no obstacles except the two b arricades which barred the road to Nivelles and to Genappe. It was at the season when the grain is tall; on the edge of the plateau a battalion of Kempt's briga de, the 95th, armed with carabines, was concealed in the tall wheat. Thus assured and buttressed, the centre of the Anglo-Dutch army was well posted . The peril of this position lay in the forest of Soignes, then adjoining the fi eld of battle, and intersected by the ponds of Groenendael and Boitsfort. An arm y could not retreat thither without dissolving; the regiments would have broken up immediately there. The artillery would have been lost among the morasses. The retreat, according to many a man versed in the art,--though it is disputed by o thers,--would have been a disorganized flight. To this centre, Wellington added one of Chasse's brigades taken from the right wing, and one of Wincke's brigades taken from the left wing, plus Clinton's divi sion. To his English, to the regiments of Halkett, to the brigades of Mitchell, to the guards of Maitland, he gave as reinforcements and aids, the infantry of B runswick, Nassau's contingent, Kielmansegg's Hanoverians, and Ompteda's Germans. This placed twenty-six battalions under his hand. The right wing, as Charras sa ys, was thrown back on the centre. An enormous battery was masked by sacks of ea rth at the spot where there now stands what is called the "Museum of Waterloo." Besides this, Wellington had, behind a rise in the ground, Somerset's Dragoon Gu ards, fourteen hundred horse strong. It was the remaining half of the justly cel ebrated English cavalry. Ponsonby destroyed, Somerset remained. The battery, which, if completed, would have been almost a redoubt, was ranged behind a very low garden wall, backed up with a coating of bags of sand and a la

rge slope of earth. This work was not finished; there had been no time to make a palisade for it. Wellington, uneasy but impassive, was on horseback, and there remained the whol e day in the same attitude, a little in advance of the old mill of Mont-Saint-Je an, which is still in existence, beneath an elm, which an Englishman, an enthusi astic vandal, purchased later on for two hundred francs, cut down, and carried o ff. Wellington was coldly heroic. The bullets rained about him. His aide-de-camp , Gordon, fell at his side. Lord Hill, pointing to a shell which had burst, said to him: "My lord, what are your orders in case you are killed?" "To do like me, " replied Wellington. To Clinton he said laconically, "To hold this spot to the last man." The day was evidently turning out ill. Wellington shouted to his old companions of Talavera, of Vittoria, of Salamanca: "Boys, can retreat be thought of? Think of old England!" Towards four o'clock, the English line drew back. Suddenly nothing was visible on the crest of the plateau except the artillery and the sharpshooters; the rest had disappeared: the regiments, dislodged by the shells and the French bullets, retreated into the bottom, now intersected by the back road of the farm of Mont -Saint-Jean; a retrograde movement took place, the English front hid itself, Wel lington drew back. "The beginning of retreat!" cried Napoleon.

CHAPTER VII NAPOLEON IN A GOOD HUMOR The Emperor, though ill and discommoded on horseback by a local trouble, had ne ver been in a better humor than on that day. His impenetrability had been smilin g ever since the morning. On the 18th of June, that profound soul masked by marb le beamed blindly. The man who had been gloomy at Austerlitz was gay at Waterloo . The greatest favorites of destiny make mistakes. Our joys are composed of shad ow. The supreme smile is God's alone. Ridet Caesar, Pompeius flebit, said the legionaries of the Fulminatrix Legion. Pompey was not destined to weep on that occasion, but it is certain that Caesar laughed. While exploring on horseback at one o'clock on the preceding night, in storm and rain, in company with Bertrand, the communes in the neighborhood of Ro ssomme, satisfied at the sight of the long line of the English camp-fires illumi nating the whole horizon from Frischemont to Braine-l'Alleud, it had seemed to h im that fate, to whom he had assigned a day on the field of Waterloo, was exact to the appointment; he stopped his horse, and remained for some time motionless, gazing at the lightning and listening to the thunder; and this fatalist was hea rd to cast into the darkness this mysterious saying, "We are in accord." Napoleo n was mistaken. They were no longer in accord. He took not for him. He e to talk to rd the tread treat on the a moment for sleep; every instant of that night was marked by a joy traversed the line of the principal outposts, halting here and ther the sentinels. At half-past two, near the wood of Hougomont, he hea of a column on the march; he thought at the moment that it was a re part of Wellington. He said: "It is the rear-guard of the English g

etting under way for the purpose of decamping. I will take prisoners the six tho usand English who have just arrived at Ostend." He conversed expansively; he reg ained the animation which he had shown at his landing on the first of March, whe n he pointed out to the Grand-Marshal the enthusiastic peasant of the Gulf Juan, and cried, "Well, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement already!" On the night of t he 17th to the 18th of June he rallied Wellington. "That little Englishman needs a lesson," said Napoleon. The rain redoubled in violence; the thunder rolled wh ile the Emperor was speaking. At half-past three o'clock in the morning, he lost one illusion; officers who h ad been despatched to reconnoitre announced to him that the enemy was not making any movement. Nothing was stirring; not a bivouac-fire had been extinguished; t he English army was asleep. The silence on earth was profound; the only noise wa s in the heavens. At four o'clock, a peasant was brought in to him by the scouts ; this peasant had served as guide to a brigade of English cavalry, probably Viv ian's brigade, which was on its way to take up a position in the village of Ohai n, at the extreme left. At five o'clock, two Belgian deserters reported to him t hat they had just quitted their regiment, and that the English army was ready fo r battle. "So much the better!" exclaimed Napoleon. "I prefer to overthrow them rather than to drive them back." In the morning he dismounted in the mud on the slope which forms an angle with the Plancenoit road, had a kitchen table and a peasant's chair brought to him fr om the farm of Rossomme, seated himself, with a truss of straw for a carpet, and spread out on the table the chart of the battle-field, saying to Soult as he di d so, "A pretty checker-board." In consequence of the rains during the night, the transports of provisions, emb edded in the soft roads, had not been able to arrive by morning; the soldiers ha d had no sleep; they were wet and fasting. This did not prevent Napoleon from ex claiming cheerfully to Ney, "We have ninety chances out of a hundred." At eight o'clock the Emperor's breakfast was brought to him. He invited many generals to it. During breakfast, it was said that Wellington had been to a ball two nights before, in Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond's; and Soult, a rough man of war , with a face of an archbishop, said, "The ball takes place to-day." The Emperor jested with Ney, who said, "Wellington will not be so simple as to wait for You r Majesty." That was his way, however. "He was fond of jesting," says Fleury de Chaboulon. "A merry humor was at the foundation of his character," says Gourgaud . "He abounded in pleasantries, which were more peculiar than witty," says Benja min Constant. These gayeties of a giant are worthy of insistence. It was he who called his grenadiers "his grumblers"; he pinched their ears; he pulled their mu staches. "The Emperor did nothing but play pranks on us," is the remark of one o f them. During the mysterious trip from the island of Elba to France, on the 27t h of February, on the open sea, the French brig of war, Le Zephyr, having encoun tered the brig L'Inconstant, on which Napoleon was concealed, and having asked t he news of Napoleon from L'Inconstant, the Emperor, who still wore in his hat th e white and amaranthine cockade sown with bees, which he had adopted at the isle of Elba, laughingly seized the speaking-trumpet, and answered for himself, "The Emperor is well." A man who laughs like that is on familiar terms with events. Napoleon indulged in many fits of this laughter during the breakfast at Waterloo . After breakfast he meditated for a quarter of an hour; then two generals seate d themselves on the truss of straw, pen in hand and their paper on their knees, and the Emperor dictated to them the order of battle. At nine o'clock, at the instant when the French army, ranged in echelons and se t in motion in five columns, had deployed-- the divisions in two lines, the arti llery between the brigades, the music at their head; as they beat the march, wit h rolls on the drums and the blasts of trumpets, mighty, vast, joyous, a sea of casques, of sabres, and of bayonets on the horizon, the Emperor was touched, and twice exclaimed, "Magnificent! Magnificent!"

Between nine o'clock and half-past ten the whole army, incredible as it may app ear, had taken up its position and ranged itself in six lines, forming, to repea t the Emperor's expression, "the figure of six V's." A few moments after the for mation of the battle-array, in the midst of that profound silence, like that whi ch heralds the beginning of a storm, which precedes engagements, the Emperor tap ped Haxo on the shoulder, as he beheld the three batteries of twelve-pounders, d etached by his orders from the corps of Erlon, Reille, and Lobau, and destined t o begin the action by taking Mont-Saint-Jean, which was situated at the intersec tion of the Nivelles and the Genappe roads, and said to him, "There are four and twenty handsome maids, General." Sure of the issue, he encouraged with a smile, as they passed before him, the c ompany of sappers of the first corps, which he had appointed to barricade Mont-S aint-Jean as soon as the village should be carried. All this serenity had been t raversed by but a single word of haughty pity; perceiving on his left, at a spot where there now stands a large tomb, those admirable Scotch Grays, with their s uperb horses, massing themselves, he said, "It is a pity." Then he mounted his horse, advanced beyond Rossomme, and selected for his post of observation a contracted elevation of turf to the right of the road from Gena ppe to Brussels, which was his second station during the battle. The third stati on, the one adopted at seven o'clock in the evening, between La Belle-Alliance a nd La Haie-Sainte, is formidable; it is a rather elevated knoll, which still exi sts, and behind which the guard was massed on a slope of the plain. Around this knoll the balls rebounded from the pavements of the road, up to Napoleon himself . As at Brienne, he had over his head the shriek of the bullets and of the heavy artillery. Mouldy cannon-balls, old sword-blades, and shapeless projectiles, ea ten up with rust, were picked up at the spot where his horse' feet stood. Scabra rubigine. A few years ago, a shell of sixty pounds, still charged, and with its fuse broken off level with the bomb, was unearthed. It was at this last post th at the Emperor said to his guide, Lacoste, a hostile and terrified peasant, who was attached to the saddle of a hussar, and who turned round at every discharge of canister and tried to hide behind Napoleon: "Fool, it is shameful! You'll get yourself killed with a ball in the back." He who writes these lines has himself found, in the friable soil of this knoll, on turning over the sand, the remains of the neck of a bomb, disintegrated, by the oxidization of six and forty years , and old fragments of iron which parted like elder-twigs between the fingers. Every one is aware that the variously inclined undulations of the plains, where the engagement between Napoleon and Wellington took place, are no longer what t hey were on June 18, 1815. By taking from this mournful field the wherewithal to make a monument to it, its real relief has been taken away, and history, discon certed, no longer finds her bearings there. It has been disfigured for the sake of glorifying it. Wellington, when he beheld Waterloo once more, two years later , exclaimed, "They have altered my field of battle!" Where the great pyramid of earth, surmounted by the lion, rises to-day, there was a hillock which descended in an easy slope towards the Nivelles road, but which was almost an escarpment on the side of the highway to Genappe. The elevation of this escarpment can stil l be measured by the height of the two knolls of the two great sepulchres which enclose the road from Genappe to Brussels: one, the English tomb, is on the left ; the other, the German tomb, is on the right. There is no French tomb. The whol e of that plain is a sepulchre for France. Thanks to the thousands upon thousand s of cartloads of earth employed in the hillock one hundred and fifty feet in he ight and half a mile in circumference, the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean is now acc essible by an easy slope. On the day of battle, particularly on the side of La H aie-Sainte, it was abrupt and difficult of approach. The slope there is so steep that the English cannon could not see the farm, situated in the bottom of the v alley, which was the centre of the combat. On the 18th of June, 1815, the rains had still farther increased this acclivity, the mud complicated the problem of t

he ascent, and the men not only slipped back, but stuck fast in the mire. Along the crest of the plateau ran a sort of trench whose presence it was impossible f or the distant observer to divine. What was this trench? Let us explain. Braine-l'Alleud is a Belgian village; Oha in is another. These villages, both of them concealed in curves of the landscape , are connected by a road about a league and a half in length, which traverses t he plain along its undulating level, and often enters and buries itself in the h ills like a furrow, which makes a ravine of this road in some places. In 1815, a s at the present day, this road cut the crest of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean between the two highways from Genappe and Nivelles; only, it is now on a level w ith the plain; it was then a hollow way. Its two slopes have been appropriated f or the monumental hillock. This road was, and still is, a trench throughout the greater portion of its course; a hollow trench, sometimes a dozen feet in depth, and whose banks, being too steep, crumbled away here and there, particularly in winter, under driving rains. Accidents happened here. The road was so narrow at the Braine-l'Alleud entrance that a passer-by was crushed by a cart, as is prov ed by a stone cross which stands near the cemetery, and which gives the name of the dead, Monsieur Bernard Debrye, Merchant of Brussels, and the date of the acc ident, February, 1637.[8] It was so deep on the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean th at a peasant, Mathieu Nicaise, was crushed there, in 1783, by a slide from the s lope, as is stated on another stone cross, the top of which has disappeared in t he process of clearing the ground, but whose overturned pedestal is still visibl e on the grassy slope to the left of the highway between La Haie-Sainte and the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean. [8] This is the inscription:-- D. O. M. CY A ETE ECRASE PAR MALHEUR SOUS UN CHA RIOT, MONSIEUR BERNARD DE BRYE MARCHAND A BRUXELLE LE [Illegible] FEVRIER 1637. On the day of battle, this hollow road whose existence was in no way indicated, bordering the crest of Mont-Saint-Jean, a trench at the summit of the escarpmen t, a rut concealed in the soil, was invisible; that is to say, terrible.

CHAPTER VIII THE EMPEROR PUTS A QUESTION TO THE GUIDE LACOSTE So, on the morning of Waterloo, Napoleon was content. He was right; the plan of battle conceived by him was, as we have seen, really admirable. The battle once begun, its very various changes,--the resistance of Hougomont; the tenacity of La Haie-Sainte; the killing of Bauduin; the disabling of Foy; th e unexpected wall against which Soye's brigade was shattered; Guilleminot's fata l heedlessness when he had neither petard nor powder sacks; the miring of the ba tteries; the fifteen unescorted pieces overwhelmed in a hollow way by Uxbridge; the small effect of the bombs falling in the English lines, and there embedding themselves in the rain-soaked soil, and only succeeding in producing volcanoes o f mud, so that the canister was turned into a splash; the uselessness of Pire's

demonstration on Braine-l'Alleud; all that cavalry, fifteen squadrons, almost ex terminated; the right wing of the English badly alarmed, the left wing badly cut into; Ney's strange mistake in massing, instead of echelonning the four divisio ns of the first corps; men delivered over to grape-shot, arranged in ranks twent y-seven deep and with a frontage of two hundred; the frightful holes made in the se masses by the cannon-balls; attacking columns disorganized; the side-battery suddenly unmasked on their flank; Bourgeois, Donzelot, and Durutte compromised; Quiot repulsed; Lieutenant Vieux, that Hercules graduated at the Polytechnic Sch ool, wounded at the moment when he was beating in with an axe the door of La Hai e-Sainte under the downright fire of the English barricade which barred the angl e of the road from Genappe to Brussels; Marcognet's division caught between the infantry and the cavalry, shot down at the very muzzle of the guns amid the grai n by Best and Pack, put to the sword by Ponsonby; his battery of seven pieces sp iked; the Prince of Saxe-Weimar holding and guarding, in spite of the Comte d'Er lon, both Frischemont and Smohain; the flag of the 105th taken, the flag of the 45th captured; that black Prussian hussar stopped by runners of the flying colum n of three hundred light cavalry on the scout between Wavre and Plancenoit; the alarming things that had been said by prisoners; Grouchy's delay; fifteen hundre d men killed in the orchard of Hougomont in less than an hour; eighteen hundred men overthrown in a still shorter time about La Haie-Sainte,--all these stormy i ncidents passing like the clouds of battle before Napoleon, had hardly troubled his gaze and had not overshadowed that face of imperial certainty. Napoleon was accustomed to gaze steadily at war; he never added up the heart-rending details, cipher by cipher; ciphers mattered little to him, provided that they furnished the total, victory; he was not alarmed if the beginnings did go astray, since he thought himself the master and the possessor at the end; he knew how to wait, s upposing himself to be out of the question, and he treated destiny as his equal: he seemed to say to fate, Thou wilt not dare. Composed half of light and half of shadow, Napoleon thought himself protected i n good and tolerated in evil. He had, or thought that he had, a connivance, one might almost say a complicity, of events in his favor, which was equivalent to t he invulnerability of antiquity. Nevertheless, when one has Beresina, Leipzig, and Fontainebleau behind one, it seems as though one might distrust Waterloo. A mysterious frown becomes percepti ble in the depths of the heavens. At the moment when Wellington retreated, Napoleon shuddered. He suddenly beheld the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean cleared, and the van of the English army disa ppear. It was rallying, but hiding itself. The Emperor half rose in his stirrups . The lightning of victory flashed from his eyes. Wellington, driven into a corner at the forest of Soignes and destroyed--that w as the definitive conquest of England by France; it was Crecy, Poitiers, Malplaq uet, and Ramillies avenged. The man of Marengo was wiping out Agincourt. So the Emperor, meditating on this terrible turn of fortune, swept his glass fo r the last time over all the points of the field of battle. His guard, standing behind him with grounded arms, watched him from below with a sort of religion. H e pondered; he examined the slopes, noted the declivities, scrutinized the clump s of trees, the square of rye, the path; he seemed to be counting each bush. He gazed with some intentness at the English barricades of the two highways,--two l arge abatis of trees, that on the road to Genappe above La Haie-Sainte, armed wi th two cannon, the only ones out of all the English artillery which commanded th e extremity of the field of battle, and that on the road to Nivelles where gleam ed the Dutch bayonets of Chasse's brigade. Near this barricade he observed the o ld chapel of Saint Nicholas, painted white, which stands at the angle of the cro ss-road near Braine-l'Alleud; he bent down and spoke in a low voice to the guide Lacoste. The guide made a negative sign with his head, which was probably perfi

dious. The Emperor straightened himself up and fell to thinking. Wellington had drawn back. All that remained to do was to complete this retreat by crushing him. Napoleon turning round abruptly, despatched an express at full speed to Paris t o announce that the battle was won. Napoleon was one of those geniuses from whom thunder darts. He had just found his clap of thunder. He gave orders to Milhaud's cuirassiers to carry the table-land of Mont-Saint-J ean.

CHAPTER IX THE UNEXPECTED There were three thousand five hundred of them. They formed a front a quarter o f a league in extent. They were giant men, on colossal horses. There were six an d twenty squadrons of them; and they had behind them to support them Lefebvre-De snouettes's division,--the one hundred and six picked gendarmes, the light caval ry of the Guard, eleven hundred and ninety-seven men, and the lancers of the gua rd of eight hundred and eighty lances. They wore casques without horse-tails, an d cuirasses of beaten iron, with horse-pistols in their holsters, and long sabre -swords. That morning the whole army had admired them, when, at nine o'clock, wi th braying of trumpets and all the music playing "Let us watch o'er the Safety o f the Empire," they had come in a solid column, with one of their batteries on t heir flank, another in their centre, and deployed in two ranks between the roads to Genappe and Frischemont, and taken up their position for battle in that powe rful second line, so cleverly arranged by Napoleon, which, having on its extreme left Kellermann's cuirassiers and on its extreme right Milhaud's cuirassiers, h ad, so to speak, two wings of iron. Aide-de-camp Bernard carried them the Emperor's orders. Ney drew his sword and placed himself at their head. The enormous squadrons were set in motion. Then a formidable spectacle was seen. All their cavalry, with upraised swords, standards and trumpets flung to the br eeze, formed in columns by divisions, descended, by a simultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision of a brazen battering-ram which is effecting a breach, the hill of La Belle Alliance, plunged into the terrible depths in which so many men had already fallen, disappeared there in the smoke, then emerging f rom that shadow, reappeared on the other side of the valley, still compact and i n close ranks, mounting at a full trot, through a storm of grape-shot which burs

t upon them, the terrible muddy slope of the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean. They ascended, grave, threatening, imperturbable; in the intervals between the muske try and the artillery, their colossal trampling was audible. Being two divisions , there were two columns of them; Wathier's division held the right, Delort's di vision was on the left. It seemed as though two immense adders of steel were to be seen crawling towards the crest of the table-land. It traversed the battle li ke a prodigy. Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great redoubt of the Musk owa by the heavy cavalry; Murat was lacking here, but Ney was again present. It seemed as though that mass had become a monster and had but one soul. Each colum n undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp. They could be seen through a v ast cloud of smoke which was rent here and there. A confusion of helmets, of cri es, of sabres, a stormy heaving of the cruppers of horses amid the cannons and t he flourish of trumpets, a terrible and disciplined tumult; over all, the cuiras ses like the scales on the hydra. These narrations seemed to belong to another age. Something parallel to this vi sion appeared, no doubt, in the ancient Orphic epics, which told of the centaurs , the old hippanthropes, those Titans with human heads and equestrian chests who scaled Olympus at a gallop, horrible, invulnerable, sublime--gods and beasts. Odd numerical coincidence,--twenty-six battalions rode to meet twenty-six batta lions. Behind the crest of the plateau, in the shadow of the masked battery, the English infantry, formed into thirteen squares, two battalions to the square, i n two lines, with seven in the first line, six in the second, the stocks of thei r guns to their shoulders, taking aim at that which was on the point of appearin g, waited, calm, mute, motionless. They did not see the cuirassiers, and the cui rassiers did not see them. They listened to the rise of this flood of men. They heard the swelling noise of three thousand horse, the alternate and symmetrical tramp of their hoofs at full trot, the jingling of the cuirasses, the clang of t he sabres and a sort of grand and savage breathing. There ensued a most terrible silence; then, all at once, a long file of uplifted arms, brandishing sabres, a ppeared above the crest, and casques, trumpets, and standards, and three thousan d heads with gray mustaches, shouting, "Vive l'Empereur!" All this cavalry debou ched on the plateau, and it was like the appearance of an earthquake. All at once, a tragic incident; on the English left, on our right, the head of the column of cuirassiers reared up with a frightful clamor. On arriving at the culminating point of the crest, ungovernable, utterly given over to fury and the ir course of extermination of the squares and cannon, the cuirassiers had just c aught sight of a trench,-- a trench between them and the English. It was the hol low road of Ohain. It was a terrible moment. The ravine was there, unexpected, yawning, directly u nder the horses' feet, two fathoms deep between its double slopes; the second fi le pushed the first into it, and the third pushed on the second; the horses rear ed and fell backward, landed on their haunches, slid down, all four feet in the air, crushing and overwhelming the riders; and there being no means of retreat,- the whole column being no longer anything more than a projectile,-- the force which had been acquired to crush the English crushed the French; the inexorable ravine could only yield when filled; horses and riders rolled there pell-mell, g rinding each other, forming but one mass of flesh in this gulf: when this trench was full of living men, the rest marched over them and passed on. Almost a thir d of Dubois's brigade fell into that abyss. This began the loss of the battle. A local tradition, which evidently exaggerates matters, says that two thousand horses and fifteen hundred men were buried in the hollow road of Ohain. This fig

ure probably comprises all the other corpses which were flung into this ravine t he day after the combat. Let us note in passing that it was Dubois's sorely tried brigade which, an hour previously, making a charge to one side, had captured the flag of the Lunenburg battalion. Napoleon, before giving the order for this charge of Milhaud's cuirassiers, had scrutinized the ground, but had not been able to see that hollow road, which di d not even form a wrinkle on the surface of the plateau. Warned, nevertheless, a nd put on the alert by the little white chapel which marks its angle of junction with the Nivelles highway, he had probably put a question as to the possibility of an obstacle, to the guide Lacoste. The guide had answered No. We might almos t affirm that Napoleon's catastrophe originated in that sign of a peasant's head . Other fatalities were destined to arise. Was it possible that Napoleon should have won that battle? We answer No. Why? B ecause of Wellington? Because of Blucher? No. Because of God. Bonaparte victor at Waterloo; that does not come within the law of the nineteen th century. Another series of facts was in preparation, in which there was no lo nger any room for Napoleon. The ill will of events had declared itself long befo re. It was time that this vast man should fall. The excessive weight of this man in human destiny disturbed the balance. This i ndividual alone counted for more than a universal group. These plethoras of all human vitality concentrated in a single head; the world mounting to the brain of one man,--this would be mortal to civilization were it to last. The moment had arrived for the incorruptible and supreme equity to alter its plan. Probably the principles and the elements, on which the regular gravitations of the moral, as of the material, world depend, had complained. Smoking blood, over-filled cemet eries, mothers in tears,-- these are formidable pleaders. When the earth is suff ering from too heavy a burden, there are mysterious groanings of the shades, to which the abyss lends an ear. Napoleon had been denounced in the infinite and his fall had been decided on. He embarrassed God. Waterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part of the Universe.

CHAPTER X THE PLATEAU OF MONT-SAINT-JEAN The battery was unmasked at the same moment with the ravine.

Sixty cannons and the thirteen squares darted lightning point-blank on the cuir assiers. The intrepid General Delort made the military salute to the English bat tery. The whole of the flying artillery of the English had re-entered the squares at a gallop. The cuirassiers had not had even the time for a halt. The disaster of the hollow road had decimated, but not discouraged them. They belonged to that c lass of men who, when diminished in number, increase in courage. Wathier's column alone had suffered in the disaster; Delort's column, which Ney had deflected to the left, as though he had a presentiment of an ambush, had ar rived whole. The cuirassiers hurled themselves on the English squares. At full speed, with bridles loose, swords in their teeth pistols in fist,--such was the attack. There are moments in battles in which the soul hardens the man until the soldie r is changed into a statue, and when all this flesh turns into granite. The Engl ish battalions, desperately assaulted, did not stir. Then it was terrible. All the faces of the English squares were attacked at once. A frenzied whirl en veloped them. That cold infantry remained impassive. The first rank knelt and re ceived the cuirassiers on their bayonets, the second ranks shot them down; behin d the second rank the cannoneers charged their guns, the front of the square par ted, permitted the passage of an eruption of grape-shot, and closed again. The c uirassiers replied by crushing them. Their great horses reared, strode across th e ranks, leaped over the bayonets and fell, gigantic, in the midst of these four living wells. The cannon-balls ploughed furrows in these cuirassiers; the cuira ssiers made breaches in the squares. Files of men disappeared, ground to dust un der the horses. The bayonets plunged into the bellies of these centaurs; hence a hideousness of wounds which has probably never been seen anywhere else. The squ ares, wasted by this mad cavalry, closed up their ranks without flinching. Inexh austible in the matter of grape-shot, they created explosions in their assailant s' midst. The form of this combat was monstrous. These squares were no longer ba ttalions, they were craters; those cuirassiers were no longer cavalry, they were a tempest. Each square was a volcano attacked by a cloud; lava contended with l ightning. The square on the extreme right, the most exposed of all, being in the air, was almost annihilated at the very first shock. lt was formed of the 75th regiment of Highlanders. The bagpipe-player in the centre dropped his melancholy eyes, fi lled with the reflections of the forests and the lakes, in profound inattention, while men were being exterminated around him, and seated on a drum, with his pi broch under his arm, played the Highland airs. These Scotchmen died thinking of Ben Lothian, as did the Greeks recalling Argos. The sword of a cuirassier, which hewed down the bagpipes and the arm which bore it, put an end to the song by ki lling the singer. The cuirassiers, relatively few in number, and still further diminished by the catastrophe of the ravine, had almost the whole English army against them, but t hey multiplied themselves so that each man of them was equal to ten. Nevertheles s, some Hanoverian battalions yielded. Wellington perceived it, and thought of h is cavalry. Had Napoleon at that same moment thought of his infantry, he would h ave won the battle. This forgetfulness was his great and fatal mistake.

