Les Misérables. Виктор Мари Гюго

huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge, with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements, changing all the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the young girls. Favourite 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 difficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out again at a gallop. This 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 every day. You do not know life, my dear.”

      In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a movement, like 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 entered. 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 things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is puerile and 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 this, 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 of Laffitte 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 duty, 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 world, prefects, fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us with 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 grudge for that. “Signed:

      BLACHEVELLE.

      FAMUEIL.

      LISTOLIER.

      FÉLIX THOLOMYÈS.

      “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 Zéphine.

      “That must have been Blachevelle’s idea,” resumed Favourite. “It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure, indeed.”

      “No,” said Dahlia; “it was one of Tholomyès’ ideas. That is evident.

      “In that case,” retorted Favourite, “death to Blachevelle, and long live Tholomyès!”

      “Long live Tholomyès!” exclaimed Dahlia and Zéphine.

      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 love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomyès as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.

       BOOK FOURTH—TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON’S POWER

       Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I—ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER

       Table of Contents

      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 people named Thénardier, 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 painted something which resembled a man carrying another man on his back, the latter wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red spots 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 WATERLOO (Au Sargent de Waterloo).

      Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of a hostelry. Nevertheless, the vehicle, or, to speak more accurately, the fragment of a vehicle, which 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 which was fitted a heavy shaft, and which was supported by two huge wheels. The whole thing was compact, overwhelming, and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carriage 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 cathedrals. 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 air 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 other reasons for existence than the above.

      The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle, and in the loop, as in the rope of a swing, there were seated and grouped, on that particular evening, in exquisite