Monseigneur Saint-François gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint-Julien gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius, Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Procopius, etc., etc.; and thus I give it to you, father. in her youth the Bernardine monks were every whit as good as the mousquetaires


monkey wine


lion wine


sheep wine


hog wine


because, the parlor is too gloomy.


Such is the origin of the legal consecration of the establishment of the Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration of the Holy Sacrament at Paris. Their first convent was “a new building” in the Rue Cassette, out of the contributions of Mesdames de Boucs and de Châteauvieux.


In 1657, Pope Alexander VII. had authorized, by a special brief, the Bernardines of the Rue Petit-Picpus, to practise the Perpetual Adoration like the Benedictine nuns of the Holy Sacrament.


Hic jaceo. Vixi annos viginti et tres.


There is no vacuum in the human heart.


A matter for declamations


Ingrates! I protected you in inclement weather. Why will you have nothing to do with me?


I have just come from the deep sea,


I have been a rose,


I have loved you,


I have civilized you,


In former days.


But that is the ideal convent!


But these men, or these women who are behind these four walls. They dress themselves in coarse woollen, they are equals, they call each other brothers, that is well; but they do something else?


Yes.


What?


They gaze on the darkness, they kneel, and they clasp their hands.


What does this signify?


They pray.


To whom?


To God.


To pray to God,—what is the meaning of these words?


I pity them with their sun!


the plant wills, the plant grows the universe wills.


Take, this is my body, this is my blood.


What is the good of those motionless figures on the side of mystery? What purpose do they serve? What do they do?


There is probably no work more divine than that performed by these souls. There is probably no work which is more useful.


fallen from the sky.


I must remain here henceforth.


One does not question a saint.


M. Madeleine saved my life. It is my turn now. M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was a question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of dragging me out. After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a thief? Just the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? Since he is a saint, shall I save him?


He talks almost like a gentleman with a hat.


Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter? In the first place, you will begin by not setting foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the garden and we are done for.


That is true.


Monsieur Madeleine, you have arrived at a very auspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; one of the ladies is very ill. This will prevent them from looking much in our direction. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours are being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies them. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we are all saints here; all the difference between them and me is that they say ‘our cell,’ and that I say ‘my cabin.’ The prayers for the dying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at peace here for to-day; but I will not answer for to-morrow.


Still, this cottage is in the niche of the wall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not visible from the convent.


And I add that the nuns never come near it.


Well? it seems to me that one may remain concealed here?


There are the little girls.


What little girls?


The nun is dead. There is the knell. It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from the church.—You see, they play. At recreation hours it suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send them all hither, in spite of prohibitions, to hunt and rummage for it all about here. Those cherubs are devils.


Who?


The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered. They would shriek: ‘Oh! a man!’ There is no danger to-day. There will be no recreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers. You hear the bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute. It is the death knell.


I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils. Here is Cosette’s education already provided.


Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl around you! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have the plague. You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild beast.


This convent would be our salvation. Yes, the difficulty is to remain here.


No, the difficulty is to get out.


To get out!


Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first necessary to get out. You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you? For me, you fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require one to enter by the door. Ah! they are ringing up the vocal mothers. They are going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any one dies. She died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak. But cannot you get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do not ask for the sake of questioning you, but how did you get in?


Impossible! Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the sky.


But I believe it, I believe it. You have no need to tell me that. The good God must have taken you in his hand for the purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped you. Only, he meant to place you in a man’s convent; he made a mistake. Come, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and inform the municipality that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a corpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at all fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lifts something else too. How quickly they have had the doctor summoned this time! What is the matter? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name?


Cosette.


She is your daughter? You are her grandfather, that is?


Yes.


It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service door which opens on the courtyard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my vintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father Fauchelevent goes out with his basket—that is perfectly natural. You will tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I will leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a fruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller’s ear, that she is a niece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to-morrow. Then the little one will re-enter with you; for I will contrive to have you re-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out?


No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent. Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette.