All at once, the cuirassiers, who had been the assailants, found themselves ass ailed. The English cavalry was at their back. Before them two squares, behind th em Somerset; Somerset meant fourteen hundred dragoons of the guard. On the right , Somerset had Dornberg with the German light-horse, and on his left, Trip with the Belgian carabineers; the cuirassiers attacked on the flank and in front, bef ore and in the rear, by infantry and cavalry, had to face all sides. What matter ed it to them? They were a whirlwind. Their valor was something indescribable. In addition to this, they had behind them the battery, which was still thunderi ng. It was necessary that it should be so, or they could never have been wounded in the back. One of their cuirasses, pierced on the shoulder by a ball from a b iscayan,[9] is in the collection of the Waterloo Museum. [9] A heavy rifled gun. For such Frenchmen nothing less than such Englishmen was needed. It was no long er a hand-to-hand conflict; it was a shadow, a fury, a dizzy transport of souls and courage, a hurricane of lightning swords. In an instant the fourteen hundred dragoon guards numbered only eight hundred. Fuller, their lieutenant-colonel, f ell dead. Ney rushed up with the lancers and Lefebvre-Desnouettes's light-horse. The plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean was captured, recaptured, captured again. The cu irassiers quitted the cavalry to return to the infantry; or, to put it more exac tly, the whole of that formidable rout collared each other without releasing the other. The squares still held firm. There were a dozen assaults. Ney had four horses killed under him. Half the cui rassiers remained on the plateau. This conflict lasted two hours. The English army was profoundly shaken. There is no doubt that, had they not be en enfeebled in their first shock by the disaster of the hollow road the cuirass iers would have overwhelmed the centre and decided the victory. This extraordina ry cavalry petrified Clinton, who had seen Talavera and Badajoz. Wellington, thr ee-quarters vanquished, admired heroically. He said in an undertone, "Sublime!" The cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteen, took or spiked sixty pieces of ordnance, and captured from the English regiments six flags, which th ree cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the Guard bore to the Emperor, in front o f the farm of La Belle Alliance. Wellington's situation had grown worse. This strange battle was like a duel bet ween two raging, wounded men, each of whom, still fighting and still resisting, is expending all his blood. Which of the two will be the first to fall? The conflict on the plateau continued. What had become of the cuirassiers? No one could have told. One thing is certai n, that on the day after the battle, a cuirassier and his horse were found dead among the woodwork of the scales for vehicles at Mont-Saint-Jean, at the very po int where the four roads from Nivelles, Genappe, La Hulpe, and Brussels meet and intersect each other. This horseman had pierced the English lines. One of the m en who picked up the body still lives at Mont-Saint-Jean. His name is Dehaze. He was eighteen years old at that time. Wellington felt that he was yielding. The crisis was at hand. The cuirassiers had not succeeded, since the centre was not broken through. As every one was in possession of the plateau, no one held it, and in fact it remai ned, to a great extent, with the English. Wellington held the village and the cu

lminating plain; Ney had only the crest and the slope. They seemed rooted in tha t fatal soil on both sides. But the weakening of the English seemed irremediable. The bleeding of that army was horrible. Kempt, on the left wing, demanded reinforcements. "There are none ," replied Wellington; "he must let himself be killed!" Almost at that same mome nt, a singular coincidence which paints the exhaustion of the two armies, Ney de manded infantry from Napoleon, and Napoleon exclaimed, "Infantry! Where does he expect me to get it? Does he think I can make it?" Nevertheless, the English army was in the worse case of the two. The furious on sets of those great squadrons with cuirasses of iron and breasts of steel had gr ound the infantry to nothing. A few men clustered round a flag marked the post o f a regiment; such and such a battalion was commanded only by a captain or a lie utenant; Alten's division, already so roughly handled at La Haie-Sainte, was alm ost destroyed; the intrepid Belgians of Van Kluze's brigade strewed the rye-fiel ds all along the Nivelles road; hardly anything was left of those Dutch grenadie rs, who, intermingled with Spaniards in our ranks in 1811, fought against Wellin gton; and who, in 1815, rallied to the English standard, fought against Napoleon . The loss in officers was considerable. Lord Uxbridge, who had his leg buried o n the following day, had his knee shattered. If, on the French side, in that tus sle of the cuirassiers, Delort, l'Heritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and Blancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alten wounded, Barne wounde d, Delancey killed, Van Meeren killed, Ompteda killed, the whole of Wellington's staff decimated, and England had the worse of it in that bloody scale. The seco nd regiment of foot-guards had lost five lieutenant-colonels, four captains, and three ensigns; the first battalion of the 30th infantry had lost 24 officers an d 1,200 soldiers; the 79th Highlanders had lost 24 officers wounded, 18 officers killed, 450 soldiers killed. The Hanoverian hussars of Cumberland, a whole regi ment, with Colonel Hacke at its head, who was destined to be tried later on and cashiered, had turned bridle in the presence of the fray, and had fled to the fo rest of Soignes, sowing defeat all the way to Brussels. The transports, ammuniti on-wagons, the baggage-wagons, the wagons filled with wounded, on perceiving tha t the French were gaining ground and approaching the forest, rushed headlong thi ther. The Dutch, mowed down by the French cavalry, cried, "Alarm!" From Vert-Cou cou to Groentendael, for a distance of nearly two leagues in the direction of Br ussels, according to the testimony of eye-witnesses who are still alive, the roa ds were encumbered with fugitives. This panic was such that it attacked the Prin ce de Conde at Mechlin, and Louis XVIII. at Ghent. With the exception of the fee ble reserve echelonned behind the ambulance established at the farm of Mont-Sain t-Jean, and of Vivian's and Vandeleur's brigades, which flanked the left wing, W ellington had no cavalry left. A number of batteries lay unhorsed. These facts a re attested by Siborne; and Pringle, exaggerating the disaster, goes so far as t o say that the Anglo-Dutch army was reduced to thirty-four thousand men. The Iro n Duke remained calm, but his lips blanched. Vincent, the Austrian commissioner, Alava, the Spanish commissioner, who were present at the battle in the English staff, thought the Duke lost. At five o'clock Wellington drew out his watch, and he was heard to murmur these sinister words, "Blucher, or night!" It was at about that moment that a distant line of bayonets gleamed on the heig hts in the direction of Frischemont. Here comes the change of face in this giant drama.

CHAPTER XI A BAD GUIDE TO NAPOLEON; A GOOD GUIDE TO BULOW The painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for, Blucher arri ving. Death instead of life. Fate has these turns; the throne of the world was expected; it was Saint Helena that was seen. If the little shepherd who served as guide to Bulow, Blucher's lieutenant, had advised him to debouch from the forest above Frischemont, instead of below Planc enoit, the form of the nineteenth century might, perhaps, have been different. N apoleon would have won the battle of Waterloo. By any other route than that belo w Plancenoit, the Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable for artillery, and Bulow would not have arrived. Now the Prussian general, Muffling, declares that one hour's delay, and Blucher would not have found Wellington on his feet. "The battle was lost." It was time that Bulow should arrive, as will be seen. He had, moreover, been v ery much delayed. He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont, and had set out at daybreak ; but the roads were impassable, and his divisions stuck fast in the mire. The r uts were up to the hubs of the cannons. Moreover, he had been obliged to pass th e Dyle on the narrow bridge of Wavre; the street leading to the bridge had been fired by the French, so the caissons and ammunition-wagons could not pass betwee n two rows of burning houses, and had been obliged to wait until the conflagrati on was extinguished. It was mid-day before Bulow's vanguard had been able to rea ch Chapelle-Saint-Lambert. Had the action been begun two hours earlier, it would have been over at four o' clock, and Blucher would have fallen on the battle won by Napoleon. Such are the se immense risks proportioned to an infinite which we cannot comprehend. The Emperor had been the first, as early as mid-day, to descry with his field-g lass, on the extreme horizon, something which had attracted his attention. He ha d said, "I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be troops." Then he asked th e Duc de Dalmatie, "Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint-La mbert?" The marshal, levelling his glass, answered, "Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy." But it remained motionless in the mist. All the glasse s of the staff had studied "the cloud" pointed out by the Emperor. Some said: "I t is trees." The truth is, that the cloud did not move. The Emperor detached Dom on's division of light cavalry to reconnoitre in that quarter. Bulow had not moved, in fact. His vanguard was very feeble, and could accomplis h nothing. He was obliged to wait for the body of the army corps, and he had rec eived orders to concentrate his forces before entering into line; but at five o' clock, perceiving Wellington's peril, Blucher ordered Bulow to attack, and utter ed these remarkable words: "We must give air to the English army." A little later, the divisions of Losthin, Hiller, Hacke, and Ryssel deployed be fore Lobau's corps, the cavalry of Prince William of Prussia debouched from the forest of Paris, Plancenoit was in flames, and the Prussian cannon-balls began t o rain even upon the ranks of the guard in reserve behind Napoleon.

CHAPTER XII THE GUARD Every one knows the rest,--the irruption of a third army; the battle broken to pieces; eighty-six months of fire thundering simultaneously; Pirch the first com ing up with Bulow; Zieten's cavalry led by Blucher in person, the French driven back; Marcognet swept from the plateau of Ohain; Durutte dislodged from Papelott e; Donzelot and Quiot retreating; Lobau caught on the flank; a fresh battle prec ipitating itself on our dismantled regiments at nightfall; the whole English lin e resuming the offensive and thrust forward; the gigantic breach made in the Fre nch army; the English grape-shot and the Prussian grape-shot aiding each other; the extermination; disaster in front; disaster on the flank; the Guard entering the line in the midst of this terrible crumbling of all things. Conscious that they were about to die, they shouted, "Vive l'Empereur!" History records nothing more touching than that agony bursting forth in acclamations. The sky had been overcast all day long. All of a sudden, at that very moment,-it was eight o'clock in the evening--the clouds on the horizon parted, and allow ed the grand and sinister glow of the setting sun to pass through, athwart the e lms on the Nivelles road. They had seen it rise at Austerlitz. Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this final catastrop he. Friant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet, Mallet, Poret de Morvan, were there. When th e tall caps of the grenadiers of the Guard, with their large plaques bearing the eagle appeared, symmetrical, in line, tranquil, in the midst of that combat, th e enemy felt a respect for France; they thought they beheld twenty victories ent ering the field of battle, with wings outspread, and those who were the conquero rs, believing themselves to be vanquished, retreated; but Wellington shouted, "U p, Guards, and aim straight!" The red regiment of English guards, lying flat beh ind the hedges, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot riddled the tricolored flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled themselves forwards, and the final carnag e began. In the darkness, the Imperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and in the vast shock of the rout it heard the desperate flight which had ta ken the place of the "Vive l'Empereur!" and, with flight behind it, it continued to advance, more crushed, losing more men at every step that it took. There wer e none who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The soldier in that troop was a s much of a hero as the general. Not a man was missing in that suicide. Ney, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted death, offered himself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horse killed under him there. Pe rspiring, his eyes aflame, foaming at the mouth, with uniform unbuttoned, one of his epaulets half cut off by a sword-stroke from a horseguard, his plaque with the great eagle dented by a bullet; bleeding, bemired, magnificent, a broken swo rd in his hand, he said, "Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field of battle!" But in vain; he did not die. He was haggard and angry. At Drouet d' Erlon he hurled this question, "Are you not going to get yourself killed?" In th e midst of all that artillery engaged in crushing a handful of men, he shouted: "So there is nothing for me! Oh! I should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels!" Unhappy man, thou wert reserved for French bullets!

CHAPTER XIII THE CATASTROPHE The rout behind the Guard was melancholy. The army yielded suddenly on all sides at once,--Hougomont, La Haie-Sainte, Pap elotte, Plancenoit. The cry "Treachery!" was followed by a cry of "Save yourselv es who can!" An army which is disbanding is like a thaw. All yields, splits, cra cks, floats, rolls, falls, jostles, hastens, is precipitated. The disintegration is unprecedented. Ney borrows a horse, leaps upon it, and without hat, cravat, or sword, places himself across the Brussels road, stopping both English and Fre nch. He strives to detain the army, he recalls it to its duty, he insults it, he clings to the rout. He is overwhelmed. The soldiers fly from him, shouting, "Lo ng live Marshal Ney!" Two of Durutte's regiments go and come in affright as thou gh tossed back and forth between the swords of the Uhlans and the fusillade of t he brigades of Kempt, Best, Pack, and Rylandt; the worst of hand-to-hand conflic ts is the defeat; friends kill each other in order to escape; squadrons and batt alions break and disperse against each other, like the tremendous foam of battle . Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the other, are drawn into the tide. In v ain does Napoleon erect walls from what is left to him of his Guard; in vain doe s he expend in a last effort his last serviceable squadrons. Quiot retreats befo re Vivian, Kellermann before Vandeleur, Lobau before Bulow, Morand before Pirch, Domon and Subervic before Prince William of Prussia; Guyot, who led the Emperor 's squadrons to the charge, falls beneath the feet of the English dragoons. Napo leon gallops past the line of fugitives, harangues, urges, threatens, entreats t hem. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted, "Long live the Emperor!" r emain gaping; they hardly recognize him. The Prussian cavalry, newly arrived, da shes forwards, flies, hews, slashes, kills, exterminates. Horses lash out, the c annons flee; the soldiers of the artillery-train unharness the caissons and use the horses to make their escape; transports overturned, with all four wheels in the air, clog the road and occasion massacres. Men are crushed, trampled down, o thers walk over the dead and the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy multitude fills the roads, the paths, the bridges, the plains, the hills, the valleys, the woods , encumbered by this invasion of forty thousand men. Shouts despair, knapsacks a nd guns flung among the rye, passages forced at the point of the sword, no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals, an inexpressible terror. Zieten pu tting France to the sword at its leisure. Lions converted into goats. Such was t he flight. At Genappe, an effort was made to wheel about, to present a battle front, to dr aw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men. The entrance to the village was barricaded, but at the first volley of Prussian canister, all took to flight aga in, and Lobau was taken. That volley of grape-shot can be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable of a brick building on the right of the road at a few minut es' distance before you enter Genappe. The Prussians threw themselves into Genap pe, furious, no doubt, that they were not more entirely the conquerors. The purs uit was stupendous. Blucher ordered extermination. Roguet had set the lugubrious example of threatening with death any French grenadier who should bring him a P

russian prisoner. Blucher outdid Roguet. Duhesme, the general of the Young Guard , hemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe, surrendered his sword to a huzz ar of death, who took the sword and slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the assassination of the vanquished. Let us inflict punishment, since we are history: old Blucher disgraced himself. This ferocity put the finishing touch t o the disaster. The desperate route traversed Genappe, traversed Quatre-Bras, tr aversed Gosselies, traversed Frasnes, traversed Charleroi, traversed Thuin, and only halted at the frontier. Alas! and who, then, was fleeing in that manner? Th e Grand Army. This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest bravery whic h ever astounded history,--is that causeless? No. The shadow of an enormous righ t is projected athwart Waterloo. It is the day of destiny. The force which is mi ghtier than man produced that day. Hence the terrified wrinkle of those brows; h ence all those great souls surrendering their swords. Those who had conquered Eu rope have fallen prone on the earth, with nothing left to say nor to do, feeling the present shadow of a terrible presence. Hoc erat in fatis. That day the pers pective of the human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the ninet eenth century. The disappearance of the great man was necessary to the advent of the great century. Some one, a person to whom one replies not, took the respons ibility on himself. The panic of heroes can be explained. In the battle of Water loo there is something more than a cloud, there is something of the meteor. God has passed by. At nightfall, in a meadow near Genappe, Bernard and Bertrand seized by the skir t of his coat and detained a man, haggard, pensive, sinister, gloomy, who, dragg ed to that point by the current of the rout, had just dismounted, had passed the bridle of his horse over his arm, and with wild eye was returning alone to Wate rloo. It was Napoleon, the immense somnambulist of this dream which had crumbled , essaying once more to advance.

CHAPTER XIV THE LAST SQUARE Several squares of the Guard, motionless amid this stream of the defeat, as roc ks in running water, held their own until night. Night came, death also; they aw aited that double shadow, and, invincible, allowed themselves to be enveloped th erein. Each regiment, isolated from the rest, and having no bond with the army, now shattered in every part, died alone. They had taken up position for this fin al action, some on the heights of Rossomme, others on the plain of Mont-Saint-Je an. There, abandoned, vanquished, terrible, those gloomy squares endured their d eath-throes in formidable fashion. Ulm, Wagram, Jena, Friedland, died with them. At twilight, towards nine o'clock in the evening, one of them was left at the f oot of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. In that fatal valley, at the foot of that declivity which the cuirassiers had ascended, now inundated by the masses of th e English, under the converging fires of the victorious hostile cavalry, under a frightful density of projectiles, this square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure officer named Cambronne. At each discharge, the square diminished and r

eplied. It replied to the grape-shot with a fusillade, continually contracting i ts four walls. The fugitives pausing breathless for a moment in the distance, li stened in the darkness to that gloomy and ever-decreasing thunder. When this legion had been reduced to a handful, when nothing was left of their flag but a rag, when their guns, the bullets all gone, were no longer anything b ut clubs, when the heap of corpses was larger than the group of survivors, there reigned among the conquerors, around those men dying so sublimely, a sort of sa cred terror, and the English artillery, taking breath, became silent. This furni shed a sort of respite. These combatants had around them something in the nature of a swarm of spectres, silhouettes of men on horseback, the black profiles of cannon, the white sky viewed through wheels and gun-carriages, the colossal deat h's-head, which the heroes saw constantly through the smoke, in the depths of th e battle, advanced upon them and gazed at them. Through the shades of twilight t hey could hear the pieces being loaded; the matches all lighted, like the eyes o f tigers at night, formed a circle round their heads; all the lintstocks of the English batteries approached the cannons, and then, with emotion, holding the su preme moment suspended above these men, an English general, Colville according t o some, Maitland according to others, shouted to them, "Surrender, brave Frenchm en!" Cambronne replied, "-----." {EDITOR'S COMMENTARY: Another edition of this book has the word "Merde!" in lie u of the ----- above.}

CHAPTER XV CAMBRONNE If any French reader object to having his susceptibilities offended, one would have to refrain from repeating in his presence what is perhaps the finest reply that a Frenchman ever made. This would enjoin us from consigning something subli me to History. At our own risk and peril, let us violate this injunction. Now, then, among those giants there was one Titan,--Cambronne. To make that reply and then perish, what could be grander? For being willing to die is the same as to die; and it was not this man's fault if he survived after he was shot. The winner of the battle of Waterloo was not Napoleon, who was put to flight; n or Wellington, giving way at four o'clock, in despair at five; nor Blucher, who took no part in the engagement. The winner of Waterloo was Cambronne. To thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills you is to conqu er! Thus to answer the Catastrophe, thus to speak to Fate, to give this pedestal to the future lion, to hurl such a challenge to the midnight rainstorm, to the tre

acherous wall of Hougomont, to the sunken road of Ohain, to Grouchy's delay, to Blucher's arrival, to be Irony itself in the tomb, to act so as to stand upright though fallen, to drown in two syllables the European coalition, to offer kings privies which the Caesars once knew, to make the lowest of words the most lofty by entwining with it the glory of France, insolently to end Waterloo with Mardi gras, to finish Leonidas with Rabellais, to set the crown on this victory by a w ord impossible to speak, to lose the field and preserve history, to have the lau gh on your side after such a carnage,--this is immense! It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl! It reaches the grandeur of AEschylus! Cambronne's reply produces the effect of a violent break. 'Tis like the breakin g of a heart under a weight of scorn. 'Tis the overflow of agony bursting forth. Who conquered? Wellington? No! Had it not been for Blucher, he was lost. Was it Blucher? No! If Wellington had not begun, Blucher could not have finished. This Cambronne, this man spending his last hour, this unknown soldier, this infinite simal of war, realizes that here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, a nd so doubly agonizing; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth becaus e of it, he is offered this mockery,--life! How could he restrain himself? Yonde r are all the kings of Europe, the general's flushed with victory, the Jupiter's darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and bac k of the hundred thousand a million; their cannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is lighted; they grind down under their heels the Imperial guards, and th e grand army; they have just crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains,-- onl y this earthworm is left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks for the appr opriate word as one seeks for a sword. His mouth froths, and the froth is the wo rd. In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory which count s none victorious, this desperate soldier stands erect. He grants its overwhelmi ng immensity, but he establishes its triviality; and he does more than spit upon it. Borne down by numbers, by superior force, by brute matter, he finds in his soul an expression: "Excrement!" We repeat it,-- to use that word, to do thus, t o invent such an expression, is to be the conqueror! The spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent on that un known man. Cambronne invents the word for Waterloo as Rouget invents the "Marsei llaise," under the visitation of a breath from on high. An emanation from the di vine whirlwind leaps forth and comes sweeping over these men, and they shake, an d one of them sings the song supreme, and the other utters the frightful cry. This challenge of titanic scorn Cambronne hurls not only at Europe in the name of the Empire,--that would be a trifle: he hurls it at the past in the name of t he Revolution. It is heard, and Cambronne is recognized as possessed by the anci ent spirit of the Titans. Danton seems to be speaking! Kleber seems to be bellow ing! At that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded, "Fire!" The batteries flamed, the hill trembled, from all those brazen mouths belched a last terrible gush of grape-shot; a vast volume of smoke, vaguely white in the light of the r ising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke dispersed, there was no longer anythi ng there. That formidable remnant had been annihilated; the Guard was dead. The four walls of the living redoubt lay prone, and hardly was there discernible, he re and there, even a quiver in the bodies; it was thus that the French legions, greater than the Roman legions, expired on Mont-Saint-Jean, on the soil watered with rain and blood, amid the gloomy grain, on the spot where nowadays Joseph, w ho drives the post-wagon from Nivelles, passes whistling, and cheerfully whippin g up his horse at four o'clock in the morning.

CHAPTER XVI QUOT LIBRAS IN DUCE? The battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won it as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic;[10] Blucher sees nothing in it but fire; Wellington understands nothing in regard to it. Look at the reports. T he bulletins are confused, the commentaries involved. Some stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four moments; Muffling cuts it up in to three changes; Charras alone, though we hold another judgment than his on som e points, seized with his haughty glance the characteristic outlines of that cat astrophe of human genius in conflict with divine chance. All the other historian s suffer from being somewhat dazzled, and in this dazzled state they fumble abou t. It was a day of lightning brilliancy; in fact, a crumbling of the military mo narchy which, to the vast stupefaction of kings, drew all the kingdoms after it-the fall of force, the defeat of war. [10] "A battle terminated, a day finished, false measures repaired, greater suc cesses assured for the morrow,--all was lost by a moment of panic, terror."--Nap oleon, Dictees de Sainte Helene. In this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part played by men amount s to nothing. If we take Waterloo from Wellington and Blucher, do we thereby deprive England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England nor that august Ge rmany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank Heaven, nations are great, indep endently of the lugubrious feats of the sword. Neither England, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a scabbard. At this epoch when Waterloo is only a clashi ng of swords, above Blucher, Germany has Schiller; above Wellington, England has Byron. A vast dawn of ideas is the peculiarity of our century, and in that auro ra England and Germany have a magnificent radiance. They are majestic because th ey think. The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrin sic with them; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident. The aggrand izement which they have brought to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as it s source. It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory. That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm. Civilized people, especially in our day, are neither elevated nor abased by the good or bad fortun e of a captain. Their specific gravity in the human species results from somethi ng more than a combat. Their honor, thank God! their dignity, their intelligence , their genius, are not numbers which those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the lottery of battles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered . There is less glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace; reason takes t he word. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us, therefore, speak of Wa terloo coldly from both sides. Let us render to chance that which is due to chan ce, and to God that which is due to God. What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The wi nning number in the lottery. The quine[11] won by Europe, paid by France. [11] Five winning numbers in a lottery.