That is the dead-doctor taking his departure. He has taken a look and said: ‘She is dead, that is well.’ When the doctor has signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker’s company sends a coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister, the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up. That forms a part of my gardener’s duty. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is placed in a lower hall of the church which communicates with the street, and into which no man may enter save the doctor of the dead. I don’t count the undertaker’s men and myself as men. It is in that hall that I nail up the coffin. The undertaker’s men come and get it, and whip up, coachman! that’s the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box with nothing in it, they take it away again with something in it. That’s what a burial is like. De profundis. The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they are going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cemetery which is outside the regulations, which has no uniform, and which is going to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient. I have a friend there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a special permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many events have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine—


Is buried,


Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial. This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I am pricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don’t stir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up. If you are hungry, there is wine, bread and cheese. Coming! coming!


Forever! Forever!


Enter.


Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent. Father Fauvent, I have sent for you.


Here I am, reverend Mother.


I have something to say to you.


And so have I. I have something to say to the very reverend Mother.


Ah! you have a communication to make to me.


A request.


Very well, speak.


That he had a brother a brother no longer young that, if he might be permitted, this brother would come and live with him and help him, that he was an excellent gardener, that the community would receive from him good service, better than his own; that, otherwise, if his brother were not admitted, as he, the elder, felt that his health was broken and that he was insufficient for the work, he should be obliged, greatly to his regret, to go away; and that his brother had a little daughter whom he would bring with him, who might be reared for God in the house, and who might, who knows, become a nun some day.


Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening?


For what purpose?


To serve as a lever.


Yes, reverend Mother,


Father Fauvent!


Reverend Mother!


Do you know the chapel?


I have a little cage there, where I hear the mass and the offices.


And you have been in the choir in pursuance of your duties?


Two or three times.


There is a stone to be raised.


Heavy?


The slab of the pavement which is at the side of the altar.


The slab which closes the vault?


Yes.


It would be a good thing to have two men for it.


Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you.


A woman is never a man.


We have only a woman here to help you. Each one does what he can. Because Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of Saint Bernard, while Merlonus Horstius only gives three hundred and sixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius.


Neither do I. Merit consists in working according to one’s strength. A cloister is not a dock-yard.


And a woman is not a man. But my brother is the strong one, though!


And can you get a lever?


That is the only sort of key that fits that sort of door.


There is a ring in the stone.


I will put the lever through it.


And the stone is so arranged that it swings on a pivot.


That is good, reverend Mother. I will open the vault.


And the four Mother Precentors will help you.


And when the vault is open?


It must be closed again.


Will that be all?


No.


Give me your orders, very reverend Mother.


Fauvent, we have confidence in you.


I am here to do anything you wish.


And to hold your peace about everything!


Yes, reverend Mother.


When the vault is open—


I will close it again.


But before that—


What, reverend Mother?


Something must be lowered into it.


Father Fauvent!


Reverend Mother!


You know that a mother died this morning?


Did you not hear the bell?


Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the garden.


Really?


I can hardly distinguish my own signal.


She died at daybreak.


And then, the wind did not blow in my direction this morning.


It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman. Three years ago, Madame de Béthune, a Jansenist, turned orthodox, merely from having seen Mother Crucifixion at prayer.


Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverend Mother.


The mothers have taken her to the dead-room, which opens on the church.


I know.


No other man than you can or must enter that chamber. See to that. A fine sight it would be, to see a man enter the dead-room!


More often!


Hey?


What do you say?


I say more often.


More often than what?


Reverend Mother, I did not say more often than what, I said more often.


I don’t understand you. Why do you say more often?


In order to speak like you, reverend Mother.


But I did not say ‘more often.’ At nine o’clock in the morning and at all hours, praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar,


Amen,


In her lifetime, Mother Crucifixion made converts; after her death, she will perform miracles.


She will!


Father Fauvent, the community has been blessed in Mother Crucifixion. No doubt, it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de Bérulle, while saying the holy mass, and to breathe forth their souls to God, while pronouncing these words: Hanc igitur oblationem. But without attaining to such happiness, Mother Crucifixion’s death was very precious. She retained her consciousness to the very last moment. She spoke to us, then she spoke to the angels. She gave us her last commands. If you had a little more faith, and if you could have been in her cell, she would have cured your leg merely by touching it. She smiled. We felt that she was regaining her life in God. There was something of paradise in that death.


Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be done. I have consulted upon this point many ecclesiastics laboring in Our Lord, who occupy themselves in the exercises of the clerical life, and who bear wonderful fruit.


Reverend Mother, you can hear the knell much better here than in the garden.


Besides, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint.


Like yourself, reverend Mother.


She slept in her coffin for twenty years, by express permission of our Holy Father, Pius VII.—


The one who crowned the Emp—Buonaparte.


Father Fauvent?


Reverend Mother?


Saint Didorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, desired that this single word might be inscribed on his tomb: Acarus, which signifies, a worm of the earth; this was done. Is this true?


Yes, reverend Mother.


The blessed Mezzocane, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried beneath the gallows; this was done.


That is true.


Saint Terentius, Bishop of Port, where the mouth of the Tiber empties into the sea, requested that on his tomb might be engraved the sign which was placed on the graves of parricides, in the hope that passers-by would spit on his tomb. This was done. The dead must be obeyed.


So be it.


The body of Bernard Guidonis, born in France near Roche-Abeille, was, as he had ordered, and in spite of the king of Castile, borne to the church of the Dominicans in Limoges, although Bernard Guidonis was Bishop of Tuy in Spain. Can the contrary be affirmed?


For that matter, no, reverend Mother.


The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse. Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be interred in the coffin in which she has slept for the last twenty years.


That is just.


It is a continuation of her slumber.


So I shall have to nail up that coffin?


Yes.


And we are to reject the undertaker’s coffin?


Precisely.


I am at the orders of the very reverend community.


The four Mother Precentors will assist you.


In nailing up the coffin? I do not need them.


No. In lowering the coffin.


Where?


Into the vault.


What vault?


Under the altar.


The vault under the altar?


But—


You will have an iron bar.


Yes, but—


You will raise the stone with the bar by means of the ring.


The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in the vault under the altar of the chapel, not to go to profane earth; to remain there in death where she prayed while living; such was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion. She asked it of us; that is to say, commanded us.


But it is forbidden.


Forbidden by men, enjoined by God.


What if it became known?


We have confidence in you.


Oh! I am a stone in your walls.


The chapter assembled. The vocal mothers, whom I have just consulted again, and who are now deliberating, have decided that Mother Crucifixion shall be buried, according to her wish, in her own coffin, under our altar. Think, Father Fauvent, if she were to work miracles here! What a glory of God for the community! And miracles issue from tombs.


But, reverend Mother, if the agent of the sanitary commission—


Saint Benoît II., in the matter of sepulture, resisted Constantine Pogonatus.


But the commissary of police—


Chonodemaire, one of the seven German kings who entered among the Gauls under the Empire of Constantius, expressly recognized the right of nuns to be buried in religion, that is to say, beneath the altar.


But the inspector from the Prefecture—


The world is nothing in the presence of the cross. Martin, the eleventh general of the Carthusians, gave to his order this device: Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.