It was not worth while to place a lion there. Waterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and Welling ton. They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God, who is fond of ant itheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an assured retreat, reserves spa red, with an obstinate coolness, an imperturbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground, tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions, carnage, executed according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, nothing volun tarily left to chance, the ancient classic courage, absolute regularity; on the other, intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming gl ance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which strikes li ke the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the mysteries of a profound soul, associated with destiny; the stream, the plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to obey, the despot going even so fa r as to tyrannize over the field of battle; faith in a star mingled with strateg ic science, elevating but perturbing it. Wellington was the Bareme of war; Napol eon was its Michael Angelo; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by calcu lation. On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who succ eeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come. Wellington expected Bl ucher; he came. Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his dawning, had en countered him in Italy, and beaten him superbly. The old owl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not only struck as by lightning, but di sgraced. Who was that Corsican of six and twenty? What signified that splendid i gnoramus, who, with everything against him, nothing in his favor, without provis ions, without ammunition, without cannon, without shoes, almost without an army, with a mere handful of men against masses, hurled himself on Europe combined, a nd absurdly won victories in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict, who almost without taking breath, and with the same set of combatants i n hand, pulverized, one after the other, the five armies of the emperor of Germa ny, upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi, Wurmser on Beaulieu, Melas on Wurmser, Mack o n Melas? Who was this novice in war with the effrontery of a luminary? The acade mical military school excommunicated him, and as it lost its footing; hence, the implacable rancor of the old Caesarism against the new; of the regular sword ag ainst the flaming sword; and of the exchequer against genius. On the 18th of Jun e, 1815, that rancor had the last word. and beneath Lodi, Montebello, Montenotte , Mantua, Arcola, it wrote: Waterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the majority. Destiny consented to this irony. In his decline, Napoleon found Wurmser, the younger, again in front of him. In fact, to get Wurmser, it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington. Waterloo is a battle of the first order, won by a captain of the second. That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo, is England; the English f irmness, the English resolution, the English blood; the superb thing about Engla nd there, no offence to her, was herself. It was not her captain; it was her arm y. Wellington, oddly ungrateful, declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst, that his a rmy, the army which fought on the 18th of June, 1815, was a "detestable army." W hat does that sombre intermingling of bones buried beneath the furrows of Waterl oo think of that? England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make Wellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing but a hero like many another . Those Scotch Grays, those Horse Guards, those regiments of Maitland and of Mit chell, that infantry of Pack and Kempt, that cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset, t

hose Highlanders playing the pibroch under the shower of grape-shot, those batta lions of Rylandt, those utterly raw recruits, who hardly knew how to handle a mu sket holding their own against Essling's and Rivoli's old troops,--that is what was grand. Wellington was tenacious; in that lay his merit, and we are not seeki ng to lessen it: but the least of his foot-soldiers and of his cavalry would hav e been as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth as much as the Iron Duke. As fo r us, all our glorification goes to the English soldier, to the English army, to the English people. If trophy there be, it is to England that the trophy is due . The column of Waterloo would be more just, if, instead of the figure of a man, it bore on high the statue of a people. But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She still cher ishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion. She believes in her edity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none in power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people. And as a people, it willingly subordina tes itself and takes a lord for its head. As a workman, it allows itself to be d isdained; as a soldier, it allows itself to be flogged. It will be remembered, that at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant who had, it a ppears, saved the army, could not be mentioned by Lord Paglan, as the English mi litary hierarchy does not permit any hero below the grade of an officer to be me ntioned in the reports. That which we admire above all, in an encounter of the nature of Waterloo, is t he marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rain, the wall of Hougomont, the hollow road of Ohain, Grouchy deaf to the cannon, Napoleon's guide deceiving hi m, Bulow's guide enlightening him,-- the whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted. On the whole, let us say it plainly, it was more of a massacre than of a battle at Waterloo. Of all pitched battles, Waterloo is the one which has the smallest front for su ch a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters of a league; Wellington, half a league; seventy-two thousand combatants on each side. From this denseness the carnage arose. The following calculation has been made, and the following proportion establish ed: Loss of men: at Austerlitz, French, fourteen per cent; Russians, thirty per cent; Austrians, forty-four per cent. At Wagram, French, thirteen per cent; Aust rians, fourteen. At the Moskowa, French, thirty-seven per cent; Russians, fortyfour. At Bautzen, French, thirteen per cent; Russians and Prussians, fourteen. A t Waterloo, French, fifty-six per cent; the Allies, thirty-one. Total for Waterl oo, forty-one per cent; one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants; sixty th ousand dead. To-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth, the impas sive support of man, and it resembles all plains. At night, moreover, a sort of visionary mist arises from it; and if a traveller strolls there, if he listens, if he watches, if he dreams like Virgil in the fa tal plains of Philippi, the hallucination of the catastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th of June lives again; the false monumental hillock disap pears, the lion vanishes in air, the battle-field resumes its reality, lines of infantry undulate over the plain, furious gallops traverse the horizon; the frig htened dreamer beholds the flash of sabres, the gleam of bayonets, the flare of bombs, the tremendous interchange of thunders; he hears, as it were, the death r attle in the depths of a tomb, the vague clamor of the battle phantom; those sha dows are grenadiers, those lights are cuirassiers; that skeleton Napoleon, that other skeleton is Wellington; all this no longer exists, and yet it clashes toge

ther and combats still; and the ravines are empurpled, and the trees quiver, and there is fury even in the clouds and in the shadows; all those terrible heights , Hougomont, Mont-Saint-Jean, Frischemont, Papelotte, Plancenoit, appear confuse dly crowned with whirlwinds of spectres engaged in exterminating each other.

CHAPTER XVII IS WATERLOO TO BE CONSIDERED GOOD? There exists a very respectable liberal school which does not hate Waterloo. We do not belong to it. To us, Waterloo is but the stupefied date of liberty. That such an eagle should emerge from such an egg is certainly unexpected. If one places one's self at the culminating point of view of the question, Wate rloo is intentionally a counter-revolutionary victory. It is Europe against Fran ce; it is Petersburg, Berlin, and Vienna against Paris; it is the statu quo agai nst the initiative; it is the 14th of July, 1789, attacked through the 20th of M arch, 1815; it is the monarchies clearing the decks in opposition to the indomit able French rioting. The final extinction of that vast people which had been in eruption for twenty-six years--such was the dream. The solidarity of the Brunswi cks, the Nassaus, the Romanoffs, the Hohenzollerns, the Hapsburgs with the Bourb ons. Waterloo bears divine right on its crupper. It is true, that the Empire hav ing been despotic, the kingdom by the natural reaction of things, was forced to be liberal, and that a constitutional order was the unwilling result of Waterloo , to the great regret of the conquerors. It is because revolution cannot be real ly conquered, and that being providential and absolutely fatal, it is always cro pping up afresh: before Waterloo, in Bonaparte overthrowing the old thrones; aft er Waterloo, in Louis XVIII. granting and conforming to the charter. Bonaparte p laces a postilion on the throne of Naples, and a sergeant on the throne of Swede n, employing inequality to demonstrate equality; Louis XVIII. at Saint-Ouen coun tersigns the declaration of the rights of man. If you wish to gain an idea of wh at revolution is, call it Progress; and if you wish to acquire an idea of the na ture of progress, call it To-morrow. To-morrow fulfils its work irresistibly, an d it is already fulfilling it to-day. It always reaches its goal strangely. It e mploys Wellington to make of Foy, who was only a soldier, an orator. Foy falls a t Hougomont and rises again in the tribune. Thus does progress proceed. There is no such thing as a bad tool for that workman. It does not become disconcerted, but adjusts to its divine work the man who has bestridden the Alps, and the good old tottering invalid of Father Elysee. It makes use of the gouty man as well a s of the conqueror; of the conqueror without, of the gouty man within. Waterloo, by cutting short the demolition of European thrones by the sword, had no other effect than to cause the revolutionary work to be continued in another direction . The slashers have finished; it was the turn of the thinkers. The century that Waterloo was intended to arrest has pursued its march. That sinister victory was vanquished by liberty. In short, and incontestably, that which triumphed at Waterloo; that which smile d in Wellington's rear; that which brought him all the marshals' staffs of Europ e, including, it is said, the staff of a marshal of France; that which joyously trundled the barrows full of bones to erect the knoll of the lion; that which tr

iumphantly inscribed on that pedestal the date "June 18, 1815"; that which encou raged Blucher, as he put the flying army to the sword; that which, from the heig hts of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, hovered over France as over its prey, was the counter-revolution. It was the counter-revolution which murmured that infam ous word "dismemberment." On arriving in Paris, it beheld the crater close at ha nd; it felt those ashes which scorched its feet, and it changed its mind; it ret urned to the stammer of a charter. Let us behold in Waterloo only that which is in Waterloo. Of intentional libert y there is none. The counter-revolution was involuntarily liberal, in the same m anner as, by a corresponding phenomenon, Napoleon was involuntarily revolutionar y. On the 18th of June, 1815, the mounted Robespierre was hurled from his saddle .

CHAPTER XVIII A RECRUDESCENCE OF DIVINE RIGHT End of the dictatorship. A whole European system crumbled away. The Empire sank into a gloom which resembled that of the Roman world as it expi red. Again we behold the abyss, as in the days of the barbarians; only the barba rism of 1815, which must be called by its pet name of the counter-revolution, wa s not long breathed, soon fell to panting, and halted short. The Empire was bewe pt,-- let us acknowledge the fact,--and bewept by heroic eyes. If glory lies in the sword converted into a sceptre, the Empire had been glory in person. It had diffused over the earth all the light which tyranny can give a sombre light. We will say more; an obscure light. Compared to the true daylight, it is night. Thi s disappearance of night produces the effect of an eclipse. Louis XVIII. re-entered Paris. The circling dances of the 8th of July effaced t he enthusiasms of the 20th of March. The Corsican became the antithesis of the B earnese. The flag on the dome of the Tuileries was white. The exile reigned. Har twell's pine table took its place in front of the fleur-de-lys-strewn throne of Louis XIV. Bouvines and Fontenoy were mentioned as though they had taken place o n the preceding day, Austerlitz having become antiquated. The altar and the thro ne fraternized majestically. One of the most undisputed forms of the health of s ociety in the nineteenth century was established over France, and over the conti nent. Europe adopted the white cockade. Trestaillon was celebrated. The device n on pluribus impar re-appeared on the stone rays representing a sun upon the fron t of the barracks on the Quai d'Orsay. Where there had been an Imperial Guard, t here was now a red house. The Arc du Carrousel, all laden with badly borne victo ries, thrown out of its element among these novelties, a little ashamed, it may be, of Marengo and Arcola, extricated itself from its predicament with the statu e of the Duc d'Angouleme. The cemetery of the Madeleine, a terrible pauper's gra ve in 1793, was covered with jasper and marble, since the bones of Louis XVI. an d Marie Antoinette lay in that dust. In the moat of Vincennes a sepulchral shaft sprang from the earth, recalling th e fact that the Duc d'Enghien had perished in the very month when Napoleon was c

rowned. Pope Pius VII., who had performed the coronation very near this death, t ranquilly bestowed his blessing on the fall as he had bestowed it on the elevati on. At Schoenbrunn there was a little shadow, aged four, whom it was seditious t o call the King of Rome. And these things took place, and the kings resumed thei r thrones, and the master of Europe was put in a cage, and the old regime became the new regime, and all the shadows and all the light of the earth changed plac e, because, on the afternoon of a certain summer's day, a shepherd said to a Pru ssian in the forest, "Go this way, and not that!" This 1815 was a sort of lugubrious April. Ancient unhealthy and poisonous reali ties were covered with new appearances. A lie wedded 1789; the right divine was masked under a charter; fictions became constitutional; prejudices, superstition s and mental reservations, with Article 14 in the heart, were varnished over wit h liberalism. It was the serpent's change of skin. Man had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napoleon. Under this reign of splendid matter, the ideal had received the strange name of ideology! It is a g rave imprudence in a great man to turn the future into derision. The populace, h owever, that food for cannon which is so fond of the cannoneer, sought him with its glance. Where is he? What is he doing? "Napoleon is dead," said a passer-by to a veteran of Marengo and Waterloo. "He dead!" cried the soldier; "you don't k now him." Imagination distrusted this man, even when overthrown. The depths of E urope were full of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous remained long emp ty through Napoleon's disappearance. The kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe profited by it to unde rtake reforms. There was a Holy Alliance; Belle-Alliance, Beautiful Alliance, th e fatal field of Waterloo had said in advance. In presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed, the features of a new France were sketched out. The future, which the Emperor had rallied, made i ts entry. On its brow it bore the star, Liberty. The glowing eyes of all young g enerations were turned on it. Singular fact! people were, at one and the same ti me, in love with the future, Liberty, and the past, Napoleon. Defeat had rendere d the vanquished greater. Bonaparte fallen seemed more lofty than Napoleon erect . Those who had triumphed were alarmed. England had him guarded by Hudson Lowe, and France had him watched by Montchenu. His folded arms became a source of unea siness to thrones. Alexander called him "my sleeplessness." This terror was the result of the quantity of revolution which was contained in him. That is what ex plains and excuses Bonapartist liberalism. This phantom caused the old world to tremble. The kings reigned, but ill at their ease, with the rock of Saint Helena on the horizon. While Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood, the sixty th ousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly rotting, and som ething of their peace was shed abroad over the world. The Congress of Vienna mad e the treaties in 1815, and Europe called this the Restoration. This is what Waterloo was. But what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud, that war , then that peace? All that darkness did not trouble for a moment the light of t hat immense Eye before which a grub skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Notre Dame.

CHAPTER XIX THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT Let us return--it is a necessity in this book--to that fatal battle-field. On the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored Blucher's ferocious pu rsuit, betrayed the traces of the fugitives, delivered up that disastrous mass t o the eager Prussian cavalry, and aided the massacre. Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes during catastrophes. After the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean remaine d deserted. The English occupied the encampment of the French; it is the usual sign of vict ory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished. They established their bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prussians, let loose on the retreating rout, pushed forward. Well ington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst. If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicable, it certainly is to that village o f Waterloo. Waterloo took no part, and lay half a league from the scene of actio n. Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded, Hougomont was burned, La Haie-Sainte was take n by assault, Papelotte was burned, Plancenoit was burned, La Belle-Alliance beh eld the embrace of the two conquerors; these names are hardly known, and Waterlo o, which worked not in the battle, bears off all the honor. We are not of the number of those who flatter war; when the occasion presents i tself, we tell the truth about it. War has frightful beauties which we have not concealed; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous features. One of the most s urprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory. T he dawn which follows a battle always rises on naked corpses. Who does this? Who thus soils the triumph? What hideous, furtive hand is that w hich is slipped into the pocket of victory? What pickpockets are they who ply th eir trade in the rear of glory? Some philosophers--Voltaire among the number--af firm that it is precisely those persons have made the glory. It is the same men, they say; there is no relief corps; those who are erect pillage those who are p rone on the earth. The hero of the day is the vampire of the night. One has assu redly the right, after all, to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of th at corpse. For our own part, we do not think so; it seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead man. One thing is certain, which is, that generally after conquerors follow thieves. But let us leave the soldier, especially the contemporary soldier, out of the q uestion. Every army has a rear-guard, and it is that which must be blamed. Bat-like crea tures, half brigands and lackeys; all the sorts of vespertillos that that twilig ht called war engenders; wearers of uniforms, who take no part in the fighting; pretended invalids; formidable limpers; interloping sutlers, trotting along in l ittle carts, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and stealing things which the y sell again; beggars offering themselves as guides to officers; soldiers' serva nts; marauders; armies on the march in days gone by,-- we are not speaking of th e present,--dragged all this behind them, so that in the special language they a re called "stragglers." No army, no nation, was responsible for those beings; th

ey spoke Italian and followed the Germans, then spoke French and followed the En glish. It was by one of these wretches, a Spanish straggler who spoke French, th at the Marquis of Fervacques, deceived by his Picard jargon, and taking him for one of our own men, was traitorously slain and robbed on the battle-field itself , in the course of the night which followed the victory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang from this marauding. The detestable maxim, Live on the enemy! produced t his leprosy, which a strict discipline alone could heal. There are reputations w hich are deceptive; one does not always know why certain generals, great in othe r directions, have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his soldiers because h e tolerated pillage; evil permitted constitutes part of goodness. Turenne was so good that he allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire and blood. The marauders in the train of an army were more or less in number, according as the chief was more or less severe. Hoche and Marceau had no stragglers; Wellington had few, and we do him the justice to mention it. Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of June, the dead were rob bed. Wellington was rigid; he gave orders that any one caught in the act should be shot; but rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole in one corner of the battl efield while others were being shot in another. The moon was sinister over this plain. Towards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rather, climbing in the directio n of the hollow road of Ohain. To all appearance he was one of those whom we hav e just described,--neither English nor French, neither peasant nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the scent of the dead bodies having theft for h is victory, and come to rifle Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was somethi ng like a great coat; he was uneasy and audacious; he walked forwards and gazed behind him. Who was this man? The night probably knew more of him than the day. He had no sack, but evidently he had large pockets under his coat. From time to time he halted, scrutinized the plain around him as though to see whether he wer e observed, bent over abruptly, disturbed something silent and motionless on the ground, then rose and fled. His sliding motion, his attitudes, his mysterious a nd rapid gestures, caused him to resemble those twilight larvae which haunt ruin s, and which ancient Norman legends call the Alleurs. Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettes among the marshes. A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon with a fluted wicker hood, harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across its bit as it halted, hidden , as it were, behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to Nivelles, at the ang le of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braine l'Alleud; and in the wagon, a sort of woman seated on coffers and packages. Perhaps there was some connection betw een that wagon and that prowler. The darkness was serene. Not a cloud in the zenith. What matters it if the eart h be red! the moon remains white; these are the indifferences of the sky. In the fields, branches of trees broken by grape-shot, but not fallen, upheld by their bark, swayed gently in the breeze of night. A breath, almost a respiration, mov ed the shrubbery. Quivers which resembled the departure of souls ran through the grass. In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general rounds of the E nglish camp were audible. Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burn, forming, one in the west, the o ther in the east, two great flames which were joined by the cordon of bivouac fi res of the English, like a necklace of rubies with two carbuncles at the extremi ties, as they extended in an immense semicircle over the hills along the horizon

. We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain. The heart is terrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many brave men. If there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality which surpasses dreams , it is this: to live, to see the sun; to be in full possession of virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh valiantly; to rush towards a glory which on e sees dazzling in front of one; to feel in one's breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats, a will which reasons; to speak, think, hope, love; to have a mother, to have a wife, to have children; to have the light--and all at once, in the space of a shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss; to fall, to roll, to crush, to be crushed; to see ears of wheat, flowers, leaves, branches; not to be able to catch hold of anything; to feel one's sword useless, men bene ath one, horses on top of one; to struggle in vain, since one's bones have been broken by some kick in the darkness; to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from their sockets; to bite horses' shoes in one's rage; to stifle, to yell, to writhe; to be beneath, and to say to one's self, "But just a little while ago I was a living man!" There, where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle, all was sil ence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses and riders, i nextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement! There was no longer any slope, for the corpses had levelled the road with the plain, and reached the brim like a w ell-filled bushel of barley. A heap of dead bodies in the upper part, a river of blood in the lower part--such was that road on the evening of the 18th of June, 1815. The blood ran even to the Nivelles highway, and there overflowed in a lar ge pool in front of the abatis of trees which barred the way, at a spot which is still pointed out. It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point, in the direction of th e Genappe road, that the destruction of the cuirassiers had taken place. The thi ckness of the layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth of the hollow road. Towards the middle, at the point where it became level, where Delort's division had passed, the layer of corpses was thinner. The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going in that d irection. He was searching that vast tomb. He gazed about. He passed the dead in some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet in the blood. All at once he paused. A few paces in front of him, in the hollow road, at the point where the pile of dead came to an end, an open hand, illumined by the moon, projected from beneat h that heap of men. That hand had on its finger something sparkling, which was a ring of gold. The man bent over, remained in a crouching attitude for a moment, and when he r ose there was no longer a ring on the hand. He did not precisely rise; he remained in a stooping ith his back turned to the heap of dead, scanning the the whole upper portion of his body supported on his ted on the earth, and his head peering above the edge ckal's four paws suit some actions. Then coming to a decision, he rose to his feet. At that moment, he gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch him from behi nd. and frightened attitude, w horizon on his knees, with two forefingers, which res of the hollow road. The ja

He wheeled round; it was the open hand, which had closed, and had seized the sk irt of his coat. An honest man would have been terrified; this man burst into a laugh. "Come," said he, "it's only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a gendarme." But the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted in the grav e. "Well now," said the prowler, "is that dead fellow alive? Let's see." He bent down again, fumbled among the heap, pushed aside everything that was in his way, seized the hand, grasped the arm, freed the head, pulled out the body, and a few moments later he was dragging the lifeless, or at least the unconscio us, man, through the shadows of hollow road. He was a cuirassier, an officer, an d even an officer of considerable rank; a large gold epaulette peeped from benea th the cuirass; this officer no longer possessed a helmet. A furious sword-cut h ad scarred his face, where nothing was discernible but blood. However, he did not appear to have any broken limbs, and, by some happy chance, if that word is permissible here, the dead had been vaulted above him in such a manner as to preserve him from being crushed. His eyes were still closed. On his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion of Honor. The prowler tore off this cross, which disappeared into one of the gulfs which he had beneath his great coat. Then he felt of the officer's fob, discovered a watch there, and took possessio n of it. Next he searched his waistcoat, found a purse and pocketed it. When he had arrived at this stage of succor which he was administering to this dying man, the officer opened his eyes. "Thanks," he said feebly. The abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him, the freshn ess of the night, the air which he could inhale freely, had roused him from his lethargy. The prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sound of footsteps was audible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching. The officer murmured, for the death agony was still in his voice:-"Who won the battle?" "The English," answered the prowler. The officer went on:-"Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them." It was already done. The prowler executed the required feint, and said:-"There is nothing there."

"I have been robbed," said the officer; "I am sorry for that. You should have h ad them." The steps of the patrol became more and more distinct. "Some one is coming," said the prowler, with the movement of a man who is takin g his departure. The officer raised his arm feebly, and detained him. "You have saved my life. Who are you?" The prowler answered rapidly, and in a low voice:-"Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you. If they were t o catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life. Now get out of the scra pe yourself." "What is your rank?" "Sergeant." "What is your name?" "Thenardier." "I shall not forget that name," said the officer; "and do you remember mine. My name is Pontmercy."

BOOK SECOND.--THE SHIP ORION

CHAPTER I NUMBER 24,601 BECOMES NUMBER 9,430 Jean Valjean had been recaptured. The reader will be grateful to us if we pass rapidly over the sad details. We w ill confine ourselves to transcribing two paragraphs published by the journals o f that day, a few months after the surprising events which had taken place at M. sur M. These articles are rather summary. It must be remembered, that at that epoch th e Gazette des Tribunaux was not yet in existence. We borrow the first from the Drapeau Blanc. It bears the date of July 25, 1823.

An arrondissement of the Pas de Calais has just been the theatre of an event qu ite out of the ordinary course. A man, who was a stranger in the Department, and who bore the name of M. Madeleine, had, thanks to the new methods, resuscitated some years ago an ancient local industry, the manufacture of jet and of black g lass trinkets. He had made his fortune in the business, and that of the arrondis sement as well, we will admit. He had been appointed mayor, in recognition of hi s services. The police discovered that M. Madeleine was no other than an ex-conv ict who had broken his ban, condemned in 1796 for theft, and named Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean has been recommitted to prison. It appears that previous to his ar rest he had succeeded in withdrawing from the hands of M. Laffitte, a sum of ove r half a million which he had lodged there, and which he had, moreover, and by p erfectly legitimate means, acquired in his business. No one has been able to dis cover where Jean Valjean has concealed this money since his return to prison at Toulon. The second article, which enters a little more into detail, is an extract from the Journal de Paris, of the same date. A former convict, who had been liberated , named Jean Valjean, has just appeared before the Court of Assizes of the Var, under circumstances calculated to attract attention. This wretch had succeeded i n escaping the vigilance of the police, he had changed his name, and had succeed ed in getting himself appointed mayor of one of our small northern towns; in thi s town he had established a considerable commerce. He has at last been unmasked and arrested, thanks to the indefatigable zeal of the public prosecutor. He had for his concubine a woman of the town, who died of a shock at the moment of his arrest. This scoundrel, who is endowed with Herculean strength, found means to e scape; but three or four days after his flight the police laid their hands on hi m once more, in Paris itself, at the very moment when he was entering one of tho se little vehicles which run between the capital and the village of Montfermeil (Seine-et-Oise). He is said to have profited by this interval of three or four d ays of liberty, to withdraw a considerable sum deposited by him with one of our leading bankers. This sum has been estimated at six or seven hundred thousand fr ancs. If the indictment is to be trusted, he has hidden it in some place known t o himself alone, and it has not been possible to lay hands on it. However that m ay be, the said Jean Valjean has just been brought before the Assizes of the Dep artment of the Var as accused of highway robbery accompanied with violence, abou t eight years ago, on the person of one of those honest children who, as the pat riarch of Ferney has said, in immortal verse, ". . . Arrive from Savoy every year, And who, with gentle hands, do clear Those long canals choked up with soot." This bandit refused to defend himself. It was proved by the skilful and eloquen t representative of the public prosecutor, that the theft was committed in compl icity with others, and that Jean Valjean was a member of a band of robbers in th e south. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty and was condemned to the death penal ty in consequence. This criminal refused to lodge an appeal. The king, in his in exhaustible clemency, has deigned to commute his penalty to that of penal servit ude for life. Jean Valjean was immediately taken to the prison at Toulon. The reader has not forgotten that Jean Valjean had religious habits at M. sur M . Some papers, among others the Constitutional, presented this commutation as a triumph of the priestly party. Jean Valjean changed his number in the galleys. He was called 9,430. However, and we will mention it at once in order that we may not be obliged to recur to the subject, the prosperity of M. sur M. vanished with M. Madeleine; al l that he had foreseen during his night of fever and hesitation was realized; la cking him, there actually was a soul lacking. After this fall, there took place at M. sur M. that egotistical division of great existences which have fallen, th

at fatal dismemberment of flourishing things which is accomplished every day, ob scurely, in the human community, and which history has noted only once, because it occurred after the death of Alexander. Lieutenants are crowned kings; superin tendents improvise manufacturers out of themselves. Envious rivalries arose. M. Madeleine's vast workshops were shut; his buildings fell to ruin, his workmen we re scattered. Some of them quitted the country, others abandoned the trade. Then ceforth, everything was done on a small scale, instead of on a grand scale; for lucre instead of the general good. There was no longer a centre; everywhere ther e was competition and animosity. M. Madeleine had reigned over all and directed all. No sooner had he fallen, than each pulled things to himself; the spirit of combat succeeded to the spirit of organization, bitterness to cordiality, hatred of one another to the benevolence of the founder towards all; the threads which M. Madeleine had set were tangled and broken, the methods were adulterated, the products were debased, confidence was killed; the market diminished, for lack o f orders; salaries were reduced, the workshops stood still, bankruptcy arrived. And then there was nothing more for the poor. All had vanished. The state itself perceived that some one had been crushed somewhere. Less than four years after the judgment of the Court of Assizes establishing the identity of Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine, for the benefit of the galleys, the cost of co llecting taxes had doubled in the arrondissement of M. sur M.; and M. de Villele called attention to the fact in the rostrum, in the month of February, 1827.