Amen,


I have on my right Benoît and on my left Bernard. Who was Bernard? The first abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a country that is blest because it gave him birth. His father was named Técelin, and his mother Alèthe. He began at Cîteaux, to end in Clairvaux; he was ordained abbot by the bishop of Châlon-sur-Saône, Guillaume de Champeaux; he had seven hundred novices, and founded a hundred and sixty monasteries; he overthrew Abeilard at the council of Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple, and another sort of erring spirits who were called the Apostolics; he confounded Arnauld de Brescia, darted lightning at the monk Raoul, the murderer of the Jews, dominated the council of Reims in 1148, caused the condemnation of Gilbert de Poréa, Bishop of Poitiers, caused the condemnation of Éon de l’Étoile, arranged the disputes of princes, enlightened King Louis the Young, advised Pope Eugene III., regulated the Temple, preached the crusade, performed two hundred and fifty miracles during his lifetime, and as many as thirty-nine in one day. Who was Benoît? He was the patriarch of Mont-Cassin; he was the second founder of the Sainteté Claustrale, he was the Basil of the West. His order has produced forty popes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, sixteen hundred archbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six hundred canonized saints, and has been in existence for fourteen hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the agent of the sanitary department! On one side Saint Benoît, on the other the inspector of public ways! The state, the road commissioners, the public undertaker, regulations, the administration, what do we know of all that? There is not a chance passer-by who would not be indignant to see how we are treated. We have not even the right to give our dust to Jesus Christ! Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention. God subordinated to the commissary of police; such is the age. Silence, Fauvent! No one doubts the right of the monastery to sepulture. Only fanatics and those in error deny it. We live in times of terrible confusion. We do not know that which it is necessary to know, and we know that which we should ignore. We are ignorant and impious. In this age there exist people who do not distinguish between the very great Saint Bernard and the Saint Bernard denominated of the poor Catholics, a certain good ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so blasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis XVI. to the cross of Jesus Christ. Louis XVI. was merely a king. Let us beware of God! There is no longer just nor unjust. The name of Voltaire is known, but not the name of César de Bus. Nevertheless, César de Bus is a man of blessed memory, and Voltaire one of unblessed memory. The last arch-bishop, the Cardinal de Périgord, did not even know that Charles de Gondren succeeded to Berulle, and François Bourgoin to Gondren, and Jean-François Senault to Bourgoin, and Father Sainte-Marthe to Jean-François Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because he was one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratorie, but because he furnished Henri IV., the Huguenot king, with the material for an oath. That which pleases people of the world in Saint François de Sales, is that he cheated at play. And then, religion is attacked. Why? Because there have been bad priests, because Sagittaire, Bishop of Gap, was the brother of Salone, Bishop of Embrun, and because both of them followed Mommol. What has that to do with the question? Does that prevent Martin de Tours from being a saint, and giving half of his cloak to a beggar? They persecute the saints. They shut their eyes to the truth. Darkness is the rule. The most ferocious beasts are beasts which are blind. No one thinks of hell as a reality. Oh! how wicked people are! By order of the king signifies to-day, by order of the revolution. One no longer knows what is due to the living or to the dead. A holy death is prohibited. Burial is a civil matter. This is horrible. Saint Leo II. wrote two special letters, one to Pierre Notaire, the other to the king of the Visigoths, for the purpose of combating and rejecting, in questions touching the dead, the authority of the exarch and the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of Châlons, held his own in this matter against Otho, Duke of Burgundy. The ancient magistracy agreed with him. In former times we had voices in the chapter, even on matters of the day. The Abbot of Cîteaux, the general of the order, was councillor by right of birth to the parliament of Burgundy. We do what we please with our dead. Is not the body of Saint Benoît himself in France, in the abbey of Fleury, called Saint Benoît-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy at Mont-Cassin, on Saturday, the 21st of the month of March, of the year 543? All this is incontestable. I abhor psalm-singers, I hate priors, I execrate heretics, but I should detest yet more any one who should maintain the contrary. One has only to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel Bucelin, Trithemus, Maurolics, and Dom Luc d’Achery. Is it settled, Father Fauvent?


It is settled, reverend Mother.


We may depend on you?


I will obey.


That is well.


I am entirely devoted to the convent.


That is understood. You will close the coffin. The sisters will carry it to the chapel. The office for the dead will then be said. Then we shall return to the cloister. Between eleven o’clock and midnight, you will come with your iron bar. All will be done in the most profound secrecy. There will be in the chapel only the four Mother Precentors, Mother Ascension and yourself.


And the sister at the post?


She will not turn round.


But she will hear.


She will not listen. Besides, what the cloister knows the world learns not.


You will remove your bell. It is not necessary that the sister at the post should perceive your presence.


Reverend Mother?


What, Father Fauvent?


Has the doctor for the dead paid his visit?


He will pay it at four o’clock to-day. The peal which orders the doctor for the dead to be summoned has already been rung. But you do not understand any of the peals?


I pay no attention to any but my own.


That is well, Father Fauvent.


Reverend Mother, a lever at least six feet long will be required.


Where will you obtain it?


Where gratings are not lacking, iron bars are not lacking. I have my heap of old iron at the bottom of the garden.


About three-quarters of an hour before midnight; do not forget.


What?


If you were ever to have any other jobs of this sort, my brother is the strong man for you. A perfect Turk!


You will do it as speedily as possible.


I cannot work very fast. I am infirm; that is why I require an assistant. I limp.


To limp is no sin, and perhaps it is a blessing. The Emperor Henry II., who combated Antipope Gregory and re-established Benoît VIII., has two surnames, the Saint and the Lame.


Two surtouts are a good thing,


Now that I think of it, Father Fauvent, let us give a whole hour to it. That is not too much. Be near the principal altar, with your iron bar, at eleven o’clock. The office begins at midnight. Everything must have been completed a good quarter of an hour before that.


I will do anything to prove my zeal towards the community. These are my orders. I am to nail up the coffin. At eleven o’clock exactly, I am to be in the chapel. The Mother Precentors will be there. Mother Ascension will be there. Two men would be better. However, never mind! I shall have my lever. We will open the vault, we will lower the coffin, and we will close the vault again. After which, there will be no trace of anything. The government will have no suspicion. Thus all has been arranged, reverend Mother?


No!


What else remains?


The empty coffin remains. What is to be done with that coffin, Father Fauvent?


It will be given to the earth.


Empty?


Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nail up the coffin in the basement of the church, and no one can enter there but myself, and I will cover the coffin with the pall.


Yes, but the bearers, when they place it in the hearse and lower it into the grave, will be sure to feel that there is nothing in it.


Ah! the de—! I will put earth in the coffin, reverend Mother. That will produce the effect of a corpse.


You are right. Earth, that is the same thing as man. So you will manage the empty coffin?


I will make that my special business.


I am pleased with you, Father Fauvent; bring your brother to me to-morrow, after the burial, and tell him to fetch his daughter.


Listen attentively to me, my little Cosette. We must go away from this house, but we shall return to it, and we shall be very happy here. The good man who lives here is going to carry you off on his back in that. You will wait for me at a lady’s house. I shall come to fetch you. Obey, and say nothing, above all things, unless you want Madame Thénardier to get you again!


Well? Everything is arranged, and nothing is. I have permission to bring you in; but before bringing you in you must be got out. That’s where the difficulty lies. It is easy enough with the child.


You will carry her out?


And she will hold her tongue?


I answer for that.


But you, Father Madeleine? Why, get out as you came in!


Impossible.


There is another thing which bothers me. I have said that I would put earth in it. When I come to think it over, the earth instead of the corpse will not seem like the real thing, it won’t do, it will get displaced, it will move about. The men will bear it. You understand, Father Madeleine, the government will notice it. How the de—uce are you going to get out? It must all be done by to-morrow morning. It is to-morrow that I am to bring you in. The prioress expects you.


What is that empty coffin?


The coffin of the administration.


What coffin? What administration?


A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes and says, ‘A nun has died.’ The government sends a coffin. The next day it sends a hearse and undertaker’s men to get the coffin and carry it to the cemetery. The undertaker’s men will come and lift the coffin; there will be nothing in it.


Put something in it.


A corpse? I have none.


No.


What then?


A living person.


What person?


Me!


You!


Why not? You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said: ‘Mother Crucifixion is dead.’ and I add: ‘and Father Madeleine is buried.’


Ah! good, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously.


Very seriously, I must get out of this place.


Certainly.


l have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also.


Well?


The basket will be of pine, and the cover a black cloth.


In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nuns are buried in white.


Let it be a white cloth, then.


You are not like other men, Father Madeleine.


The problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers the means. But give me some information, in the first place. How is it managed? Where is this coffin?


The empty one?


Yes.


Downstairs, in what is called the dead-room. It stands on two trestles, under the pall.


How long is the coffin?


Six feet.


What is this dead-room?


It is a chamber on the ground floor which has a grated window opening on the garden, which is closed on the outside by a shutter, and two doors; one leads into the convent, the other into the church.


What church?


The church in the street, the church which any one can enter.


Have you the keys to those two doors?


No; I have the key to the door which communicates with the convent; the porter has the key to the door which communicates with the church.


When does the porter open that door?


Only to allow the undertaker’s men to enter, when they come to get the coffin. When the coffin has been taken out, the door is closed again.


Who nails up the coffin?


I do.


Who spreads the pall over it?


Are you alone?


Not another man, except the police doctor, can enter the dead-room. That is even written on the wall.


Could you hide me in that room to-night when every one is asleep?


No. No. But I could hide you in a small, dark nook which opens on the dead-room, where I keep my tools to use for burials, and of which I have the key.


At what time will the hearse come for the coffin to-morrow?


About three o’clock in the afternoon. The burial will take place at the Vaugirard cemetery a little before nightfall. It is not very near.


I will remain concealed in your tool-closet all night and all the morning. And how about food? I shall be hungry.


I will bring you something.


You can come and nail me up in the coffin at two o’clock.


But that is impossible!


Bah! Impossible to take a hammer and drive some nails in a plank?


But how will you manage to breathe?


I will breathe.


In that box! The mere thought of it suffocates me.


You surely must have a gimlet, you will make a few holes here and there, around my mouth, and you will nail the top plank on loosely.


Good! And what if you should happen to cough or to sneeze?


A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze. Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be caught here, or accept this escape through the hearse.


Well, since there is no other means.


The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery.


That is the very point that is not troublesome. If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave. The grave-digger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. An old fellow of the old school. The grave-digger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the grave-digger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave. I shall follow; that is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse halts, the undertaker’s men knot a rope around your coffin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water, and takes his departure. I am left alone with Father Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will happen, he will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he is not drunk, I shall say to him: ‘Come and drink a bout while the Bon Coing is open.’ I carry him off, I get him drunk,—it does not take long to make Father Mestienne drunk, he always has the beginning of it about him,—I lay him under the table, I take his card, so that I can get into the cemetery again, and I return without him. Then you have no longer any one but me to deal with. If he is drunk, I shall say to him: ‘Be off; I will do your work for you.’ Off he goes, and I drag you out of the hole.


That is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well.


Provided nothing goes wrong. In that case, it would be terrible.


Here’s a fine farce! Who are you?


The grave-digger.


The grave-digger?


Yes.


You?


I. Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.


Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.


He was.


What! He was?


He is dead.


But it is not possible!


It is so.


But. Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.


After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Peasant, my name is Gribier.


Ah! what queer things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead, but long live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who little Father Lenoir is? He is a jug of red wine. It is a jug of Surêne, morbigou! of real Paris Surêne? Ah! So old Mestienne is dead! I am sorry for it; he was a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellow, too. Are you not, comrade? We’ll go and have a drink together presently.


I have been a student. I passed my fourth examination. I never drink.


Comrade! I am the convent grave-digger.


My colleague,


So Father Mestienne is dead.


Completely. The good God consulted his note-book which shows when the time is up. It was Father Mestienne’s turn. Father Mestienne died.


The good God—


The good God. According to the philosophers, the Eternal Father; according to the Jacobins, the Supreme Being.


Shall we not make each other’s acquaintance?


It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Parisian.


People do not know each other until they have drunk together. He who empties his glass empties his heart. You must come and have a drink with me. Such a thing cannot be refused.


Business first.


I am lost.


Peasant, I have seven small children who must be fed. As they must eat, I cannot drink. Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst.


They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,


Villager. I ought not be a grave-digger. My father was a porter at the Prytaneum . He destined me for literature. But he had reverses. He had losses on ’change. I was obliged to renounce the profession of author. But I am still a public writer.