CHAPTER II IN WHICH THE READER WILL PERUSE TWO VERSES, WHICH ARE OF THE DEVIL'S COMPOSITIO N, POSSIBLY Before proceeding further, it will be to the purpose to narrate in some detail, a singular occurrence which took place at about the same epoch, in Montfermeil, and which is not lacking in coincidence with certain conjectures of the indictm ent. There exists in the region of Montfermeil a very ancient superstition, which is all the more curious and all the more precious, because a popular superstition in the vicinity of Paris is like an aloe in Siberia. We are among those who resp ect everything which is in the nature of a rare plant. Here, then, is the supers tition of Montfermeil: it is thought that the devil, from time immemorial, has s elected the forest as a hiding-place for his treasures. Goodwives affirm that it is no rarity to encounter at nightfall, in secluded nooks of the forest, a blac k man with the air of a carter or a wood-chopper, wearing wooden shoes, clad in trousers and a blouse of linen, and recognizable by the fact, that, instead of a cap or hat, he has two immense horns on his head. This ought, in fact, to rende r him recognizable. This man is habitually engaged in digging a hole. There are three ways of profiting by such an encounter. The first is to approach the man a nd speak to him. Then it is seen that the man is simply a peasant, that he appea rs black because it is nightfall; that he is not digging any hole whatever, but is cutting grass for his cows, and that what had been taken for horns is nothing but a dung-fork which he is carrying on his back, and whose teeth, thanks to th e perspective of evening, seemed to spring from his head. The man returns home a

nd dies within the week. The second way is to watch him, to wait until he has du g his hole, until he has filled it and has gone away; then to run with great spe ed to the trench, to open it once more and to seize the "treasure" which the bla ck man has necessarily placed there. In this case one dies within the month. Fin ally, the last method is not to speak to the black man, not to look at him, and to flee at the best speed of one's legs. One then dies within the year. As all three methods are attended with their special inconveniences, the second , which at all events, presents some advantages, among others that of possessing a treasure, if only for a month, is the one most generally adopted. So bold men , who are tempted by every chance, have quite frequently, as we are assured, ope ned the holes excavated by the black man, and tried to rob the devil. The succes s of the operation appears to be but moderate. At least, if the tradition is to be believed, and in particular the two enigmatical lines in barbarous Latin, whi ch an evil Norman monk, a bit of a sorcerer, named Tryphon has left on this subj ect. This Tryphon is buried at the Abbey of Saint-Georges de Bocherville, near R ouen, and toads spawn on his grave. Accordingly, enormous efforts are made. Such trenches are ordinarily extremely deep; a man sweats, digs, toils all night-- for it must be done at night; he wet s his shirt, burns out his candle, breaks his mattock, and when he arrives at th e bottom of the hole, when he lays his hand on the "treasure," what does he find ? What is the devil's treasure? A sou, sometimes a crown-piece, a stone, a skele ton, a bleeding body, sometimes a spectre folded in four like a sheet of paper i n a portfolio, sometimes nothing. This is what Tryphon's verses seem to announce to the indiscreet and curious:-"Fodit, et in fossa thesauros condit opaca, As, nummas, lapides, cadaver, simul acra, nihilque." It seems that in our day there is sometimes found a powder-horn with bullets, s ometimes an old pack of cards greasy and worn, which has evidently served the de vil. Tryphon does not record these two finds, since Tryphon lived in the twelfth century, and since the devil does not appear to have had the wit to invent powd er before Roger Bacon's time, and cards before the time of Charles VI. Moreover, if one plays at cards, one is sure to lose all that one possesses! an d as for the powder in the horn, it possesses the property of making your gun bu rst in your face. Now, a very short time after the epoch when it seemed to the prosecuting attorn ey that the liberated convict Jean Valjean during his flight of several days had been prowling around Montfermeil, it was remarked in that village that a certai n old road-laborer, named Boulatruelle, had "peculiar ways" in the forest. Peopl e thereabouts thought they knew that this Boulatruelle had been in the galleys. He was subjected to certain police supervision, and, as he could find work nowhe re, the administration employed him at reduced rates as a road-mender on the cro ss-road from Gagny to Lagny. This Boulatruelle was a man who was viewed with disfavor by the inhabitants of the district as too respectful, too humble, too prompt in removing his cap to ev ery one, and trembling and smiling in the presence of the gendarmes,--probably a ffiliated to robber bands, they said; suspected of lying in ambush at verge of c opses at nightfall. The only thing in his favor was that he was a drunkard. This is what people thought they had noticed:-Of late, Boulatruelle had taken to quitting his task of stone-breaking and care of the road at a very early hour, and to betaking himself to the forest with hi s pickaxe. He was encountered towards evening in the most deserted clearings, in

the wildest thickets; and he had the appearance of being in search of something , and sometimes he was digging holes. The goodwives who passed took him at first for Beelzebub; then they recognized Boulatruelle, and were not in the least rea ssured thereby. These encounters seemed to cause Boulatruelle a lively displeasu re. It was evident that he sought to hide, and that there was some mystery in wh at he was doing. It was said in the village: "It is clear that the devil has appeared. Boulatrue lle has seen him, and is on the search. In sooth, he is cunning enough to pocket Lucifer's hoard." The Voltairians added, "Will Boulatruelle catch the devil, or will the devil ca tch Boulatruelle?" The old women made a great many signs of the cross. In the meantime, Boulatruelle's manoeuvres in the forest ceased; and he resumed his regular occupation of roadmending; and people gossiped of something else. Some persons, however, were still curious, surmising that in all this there was probably no fabulous treasure of the legends, but some fine windfall of a more serious and palpable sort than the devil's bank-bills, and that the road-mender had half discovered the secret. The most "puzzled" were the school-master and Th enardier, the proprietor of the tavern, who was everybody's friend, and had not disdained to ally himself with Boulatruelle. "He has been in the galleys," said Thenardier. "Eh! Good God! no one knows who has been there or will be there." One evening the schoolmaster affirmed that in former times the law would have i nstituted an inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in the forest, and that the lat ter would have been forced to speak, and that he would have been put to the tort ure in case of need, and that Boulatruelle would not have resisted the water tes t, for example. "Let us put him to the wine test," said Thenardier. They made an effort, and got the old road-mender to drinking. Boulatruelle dran k an enormous amount, but said very little. He combined with admirable art, and in masterly proportions, the thirst of a gormandizer with the discretion of a ju dge. Nevertheless, by dint of returning to the charge and of comparing and putti ng together the few obscure words which he did allow to escape him, this is what Thenardier and the schoolmaster imagined that they had made out:-One morning, when Boulatruelle was on his way to his work, at daybreak, he had been surprised to see, at a nook of the forest in the underbrush, a shovel and a pickaxe, concealed, as one might say. However, he might have supposed that they were probably the shovel and pick of Father Six-Fours, the water-carrier, and would have thought no more about it. Bu t, on the evening of that day, he saw, without being seen himself, as he was hid den by a large tree, "a person who did not belong in those parts, and whom he, B oulatruelle, knew well," directing his steps towards the densest part of the woo d. Translation by Thenardier: A comrade of the galleys. Boulatruelle obstinately refused to reveal his name. This person carried a package--something square, li ke a large box or a small trunk. Surprise on the part of Boulatruelle. However, it was only after the expiration of seven or eight minutes that the idea of foll owing that "person" had occurred to him. But it was too late; the person was alr eady in the thicket, night had descended, and Boulatruelle had not been able to catch up with him. Then he had adopted the course of watching for him at the edg e of the woods. "It was moonlight." Two or three hours later, Boulatruelle had s een this person emerge from the brushwood, carrying no longer the coffer, but a shovel and pick. Boulatruelle had allowed the person to pass, and had not dreame d of accosting him, because he said to himself that the other man was three time

s k . k n

as strong as he was, and armed with a pickaxe, and that he would probably knoc him over the head on recognizing him, and on perceiving that he was recognized Touching effusion of two old comrades on meeting again. But the shovel and pic had served as a ray of light to Boulatruelle; he had hastened to the thicket i the morning, and had found neither shovel nor pick. From this he had drawn the inference that this person, once in the forest, had dug a hole with his pick, b uried the coffer, and reclosed the hole with his shovel. Now, the coffer was too small to contain a body; therefore it contained money. Hence his researches. Bo ulatruelle had explored, sounded, searched the entire forest and the thicket, an d had dug wherever the earth appeared to him to have been recently turned up. In vain. He had "ferreted out" nothing. No one in Montfermeil thought any more about it. There were only a few brave gossips, who said, "You may be certain that the men der on the Gagny road did not take all that trouble for nothing; he was sure tha t the devil had come."

CHAPTER III THE ANKLE-CHAIN MUST HAVE UNDERGONE A CERTAIN PREPARATORY MANIPULATION TO BE TH US BROKEN WITH A BLOW FROM A HAMMER Towards the end of October, in that same year, 1823, the inhabitants of Toulon beheld the entry into their port, after heavy weather, and for the purpose of re pairing some damages, of the ship Orion, which was employed later at Brest as a school-ship, and which then formed a part of the Mediterranean squadron. This vessel, battered as it was,--for the sea had handled it roughly,-- produce d a fine effect as it entered the roads. It flew some colors which procured for it the regulation salute of eleven guns, which it returned, shot for shot; total , twenty-two. It has been calculated that what with salvos, royal and military p olitenesses, courteous exchanges of uproar, signals of etiquette, formalities of roadsteads and citadels, sunrises and sunsets, saluted every day by all fortres ses and all ships of war, openings and closings of ports, etc., the civilized wo rld, discharged all over the earth, in the course of four and twenty hours, one hundred and fifty thousand useless shots. At six francs the shot, that comes to nine hundred thousand francs a day, three hundred millions a year, which vanish in smoke. This is a mere detail. All this time the poor were dying of hunger. The year 1823 was what the Restoration called "the epoch of the Spanish war." This war contained many events in one, and a quantity of peculiarities. A grand family affair for the house of Bourbon; the branch of France succoring and prot ecting the branch of Madrid, that is to say, performing an act devolving on the elder; an apparent return to our national traditions, complicated by servitude a nd by subjection to the cabinets of the North; M. le Duc d'Angouleme, surnamed b y the liberal sheets the hero of Andujar, compressing in a triumphal attitude th at was somewhat contradicted by his peaceable air, the ancient and very powerful terrorism of the Holy Office at variance with the chimerical terrorism of the l iberals; the sansculottes resuscitated, to the great terror of dowagers, under t

he name of descamisados; monarchy opposing an obstacle to progress described as anarchy; the theories of '89 roughly interrupted in the sap; a European halt, ca lled to the French idea, which was making the tour of the world; beside the son of France as generalissimo, the Prince de Carignan, afterwards Charles Albert, e nrolling himself in that crusade of kings against people as a volunteer, with gr enadier epaulets of red worsted; the soldiers of the Empire setting out on a fre sh campaign, but aged, saddened, after eight years of repose, and under the whit e cockade; the tricolored standard waved abroad by a heroic handful of Frenchmen , as the white standard had been thirty years earlier at Coblentz; monks mingled with our troops; the spirit of liberty and of novelty brought to its senses by bayonets; principles slaughtered by cannonades; France undoing by her arms that which she had done by her mind; in addition to this, hostile leaders sold, soldi ers hesitating, cities besieged by millions; no military perils, and yet possibl e explosions, as in every mine which is surprised and invaded; but little bloods hed, little honor won, shame for some, glory for no one. Such was this war, made by the princes descended from Louis XIV., and conducted by generals who had bee n under Napoleon. Its sad fate was to recall neither the grand war nor grand pol itics. Some feats of arms were serious; the taking of the Trocadero, among others, was a fine military action; but after all, we repeat, the trumpets of this war give back a cracked sound, the whole effect was suspicious; history approves of Fran ce for making a difficulty about accepting this false triumph. It seemed evident that certain Spanish officers charged with resistance yielded too easily; the i dea of corruption was connected with the victory; it appears as though generals and not battles had been won, and the conquering soldier returned humiliated. A debasing war, in short, in which the Bank of France could be read in the folds o f the flag. Soldiers of the war of 1808, on whom Saragossa had fallen in formidable ruin, f rowned in 1823 at the easy surrender of citadels, and began to regret Palafox. I t is the nature of France to prefer to have Rostopchine rather than Ballesteros in front of her. From a still more serious point of view, and one which it is also proper to ins ist upon here, this war, which wounded the military spirit of France, enraged th e democratic spirit. It was an enterprise of inthralment. In that campaign, the object of the French soldier, the son of democracy, was the conquest of a yoke f or others. A hideous contradiction. France is made to arouse the soul of nations , not to stifle it. All the revolutions of Europe since 1792 are the French Revo lution: liberty darts rays from France. That is a solar fact. Blind is he who wi ll not see! It was Bonaparte who said it. The war of 1823, an outrage on the generous Spanish nation, was then, at the sa me time, an outrage on the French Revolution. It was France who committed this m onstrous violence; by foul means, for, with the exception of wars of liberation, everything that armies do is by foul means. The words passive obedience indicat e this. An army is a strange masterpiece of combination where force results from an enormous sum of impotence. Thus is war, made by humanity against humanity, d espite humanity, explained. As for the Bourbons, the war of 1823 was fatal to them. They took it for a succ ess. They did not perceive the danger that lies in having an idea slain to order . They went astray, in their innocence, to such a degree that they introduced th e immense enfeeblement of a crime into their establishment as an element of stre ngth. The spirit of the ambush entered into their politics. 1830 had its germ in 1823. The Spanish campaign became in their counsels an argument for force and f or adventures by right Divine. France, having re-established elrey netto in Spai n, might well have re-established the absolute king at home. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the soldier for the consent of the nat

ion. Such confidence is the ruin of thrones. It is not permitted to fall asleep, either in the shadow of a machineel tree, nor in the shadow of an army. Let us return to the ship Orion. During the operations of the army commanded by the prince generalissimo, a squa dron had been cruising in the Mediterranean. We have just stated that the Orion belonged to this fleet, and that accidents of the sea had brought it into port a t Toulon. The presence of a vessel of war in a port has something about it which attracts and engages a crowd. It is because it is great, and the crowd loves what is gre at. A ship of the line is one of the most magnificent combinations of the genius of man with the powers of nature. A ship of the line is composed, at the same time, of the heaviest and the light est of possible matter, for it deals at one and the same time with three forms o f substance,--solid, liquid, and fluid,-- and it must do battle with all three. It has eleven claws of iron with which to seize the granite on the bottom of the sea, and more wings and more antennae than winged insects, to catch the wind in the clouds. Its breath pours out through its hundred and twenty cannons as thro ugh enormous trumpets, and replies proudly to the thunder. The ocean seeks to le ad it astray in the alarming sameness of its billows, but the vessel has its sou l, its compass, which counsels it and always shows it the north. In the blackest nights, its lanterns supply the place of the stars. Thus, against the wind, it has its cordage and its canvas; against the water, wood; against the rocks, its iron, brass, and lead; against the shadows, its light; against immensity, a need le. If one wishes to form an idea of all those gigantic proportions which, taken as a whole, constitute the ship of the line, one has only to enter one of the sixstory covered construction stocks, in the ports of Brest or Toulon. The vessels in process of construction are under a bell-glass there, as it were. This coloss al beam is a yard; that great column of wood which stretches out on the earth as far as the eye can reach is the main-mast. Taking it from its root in the stock s to its tip in the clouds, it is sixty fathoms long, and its diameter at its ba se is three feet. The English main-mast rises to a height of two hundred and sev enteen feet above the water-line. The navy of our fathers employed cables, ours employs chains. The simple pile of chains on a ship of a hundred guns is four fe et high, twenty feet in breadth, and eight feet in depth. And how much wood is r equired to make this ship? Three thousand cubic metres. It is a floating forest. And moreover, let this be borne in mind, it is only a question here of the mili tary vessel of forty years ago, of the simple sailing-vessel; steam, then in its infancy, has since added new miracles to that prodigy which is called a war ves sel. At the present time, for example, the mixed vessel with a screw is a surpri sing machine, propelled by three thousand square metres of canvas and by an engi ne of two thousand five hundred horse-power. Not to d of De e as is in the mention these new marvels, the ancient vessel of Christopher Columbus an Ruyter is one of the masterpieces of man. It is as inexhaustible in forc the Infinite in gales; it stores up the wind in its sails, it is precise immense vagueness of the billows, it floats, and it reigns.

There comes an hour, nevertheless, when the gale breaks that sixty-foot yard li ke a straw, when the wind bends that mast four hundred feet tall, when that anch or, which weighs tens of thousands, is twisted in the jaws of the waves like a f isherman's hook in the jaws of a pike, when those monstrous cannons utter plaint

ive and futile roars, which the hurricane bears forth into the void and into nig ht, when all that power and all that majesty are engulfed in a power and majesty which are superior. Every time that immense force is displayed to culminate in an immense feeblenes s it affords men food for thought, Hence in the ports curious people abound arou nd these marvellous machines of war and of navigation, without being able to exp lain perfectly to themselves why. Every day, accordingly, from morning until nig ht, the quays, sluices, and the jetties of the port of Toulon were covered with a multitude of idlers and loungers, as they say in Paris, whose business consist ed in staring at the Orion. The Orion was a ship that had been ailing for a long time; in the course of its previous cruises thick layers of barnacles had collected on its keel to such a degree as to deprive it of half its speed; it had gone into the dry dock the yea r before this, in order to have the barnacles scraped off, then it had put to se a again; but this cleaning had affected the bolts of the keel: in the neighborho od of the Balearic Isles the sides had been strained and had opened; and, as the plating in those days was not of sheet iron, the vessel had sprung a leak. A vi olent equinoctial gale had come up, which had first staved in a grating and a po rthole on the larboard side, and damaged the foretop-gallant-shrouds; in consequ ence of these injuries, the Orion had run back to Toulon. It anchored near the Arsenal; it was fully equipped, and repairs were begun. Th e hull had received no damage on the starboard, but some of the planks had been unnailed here and there, according to custom, to permit of air entering the hold . One morning the crowd which was gazing at it witnessed an accident. The crew was busy bending the sails; the topman, who had to take the upper corn er of the main-top-sail on the starboard, lost his balance; he was seen to waver ; the multitude thronging the Arsenal quay uttered a cry; the man's head overbal anced his body; the man fell around the yard, with his hands outstretched toward s the abyss; on his way he seized the footrope, first with one hand, then with t he other, and remained hanging from it: the sea lay below him at a dizzy depth; the shock of his fall had imparted to the foot-rope a violent swinging motion; t he man swayed back and forth at the end of that rope, like a stone in a sling. It was incurring a frightful risk to go to his assistance; not one of the sailo rs, all fishermen of the coast, recently levied for the service, dared to attemp t it. In the meantime, the unfortunate topman was losing his strength; his angui sh could not be discerned on his face, but his exhaustion was visible in every l imb; his arms were contracted in horrible twitchings; every effort which he made to re-ascend served but to augment the oscillations of the foot-rope; he did no t shout, for fear of exhausting his strength. All were awaiting the minute when he should release his hold on the rope, and, from instant to instant, heads were turned aside that his fall might not be seen. There are moments when a bit of r ope, a pole, the branch of a tree, is life itself, and it is a terrible thing to see a living being detach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit. All at once a man was seen climbing into the rigging with the agility of a tige r-cat; this man was dressed in red; he was a convict; he wore a green cap; he wa s a life convict. On arriving on a level with the top, a gust of wind carried aw ay his cap, and allowed a perfectly white head to be seen: he was not a young ma n. A convict employed on board with a detachment from the galleys had, in fact, at the very first instant, hastened to the officer of the watch, and, in the midst of the consternation and the hesitation of the crew, while all the sailors were

trembling and drawing back, he had asked the officer's permission to risk his l ife to save the topman; at an affirmative sign from the officer he had broken th e chain riveted to his ankle with one blow of a hammer, then he had caught up a rope, and had dashed into the rigging: no one noticed, at the instant, with what ease that chain had been broken; it was only later on that the incident was rec alled. In a twinkling he was on the yard; he paused for a few seconds and appeared to be measuring it with his eye; these seconds, during which the breeze swayed the topman at the extremity of a thread, seemed centuries to those who were looking on. At last, the convict raised his eyes to heaven and advanced a step: the crow d drew a long breath. He was seen to run out along the yard: on arriving at the point, he fastened the rope which he had brought to it, and allowed the other en d to hang down, then he began to descend the rope, hand over hand, and then,--an d the anguish was indescribable,--instead of one man suspended over the gulf, th ere were two. One would have said it was a spider coming to seize a fly, only here the spider brought life, not death. Ten thousand glances were fastened on this group; not a cry, not a word; the same tremor contracted every brow; all mouths held their breath as though they feared to add the slightest puff to the wind which was swa ying the two unfortunate men. In the meantime, the convict had succeeded in lowering himself to a position ne ar the sailor. It was high time; one minute more, and the exhausted and despairi ng man would have allowed himself to fall into the abyss. The convict had moored him securely with the cord to which he clung with one hand, while he was workin g with the other. At last, he was seen to climb back on the yard, and to drag th e sailor up after him; he held him there a moment to allow him to recover his st rength, then he grasped him in his arms and carried him, walking on the yard him self to the cap, and from there to the main-top, where he left him in the hands of his comrades. At that moment the crowd broke into applause: old convict-sergeants among them wept, and women embraced each other on the quay, and all voices were heard to cr y with a sort of tender rage, "Pardon for that man!" He, in the meantime, had immediately begun to make his descent to rejoin his de tachment. In order to reach them the more speedily, he dropped into the rigging, and ran along one of the lower yards; all eyes were following him. At a certain moment fear assailed them; whether it was that he was fatigued, or that his hea d turned, they thought they saw him hesitate and stagger. All at once the crowd uttered a loud shout: the convict had fallen into the sea. The fall was perilous. The frigate Algesiras was anchored alongside the Orion, and the poor convict had fallen between the two vessels: it was to be feared tha t he would slip under one or the other of them. Four men flung themselves hastil y into a boat; the crowd cheered them on; anxiety again took possession of all s ouls; the man had not risen to the surface; he had disappeared in the sea withou t leaving a ripple, as though he had fallen into a cask of oil: they sounded, th ey dived. In vain. The search was continued until the evening: they did not even find the body. On the following day the Toulon newspaper printed these lines:-"Nov. 17, 1823. Yesterday, a convict belonging to the detachment on board of th e Orion, on his return from rendering assistance to a sailor, fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been found; it is supposed that it is enta ngled among the piles of the Arsenal point: this man was committed under the num ber 9,430, and his name was Jean Valjean."

BOOK THIRD.--ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN

CHAPTER I THE WATER QUESTION AT MONTFERMEIL Montfermeil is situated between Livry and Chelles, on the southern edge of that lofty table-land which separates the Ourcq from the Marne. At the present day i t is a tolerably large town, ornamented all the year through with plaster villas , and on Sundays with beaming bourgeois. In 1823 there were at Montfermeil neith er so many white houses nor so many well-satisfied citizens: it was only a villa ge in the forest. Some pleasure-houses of the last century were to be met with t here, to be sure, which were recognizable by their grand air, their balconies in twisted iron, and their long windows, whose tiny panes cast all sorts of varyin g shades of green on the white of the closed shutters; but Montfermeil was none the less a village. Retired cloth-merchants and rusticating attorneys had not di scovered it as yet; it was a peaceful and charming place, which was not on the r oad to anywhere: there people lived, and cheaply, that peasant rustic life which is so bounteous and so easy; only, water was rare there, on account of the elev ation of the plateau. It was necessary to fetch it from a considerable distance; the end of the villa ge towards Gagny drew its water from the magnificent ponds which exist in the wo ods there. The other end, which surrounds the church and which lies in the direc tion of Chelles, found drinking-water only at a little spring half-way down the slope, near the road to Chelles, about a quarter of an hour from Montfermeil. Thus each household found it hard work to keep supplied with water. The large h ouses, the aristocracy, of which the Thenardier tavern formed a part, paid half a farthing a bucketful to a man who made a business of it, and who earned about eight sous a day in his enterprise of supplying Montfermeil with water; but this good man only worked until seven o'clock in the evening in summer, and five in winter; and night once come and the shutters on the ground floor once closed, he who had no water to drink went to fetch it for himself or did without it. This constituted the terror of the poor creature whom the reader has probably n ot forgotten,--little Cosette. It will be remembered that Cosette was useful to the Thenardiers in two ways: they made the mother pay them, and they made the ch ild serve them. So when the mother ceased to pay altogether, the reason for whic h we have read in preceding chapters, the Thenardiers kept Cosette. She took the place of a servant in their house. In this capacity she it was who ran to fetch water when it was required. So the child, who was greatly terrified at the idea of going to the spring at night, took great care that water should never be lac king in the house. Christmas of the year 1823 was particularly brilliant at Montfermeil. The begin ning of the winter had been mild; there had been neither snow nor frost up to th

at time. Some mountebanks from Paris had obtained permission of the mayor to ere ct their booths in the principal street of the village, and a band of itinerant merchants, under protection of the same tolerance, had constructed their stalls on the Church Square, and even extended them into Boulanger Alley, where, as the reader will perhaps remember, the Thenardiers' hostelry was situated. These peo ple filled the inns and drinking-shops, and communicated to that tranquil little district a noisy and joyous life. In order to play the part of a faithful histo rian, we ought even to add that, among the curiosities displayed in the square, there was a menagerie, in which frightful clowns, clad in rags and coming no one knew whence, exhibited to the peasants of Montfermeil in 1823 one of those horr ible Brazilian vultures, such as our Royal Museum did not possess until 1845, an d which have a tricolored cockade for an eye. I believe that naturalists call th is bird Caracara Polyborus; it belongs to the order of the Apicides, and to the family of the vultures. Some good old Bonapartist soldiers, who had retired to t he village, went to see this creature with great devotion. The mountebanks gave out that the tricolored cockade was a unique phenomenon made by God expressly fo r their menagerie. On Christmas eve itself, a number of men, carters, and peddlers, were seated at table, drinking and smoking around four or five candles in the public room of T henardier's hostelry. This room resembled all drinking-shop rooms,--tables, pewt er jugs, bottles, drinkers, smokers; but little light and a great deal of noise. The date of the year 1823 was indicated, nevertheless, by two objects which wer e then fashionable in the bourgeois class: to wit, a kaleidoscope and a lamp of ribbed tin. The female Thenardier was attending to the supper, which was roastin g in front of a clear fire; her husband was drinking with his customers and talk ing politics. Besides political conversations which had for their principal subjects the Span ish war and M. le Duc d'Angouleme, strictly local parentheses, like the followin g, were audible amid the uproar:-"About Nanterre and Suresnes the vines have flourished greatly. When ten pieces were reckoned on there have been twelve. They have yielded a great deal of juic e under the press." "But the grapes cannot be ripe?" "In those parts the grapes should not be ripe; the wine turns oily as soon as spring comes." "Then it is ve ry thin wine?" "There are wines poorer even than these. The grapes must be gathe red while green." Etc. Or a miller would call out:-"Are we responsible for what is in the sacks? We find in them a quantity of sma ll seed which we cannot sift out, and which we are obliged to send through the m ill-stones; there are tares, fennel, vetches, hempseed, fox-tail, and a host of other weeds, not to mention pebbles, which abound in certain wheat, especially i n Breton wheat. I am not fond of grinding Breton wheat, any more than long-sawye rs like to saw beams with nails in them. You can judge of the bad dust that make s in grinding. And then people complain of the flour. They are in the wrong. The flour is no fault of ours." In a space between two windows a mower, who was seated at table with a landed p roprietor who was fixing on a price for some meadow work to be performed in the spring, was saying:-"It does no harm to have the grass wet. It cuts better. Dew is a good thing, si r. It makes no difference with that grass. Your grass is young and very hard to cut still. It's terribly tender. It yields before the iron." Etc. Cosette was in her usual place, seated on the cross-bar of the kitchen table ne ar the chimney. She was in rags; her bare feet were thrust into wooden shoes, an

d by the firelight she e young Thenardiers. A ghter and chatter were voices: it was Eponine

was engaged in knitting woollen stockings destined for th very young kitten was playing about among the chairs. Lau audible in the adjoining room, from two fresh children's and Azelma.