So you are not a grave-digger, then?


The one does not hinder the other. I cumulate.


Come have a drink,


One must eat. I have accepted Father Mestienne’s reversion. One gets to be a philosopher when one has nearly completed his classes. To the labor of the hand I join the labor of the arm. I have my scrivener’s stall in the market of the Rue de Sèvres. You know? the Umbrella Market. All the cooks of the Red Cross apply to me. I scribble their declarations of love to the raw soldiers. In the morning I write love letters; in the evening I dig graves. Such is life, rustic. But, a man cannot serve two mistresses. I must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining my hand.


What a farce this is!


Here is the grave.


Qui dormiunt in terræ pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam æternam, et alii in approbrium, ut videant semper.


De profundis.


Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine.


Et lux perpetua luceat ei.


This will be over soon now. Patience for a little while longer. The priest will take his departure. Fauchelevent will take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left. Then Fauchelevent will return alone, and I shall get out. That will be the work of a good hour.


Requiescat in pace.


Amen.


There, they are going now. I am alone.


I am the one to pay!


What’s that, peasant?


I am the one who pays!


What?


For the wine.


What wine?


That Argenteuil wine.


Where is the Argenteuil?


At the Bon Coing.


Go to the devil!


Comrade! Before the Bon Coing is shut!


I will pay.


Listen to me, comrade. I am the convent grave-digger, I have come to help you. It is a business which can be performed at night. Let us begin, then, by going for a drink.


And if he drinks, will he get drunk?


Provincial,


if you positively insist upon it, I consent. We will drink. After work, never before.


It is Argenteuil wine, at six.


Oh, come,


you are a bell-ringer. Ding dong, ding dong, that’s all you know how to say. Go hang yourself.


Come along and drink,


since it is I who pays the bill.


When we have put the child to bed,


It’s cold to-night, you see, and the corpse would shriek out after us if we were to plant her there without a coverlet.


By the way, you new man, have you your card?


What card?


The sun is on the point of setting.


That’s good, it is going to put on its nightcap.


The gate of the cemetery will close immediately.


Well, what then?


Have you your card?


Ah! my card?


Why, no,


I have not my card. I must have forgotten it.


Fifteen francs fine,


Ah! Jésus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-à-bas-la-lune!


Three pieces of a hundred sous,


Ah, come now, conscript,


none of this despair. There is no question of committing suicide and benefiting the grave. Fifteen francs is fifteen francs, and besides, you may not be able to pay it. I am an old hand, you are a new one. I know all the ropes and the devices. I will give you some friendly advice. One thing is clear, the sun is on the point of setting, it is touching the dome now, the cemetery will be closed in five minutes more.


That is true,


Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the grave, it is as hollow as the devil, this grave, and to reach the gate in season to pass it before it is shut.


That is true.


In that case, a fine of fifteen francs.


Fifteen francs.


But you have time. Where do you live?


A couple of steps from the barrier, a quarter of an hour from here. No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard.


You have just time to get out by taking to your heels at your best speed.


That is exactly so.


Once outside the gate, you gallop home, you get your card, you return, the cemetery porter admits you. As you have your card, there will be nothing to pay. And you will bury your corpse. I’ll watch it for you in the meantime, so that it shall not run away.


I am indebted to you for my life, peasant.


Decamp!


Father Madeleine!


Are you there?


He is dead!


And this is the way I save his life!


It is Father Mestienne’s fault. Why did that fool die? What need was there for him to give up the ghost at the very moment when no one was expecting it? It is he who has killed M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine! He is in the coffin. It is quite handy. All is over. Now, is there any sense in these things? Ah! my God! he is dead! Well! and his little girl, what am I to do with her? What will the fruit-seller say? The idea of its being possible for a man like that to die like this! When I think how he put himself under that cart! Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine! Pardine! He was suffocated, I said so. He wouldn’t believe me. Well! Here’s a pretty trick to play! He is dead, that good man, the very best man out of all the good God’s good folks! And his little girl! Ah! In the first place, I won’t go back there myself. I shall stay here. After having done such a thing as that! What’s the use of being two old men, if we are two old fools! But, in the first place, how did he manage to enter the convent? That was the beginning of it all. One should not do such things. Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine! Madeleine! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire! He does not hear me. Now get out of this scrape if you can!