In the chimney-corner a cat-o'-nine-tails was hanging on a nail. At intervals the cry of a very young child, which was somewhere in the house, r ang through the noise of the dram-shop. It was a little boy who had been born to the Thenardiers during one of the preceding winters,--"she did not know why," s he said, "the result of the cold,"--and who was a little more than three years o ld. The mother had nursed him, but she did not love him. When the persistent cla mor of the brat became too annoying, "Your son is squalling," Thenardier would s ay; "do go and see what he wants." "Bah!" the mother would reply, "he bothers me ." And the neglected child continued to shriek in the dark.

CHAPTER II TWO COMPLETE PORTRAITS So far in this book the Thenardiers have been viewed only in profile; the momen t has arrived for making the circuit of this couple, and considering it under al l its aspects. Thenardier had just passed his fiftieth birthday; Madame Thenardier was approac hing her forties, which is equivalent to fifty in a woman; so that there existed a balance of age between husband and wife. Our readers have possibly preserved some recollection of this Thenardier woman, ever since her first appearance,--tall, blond, red, fat, angular, square, enorm ous, and agile; she belonged, as we have said, to the race of those colossal wil d women, who contort themselves at fairs with paving-stones hanging from their h air. She did everything about the house,--made the beds, did the washing, the co oking, and everything else. Cosette was her only servant; a mouse in the service of an elephant. Everything trembled at the sound of her voice,--window panes, f urniture, and people. Her big face, dotted with red blotches, presented the appe arance of a skimmer. She had a beard. She was an ideal market-porter dressed in woman's clothes. She swore splendidly; she boasted of being able to crack a nut with one blow of her fist. Except for the romances which she had read, and which made the affected lady peep through the ogress at times, in a very queer way, t he idea would never have occurred to any one to say of her, "That is a woman." T his Thenardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted on a fishwife. W hen one heard her speak, one said, "That is a gendarme"; when one saw her drink, one said, "That is a carter"; when one saw her handle Cosette, one said, "That is the hangman." One of her teeth projected when her face was in repose. Thenardier was a small, thin, pale, angular, bony, feeble man, who had a sickly air and who was wonderfully healthy. His cunning began here; he smiled habitual ly, by way of precaution, and was almost polite to everybody, even to the beggar to whom he refused half a farthing. He had the glance of a pole-cat and the bea

ring of a man of letters. He greatly resembled the portraits of the Abbe Delille . His coquetry consisted in drinking with the carters. No one had ever succeeded in rendering him drunk. He smoked a big pipe. He wore a blouse, and under his b louse an old black coat. He made pretensions to literature and to materialism. T here were certain names which he often pronounced to support whatever things he might be saying,--Voltaire, Raynal, Parny, and, singularly enough, Saint Augusti ne. He declared that he had "a system." In addition, he was a great swindler. A filousophe [philosophe], a scientific thief. The species does exist. It will be remembered that he pretended to have served in the army; he was in the habit of relating with exuberance, how, being a sergeant in the 6th or the 9th light some thing or other, at Waterloo, he had alone, and in the presence of a squadron of death-dealing hussars, covered with his body and saved from death, in the midst of the grape-shot, "a general, who had been dangerously wounded." Thence arose f or his wall the flaring sign, and for his inn the name which it bore in the neig hborhood, of "the cabaret of the Sergeant of Waterloo." He was a liberal, a clas sic, and a Bonapartist. He had subscribed for the Champ d'Asile. It was said in the village that he had studied for the priesthood. We believe that he had simply studied in Holland for an inn-keeper. This rascal of composite order was, in all probability, some Fleming from Lille, in Flander s, a Frenchman in Paris, a Belgian at Brussels, being comfortably astride of bot h frontiers. As for his prowess at Waterloo, the reader is already acquainted wi th that. It will be perceived that he exaggerated it a trifle. Ebb and flow, wan dering, adventure, was the leven of his existence; a tattered conscience entails a fragmentary life, and, apparently at the stormy epoch of June 18, 1815, Thena rdier belonged to that variety of marauding sutlers of which we have spoken, bea ting about the country, selling to some, stealing from others, and travelling li ke a family man, with wife and children, in a rickety cart, in the rear of troop s on the march, with an instinct for always attaching himself to the victorious army. This campaign ended, and having, as he said, "some quibus," he had come to Montfermeil and set up an inn there. This quibus, composed of purses and watches, of gold rings and silver crosses, gathered in harvest-time in furrows sown with corpses, did not amount to a large total, and did not carry this sutler turned eating-house-keeper very far. Thenardier had that peculiar rectilinear something about his gestures which, ac companied by an oath, recalls the barracks, and by a sign of the cross, the semi nary. He was a fine talker. He allowed it to be thought that he was an educated man. Nevertheless, the schoolmaster had noticed that he pronounced improperly.[1 2] [12] Literally "made cuirs"; i. e., pronounced a t or an s at the end of words where the opposite letter should occur, or used either one of them where neither exists. He composed the travellers' tariff card in a superior manner, but practised eye s sometimes spied out orthographical errors in it. Thenardier was cunning, greed y, slothful, and clever. He did not disdain his servants, which caused his wife to dispense with them. This giantess was jealous. It seemed to her that that thi n and yellow little man must be an object coveted by all. Thenardier, who was, above all, an astute and well-balanced man, was a scamp of a temperate sort. This is the worst species; hypocrisy enters into it. It is not that Thenardier was not, on occasion, capable of wrath to quite the s ame degree as his wife; but this was very rare, and at such times, since he was enraged with the human race in general, as he bore within him a deep furnace of hatred. And since he was one of those people who are continually avenging their wrongs, who accuse everything that passes before them of everything which has be

fallen them, and who are always ready to cast upon the first person who comes to hand, as a legitimate grievance, the sum total of the deceptions, the bankruptc ies, and the calamities of their lives,--when all this leaven was stirred up in him and boiled forth from his mouth and eyes, he was terrible. Woe to the person who came under his wrath at such a time! In addition to his other qualities, Thenardier was attentive and penetrating, s ilent or talkative, according to circumstances, and always highly intelligent. H e had something of the look of sailors, who are accustomed to screw up their eye s to gaze through marine glasses. Thenardier was a statesman. Every new-comer who entered the tavern said, on catching sight of Madame Thenar dier, "There is the master of the house." A mistake. She was not even the mistre ss. The husband was both master and mistress. She worked; he created. He directe d everything by a sort of invisible and constant magnetic action. A word was suf ficient for him, sometimes a sign; the mastodon obeyed. Thenardier was a sort of special and sovereign being in Madame Thenardier's eyes, though she did not tho roughly realize it. She was possessed of virtues after her own kind; if she had ever had a disagreement as to any detail with "Monsieur Thenardier,"--which was an inadmissible hypothesis, by the way,--she would not have blamed her husband i n public on any subject whatever. She would never have committed "before strange rs" that mistake so often committed by women, and which is called in parliamenta ry language, "exposing the crown." Although their concord had only evil as its r esult, there was contemplation in Madame Thenardier's submission to her husband. That mountain of noise and of flesh moved under the little finger of that frail despot. Viewed on its dwarfed and grotesque side, this was that grand and unive rsal thing, the adoration of mind by matter; for certain ugly features have a ca use in the very depths of eternal beauty. There was an unknown quantity about Th enardier; hence the absolute empire of the man over that woman. At certain momen ts she beheld him like a lighted candle; at others she felt him like a claw. This woman was a formidable creature who loved no one except her children, and who did not fear any one except her husband. She was a mother because she was ma mmiferous. But her maternity stopped short with her daughters, and, as we shall see, did not extend to boys. The man had but one thought,--how to enrich himself . He did not succeed in this. A theatre worthy of this great talent was lacking. Thenardier was ruining himself at Montfermeil, if ruin is possible to zero; in S witzerland or in the Pyrenees this penniless scamp would have become a millionai re; but an inn-keeper must browse where fate has hitched him. It will be understood that the word inn-keeper is here employed in a restricted sense, and does not extend to an entire class. In this same year, 1823, Thenardier was burdened with about fifteen hundred fra ncs' worth of petty debts, and this rendered him anxious. Whatever may have been the obstinate injustice of destiny in this case, Thenard ier was one of those men who understand best, with the most profundity and in th e most modern fashion, that thing which is a virtue among barbarous peoples and an object of merchandise among civilized peoples,--hospitality. Besides, he was an admirable poacher, and quoted for his skill in shooting. He had a certain col d and tranquil laugh, which was particularly dangerous. His theories as a landlord sometimes burst forth in lightning flashes. He had p rofessional aphorisms, which he inserted into his wife's mind. "The duty of the inn-keeper," he said to her one day, violently, and in a low voice, "is to sell to the first comer, stews, repose, light, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, a nd a smile; to stop passers-by, to empty small purses, and to honestly lighten h

eavy ones; to shelter travelling families respectfully: to shave the man, to plu ck the woman, to pick the child clean; to quote the window open, the window shut , the chimney-corner, the arm-chair, the chair, the ottoman, the stool, the feat her-bed, the mattress and the truss of straw; to know how much the shadow uses u p the mirror, and to put a price on it; and, by five hundred thousand devils, to make the traveller pay for everything, even for the flies which his dog eats!" This man and this woman were ruse and rage wedded--a hideous and terrible team. While the husband pondered and combined, Madame Thenardier thought not of absen t creditors, took no heed of yesterday nor of to-morrow, and lived in a fit of a nger, all in a minute. Such were these two beings. Cosette was between them, subjected to their double pressure, like a creature who is at the same time being ground up in a mill and pulled to pieces with pincers. The man and the woman each had a different metho d: Cosette was overwhelmed with blows--this was the woman's; she went barefooted in winter-- that was the man's doing. Cosette ran up stairs and down, washed, swept, rubbed, dusted, ran, fluttered a bout, panted, moved heavy articles, and weak as she was, did the coarse work. Th ere was no mercy for her; a fierce mistress and venomous master. The Thenardier hostelry was like a spider's web, in which Cosette had been caught, and where sh e lay trembling. The ideal of oppression was realized by this sinister household . It was something like the fly serving the spiders. The poor child passively held her peace. What takes place within these souls when they have but just quitted God, find t hemselves thus, at the very dawn of life, very small and in the midst of men all naked!

CHAPTER III MEN MUST HAVE WINE, AND HORSES MUST HAVE WATER Four new travellers had arrived. Cosette was meditating sadly; for, although she was only eight years old, she h ad already suffered so much that she reflected with the lugubrious air of an old woman. Her eye was black in consequence of a blow from Madame Thenardier's fist , which caused the latter to remark from time to time, "How ugly she is with her fist-blow on her eye!" Cosette was thinking that it was dark, very dark, that the pitchers and caraffe s in the chambers of the travellers who had arrived must have been filled and th at there was no more water in the cistern. She was somewhat reassured because no one in the Thenardier establishment drank much water. Thirsty people were never lacking there; but their thirst was of th

e sort which applies to the jug rather than to the pitcher. Any one who had aske d for a glass of water among all those glasses of wine would have appeared a sav age to all these men. But there came a moment when the child trembled; Madame Th enardier raised the cover of a stew-pan which was boiling on the stove, then sei zed a glass and briskly approached the cistern. She turned the faucet; the child had raised her head and was following all the woman's movements. A thin stream of water trickled from the faucet, and half filled the glass. "Well," said she, "there is no more water!" A momentary silence ensued. The child did not breathe. "Bah!" resumed Madame Thenardier, examining the half-filled glass, "this will b e enough." Cosette applied herself to her work once more, but for a quarter of an hour she felt her heart leaping in her bosom like a big snow-flake. She counted the minutes that passed in this manner, and wished it were the next morning. From time to time one of the drinkers looked into the street, and exclaimed, "I t's as black as an oven!" or, "One must needs be a cat to go about the streets w ithout a lantern at this hour!" And Cosette trembled. All at once one of the pedlers who lodged in the hostelry entered, and said in a harsh voice:-"My horse has not been watered." "Yes, it has," said Madame Thenardier. "I tell you that it has not," retorted the pedler. Cosette had emerged from under the table. "Oh, yes, sir!" said she, "the horse has had a drink; he drank out of a bucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who took the water to him, and I spoke to him." It was not true; Cosette lied. "There's a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the house," exclaime d the pedler. "I tell you that he has not been watered, you little jade! He has a way of blowing when he has had no water, which I know well." Cosette persisted, and added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish, and which was hardly audible:-"And he drank heartily." "Come," said the pedler, in a rage, "this won't do at all, let my horse be wate red, and let that be the end of it!" Cosette crept under the table again. "In truth, that is fair!" said Madame Thenardier, "if the beast has not been wa tered, it must be." Then glancing about her:-"Well, now! Where's that other beast?" She bent down and discovered Cosette cowering at the other end of the table, al

most under the drinkers' feet. "Are you coming?" shrieked Madame Thenardier. Cosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hidden herself. The Th enardier resumed:-"Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse." "But, Madame," said Cosette, feebly, "there is no water." The Thenardier threw the street door wide open:-"Well, go and get some, then!" Cosette dropped her head, and went for an empty bucket which stood near the chi mney-corner. This bucket was bigger than she was, and the child could have set down in it at her ease. The Thenardier returned to her stove, and tasted what was in the stewpan, with a wooden spoon, grumbling the while:-"There's plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious creature as tha t. I think I should have done better to strain my onions." Then she rummaged in a drawer which contained sous, pepper, and shallots. "See here, Mam'selle Toad," she added, "on your way back, you will get a big lo af from the baker. Here's a fifteen-sou piece." Cosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron; she took the coin without saying a word, and put it in that pocket. Then she stood motionless, bucket in hand, the open door before her. She seemed to be waiting for some one to come to her rescue. "Get along with you!" screamed the Thenardier. Cosette went out. The door closed behind her.

CHAPTER IV ENTRANCE ON THE SCENE OF A DOLL The line of open-air booths starting at the church, extended, as the reader wil l remember, as far as the hostelry of the Thenardiers. These booths were all ill uminated, because the citizens would soon pass on their way to the midnight mass , with candles burning in paper funnels, which, as the schoolmaster, then seated

at the table at the Thenardiers' observed, produced "a magical effect." In comp ensation, not a star was visible in the sky. The last of these stalls, established precisely opposite the Thenardiers' door, was a toy-shop all glittering with tinsel, glass, and magnificent objects of ti n. In the first row, and far forwards, the merchant had placed on a background o f white napkins, an immense doll, nearly two feet high, who was dressed in a rob e of pink crepe, with gold wheat-ears on her head, which had real hair and ename l eyes. All that day, this marvel had been displayed to the wonderment of all pa ssers-by under ten years of age, without a mother being found in Montfermeil suf ficiently rich or sufficiently extravagant to give it to her child. Eponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplating it, and Cosette herself had ventured to cast a glance at it, on the sly, it is true. At the moment when Cosette emerged, bucket in hand, melancholy and overcome as she was, she could not refrain from lifting her eyes to that wonderful doll, tow ards the lady, as she called it. The poor child paused in amazement. She had not yet beheld that doll close to. The whole shop seemed a palace to her: the doll was not a doll; it was a vision. It was joy, splendor, riches, happiness, which appeared in a sort of chimerical halo to that unhappy little being so profoundly engulfed in gloomy and chilly misery. With the sad and innocent sagacity of chi ldhood, Cosette measured the abyss which separated her from that doll. She said to herself that one must be a queen, or at least a princess, to have a "thing" l ike that. She gazed at that beautiful pink dress, that beautiful smooth hair, an d she thought, "How happy that doll must be!" She could not take her eyes from t hat fantastic stall. The more she looked, the more dazzled she grew. She thought she was gazing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the large one, which seemed to her to be fairies and genii. The merchant, who was pacing back and for th in front of his shop, produced on her somewhat the effect of being the Eterna l Father. In this adoration she forgot everything, even the errand with which she was cha rged. All at once the Thenardier's coarse voice recalled her to reality: "What, you s illy jade! you have not gone? Wait! I'll give it to you! I want to know what you are doing there! Get along, you little monster!" The Thenardier had cast a glance into the street, and had caught sight of Coset te in her ecstasy. Cosette fled, dragging her pail, and taking the longest strides of which she wa s capable.

CHAPTER V THE LITTLE ONE ALL ALONE As the Thenardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is near the ch urch, it was to the spring in the forest in the direction of Chelles that Cosett

e was obliged to go for her water. She did not glance at the display of a single other merchant. So long as she wa s in Boulanger Lane and in the neighborhood of the church, the lighted stalls il luminated the road; but soon the last light from the last stall vanished. The po or child found herself in the dark. She plunged into it. Only, as a certain emot ion overcame her, she made as much motion as possible with the handle of the buc ket as she walked along. This made a noise which afforded her company. The further she went, the denser the darkness became. There was no one in the s treets. However, she did encounter a woman, who turned around on seeing her, and stood still, muttering between her teeth: "Where can that child be going? Is it a werewolf child?" Then the woman recognized Cosette. "Well," said she, "it's t he Lark!" In this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of tortuous and deserted streets which terminate in the village of Montfermeil on the side of Chelles. So long a s she had the houses or even the walls only on both sides of her path, she proce eded with tolerable boldness. From time to time she caught the flicker of a cand le through the crack of a shutter--this was light and life; there were people th ere, and it reassured her. But in proportion as she advanced, her pace slackened mechanically, as it were. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cos ette paused. It had been hard to advance further than the last stall; it became impossible to proceed further than the last house. She set her bucket on the gro und, thrust her hand into her hair, and began slowly to scratch her head,--a ges ture peculiar to children when terrified and undecided what to do. It was no lon ger Montfermeil; it was the open fields. Black and desert space was before her. She gazed in despair at that darkness, where there was no longer any one, where there were beasts, where there were spectres, possibly. She took a good look, an d heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she distinctly saw spectres moving in the trees. Then she seized her bucket again; fear had lent her audacity. "Bah !" said she; "I will tell him that there was no more water!" And she resolutely re-entered Montfermeil. Hardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to scratch her he ad again. Now it was the Thenardier who appeared to her, with her hideous, hyena mouth, and wrath flashing in her eyes. The child cast a melancholy glance befor e her and behind her. What was she to do? What was to become of her? Where was s he to go? In front of her was the spectre of the Thenardier; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the forest. It was before the Thenardier that she r ecoiled. She resumed her path to the spring, and began to run. She emerged from the village, she entered the forest at a run, no longer looking at or listening to anything. She only paused in her course when her breath failed her; but she d id not halt in her advance. She went straight before her in desperation. As she ran she felt like crying. The nocturnal quivering of the forest surrounded her completely. She no longer thought, she no longer saw. The immensity of night was facing thi s tiny creature. On the one hand, all shadow; on the other, an atom. It was only seven or eight minutes' walk from the edge of the woods to the spri ng. Cosette knew the way, through having gone over it many times in daylight. St range to say, she did not get lost. A remnant of instinct guided her vaguely. Bu t she did not turn her eyes either to right or to left, for fear of seeing thing s in the branches and in the brushwood. In this manner she reached the spring. It was a narrow, natural basin, hollowed out by the water in a clayey soil, abo ut two feet deep, surrounded with moss and with those tall, crimped grasses whic

h are called Henry IV.'s frills, and paved with several large stones. A brook ra n out of it, with a tranquil little noise. Cosette did not take time to breathe. It was very dark, but she was in the habi t of coming to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the dark for a young oak which leaned over the spring, and which usually served to support her, found one of its branches, clung to it, bent down, and plunged the bucket in the wate r. She was in a state of such violent excitement that her strength was trebled. While thus bent over, she did not notice that the pocket of her apron had emptie d itself into the spring. The fifteen-sou piece fell into the water. Cosette nei ther saw nor heard it fall. She drew out the bucket nearly full, and set it on t he grass. That done, she perceived that she was worn out with fatigue. She would have lik ed to set out again at once, but the effort required to fill the bucket had been such that she found it impossible to take a step. She was forced to sit down. S he dropped on the grass, and remained crouching there. She shut her eyes; then she opened them again, without knowing why, but because she could not do otherwise. The agitated water in the bucket beside her was des cribing circles which resembled tin serpents. Overhead the sky was covered with vast black clouds, which were like masses of smoke. The tragic mask of shadow seemed to bend vaguely over the child. Jupiter was setting in the depths. The child stared with bewildered eyes at this great star, with which she was un familiar, and which terrified her. The planet was, in fact, very near the horizo n and was traversing a dense layer of mist which imparted to it a horrible ruddy hue. The mist, gloomily empurpled, magnified the star. One would have called it a luminous wound. A cold wind was blowing from the plain. The forest was dark, not a leaf was mov ing; there were none of the vague, fresh gleams of summertide. Great boughs upli fted themselves in frightful wise. Slender and misshapen bushes whistled in the clearings. The tall grasses undulated like eels under the north wind. The nettle s seemed to twist long arms furnished with claws in search of prey. Some bits of dry heather, tossed by the breeze, flew rapidly by, and had the air of fleeing in terror before something which was coming after. On all sides there were lugub rious stretches. The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries himself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye sees black, the heart se es trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the sooty opacity, there is anxiety e ven for the stoutest of hearts. No one walks alone in the forest at night withou t trembling. Shadows and trees--two formidable densities. A chimerical reality a ppears in the indistinct depths. The inconceivable is outlined a few paces dista nt from you with a spectral clearness. One beholds floating, either in space or in one's own brain, one knows not what vague and intangible thing, like the drea ms of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes on the horizon. One inhales t he effluvia of the great black void. One is afraid to glance behind him, yet des irous of doing so. The cavities of night, things grown haggard, taciturn profile s which vanish when one advances, obscure dishevelments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the lugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of sil ence, unknown but possible beings, bendings of mysterious branches, alarming tor sos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants,-- against all this one has no p rotection. There is no hardihood which does not shudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is conscious of something hideous, as though one's soul were becoming amalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadow

s is indescribably sinister in the case of a child. Forests are apocalypses, and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault. Without understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by that black enormity of nature; it was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her; it was something more terrible even than terror; she shivered. There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver which chi lled her to the very bottom of her heart; her eye grew wild; she thought she fel t that she should not be able to refrain from returning there at the same hour o n the morrow. Then, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud, one, two, three, four, a nd so on up to ten, in order to escape from that singular state which she did no t understand, but which terrified her, and, when she had finished, she began aga in; this restored her to a true perception of the things about her. Her hands, w hich she had wet in drawing the water, felt cold; she rose; her terror, a natura l and unconquerable terror, had returned: she had but one thought now,--to flee at full speed through the forest, across the fields to the houses, to the window s, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her ; such was the fright which the Thenardier inspired in her, that she dared not f lee without that bucket of water: she seized the handle with both hands; she cou ld hardly lift the pail. In this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket was full; it was heav y; she was forced to set it on the ground once more. She took breath for an inst ant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again, and resumed her march, proceedi ng a little further this time, but again she was obliged to pause. After some se conds of repose she set out again. She walked bent forward, with drooping head, like an old woman; the weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms . The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands ; she was forced to halt from time to time, and each time that she did so, the c old water which splashed from the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight; she was a child of eight: no one but God saw that sad thing at the moment. And her mother, no doubt, alas! For there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves. She panted with a sort of painful rattle; sobs contracted her throat, but she d ared not weep, so afraid was she of the Thenardier, even at a distance: it was h er custom to imagine the Thenardier always present. However, she could not make much headway in that manner, and she went on very s lowly. In spite of diminishing the length of her stops, and of walking as long a s possible between them, she reflected with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to Montfermeil in this manner, and that the Thenardier wo uld beat her. This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woo ds at night; she was worn out with fatigue, and had not yet emerged from the for est. On arriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she was acquainted, made a last halt, longer than the rest, in order that she might get well rested; then she summoned up all her strength, picked up her bucket again, and courageously r esumed her march, but the poor little desperate creature could not refrain from crying, "O my God! my God!" At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all: a hand, which seemed to her enormous, had just seized the handl e, and lifted it vigorously. She raised her head. A large black form, straight a

nd erect, was walking beside her through the darkness; it was a man who had come up behind her, and whose approach she had not heard. This man, without uttering a word, had seized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying. There are instincts for all the encounters of life. The child was not afraid.

CHAPTER VI WHICH POSSIBLY PROVES BOULATRUELLE'S INTELLIGENCE On the afternoon of that same Christmas Day, 1823, a man had walked for rather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard de l'Hopital in Paris. Th is man had the air of a person who is seeking lodgings, and he seemed to halt, b y preference, at the most modest houses on that dilapidated border of the faubou rg Saint-Marceau. We shall see further on that this man had, in fact, hired a chamber in that iso lated quarter. This man, in his attire, as in all his person, realized the type of what may be called the well-bred mendicant,--extreme wretchedness combined with extreme cle anliness. This is a very rare mixture which inspires intelligent hearts with tha t double respect which one feels for the man who is very poor, and for the man w ho is very worthy. He wore a very old and very well brushed round hat; a coarse coat, worn perfectly threadbare, of an ochre yellow, a color that was not in the least eccentric at that epoch; a large waistcoat with pockets of a venerable cu t; black breeches, worn gray at the knee, stockings of black worsted; and thick shoes with copper buckles. He would have been pronounced a preceptor in some goo d family, returned from the emigration. He would have been taken for more than s ixty years of age, from his perfectly white hair, his wrinkled brow, his livid l ips, and his countenance, where everything breathed depression and weariness of life. Judging from his firm tread, from the singular vigor which stamped all his movements, he would have hardly been thought fifty. The wrinkles on his brow we re well placed, and would have disposed in his favor any one who observed him at tentively. His lip contracted with a strange fold which seemed severe, and which was humble. There was in the depth of his glance an indescribable melancholy se renity. In his left hand he carried a little bundle tied up in a handkerchief; i n his right he leaned on a sort of a cudgel, cut from some hedge. This stick had been carefully trimmed, and had an air that was not too threatening; the most h ad been made of its knots, and it had received a coral-like head, made from red wax: it was a cudgel, and it seemed to be a cane. There are but few passers-by on that boulevard, particularly in the winter. The man seemed to avoid them rather than to seek them, but this without any affecta tion. At that epoch, King Louis XVIII. went nearly every day to Choisy-le-Roi: it was one of his favorite excursions. Towards two o'clock, almost invariably, the roy

al carriage and cavalcade was seen to pass at full speed along the Boulevard de l'Hopital. This served in lieu of a watch or clock to the poor women of the quarter who sa id, "It is two o'clock; there he is returning to the Tuileries." And some rushed forward, and others drew up in line, for a passing king always creates a tumult; besides, the appearance and disappearance of Louis XVIII. prod uced a certain effect in the streets of Paris. It was rapid but majestic. This i mpotent king had a taste for a fast gallop; as he was not able to walk, he wishe d to run: that cripple would gladly have had himself drawn by the lightning. He passed, pacific and severe, in the midst of naked swords. His massive couch, all covered with gilding, with great branches of lilies painted on the panels, thun dered noisily along. There was hardly time to cast a glance upon it. In the rear angle on the right there was visible on tufted cushions of white satin a large, firm, and ruddy face, a brow freshly powdered a l'oiseau royal, a proud, hard, crafty eye, the smile of an educated man, two great epaulets with bullion fringe floating over a bourgeois coat, the Golden Fleece, the cross of Saint Louis, th e cross of the Legion of Honor, the silver plaque of the Saint-Esprit, a huge be lly, and a wide blue ribbon: it was the king. Outside of Paris, he held his hat decked with white ostrich plumes on his knees enwrapped in high English gaiters; when he re-entered the city, he put on his hat and saluted rarely; he stared co ldly at the people, and they returned it in kind. When he appeared for the first time in the Saint-Marceau quarter, the whole success which he produced is conta ined in this remark of an inhabitant of the faubourg to his comrade, "That big f ellow yonder is the government." This infallible passage of the king at the same hour was, therefore, the daily event of the Boulevard de l'Hopital. The promenader in the yellow coat evidently did not belong in the quarter, and probably did not belong in Paris, for he was ignorant as to this detail. When, a t two o'clock, the royal carriage, surrounded by a squadron of the body-guard al l covered with silver lace, debouched on the boulevard, after having made the tu rn of the Salpetriere, he appeared surprised and almost alarmed. There was no on e but himself in this cross-lane. He drew up hastily behind the corner of the wa ll of an enclosure, though this did not prevent M. le Duc de Havre from spying h im out. M. le Duc de Havre, as captain of the guard on duty that day, was seated in the carriage, opposite the king. He said to his Majesty, "Yonder is an evil-looking man." Members of the police, who were clearing the king's route, took equal not e of him: one of them received an order to follow him. But the man plunged into the deserted little streets of the faubourg, and as twilight was beginning to fa ll, the agent lost trace of him, as is stated in a report addressed that same ev ening to M. le Comte d'Angles, Minister of State, Prefect of Police. When the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off his track, he redouble d his pace, not without turning round many a time to assure himself that he was not being followed. At a quarter-past four, that is to say, when night was fully come, he passed in front of the theatre of the Porte Saint-Martin, where The Tw o Convicts was being played that day. This poster, illuminated by the theatre la nterns, struck him; for, although he was walking rapidly, he halted to read it. An instant later he was in the blind alley of La Planchette, and he entered the Plat d'Etain [the Pewter Platter], where the office of the coach for Lagny was t hen situated. This coach set out at half-past four. The horses were harnessed, a nd the travellers, summoned by the coachman, were hastily climbing the lofty iro n ladder of the vehicle. The man inquired:--

"Have you a place?" "Only one--beside me on the box," said the coachman. "I will take it." "Climb up." Nevertheless, before setting out, the coachman cast a glance at the traveller's shabby dress, at the diminutive size of his bundle, and made him pay his fare. "Are you going as far as Lagny?" demanded the coachman. "Yes," said the man. The traveller paid to Lagny. They started. When they had passed the barrier, the coachman tried to enter int o conversation, but the traveller only replied in monosyllables. The coachman to ok to whistling and swearing at his horses. The coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did not appe ar to be thinking of that. Thus they passed Gournay and Neuilly-sur-Marne. Towards six o'clock in the evening they reached Chelles. The coachman drew up i n front of the carters' inn installed in the ancient buildings of the Royal Abbe y, to give his horses a breathing spell. "I get down here," said the man. He took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down from the vehicle. An instant later he had disappeared. He did not enter the inn. When the coach set out for Lagny a few minutes later, it did not encounter him in the principal street of Chelles. The coachman turned to the inside travellers. "There," said he, "is a man who does not belong here, for I do not know him. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he does not consider money; he pays to Lag ny, and he goes only as far as Chelles. It is night; all the houses are shut; he does not enter the inn, and he is not to be found. So he has dived through the earth." The man had not plunged into the earth, but he had gone with great strides thro ugh the dark, down the principal street of Chelles, then he had turned to the ri ght before reaching the church, into the cross-road leading to Montfermeil, like a person who was acquainted with the country and had been there before. He followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it is intersected by the ancie nt tree-bordered road which runs from Gagny to Lagny, he heard people coming. He concealed himself precipitately in a ditch, and there waited until the passersby were at a distance. The precaution was nearly superfluous, however; for, as w e have already said, it was a very dark December night. Not more than two or thr ee stars were visible in the sky.

It is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not return to the road to Montfermeil; he struck across the fields to the right, and entere d the forest with long strides. Once in the forest he slackened his pace, and began a careful examination of al l the trees, advancing, step by step, as though seeking and following a mysterio us road known to himself alone. There came a moment when he appeared to lose him self, and he paused in indecision. At last he arrived, by dint of feeling his wa y inch by inch, at a clearing where there was a great heap of whitish stones. He stepped up briskly to these stones, and examined them attentively through the m ists of night, as though he were passing them in review. A large tree, covered w ith those excrescences which are the warts of vegetation, stood a few paces dist ant from the pile of stones. He went up to this tree and passed his hand over th e bark of the trunk, as though seeking to recognize and count all the warts. Opposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut-tree, suffering from a peeling of the bark, to which a band of zinc had been nailed by way of dressi ng. He raised himself on tiptoe and touched this band of zinc. Then he trod about for awhile on the ground comprised in the space between the tree and the heap of stones, like a person who is trying to assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed. That done, he took his bearings, and resumed his march through the forest. It was the man who had just met Cosette. As he walked through the thicket in the direction of Montfermeil, he had espied that tiny shadow moving with a groan, depositing a burden on the ground, then t aking it up and setting out again. He drew near, and perceived that it was a ver y young child, laden with an enormous bucket of water. Then he approached the ch ild, and silently grasped the handle of the bucket.

CHAPTER VII COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE STRANGER IN THE DARK Cosette, as we have said, was not frightened. The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost bass. "My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you." Cosette raised her head and replied:-"Yes, sir." "Give it to me," said the man; "I will carry it for you." Cosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her.

"It really is very heavy," he muttered between his teeth. Then he added:-"How old are you, little one?" "Eight, sir." "And have you come from far like this?" "From the spring in the forest." "Are you going far?" "A good quarter of an hour's walk from here." The man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly:-"So you have no mother." "I don't know," answered the child. Before the man had time to speak again, she added:-"I don't think so. Other people have mothers. I have none." And after a silence she went on:-"I think that I never had any." The man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hand s on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark. Cosette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the s ky. "What is your name?" said the man. "Cosette." The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette's shoulders, seized the bucket, and set o ut again. After a moment he inquired:-"Where do you live, little one?" "At Montfermeil, if you know where that is." "That is where we are going?" "Yes, sir." He paused; then began again:-"Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?" "It was Madame Thenardier."

The man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor:-"What does your Madame Thenardier do?" "She is my mistress," said the child. "She keeps the inn." "The inn?" said the man. "Well, I am going to lodge there to-night. Show me the way." "We are on the way there," said the child. The man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty. She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes towards the man, with a sort of tranquillity and an indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to pray; nevertheless, she felt within her some thing which resembled hope and joy, and which mounted towards heaven. Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed:-"Is there no servant in Madame Thenardier's house?" "No, sir." "Are you alone there?" "Yes, sir." Another pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice:-"That is to say, there are two little girls." "What little girls?" "Ponine and Zelma." This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female Thenardier. "Who are Ponine and Zelma?" "They are Madame Thenardier's young ladies; her daughters, as you would say." "And what do those girls do?" "Oh!" said the child, "they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves." "All day long?" "Yes, sir." "And you?" "I? I work." "All day long?" The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not visible be cause of the darkness, and replied gently:--

"Yes, sir." After an interval of silence she went on:-"Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself, too." "How do you amuse yourself?" "In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many playthings. Poni ne and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sw ord, no longer than that." The child held up her tiny finger. "And it will not cut?" "Yes, sir," said the child; "it cuts salad and the heads of flies." They reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply her with questions, and now preserve d a gloomy silence. When they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all the openair booths, asked Cosette:-"So there is a fair going on here?" "No, sir; it is Christmas." As they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm:-"Monsieur?" "What, my child?" "We are quite near the house." "Well?" "Will you let me take my bucket now?" "Why?" "If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me." The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern door.

CHAPTER VIII

THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE'S HOUSE A POOR MAN WHO MAY BE A RICH M AN Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big doll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant's; then she knocked. The door opened. T he Thenardier appeared with a candle in her hand. "Ah! so it's you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you've taken your time! Th e hussy has been amusing herself!" "Madame," said Cosette, trembling all over, "here's a gentleman who wants a lod ging." The Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the new-comer with her e yes. "This is the gentleman?" said she. "Yes, Madame," replied the man, raising his hand to his hat. Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection of the st ranger's costume and baggage, which the Thenardier passed in review with one gla nce, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the gruff mien to reappear. She r esumed dryly:-"Enter, my good man." The "good man" entered. The Thenardier cast a second glance at him, paid partic ular attention to his frock-coat, which was absolutely threadbare, and to his ha t, which was a little battered, and, tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and s crewing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, w hich, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular beggar. Thereupon, the Thenardier exclaimed:-"Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left." "Put me where you like," said the man; "in the attic, in the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room." "Forty sous." "Forty sous; agreed." "Very well, then!" "Forty sous!" said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thenardier woman; "why, the charge is only twenty sous!" "It is forty in his case," retorted the Thenardier, in the same tone. "I don't lodge poor folks for less." "That's true," added her husband, gently; "it ruins a house to have such people in it." In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench, had seat ed himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse

himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting. The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention. Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have al ready given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale; sh e was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyes, s unken in a sort of shadow, were almost put out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people. Her hands were, as her mother had divined, "ruined with chilblains." The fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully apparent. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of pressing her knees one a gainst the other. Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pi ty in summer, and which inspired horror in winter. All she had on was hole-ridde n linen, not a scrap of woollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywh ere black and blue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the Th enardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child's whole person, her mien, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals which she allowed to elapse bet ween one word and the next, her glance, her silence, her slightest gesture, expr essed and betrayed one sole idea,--fear. Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak; fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her petticoat, made her occupy as little space as possible, allowed her only the breath that was absolut ely necessary, and had become what might be called the habit of her body, admitt ing of no possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an astonished nook where terror lurked. Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not dare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her work again. The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually so glo omy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain moments as though she wer e on the verge of becoming an idiot or a demon. As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had never set fo ot in a church. "Have I the time?" said the Thenardier. The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette. All at once, the Thenardier exclaimed:-"By the way, where's that bread?" Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thenardier uplifted her voice, em erged with great haste from beneath the table. She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of ch ildren who live in a constant state of fear. She lied. "Madame, the baker's shop was shut." "You should have knocked." "I did knock, Madame." "Well?"

"He did not open the door." "I'll find out to-morrow whether that is true," said the Thenardier; "and if yo u are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me b ack my fifteen-sou piece." Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, and turned green. The fi fteen-sou piece was not there. "Ah, come now," said Madame Thenardier, "did you hear me?" Cosette turned her pocket inside out; there was nothing in it. What could have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not find a word to say. She was petrified. "Have you lost that fifteen-sou piece?" screamed the Thenardier, hoarsely, "or do you want to rob me of it?" At the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the cat-o'-nine-tails which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner. This formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufficient strength to shriek:-"Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more!" The Thenardier took down the whip. In the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the fob of his waistcoat, without any one having noticed his movements. Besides, the other tra vellers were drinking or playing cards, and were not paying attention to anythin g. Cosette contracted herself into a ball, with anguish, within the angle of the c himney, endeavoring to gather up and conceal her poor half-nude limbs. The Thena rdier raised her arm. "Pardon me, Madame," said the man, "but just now I caught sight of something wh ich had fallen from this little one's apron pocket, and rolled aside. Perhaps th is is it." At the same time he bent down and seemed to be searching on the floor for a mom ent. "Exactly; here it is," he went on, straightening himself up. And he held out a silver coin to the Thenardier. "Yes, that's it," said she. It was not it, for it was a twenty-sou piece; but the Thenardier found it to he r advantage. She put the coin in her pocket, and confined herself to casting a f ierce glance at the child, accompanied with the remark, "Don't let this ever hap pen again!" Cosette returned to what the Thenardier called "her kennel," and her large eyes , which were riveted on the traveller, began to take on an expression such as th ey had never worn before. Thus far it was only an innocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied confidence was mingled with it.

"By the way, would you like some supper?" the Thenardier inquired of the travel ler. He made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought. "What sort of a man is that?" she muttered between her teeth. "He's some fright fully poor wretch. He hasn't a sou to pay for a supper. Will he even pay me for his lodging? It's very lucky, all the same, that it did not occur to him to stea l the money that was on the floor." In the meantime, a door had opened, and Eponine and Azelma entered. They were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than peasant in looks, and very charming; the one with shining chestnut tresses, the other with long b lack braids hanging down her back, both vivacious, neat, plump, rosy, and health y, and a delight to the eye. They were warmly clad, but with so much maternal ar t that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract from the coquetry of arrangem ent. There was a hint of winter, though the springtime was not wholly effaced. L ight emanated from these two little beings. Besides this, they were on the thron e. In their toilettes, in their gayety, in the noise which they made, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the Thenardier said to them in a grumbling tone which was full of adoration, "Ah! there you are, you children!" Then drawing them, one after the other to her knees, smoothing their hair, tyin g their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them with that gentle manner of shaki ng off which is peculiar to mothers, she exclaimed, "What frights they are!" They went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had a doll, which t hey turned over and over on their knees with all sorts of joyous chatter. From t ime to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting, and watched their play wi th a melancholy air. Eponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same as a dog to them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up four and twenty years between the m, but they already represented the whole society of man; envy on the one side, disdain on the other. The doll of the Thenardier sisters was very much faded, very old, and much brok en; but it seemed none the less admirable to Cosette, who had never had a doll i n her life, a real doll, to make use of the expression which all children will u nderstand. All at once, the Thenardier, who had been going back and forth in the room, per ceived that Cosette's mind was distracted, and that, instead of working, she was paying attention to the little ones at their play. "Ah! I've caught you at it!" she cried. "So that's the way you work! I'll make you work to the tune of the whip; that I will." The stranger turned to the Thenardier, without quitting his chair. "Bah, Madame," he said, with an almost timid air, "let her play!" Such a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton and had dr unk a couple of bottles of wine with his supper, and who had not the air of bein g frightfully poor, would have been equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should permit himself such a desire, and that a man with such a coat should permit himself to have a will, was something which Madame Thenardier did not intend to tolerate. She retorted with acrimony:--

"She must work, since she eats. I don't feed her to do nothing." "What is she making?" went on the stranger, in a gentle voice which contrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his porter's shoulders. The Thenardier deigned to reply:-"Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls, who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now." The man looked at Cosette's poor little red feet, and continued:-"When will she have finished this pair of stockings?" "She has at least three or four good days' work on them still, the lazy creatur e!" "And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has finished them?" The Thenardier cast a glance of disdain on him. "Thirty sous at least." "Will you sell them for five francs?" went on the man. "Good heavens!" exclaimed a carter who was listening, with a loud laugh; "five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls!" Thenardier thought it time to strike in. "Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair of stoc kings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers." "You must pay on the spot," said the Thenardier, in her curt and peremptory fas hion. "I will buy that pair of stockings," replied the man, "and," he added, drawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying it on the table, "I will pay for them." Then he turned to Cosette. "Now I own your work; play, my child." The carter was so much touched by the five-franc piece, that he abandoned his g lass and hastened up. "But it's true!" he cried, examining it. "A real hind wheel! and not counterfei t!" Thenardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket. The Thenardier had no reply to make. She bit her lips, and her face assumed an expression of hatred. In the meantime, Cosette was trembling. She ventured to ask:-"Is it true, Madame? May I play?" "Play!" said the Thenardier, in a terrible voice.

"Thanks, Madame," said Cosette. And while her mouth thanked the Thenardier, her whole little soul thanked the t raveller. Thenardier had resumed his drinking; his wife whispered in his ear:-"Who can this yellow man be?" "I have seen millionaires with coats like that," replied Thenardier, in a sover eign manner. Cosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat. Cosette always mov ed as little as possible. She picked up some old rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her. Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had just execut ed a very important operation; they had just got hold of the cat. They had throw n their doll on the ground, and Eponine, who was the elder, was swathing the lit tle cat, in spite of its mewing and its contortions, in a quantity of clothes an d red and blue scraps. While performing this serious and difficult work she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language of children, whose grac e, like the splendor of the butterfly's wing, vanishes when one essays to fix it fast. "You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists, she cri es, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually, you will perceive her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will s ee her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you. And you will say to me, `Ah! Mon Dieu!' and I will say to you: `Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that just at present.'" Azelma listened admiringly to Eponine. In the meantime, the drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song, and to laugh a t it until the ceiling shook. Thenardier accompanied and encouraged them. As birds make nests out of everything, so children make a doll out of anything which comes to hand. While Eponine and Azelma were bundling up the cat, Cosette, on her side, had dressed up her sword. That done, she laid it in her arms, and sang to it softly, to lull it to sleep. The doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the same time, one of the m ost charming instincts of feminine childhood. To care for, to clothe, to deck, t o dress, to undress, to redress, to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandle, t o lull to sleep, to imagine that something is some one,--therein lies the whole woman's future. While dreaming and chattering, making tiny outfits, and baby clo thes, while sewing little gowns, and corsages and bodices, the child grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl, the big girl into a woman. The fir st child is the continuation of the last doll. A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite as impossible, as a woman without children. So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword. Madame Thenardier approached the yellow man; "My husband is right," she thought ; "perhaps it is M. Laffitte; there are such queer rich men!"

She came and set her elbows on the table. "Monsieur," said she. At this word, Monsieur, the man turned; up to that time, the Thenardier had addressed him only as brave homme or bonhomme. "You see, sir," she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that was even more repulsi ve to behold than her fierce mien, "I am willing that the child should play; I d o not oppose it, but it is good for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing; she must needs work." "Then this child is not yours?" demanded the man. "Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken in through ch arity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water on the brain; she has a lar ge head, as you see. We do what we can for her, for we are not rich; we have wri tten in vain to her native place, and have received no reply these six months. I t must be that her mother is dead." "Ah!" said the man, and fell into his revery once more. "Her mother didn't amount to much," added the Thenardier; "she abandoned her ch ild." During the whole of this conversation Cosette, as though warned by some instinc t that she was under discussion, had not taken her eyes from the Thenardier's fa ce; she listened vaguely; she caught a few words here and there. Meanwhile, the drinkers, all three-quarters intoxicated, were repeating their u nclean refrain with redoubled gayety; it was a highly spiced and wanton song, in which the Virgin and the infant Jesus were introduced. The Thenardier went off to take part in the shouts of laughter. Cosette, from her post under the table, gazed at the fire, which was reflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to roc k the sort of baby which she had made, and, as she rocked it, she sang in a low voice, "My mother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead!" On being urged afresh by the hostess, the yellow man, "the millionaire," consen ted at last to take supper. "What does Monsieur wish?" "Bread and cheese," said the man. "Decidedly, he is a beggar" thought Madame Thenardier. The drunken men were still singing their song, and the child under the table wa s singing hers. All at once, Cosette paused; she had just turned round and caught sight of the little Thenardiers' doll, which they had abandoned for the cat and had left on t he floor a few paces from the kitchen table. Then she dropped the swaddled sword, which only half met e to make any speech, yet, seeing his friendly townspeople, old and young, in groups watching him ente r his own door once more, he turned suddenly back and going to the gate said, 'M y friends! I know this is not a tribute to an old man and his daughter returned to their home, but to the common blood of us all--one family--in Concord.'"\ The exposure incidental to the fire seriously undermined Emerson's already failing health; shortly after he wrote a friend in Philadelphia, "It is too ridiculous t hat a fire should make an old scholar sick; but the exposures of that morning an

d the necessities of the following days which kept me a large part of the time i n the blaze of the sun have in every way demoralized me for the present,--incapa ble of any sane or just action. These signal proofs of my debility an decay ough t to persuade you at your first northern excursion to come and reanimate and ren ew the failing powers of your still affectionate old friend."\ The story of his last days is told by his son, who was also his physician:\ "His last few years w ere quiet and happy. Nature gently drew the veil over his eyes; he went to his s tudy and tried to work, accomplished less and less, but did not notice it. Howev er, he made out to look over and index most of his journals. He enjoyed reading, but found so much difficulty in conversation in associating the right word with his idea, that he avoided going into company, and on that account gradually cea sed to attend the meetings of the Social Circle. As his critical sense became du lled, his standard of intellectual performance was less exacting, and this was m ost fortunate, for he gladly went to any public occasion where he could hear, an d nothing would be expected of him. He attended the Lyceum and all occasions of speaking or reading in the Town Hall with unfailing pleasure.\ "He read a lectur e before his townpeople** each winter as late as 1880, but needed to have one of his family near by to help him out with a word and assist in keeping the place in his manuscript. In these last years he liked to go to church. The instinct ha d always been there, but he had felt that he could use his time to better purpos e."\ "In April, 1882, a raw and backward spring, he caught cold, and increased i t by walking out in the rain and, through forgetfulness, omitting to put on his over-coat. He had a hoarse cold for a few days, and on the morning of April 19 I found him a little feverish, so went to see him next day. He was asleep on his study sofa, and when he awoke he proved to be more feverish and a little bewilde red, with unusual difficulty in finding the right word. He was entirely comforta ble and enjoyed talking, and, as he liked to have me read to him, I read Paul Re vere's Ride, finding that he could only follow simple narrative. He expressed gr eat pleasure, was delighted that the story was part of Concord's story, but was sure he had never heard it before, and could hardly be made to understand who Lo ngfellow was, though he had attended his funeral only the week before."\ It was at Longfellow's funeral that Emerson got up from his chair, went to the side of the coffin and gazed long and earnestly upon the familiar face of the dead poet; twice he did this, then said to a friend near him, "That gentleman was a sweet, beautiful soul, but I have entirely forgotten his name."\ Continuing the narrat ive, the son says: "Though dulled to other impressions, to one he was fresh as l ong as he could understand anything, and while even the familiar objects of his study began to look strange, he smiled and pointed to Carlyle's head and said, ' That is my man, my good man!' I mention this because it has been said that this friendship cooled, and that my father had for long years neglected to write to h is early friend. He was loyal while life lasted, but had been unable to write a letter for years before he died. Their friendship did not need letters.\ "The ne xt day pneumonia developed itself in a portion of one lung and he seemed much si cker; evidently believed he was to die, and with difficulty made out to give a w ord or two of instructions to his children. He did not know how to be sick, and desired to be dressed and sit up in his study, and as we had found that any atte mpt to regulate his actions lately was very annoying to him, and he could not be made to understand the reasons for our doing so in his condition, I determined that it would not be worth while to trouble and restrain him as it would a young er person who had more to live for. He had lived free; his life was essentially spent, and in what must almost surely be his last illness we would not embitter the occasion by any restraint that was not absolutely unavoidable.\ "He suffered very little, took his nourishment well, but had great annoyance from his inabil ity to find the words which he wished for. He knew his friends and family, but t hought he was in a strange house. He sat up in a chair by the fire much of the t ime, and only on the last day stayed entirely in bed.\ "During the sickness he a lways showed pleasure when his wife sat by his side, and on one of the last days he managed to express, in spite of his difficulty with words, how long and happ y they had lived together. The sight of his grandchildren always brought the bri ghtest smile to his face. On the last day he saw several of his friends and took

leave of them.\ "Only at the last came pain, and this was at once relieved by e ther, and in the quiet sleep this produced he gradually faded away in the evenin g of Thursday, April 27, 1882.\ "Thirty-five years earlier he wrote one morning in his journal: 'I said, when I awoke, after some more sleepings and wakings I s hall lie on this mattress sick; then dead; and through my gay entry they will ca rry these bones. Where shall I be then? I lifted my head and beheld the spotless orange light of the morning streaming up from the dark hills into the wide univ erse.'"\ After a few more sleepings and a few more wakings we shall all lie dead , every living soul on this broad earth,--all who, at this mathematical point in time called the present, breathe the breath of life will pass away; but even no w the new generation is springing into life; within the next hour five thousand bodies will be born into the world to perpetuate mankind; the whole lives by the constant renewal of its parts; but the individual, what becomes of the individu al?\ The five thousand bodies that are born within the hour take the place of th e something less than five thousand bodies that die within the hour; the success ion is preserved; the life of the aggregate is assured; but the individual, what becomes of the individual? Is he immortal, and if immortal whence came he and w hither does he go? if immortal, whence come these new souls which are being deli vered on the face of the globe at the rate of nearly a hundred a minute? Are the y from other worlds, exiled for a time to this, or are they souls revisiting the ir former habitation? Hardly the latter, for more are coming than going.\ One mi dsummer night, while leaning over the rail of an ocean steamer and watching the white foam thrown up by the prow, the expanse of dark, heaving water, the vast d ome of sky studded with the brilliant jewels of space, an old man stopped by my side and we talked of the grandeur of nature and the mysteries of life and death , and he said, "My wife and I once had three boys, whom we loved better than lif e; one by one they were taken from us,--they all died, and my wife and I were le ft alone in the world; but after a time a boy was born to us and we gave him the name of the oldest who died, and then another came and we gave him the name of my second boy, and then a third was born and we gave him the name of our younges t;--and so in some mysterious way our three boys have come back to us; we feel t hat they went away for a little while and returned. I have sometimes looked in t heir eyes and asked them if anything they saw or heard seemed familiar, whether there was any faint fleeting memories of other days; they say 'no;' but I am sur e that their souls are the souls of the boys we lost."\ And why not? Is it not m ore than likely that there is but one soul which dwells in all things animate an d inanimate, or rather, are not all things animate and inanimate but manifestati ons of the one soul, so that the death of an individual is, after all, but the s uppression of a particular manifestation and in no sense a release of a separate soul; so that the birth of a child is but a new manifestation in physical form of the one soul, and in no sense the apparition of an additional soul? It is dif ficult to think otherwise. The birth and death of souls are inconceivable; the i mmortality of a vast and varying number of individual souls is equally inconceiv able. Immortality implies unity, not number. The mind can grasp the possibility of one soul, the manifestation of which is the universe and all it contains.\ Th e hypothesis of individual souls first confined in and then released from indivi dual bodies to preserve their individuality for all time is inconceivable, since it assumes--to coin a word-- an intersoulular space, which must necessarily be filled with a medium that is either material or spiritual in its character; if m aterial, then we have the inconceivable condition of spiritual entities surround ed by a material medium; if the intersoulular space be occupied by a spiritual m edium, then we have simply souls surrounded by soul,--or, in the final analysis, one soul, of which the so-called individual souls are but so many manifestation s.\ To the assumption of an all-pervading ether which is the physical basis of t he universe, may we not add the suprasumption** of an all-pervading soul which i s the spiritual basis of not only the ether but of life itself? The seeming dual ity of mind and matter, of the soul and body, must terminate somewhere, must mer ge in identity. Whether that identity be the Creator of theology or the soul of speculation does not much matter, since the final result is the same, namely, th e immortality of that suprasumption, the soul.\ But the individual, what becomes

of the individual in this assumption of an all-pervading, immortal soul, of whi ch all things animate and inanimate are but so many activities?\ The body, which for a time being is a part of the local manifestation of the pervading soul, di es and is resolved into its constituent elements; it is inconceivable that those elements should ever gather themselves together again and appear in visible, ta ngible form. No one could possibly desire they ever should; those who die maimed , or from sickness and disease, or in the decrepitude and senility of age, could not possibly wish that their disordered bodies should appear again; nor could a ny person name the exact period of his life when he was so satisfied with his ph ysical condition that he would choose to have his body as it then was. No; the b ody, like the trunk of a fallen tree, decays and disappears; like ripe fruit, it drops to the earth and enriches the soil, but nevermore resumes its form and se mblance.\ The pervading soul, of which the body was but the physical manifestati on, remains; it does not return to heaven or any hypothetical point in either sp ace or speculation. The dissolution of the body is but the dissolution of a part icular manifestation of the all-pervading soul, and the immortality of the so-ca lled individual soul is but the persistence of that, so to speak, local disturba nce in the one soul after the body has disappeared. It is quite conceivable, or rather the reverse is inconceivable, that the activity of the pervading soul, wh ich manifests itself for a time in the body, persists indefinitely after the phy sical manifestation has ceased; that, with the cessation of the physical manifes tation, the particular activity which we recognize here as an individuality will so persist that hereafter we may recognize it as a spiritual personality. In ot her words, assuming the existence of a soul of which the universe and all it con tains are but so many manifestations, it is dimly conceivable that with the cess ation, or rather the transformation, of any particular manifestation, the effect s may so persist as to be forever known and recognizable,--not by parts of the o ne soul, which has no parts, but by the soul itself.\ Therefore all things are i mmortal. Nothing is so lost to the infinite soul as to be wholly and totally obl iterated. The withering of a flower is as much the act of the all-pervading soul as the death of a child; but the life and death of a human being involve activi ties of the soul so incomparably greater than the blossoming of a plant, that th e immortality of the one, while not differing in kind, may be infinitely more im portant in degree. The manifestation of the soul in the life of the humming-bird is slight in comparison with the manifestation in the life of a man, and the tr aces which persist forever in the case of the former are probably insignificant compared with the traces which persist in the case of the latter; but traces mus t persist, else there is no immortality of the individual; at the same time ther e is not the slightest reason for urging that, whereas traces of the soul's acti vity in the form of man will persist, traces of the soul's activity in lower for ms of life and in things inanimate will not persist. There is no reason why, whe n the physical barriers which exist between us and the soul that is within and w ithout us are destroyed, we should not desire to know forever all that the unive rse contains. Why should not the sun and the moon and the stars be immortal,--as immortal in their way as we in ours, both immortal in the one all-pervading sou l?\ "The philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the chambers and the magazine of the soul. In its experiments there has always remained, in the last analysis, a residuum it could not solve," said Emerson in the lecture he called "Over-Soul."\ What a pity to use the phrase "Over-Soul," which removes the soul even farther aloof than it is in popular conception, or which fosters the belief of an inner and outer, or an inferior and a superior soul; whereas Emerson mean t, as the context shows, the all-pervading soul.\ But, then, who knows what any one else thinks or means? At the most we only know what others say, what words t hey use, but in what sense they use them and the content of thought back of them we do not know. So far as the problems of life go we are all groping in the dar k, and words are like fireflies leading us hither and thither with glimpses of l ight only to go out, leaving us in darkness and despair.\ It is the sounding phr ase that catches the ear. "For fools admire and like all things the more which t hey perceive to be concealed under involved language, and determine things to be true which can prettily tickle the ears and are varnished over with finely soun

ding phrase," says Lucretius. We imagine we understand when we do not; we do not really, truly, and wholly understand Emerson or any other man; we do not unders tand ourselves.\ We speak of the conceivable and of the inconceivable as if the words had any clear and tangible meaning in our minds; whereas they have not; at the best they are of but relative value. What is conceivable to one man is inco nceivable to another; what is beyond the perception of one generation is matter of fact to the next.\ The conceivable is and ever must be bounded by the inconce ivable; the domain of the former is finite, that of the latter is infinite. It m atters not how far we press our speculations, how extravagant our hypotheses, ho w distant our vision, we reach at length the confines of our thought and admit t he inconceivable. The inconceivable is a postulate as essential to reason as is the conceivable. That the inconceivable exists is as certain as the existence of the conceivable; it is in a sense more certain, since we constantly find oursel ves in error in our conclusions concerning the existence of the things we know, while we can never be in error concerning the existence of things we can never k now, being sure that beyond the confines of the finite there must necessarily be the infinite.\ We may indulge in assumptions concerning the infinite based upon our knowledge of the finite, or, rather, based upon the inflexible laws of our mental processes. We may say that there must be one all-pervading soul, not beca use we can form any conception whatsoever of the true nature of such a soul, but because the alternative hypothesis of many individual souls is utterly obnoxiou s to our reason.\ To those who urge that it is idle to reason about what we cann ot conceive, it is sufficient answer to say that man cannot help it. The scienti st and the materialist in the ardent pursuit of knowledge soon experience the ne cessity of indulging in assumptions concerning force and matter, the hypothetica l ether and molecules, atoms and vortices, which are as purely metaphysical as a ny assumptions concerning the soul. The distinction between the realist and the idealist is a matter of temperament. All that separated Huxley from Gladstone wa s a word; each argued from the unknowable, but disputed over the name and attrib utes of the inconceivable. Huxley said he did not know, which was equivalent to the dogmatic assertion that he did; Gladstone said he did know, which was a conf ession of ignorance denser than that of agnosticism.\ Those men who try not to t hink or reason concerning the infinite simply imprison themselves within the fou r walls of the cell they construct. It is better to think and be wrong than not to think at all. Any assumption is better than no assumption, any belief better than none.\ Hypotheses enlarge the boundaries of knowledge. With assumptions the intellectual prospector stakes out the infinite. In life we may not verify our premises, but death is the proof of all things.\ We stopped at Wright's tavern, where patriots used to meet before the days of the revolution, and where Major P itcairn is said-- wrongfully in all probability--to have made his boast on the m orning of the 19th, as he stirred his toddy, that they would stir the rebels' bl ood before night.\ One realizes that "there is but one Concord" as the carriages of pilgrims are counted in the Square, and the swarm of young guides, with pamp hlets and maps, importune the chance visitor.\ We chose the most persistent litt le urchin, not that we could not find our way about so small a village, but beca use he wanted to ride, and it is always interesting to draw out a child; his sto ry of the town and its famous places was, of course, the one he had learned from the others, but his comments were his own, and the incongruity of going over th e sacred ground in an automobile had its effect.\ It was a short run down Monume nt Street to the turn just beyond the "Old Manse." Here the British turned to cr oss the North Bridge on their way to Colonel Barrett's house, where the ammuniti on was stored. Just across the narrow bridge the "embattled farmers stood and fi red the shot heard round the world." A monument marks the spot where the British received the fire of the farmers, and a stone at the side recites "Graves of tw o British soldiers,"-- unknown wanderers from home they surrendered their lives in a quarrel, the merits of which they did not know. "Soon was their warfare end ed; a weary night march from Boston, a rattling volley of musketry across the ri ver, and then these many years of rest. In the long procession of slain invaders who passed into eternity from the battle-field of the revolution, these two nam eless soldiers led the way." While standing by the grave, Hawthorne was told a s

tory, a tradition of how a youth, hurrying to the battle-field axe in hand, came upon these two soldiers, one not yet dead raised himself up painfully on his ha nds and knees, and how the youth on the impulse of the moment cleft the wounded man's head with the axe. The tradition is probably false, but it made its impres sion on Hawthorne, who continues, "I could wish that the grave might be opened; for I would fain know whether either of the skeleton soldiers has the mark of an axe in his skull. The story comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes, as an inte llectual and moral exercise, I have sought to follow that poor youth through his subsequent career and observe how his soul was tortured by the blood-stain, con tracted as it had been before the long custom of war had robbed human life of it s sanctity, and while it still seemed murderous to slay a brother man. This one circumstance has borne more fruit for me than all that history tells us of the f ight."\ There are souls so callous that the taking of a human life is no more th an the killing of a beast; there are souls so sensitive that they will not kill a living thing. The man who can relate without regret so profound it is close ak in to remorse the killing of another--no matter what the provocation, no matter what the circumstances--is next kin to the common hangman.\ From the windows of the "Old Manse," the Rev. William Emerson, grandfather of Ralph Waldo Emerson, l ooked out upon the battle, and he would have taken part in the fight had not his neighbors held him back; as it was, he sacrificed his life the following year i n attempting to join the army at Ticonderoga, contracting a fever which proved f atal.\ Sleepy Hollow Cemetery lies on Bedford Street not far from the Town Hall. We followed the winding road to the hill where Hawthorne, Thoreau, the Alcotts, and Emerson lie buried within a half-dozen paces of one another.\ Thoreau came first in May, 1862. Emerson delivered the funeral address. Mrs. Hawthorne writes in her diary, "Mr. Thoreau died this morning. The funeral services were in the church. Mr. Emerson spoke. Mr. Alcott read from Mr. Thoreau's writings. The body was in the vestibule covered with wild flowers. We went to the grave."\ Hawthor ne came next, just two years later. "On the 24th of May, 1864 we carried Hawthor ne through the blossoming orchards of Concord," says James T. Fields, "and laid him down under a group of pines, on a hillside, overlooking historic fields. All the way from the village church to the grave the birds kept up a perpetual melo dy. The sun shone brightly, and the air was sweet and pleasant, as if death had never entered the world. Longfellow and Emerson, Channing and Hoar, Agassiz and Lowell, Greene and Whipple, Alcott and Clarke, Holmes and Hillard, and other fri ends whom he loved, walked slowly by his side that beautiful spring morning. The companion of his youth and his manhood, for whom he would willingly, at any tim e, have given up his own life, Franklin Pierce, was there among the rest, and sc attered flowers into the grave. The unfinished 'Romance,' which had cost him so much anxiety, the last literary work on which he had ever been engaged, was laid in his coffin."\ Eighteen years later, on April 30, 1882, Emerson was laid at r est a little beyond Hawthorne and Thoreau in a spot chosen by himself.\ A specia l train came from Boston, but many could not get inside the church. The town was draped; "even the homes of the very poor bore outward marks of grief." At the h ouse, Dr. Furness, of Philadelphia, conducted the services. "The body lay in the front northeast room, in which were gathered the family and close friends." The only flowers were lilies of the valley, roses, and arbutus.\ At the church, Jud ge Hoar, standing by the coffin, spoke briefly; Dr. Furness read selections from the Scriptures; James Freeman Clarke delivered the funeral address, and Alcott read a sonnet.\ "Over an hour was occupied by the passing files of neighbors, fr iends, and visitors looking for the last time upon the face of the dead poet. Th e body was robed completely in white, and the face bore a natural and peaceful e xpression. From the church the procession took its way to the cemetery. The grav e was made beneath a tall pine-tree upon the hill-top of Sleepy Hollow, where li e the bodies of his friends Thoreau and Hawthorne, the upturned sod being concea led by strewings of pine boughs. A border of hemlock spray surrounded the grave and completely lined its sides. The services were very brief, and the casket was soon lowered to its final resting-place. The grandchildren passed the open grav e and threw flowers into it."\ In her "Journal," Louisa Alcott wrote, "Thursday, 27th. Mr. Emerson died at nine P.M. suddenly. Our best and greatest American go

ne. The nearest and dearest friend father ever had, and the man who has helped m e most by his life, his books, his society. I can never tell all he has been to me,--from the time I sang Mignon's song under his window (a little girl) and wro te letters \'c9 la_ Bettine to him, my Goethe, at fifteen, up through my hard ye ars, when his essays on Self-Reliance, Character, Compensation, Love, and Friend ship helped me to understand myself and life, and God and Nature. Illustrious an d beloved friend, good-by!\ "Sunday, 30th.--Emerson's funeral. I made a yellow l yre of jonquils for the church, and helped trim it up. Private service at the ho use, and a great crowd at the church. Father read his sonnet, and Judge Hoar and others spoke. Now he lies in Sleepy Hollow among his brothers under the pines h e loved."\ On March 4, 1888, Bronson Alcott died, and two days later Louisa Alco tt followed her father. They lie near together on the ridge a little beyond Hawt horne. Initials only mark the graves of her sisters, but it has been found neces sary to place a small stone bearing the name "Louisa" on the grave of the author of "Little Women." She had made every arrangement for her death, and by her own wish her funeral was in her father's rooms in Boston, and attended by only a fe w of her family and nearest friends.\ "They read her exquisite poem to her mothe r, her father's noble tribute to her, and spoke of the earnestness and truth of her life. She was remembered as she would have wished to be. Her body was carrie d to Concord and placed in the beautiful cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, where her de arest ones were already laid to rest. 'Her boys' went beside her as 'a guard of honor,' and stood around as she was placed across the feet of father, mother, an d sister, that she might 'take care of them as she had done all her life.'"\ Lou isa Alcott's last written words were the acknowledgment of the receipt of a flow er. "It stands beside me on Marmee's (her mother) work-table, and reminds me ten derly of her favorite flowers; and among those used at her funeral was a spray o f this, which lasted for two weeks afterwards, opening bud by bud in the glass o n her table, where lay the dear old 'Jos. May' hymn-book, and her diary with the pen shut in as she left it when she last wrote there, three days before the end , 'The twilight is closing about me, and I am going to rest in the arms of my ch ildren.' So, you see, I love the delicate flower and enjoy it very much."\ Rever ently, with bowed heads, we stood on that pine-covered ridge which contained the mortal remains of so many who are great and illustrious in the annals of Americ an literature. A scant patch of earth hides their dust, but their fancies, their imaginings, their philosophy spanned human conduct, emotions, beliefs, and aspi rations from the cradle to the grave.\ The warm September day was drawing to a c lose; the red sun was sinking towards the west; the hilltop was aflame with a go lden glow from the slanting rays of the declining sun. Slowly we wended our way through the shadowy hollow below; looking back, the mound seemed crowned with gl ory.\ Leaving Concord by Main Street we passed some famous homes, among them Tho reau's earlier home, where he made lead-pencils with the deftness which characte rized all his handiwork; turning to the left on Thoreau Street we crossed the tr acks and took the Sudbury road through all the Sudburys,--four in number; the ro ads were good and the country all the more interesting because not yet invaded b y the penetrating trolley. It would be sacrilegious for electric cars to go whiz zing by the ancient tombs and monuments that fringe the road down through Sudbur y; the automobile felt out of place and instinctively slowed down to stately and measured pace.\ In all truth, one should walk, not ride, through this beautiful country, where every highway has its historic associations, every burying-groun d its honored dead, every hamlet its weather-beaten monument. But if one is to r ide, the automobile--incongruous as it may seem--has this advantage,--it will st and indefinitely anywhere; it may be left by the roadside for hours; no one can start it; hardly any person would maliciously harm it, providing it is far enoug h to one side so as not to frighten passing horses; excursions on foot may be ma de to any place of interest, then, when the day draws to a close, a half-hour su ffices to reach the chosen resting-place.\ It was getting dark as we passed bene ath the stately trees bordering the old post-road which leads to the door of the "Wayside Inn."\ Here the stages from Boston to Worcester used to stop for dinne r. Here Washington, Lafayette, Burgoyne, and other great men of Revolutionary da ys had been entertained, for along this highway the troops marched and counterma

rched. The old inn is rich in historic associations.\ The road which leads to th e very door of the inn is the old post-road; the finely macadamized State road w hich passes a little farther away is of recent dedication, and is located so as to leave the ancient hostelry a little retired from ordinary travel.\ A weatherbeaten sign with a red horse rampant swings at one corner of the main building.\ "Half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign."\ For nearl y two hundred years, from 1683 to 1860, the inn was owned and kept by one family , the Howes, and was called by many "Howe's Tavern," by others "The Red Horse In n."\ Since the publication of Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn," the place h as been known by no other name than the one it now bears.\ "As ancient is this h ostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now so mewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, a nd crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall."\ A portrait of Lyman Howe, the last landlord of the family, hangs in the little bar-room,\ "A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Kn own in all Sudbury as 'The Squire.' Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Si r William and Sir Hugh."\ And now as of yore\ "In the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed."\ The smal l window-panes which the poet describes as bearing\ "The jovial rhymes, that sti ll remain, Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made,"\ are preserved in frames near the mantel in the parlor, one deeply scratched by diamond ring with name of Major Molineaux and the date, "Ju ne 24th, 1774," the other bears this inscription,--\ "What do you think? Here is good drink, Perhaps you may not know it; If not in haste, Do stop and taste, Yo u merry folk will show it."\ A worthy, though not so gifted, successor of the jo lly major rendered the following "true accomp.," which, yellow and faded, hangs on the bar-room wall:\ "Thursday, August 7, 1777" L s. d. Super & Loging . . . . . . . 0 1 4 8th. Brakfast, Dinar and 0 1 9 Super and half mug of tody 0 2 6 9th . Lodging, one glass rum half 0 2 6 & Dinar, one mes oats 0 1 4 Super half mug f lyp 0 3 0 10th Brakf.--one dram 0 1 8 Dinner, Lodging, horse-keeping 0 2 0 one m ug flyp, horse bating 0 3 0 11th. horse keeping 1 13th. glass rum & Diner 1 8 14 th. Horse bating 0 0 6 Horse Jorney 28 miles 0 5 10\ A true accomp.--total 1 14 6 William Bradford, Dilivered to Capt. Crosby 2 2 6\ Alas! the major's inscripti on and the foregoing "accomp." are hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, fo r there is neither rum nor "flyp" to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the convivial hours of other days. The restricti ons of more abstemious times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle aw l to slow-consuming rust.\ It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty associations of a convivial character. The ghost of a spree is a most all uring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors the wine; a musty bin is the soul's delight; we drink the vintage and not the wine.\ Drinking is a lost art, eating a forgotten ceremony. The pendulum has swung from Trimalchio back to Trimalchio. Quality is lost in quantity. The tables groan, the cooks groan, the guests groan,-- feasting is a nightmare.\ Wine is a subject, not a beverage; it is discussed, not drunk; it is sipped, tasted, and swallowed reluctantly; it li ngers on the palate in fragrant and delicious memory; it comes a bouquet and dep arts an aroma; it is the fruition of years, the distillation of ages; a liquid j ewel, it reflects the subtle colors of the rainbow, running the gamut from a dul l red glow to the violet rays that border the invisible.\ But, alas! the appreci ation of wine is lost. Everybody serves wine, no one understands it; everybody d rinks it, no one loves it. From a fragrant essence wine has become a coarse real ity,--a convention. Chablis with the oysters, sherry with the soup, sauterne wit h the fish, claret with the roast, Burgundy with the game,--champagne somewhere, anywhere, everywhere; port, grand, old ruddy port--that has disappeared; no one understands it and no one knows when to serve it; while Madeira, that bloom of the vinous century plant, that rare exotic which ripens with passing generations , is all too subtle for our untutored discrimination.\ And if, perchance, a good

wine, like a strange guest, finds its way to the table, we are at loss how to r eceive it, how to address it, how to entertain it. We offend it in the decanting and distress it in the serving. We buy our wines in the morning and serve them in the evening to drink the sediment which the more fastidious wine during long years has been slowly rejecting; we mix the bright transparent liquid with its d regs and our rough palates detect no difference. But the lover of wine, the more he has the less he drinks, until, in the refinement and exaltation of his taste , it is sufficient to look upon the dust-mantled bottle and recall the delicious aroma and flavor, the recollection of which is far too precious to risk by tryi ng anew; he knows that if a bottle be so much as turned in its couch it must sle ep again for years before it is really fit to drink; he knows how difficult it i s to get the wine out of the bottle clear as ruby or yellow diamond; he knows th at if so much as a speck of sediment gets into the decanter, to precisely the ex tent of the speck is the wine injured.\ In serving wines, we of the Western worl d may learn something from the tea ceremonies of the Japanese,--ceremonies so el aborate that to our impatient notions they are infinitely tedious, and yet they get from the tea all the exquisite delight it contains, and at the same time inv est its serving with a halo of form, tradition, and association. Surely, if wine is to be taken at all, it is as precious as a cup of tea; and if taken ceremoni ously, it will be taken moderately.\ What is the use of serving good wine? No on e recognizes it, appreciates it, or cares for it. It is served by the butler and removed by the footman without introduction, greeting, or comment. The Hon. Sam Jones, from Podunk, is announced in stentorian tones as he makes his advent, bu t the gem of the dinner, the treat of the evening, the flower of the feast, an H aut Brion of '75, or an Yquem of '64, or a Johannisberger of '61, comes in like a tramp without a word. Possibly some one of the guests, whose palate has not be en blunted by coarse living or seared by strong drink, may feel that he is drink ing something out of the ordinary, and he may linger over his glass, loath to si p the last drop; but all the others gulp their wine, or leave it--with the indif ference of ignorance.\ Good wine is loquacious; it is a great traveller and smac ks of many lands; it is a bon vivant and has dined with the select of the earth; it recalls a thousand anecdotes; it reeks with reminiscences; it harbors a kiss and reflects a glance, but it is a silent companion to those who know it not, a nd it is quarrelsome with those who abuse it.\ It seemed a pity that somewhere a bout the inn, deep in some long disused cellar, there were not a few--just a few --bottles of old wine, a half-dozen port of 1815, one or two squat bottles of Ma deira brought over by men who knew Washington, an Yquem of '48, a Margaux of '58 , a Johannisberger Cabinet--not forgetting the "Auslese"--of '61, with a few bot tles of Romani Conti and Clos de Vougeot of '69 or '70,--not to exceed two or th ree dozen all told; not a plebeian among them, each the chosen of its race, and all so well understood that the very serving would carry one back to colonial da ys, when to offer a guest a glass of Madeira was a subtle tribute to his capacit y and appreciation.\ It is a far cry from an imaginary banquet with Lucullus to the New England Saturday night supper of pork and beans which was spread before us that evening. The dish is a survival of the rigid Puritanism which was the af fliction and at the same time the making of New England; it is a fast, an aggrav ated fast, a scourge to indulgence, a reproach to gluttony; it comes Saturday ni ght, and is followed Sunday morning by the dry, spongy, antiseptic, absorbent fi sh-ball as a castigation of nature and as a preparation for the austere observan ce of the Sabbath; it is the harsh, but no doubt deserved, punishment of the sto mach for its worldliness during the week; inured to suffering, the native accept s the dose as a matter of course; to the stranger it seems unduly severe. To be sent to bed supperless is one of the terrors of childhood; to be sent to bed on pork and beans with the certainty of fishballs in the morning is a refinement of torture that could have been devised only by Puritan ingenuity.\ At the very cr isis of the trouble in China, when the whole world was anxiously awaiting news f rom Pekin, the papers said that Boston was perturbed by the reported discovery i n Africa of a new and edible bean.\ To New England the bean is an obsession; it is rapidly becoming a superstition. To the stranger it is an infliction; but, ba d as the bean is to the uninitiated, it is a luscious morsel compared with the f

lavorless cod-fish ball which lodges in the throat and stays there--a second Ada m's apple--for lack of something to wash it down.\ If pork and beans is the devi ce of the Puritans, the cod-fish ball is the invention of the devil. It is as if Satan looked on enviously while his foes prepared their powder of beans, and th en, retiring to his bottomless pit, went them one better by casting his ball of cod-fish.\ "But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir; Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of lou d applause\ "The firelight, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, Fi lled the whole parlor large and low."\ The room remains, but of all that jolly c ompany which gathered in Longfellow's days and constituted the imaginary weavers of tales and romances, but one is alive to-day,--the "Young Sicilian."\ "A youn g Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its v olcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his lie ge, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good king B omba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky l ight; His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke."\ To the present proprietor of the inn the "Young Sicilian" wrote the following letter:\ Rome, July 4, 1898.\ Dear Sir,--In answer to your letter of J une 8, I am delighted to learn that you have purchased the dear old house and ca refully restored and put it back in its old-time condition. I sincerely hope tha t it may remain thus for a long, long time as a memento of the days and customs gone by. It is very sad for me to think that I am the only living member of that happy company that used to spend their summer vacations there in the fifties; y et I still hope that I may visit the old Inn once more before I rejoin those cho ice spirits whom Mr. Longfellow has immortalized in his great poem. I am glad th at some of the old residents still remember me when I was a visitor there with D r. Parsons (the Poet), and his sisters, one of whom, my wife, is also the only l iving member of those who used to assemble there. Both my wife and I remember we ll Mr. Calvin Howe, Mr. Parmenter, and the others you mention; for we spent many summers there with Professor Treadwell (the Theologian) and his wife, Mr. Henry W. Wales (the Student), and other visitors not mentioned in the poem, till the death of Mr. Lyman Howe (the Landlord), which broke up the party. The "Musician" and the "Spanish Jew," though not imaginary characters, were never guests at th e "Wayside Inn." I remain,\ Sincerely yours, Luigi Monti (the "Young Sicilian"). \ But there was a "Musician," for Ole Bull was once a guest at the Wayside,\ "Fa ir-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face Revealing his Norwegian race."\ The "Spanish Jew from Alicant" in real life was Israel Edrehi.\ The Landlord told his tale of Pau l Revere; the "Student" followed with his story of love:\ "Only a tale of love i s mine, Blending the human and divine, A tale of the Decameron, told In Palmieri 's garden old."\ And one by one the tales were told until the last was said.\ "T he hour was late; the fire burned low, The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, And near the story's end a deep Sonorous sound at times was heard, As when the distant bagpipes blow, At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, As one awaking from a swound, And, gazing anxiously around, Protested that he had not slept, B ut only shut his eyes, and kept His ears attentive to each word. Then all arose, and said 'Good-Night.' Alone remained the drowsy Squire To rake the embers of t he fire, And quench the waning parlor light; While from the windows, here and th ere, The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, And the illumined hostel seemed The c onstellation of the Bear, Downward, athwart the misty air, Sinking and setting t oward the sun. Far off the village clock struck one."\ Before leaving the next m orning, we visited the ancient ballroom which extends over the dining-room. It s eemed crude and cruel to enter this hall of bygone revelry by the garish light o f day. The two fireplaces were cold and inhospitable; the pen at one end where t he fiddlers sat was deserted; the wooden benches which fringed the sides were ha rd and forbidding; but long before any of us were born this room was the scene o f many revelries; the vacant hearths were bright with flame; the fiddlers bowed and scraped; the seats were filled with belles and beaux, and the stately minuet was danced upon the polished floor.\ The large dining-room and ballroom were ad ded to the house something more than a hundred years ago; the little old dining-

room and old kitchen in the rear of the bar still remain, but--like the bar--are no longer used.\ The brass name plates on the bedroom doors--Washington, Lafaye tte, Howe, and so on--have no significance, but were put on by the present propr ietor simply as reminders that those great men were once beneath the roof; but i n what rooms they slept or were entertained, history does not record.\ The autom obile will bring new life to these deserted hostelries. For more than half a cen tury steam has diverted their custom, carrying former patrons from town to town without the need of half-way stops and rests. Coaching is a fad, not a fashion; it is not to be relied upon for steady custom; but automobiling bids fair to car ry the people once more into the country, and there must be inns to receive them .\ Already the proprietor was struggling with the problem what to do with automo biles and what to do for them who drove them. He was vainly endeavoring to recon cile the machines with horses and house them under one roof; the experiment had already borne fruit in some disaster and no little discomfort.\ The automobile i s quite willing to be left out-doors over night; but if taken inside it is quite apt to assert itself rather noisily and monopolize things to the discomfort of the horse. Stables--to rob the horse of the name of his home--must be provided, and these should be equipped for emergencies.\ Every country inn should have on hand gasoline--this is easily stored outside in a tank buried in the ground--and lubricating oils for steam and gasoline machines; these can be kept and sold in gallon cans.\ In addition to supplies there should be some tools, beginning wit h a good jack strong enough to lift the heaviest machine, a small bench and vise , files, chisels, punches, and one or two large wrenches, including a pipe-wrenc h. All these things can be purchased for little more than a song, and when neede d they are needed badly. But gasoline and lubricating oils are absolutely essent ial to the permanent prosperity of any well-conducted wayside inn.\ \pard\pardef tab720\sa340\ql\qnatural \f1\b\fs45 \cf0 CHAPTER FIFTEEN\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa3 00\ql\qnatural \f0\b0\fs37\fsmilli18750 \cf0 RHODE ISLAND AND CONNECTICUT CALLIN G THE FERRY\ Next morning, Sunday the 8th, we left the inn at eleven o'clock for Providence. It was a perfect morning, neither hot nor cold, sun bright, and the air stirring.\ We took the narrow road almost opposite the entrance to the inn, climbed the hill, threaded the woods, and were soon travelling almost due south through Framingham, Holliston, Medway, Franklin, and West Wrentham towards Pawt ucket.\ That route is direct, the roads are good, the country rolling and intere sting. The villages come in close succession; there are many quaint places and b eautiful homes.\ In this section of Massachusetts it does not matter much what r oads are selected, they are all good. Some are macadamized, more are gravelled, and where there is neither macadam nor gravel, the roads have been so carefully thrown up that they are good; we found no bad places at all, no deep sand, and n o rough, hard blue clay.\ When we stopped for luncheon at a little village not f ar from Pawtucket, the tire which had been put on in Boston was leaking badly. I t was the tire that had been punctured and sent to the factory for repairs, and the repair proved defective. We managed to get to Pawtucket, and there tried to stop the leak with liquid preparations, but by the time we reached Providence th e tire was again flat and--as it proved afterwards--ruined.\ Had it not been for the tire, Narragansett Pier would have been made that afternoon with ease; but there was nothing to do but wire for a new tire and await its arrival.\ It was n ot until half-past three o'clock Monday that the new one came from New York, and it was five when we left for the Pier.\ The road from Providence to Narraganset t Pier is something more than fair, considerably less than fine; it is hilly and in places quite sandy. For some distance out of Providence it was dusty and wor n rough by heavy travel.\ It was seven o'clock, dark and quite cold, when we dre w up in front of Green's Inn.\ The season was over, the Pier quite deserted. A s ummer resort after the guests have gone is a mournful, or a delightful, place-as one views it. To the gregarious individual who seeks and misses his kind, the place is loneliness itself after the flight of the gay birds who for a time str utted about in gorgeous plumage twittering the time away; to the man who loves t o be in close and undisturbed contact with nature, who enjoys communing with the sea, who would be alone on the beach and silent by the waves, the flight of the throng is a relief. There is a selfish satisfaction in passing the great summer

caravansaries and seeing them closed and silent; in knowing that the splendor o f the night will not be marred by garish lights and still more garish sounds.\ W ere it not for the crowd, Narragansett Pier would be an ideal spot for rest and recreation. The beach is perfect,--hard, firm sand, sloping so gradually into de ep water, and with so little undertow and so few dangers, that children can play in the water without attendants. The village itself is inoffensive, the country about is attractive; but the crowd--the crowd that comes in summer--comes with a rush almost to the hour in July, and takes flight with a greater rush almost t o the minute in August,--the crowd overwhelms, submerges, ignores the natural ch arms of the place, and for the time being nature hides its honest head before th e onrush of sham and illusion.\ Why do the people come in a week and go in a day ? What is there about Narragansett that keeps every one away until a certain tim e each year, attracts them for a few weeks, and then bids them off within twenty -four hours? Just nothing at all. All attractions the place has--the ocean, the beach, the drives, the country--remain the same; but no one dares come before th e appointed time, no one dares stay after the flight begins; no one? That is har dly true, for in every beautiful spot, by the ocean and in the mountains, there are a few appreciative souls who know enough to make their homes in nature's car essing embrace while she works for their pure enjoyment her wondrous panorama of changing seasons. There are people who linger at the sea-shore until from the s teel-gray waters are heard the first mutterings of approaching winter; there are those who linger in the woods and mountains until the green of summer yields to the rich browns and golden russets of autumn, until the honk of the wild goose foretells the coming cold; these and their kind are nature's truest and dearest friends; to them does she unfold a thousand hidden beauties; to them does she wh isper her most precious secrets.\ But the crowd--the crowd--the painted throng t hat steps to the tune of a fiddle, that hangs on the moods of a caterer, whose i nspiration is a good dinner, whose aspiration is a new dance,-- that crowd is ne ver missed by any one who really delights in the manifold attractions of nature. \ Not that the crowd at Narragansett is essentially other than the crowd at Newp ort--the two do not mix; but the difference is one of degree rather than kind. T he crowd at Newport is architecturally perfect, while the crowd at Narragansett is in the adobe stage,-- that is the conspicuous difference; the one is pretenti ous and lives in structures more or less permanent; the other lives in trunks, a nd is even more pretentious. Neither, as a crowd, has more than a superficial re gard for the natural charms of its surroundings. The people at both places are e ntirely preoccupied with themselves--and their neighbors. At Newport a reputatio n is like an umbrella--lost, borrowed, lent, stolen, but never returned. Some on e has cleverly said that the American girl, unlike girls of European extraction, if she loses her reputation, promptly goes and gets another,--to be strictly ac curate, she promptly goes and gets another's. What a world of bother could be sa ved if a woman could check her reputation with her wraps on entering the Casino; for, no matter how small the reputation, it is so annoying to have the care of it during social festivities where it is not wanted, or where, like dogs, it is forbidden the premises. Then, too, if the reputation happens to be somewhat soil ed, stained, or tattered,--like an old opera cloak,--what woman wants it about. It is difficult to sit on it, as on a wrap in a theatre; it is conspicuous to ho ld in the lap where every one may see its imperfections; perhaps the safest thin g is to do as many a woman does, ask her escort to look out for it, thereby shif ting the responsibility to him. It may pass through strange vicissitudes in his careless hands,--he may drop it, damage it, lose it, even destroy it, but she is reasonably sure that when the time comes he will return her either the old in a tolerable state of preservation, or a new one of some kind in its place.\ Narra gansett possesses this decided advantage over Newport, the people do not know ea ch other until it is too late. For six weeks the gay little world moves on in bl issful ignorance of antecedents and reputations; no questions are asked, no info rmation volunteered save that disclosed by the hotel register,-- information fre quently of apocryphal value. The gay beau of the night may be the industrious cl erk of the morrow; the baron of the summer may be the barber of the winter; but what difference does it make? If the beau beaus and the baron barons, is not the

feminine cup of happiness filled to overflowing? the only requisite being that beau and baron shall preserve their incognito to the end; hence the season must be short in order that no one's identity may be discovered.\ At Newport every on e labors under the disadvantage of being known,--for the most part too well know n. How painful it must be to spend summer after summer in a world of reality, wh ere the truth is so much more thrilling than any possible fiction that people ar e deprived of the pleasure of invention and the imagination falls into desuetude . At Narragansett every one is veneered for the occasion,--every seam, scar, and furrow is hidden by paint, powder, and rouge; the duchess may be a cook, but th e count who is a butler gains nothing by exposing her.\ The very conditions of e xistence at Newport demand the exposure of every frailty and every folly; the sk eleton must sit at the feast. There is no room for gossip where the facts are kn own. Nothing is whispered; the megaphone carries the tale. What a ghastly societ y, where no amount of finery hides the bald, the literal truth; where each night the same ones meet and, despite the vain attempt to deceive by outward appearan ces, relentlessly look each other through and through. Of what avail is a neckla ce of pearls or a gown of gold against such X-ray vision, such intimate knowledg e of one's past, of all one's physical, mental, and moral shortcomings? The smil e fades from the lips, the hollow compliment dies on the tongue, for how is it p ossible to pretend in the presence of those who know?\ At Narragansett friends a re strangers, in Newport they are enemies; in both places the quality of friends hip is strained. The two problems of existence are, Whom shall I recognize? and, Who will recognize me? A man's standing depends upon the women he knows; a woma n's upon the women she cuts. At a summer resort recognition is a fine art which is not affected by any prior condition of servitude or acquaintance. No woman ca n afford to sacrifice her position upon the altar of friendship; in these small worlds recognition has no relation whatsoever to friendship, it is rather a conv ention. If your hostess of the winter passes you with a cold stare, it is a matt er of prudence rather than indifference; the outside world does not understand t hese things, but is soon made to.\ Women are the arbiters of social fate, and as such must be placated, but not too servilely. In society a blow goes farther th an a kiss; it is a warfare wherein it does not pay to be on the defensive; those are revered who are most feared; those who nail to their mast the black flag an d show no quarter are the recognized leaders,--Society is piracy.\ Green's Inn w as cheery, comfortable, and hospitable; but then the season had passed and thing s had returned to their normal routine.\ The summer hotel passes through three s tages each season,--that of expectation, of realization, and of regret; it is un pleasant during the first stage, intolerable during the second, frequently delig htful during the third. During the first there is a period when the host and gue st meet on a footing of equality; during the second the guest is something less than a nonentity, an humble suitor at the monarch's throne; during the third the conditions are reversed, and the guest is lord of all he is willing to survey. It is conducive to comfort to approach these resorts during the last stage,--unl ess, of course, they happen to be those ephemeral caravansaries which close in c onfusion on the flight of the crowd; they are never comfortable.\ The best road from Boston to New York is said to be by way of Worcester, Springfield, and thro ugh central Connecticut via Hartford and New Haven; but we did not care to retra ce our wheels to Worcester and Springfield, and we did want to follow the shore; but we were warned by many that after leaving the Pier we would find the roads very bad.\ As a matter of fact, the shore road from the Pier to New Haven is not good; it is hilly, sandy, and rough; but it is entirely practicable, and makes up in beauty and interest what it lacks in quality.\ We did not leave Green's In n until half-past nine the morning after our arrival, and we reached New Haven t hat evening at exactly eight,--a delightful run of eighty or ninety miles by the road taken.\ The road is a little back from the shore and it is anything but st raight, winding in and out in the effort to keep near the coast. Nearly all day long we were in sight of the ocean; now and then some wooded promontory obscured our view; now and then we were threading woods and valleys farther inland; now and then the road almost lost itself in thickets of shrubbery and undergrowth, b ut each time we would emerge in sight of the broad expanse of blue water which l

ay like a vast mirror on that bright and still September day.\ We ferried across the river to New London. At Lyme there is a very steep descent to the Connectic ut River, which is a broad estuary at that point. The ferry is a primitive sidewheeler, which might carry two automobiles, but hardly more. It happened to be o n the far shore. A small boy pointed out a long tin horn hanging on a post, the hoarse blast of which summons the sleepy boat.\ There was no landing, and it see med impossible for our vehicle to get aboard; but the boat had a long shovel-lik e nose projecting from the bow which ran upon the shore, making a perfect gang-p lank.\ Carefully balancing the automobile in the centre so as not to list the pr imitive craft, we made our way deliberately to the other side, the entire crew o f two men--engineer and captain--coming out to talk with us.\ The ferries at Lym e and New London would prove great obstacles to anything like a club from New Yo rk to Newport along this road; the day would be spent in getting machines across the two rivers.\ It was dark when we ran into the city. This particular visit t o New Haven is chiefly memorable for the exceeding good manners of a boy of ten, who watched the machine next morning as it was prepared for the day's ride, off ered to act as guide to the place where gasoline was kept, and, with the grace o f a Chesterfield, made good my delinquent purse by paying the bill. It was all c harmingly and not precociously done. This little man was well brought up,--so we ll brought up that he did not know it.\ The automobile is a pretty fair touchsto ne to manners for both young and old. A man is himself in the presence of the un expected. The automobile is so strange that it carries people off their equilibr ium, and they say and do things impulsively, and therefore naturally.\ The odd-l ooking stranger is ever treated with scant courtesy and unbecoming curiosity; th e strange machine fares no better. The man or the boy who is not unduly curious, not unduly aggressive, not unduly loquacious, not unduly insistent, who preserv es his poise in the presence of an automobile, is quite out of the ordinary,-- m y little New Haven friend was of that sort.\ It is a beautiful ride from New Hav en to New York, and to it we devoted the entire day, from half-past eight until half-past seven.\ At Norwalk the people were celebrating the two hundred and fif tieth anniversary of the founding of the town; the hotel where we dined may have antedated the town a century or two.\ Later in the afternoon, while wheeling al ong at twenty miles an hour, we caught a glimpse of a signpost pointing to the l eft and reading, "To Sound Beach." The name reminded us of friends who were spen ding a few weeks there; we turned back and made them a flying call.\ Again a lit tle farther on we stopped for gasoline in a dilapidated little village, and foun d it was Mianus, which we recalled as the home of an artist whose paintings, ful l of charm and tender sentiment, have spread the fame of the locality and river. It was only a short run of two or three miles to the orchard and hill where he has his summer home, and we renewed an acquaintance made several years before.\ It is interesting to follow an artist's career and note the changes in manner an d methods; for changes are inevitable; they come to high and low alike. The arti st may not be conscious that he no longer sees things and paints things as he di d, but time tells and the truth is patent to others. But changes of manner and c hanges of method are fundamentally unlike. Furthermore, changes of either manner or method may be unconscious and natural, or conscious and forced.\ For the mos t part, an artist's manner changes naturally and unconsciously with his environm ent and advancing years; but in the majority of instances changes in method are conscious and forced, made deliberately with the intention--frequently missed--o f doing better. One painter is impressed with the success of another and strives to imitate, adopts his methods, his palette, his key, his color scheme, his bru sh work, and so on;--these conscious efforts of imitation usually result in fail ures which, if not immediately conspicuous, soon make their shortcomings felt; t he note being forced and unnatural, it does not ring true.\ A man may visit Madr id without imitating Velasquez; he may live in Harlem without consciously yieldi ng to Franz Hals; he may spend days with Monet without surrendering his independ ence; but these strong contacts will work their subtle effects upon all impressi onable natures; the effects, however, may be wrought unconsciously and frequentl y against the sturdy opposition of an original nature.\ No painter could live fo r a season in Madrid without being affected by the work of Velasquez; he might s

trive against the influence, fight to preserve his own eccentric originality and independence, but the very fact that for the time being he is confronted with a force, an influence, is sufficient to affect his own work, whether he accepts t he influence reverentially or rejects it scoffingly.\ There is infinitely more h ope for the man who goes to Madrid, or any other shrine, in a spirit of oppositi on,--supremely egotistical, supremely confident of his own methods, disposed to belittle the teaching and example of others,--than there is for the man who goes to servilely copy and imitate. The disposition to learn is a good thing, but in all walks of life, as well as in art, it may be carried too far. No man should surrender his individuality, should yield that within him which is peculiarly an d essentially his own. An urchin may dispute with a Plato, if the urchin sticks to the things he knows.\ Between the lawless who defy all authority and the serv ile who submit to all influences, there are the chosen few who assert themselves , and at the same time clearly appreciate the strength of those who differ from them. The urchin painter may assert himself in the presence of Velasquez, provid ing he keeps within the limits of his own originality.\ It is for those who buy pictures to look out for the man who arbitrarily and suddenly changes his manner or method; he is as a cork tossed about on the surface of the waters, drifting with every breeze, submerged by every ripple, fickle and unstable; if his work p ossess any merit, it will be only the cheap merit of cleverness; its brilliancy will be simply the gloss of dash.\ It requires time to absorb an impression. Dis tance diminishes the force of attraction. The best of painters will not regain i mmediately his equilibrium after a winter in Florence or in Rome. The enthusiasm of the hour may bring forth some good pictures, but the effect of the impressio n will be too pronounced, the copy will be too evident. Time and distance will m odify an impression and lessen the attraction; the effect will remain, but no lo nger dominate.\ It was so dark we could scarcely see the road as we approached N ew York.\ How gracious the mantle of night; like a veil it hides all blemishes a nd permits only fair outlines to be observed. Details are lost in vast shadows; huge buildings loom up vaguely towards the heavens, impressive masses of masonry ; the bridges, outlined by rows of electric lights, are strings of pearls about the throat of the dusky river. The red, white, and green lights of invisible boa ts below are so many colored glow-worms crawling about, while the countless ligh ts of the vast city itself are as if a constellation from above had settled for the time being on the earth beneath.\ It is by night that the earth communes wit h the universe. During the blinding brightness of the day our vision penetrates no farther than our own great sun; but at night, when our sun has run its course across the heavens, and we are no longer dazzled by its overpowering brilliancy , the suns of other worlds come forth one by one until, as the darkness deepens, the vault above is dotted with these twinkling lights. Dim, distant, beacons of suns and planets like our own, what manner of life do they contain? what are we to them? what are they to us? Is there aught between us beyond the mechanical l aws of repulsion and attraction? Is there any medium of communication beyond the impalpable ether which brings their light? Are we destined to know each other b etter by and by, or does our knowledge forever end with what we see on a cloudle ss night?\ It was Wednesday evening, September 11, when we arrived in New York. The Endurance Contest organized by the Automobile Club of America had started fo r Buffalo on Monday morning, and the papers each day contained long accounts of the heartbreaking times the eighty-odd contestants were having,--hills, sand, mu d, worked havoc in the ranks of the faithful, and by midweek the automobile stat ions in New York were crowded with sick and wounded veterans returning from the fray.\ The stories told by those who participated in that now famous run possess ed the charm of novelty, the absorbing fascination of fiction.\ Once upon a time , two fishermen, who were modestly relating exploits, paused to listen to three chauffeurs who began exchanging experiences. After listening a short time, the f ishermen, hats in hand, went over to the chauffeurs and said, "On behalf of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Fishermen, which from time immemorial has held th e palm for large, generous, and unrestricted stories of exploits, we confess the inadequacy of our qualifications, the bald literalness of our narratives, the s ober and unadorned realism of our tales, and abdicate in favor of the new and mo

st promising Order of Chauffeurs; may the blessing of Ananias rest upon you."\ I t is not that those who go down the pike in automobiles intend to prevaricate, o r even exaggerate, but the experience is so extraordinary that the truth is inad equate for expression and explanation. It seems quite impossible to so adjust ou r perceptions as to receive strictly accurate impressions; therefore, when one m an says he went forty miles an hour, and another says he went sixty, the latter assertion is based not upon the exact speed,--for that neither knows,--but upon the belief of the second man that he went much faster than the other. The exact speeds were probably about ten and fifteen miles an hour respectively; but the r atio is preserved in forty and sixty, and the listening layman is deeply impress ed, while no one who knows anything about automobiling is for a moment deceived. At the same time, in fairness to guests and strangers within the gates, each cl ub ought to post conspicuously the rate of discount on narratives, for not only do clubs vary in their departures from literal truth, but the narratives are gre atly affected by seasons and events; for instance, after the Endurance Contest t he discount rate in the Automobile Club of America was exceedingly high.\ Every man who started finished ahead of the others,--except those who never intended t o finish at all. Each man went exactly as far as he intended to go, and then too k the train, road, or ditch home. Some intended to go as far as Albany, others t o Frankfort, while quite a large number entered the contest for the express purp ose of getting off in the mud and walking to the nearest village; a few, a very few, intended to go as far as Buffalo.\ At one time or another each made a mile a minute, and a much higher rate of speed would have been maintained throughout had it not been necessary to identify certain towns in passing. Nothing happened to any machine, but one or two required a little oiling, and several were aband oned by the roadside because their occupants had stubbornly determined to go no farther. One man who confessed that a set-screw in his goggles worked loose was expelled from the club as too matter-of-fact to be eligible for membership, and the maker of the machine he used sent four-page communications to each trade pap er explaining that the loosening of the set-screw was due to no defect in the ma chine, but was entirely the fault of the driver, who jarred the screw loose by w inking his eye.\ Each machine surmounted Nelson Hill like a bird,--or would have , if it had not been for the machine in front. There were those who would have m ade the hill in forty-two seconds if they had not wasted valuable time in pushin g. The pitiful feat of the man who crawled up at the rate of seventeen miles an hour was quite discounted by the stories of those who would have made it in half that time if their power had not oozed out in the first hundred yards.\ Then th ere was mud along the route, deep mud. According to accounts, which were eloquen tly verified by the silence of all who listened, the mud was hub deep everywhere , and in places the machines were quite out of sight, burrowing like moles. Some took to the tow-path along the canal, others to trolley lines and telegraph wir es.\ Each man ran his own machine without the slightest expert assistance; the m en in over-alls with kits of tools lurking along the roadside were modern brigan ds seeking opportunities for hold-ups; now and then they would spring out upon a n unoffending machine, knock it into a state of insensibility, and abuse it most unmercifully. A number of machines were shadowed throughout the run by these ra scals, and several did not escape their clutches, but perished miserably. In one instance a babe in arms drove one machine sixty-two miles an hour with one hand , the other being occupied with a nursing-bottle.\ There were one hundred and fi fty-six dress-suit cases on the run, but only one was used, and that to sit on d uring high tide in Herkimer County, where the mud was deepest.\ It would be quit e superfluous to relate additional experience tales, but enough has been told to illustrate the necessity of a narrative discount notice in all places where the clans gather. All men are liars, but some intend to lie,--to their credit, be i t said, chauffeurs are not among the latter.\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa340\ql\qnatur al \f1\b\fs45 \cf0 CHAPTER SIXTEEN\ \pard\pardeftab720\sa300\ql\qnatural \f0\b0\ fs37\fsmilli18750 \cf0 ANARCHISM "BULLETINS FROM THE CHAMBER OF DEATH"\ During t hese days the President was dying in Buffalo, though the country did not know it until Friday.\ Wednesday and Thursday the reports were so assuring that all dan ger seemed past; but, as it turned out afterwards, there was not a moment from t

he hour of the shooting when the fatal processes of dissolution were not going o n. Not only did the resources of surgery and medicine fail most miserably, but t heir gifted prophets were unable to foretell the end. Bulletins of the most reas suring character turned out absolutely false. After it was all over, there was a great deal of explanation how it occurred and that it was inevitable from the b eginning; but the public did not, and does not, understand how the learned docto rs could have been so mistaken Wednesday and so wise Friday; and yet the explana tion is simple,--medicine is an art and surgery far from an exact science. No on e so well as the doctors knows how impossible it is to predict anything with any degree of assurance; how uncertain the outcome of simple troubles and wounds to say nothing of serious; how much nature will do if left to herself, how obstina te she often proves when all the skill of man is brought to her assistance.\ On Friday evening, and far into the night, Herald Square was filled with a surging throng watching the bulletins from the chamber of death. It was a dignified end. There must have been evil ones. To teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, this constituted nearly the whol e of Jean Valjean's existence. And then he talked of her mother, and he made her pray. She called him father, and knew no other name for him. He passed hours in watching her dressing and undressing her doll, and in listen ing to her prattle. Life, henceforth, appeared to him to be full of interest; me n seemed to him good and just; he no longer reproached any one in thought; he sa w no reason why he should not live to be a very old man, now that this child lov ed him. He saw a whole future stretching out before him, illuminated by Cosette as by a charming light. The best of us are not exempt from egotistical thoughts. At times, he reflected with a sort of joy that she would be ugly. This is only a personal opinion; but, to utter our whole thought, at the point where Jean Valjean had arrived when he began to love Cosette, it is by no means clear to us that he did not need this encouragement in order that he might perse vere in well-doing. He had just viewed the malice of men and the misery of socie ty under a new aspect-- incomplete aspects, which unfortunately only exhibited o ne side of the truth, the fate of woman as summed up in Fantine, and public auth ority as personified in Javert. He had returned to prison, this time for having done right; he had quaffed fresh bitterness; disgust and lassitude were overpowe ring him; even the memory of the Bishop probably suffered a temporary eclipse, t hough sure to reappear later on luminous and triumphant; but, after all, that sa cred memory was growing dim. Who knows whether Jean Valjean had not been on the eve of growing discouraged and of falling once more? He loved and grew strong ag ain. Alas! he walked with no less indecision than Cosette. He protected her, and she strengthened him. Thanks to him, she could walk through life; thanks to her , he could continue in virtue. He was that child's stay, and she was his prop. O h, unfathomable and divine mystery of the balances of destiny!

CHAPTER IV THE REMARKS OF THE PRINCIPAL TENANT

Jean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day. Every evening, at twili ght, he walked for an hour or two, sometimes alone, often with Cosette, seeking the most deserted side alleys of the boulevard, and entering churches at nightfa ll. He liked to go to Saint-Medard, which is the nearest church. When he did not take Cosette with him, she remained with the old woman; but the child's delight was to go out with the good man. She preferred an hour with him to all her rapt urous tete-a-tetes with Catherine. He held her hand as they walked, and said swe et things to her. It turned out that Cosette was a very gay little person. The old woman attended to the housekeeping and cooking and went to market. They lived soberly, always having a little fire, but like people in very modera te circumstances. Jean Valjean had made no alterations in the furniture as it wa s the first day; he had merely had the glass door leading to Cosette's dressingroom replaced by a solid door. He still wore his yellow coat, his black breeches, and his old hat. In the stre et, he was taken for a poor man. It sometimes happened that kind-hearted women t urned back to bestow a sou on him. Jean Valjean accepted the sou with a deep bow . It also happened occasionally that he encountered some poor wretch asking alms ; then he looked behind him to make sure that no one was observing him, stealthi ly approached the unfortunate man, put a piece of money into his hand, often a s ilver coin, and walked rapidly away. This had its disadvantages. He began to be known in the neighborhood under the name of the beggar who gives alms. The old p