I fell asleep,


Just, good Virgin! How you frightened me!


Thanks, Father Madeleine!


So you are not dead! Oh! How wise you are! I called you so much that you came back. When I saw your eyes shut, I said: ‘Good! there he is, stifled,’ I should have gone raving mad, mad enough for a strait jacket. They would have put me in Bicêtre. What do you suppose I should have done if you had been dead? And your little girl? There’s that fruit-seller,—she would never have understood it! The child is thrust into your arms, and then—the grandfather is dead! What a story! good saints of paradise, what a tale! Ah! you are alive, that’s the best of it!


I am cold,


Let us get out of here quickly,


But first, take a drop,


Let us go. I will keep the shovel; do you carry off the mattock. You are benumbed. It is a pity that I have a game leg, for otherwise we might step out briskly.


Bah! four paces will put life into my legs once more.


How well everything is going! what a capital idea that was of yours, Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine. Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No. 87.


Here it is,


There is no one in the street. Give me your mattock and wait a couple of minutes for me.


Come in.


I have brought you back your shovel and pick.


Is it you, peasant?


And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the porter of the cemetery.


What is the meaning of this?


The meaning of it is, that you dropped your card out of your pocket, that I found it on the ground after you were gone, that I have buried the corpse, that I have filled the grave, that I have done your work, that the porter will return your card to you, and that you will not have to pay fifteen francs. There you have it, conscript.


Thanks, villager! The next time I will pay for the drinks.


You are the brother?


Yes, reverend Mother,


What is your name?


Ultime Fauchelevent.


Where do you come from?


From Picquigny, near Amiens.


What is your age?


Fifty.


What is your profession?


Gardener.


Are you a good Christian?


Every one is in the family.


Is this your little girl?


Yes, reverend Mother.


You are her father?


Her grandfather.


He answers well.


She will grow up ugly. Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap with a bell. Two will be required now.


He is an assistant gardener.


He is a brother of Father Fauvent.


Father, if I had known, I would have brought her away with me.


Father, what is there in that box which smells so good?


The most divine of human generosities, the expiation for others.


What is this? It is my little one.


Hey there!


how long has it been customary for doctors to carry home their own work?


You good-for-nothing, you have seized my wife’s waist!


I, sir? Search me!


Hi there! The bugaboo!


Dieu de Dieu! What ill-luck I do have! to think that I have never yet seen anybody tumble from a fifth-story window!


Father So-and-So, your wife has died of her malady; why did you not send for the doctor?


What would you have, sir, we poor folks die of ourselves.


He is talking to his black cap! Oh, the sneak!


I was jealous of him.


Don’t reproach each other for your basket. Let me climb up, m’sieu le gendarme. I will not fall.


I don’t care if you do,


I am fine and strong, come now!


Ohé, Titi, ohééé! Here comes the bobby, here comes the p’lice, pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer with you!


The pear is on that also.


Why are you doing that at the gate?


There is a curé there.


Such an one is a traitor; such another is very malicious; such another is great; such another is ridiculous.


How stupid I am!


Old women are never lacking.


Mother So-and-So, if any one should chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian, or even a Spaniard, perchance, it is I.


Whence come you?


From the street.


Whither are you going?


Into the streets.


What did you come here for?


I am too old. I am too poor. If I were not ruined—Héée!


Ah! carogne! By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade! I have, in truth, some penetration; I am able to say when a flea bites me, from what woman it came.


Nature,


in order that civilization may have a little of everything, gives it even specimens of its amusing barbarism. Europe possesses specimens of Asia and Africa on a small scale. The cat is a drawing-room tiger, the lizard is a pocket crocodile. The dancers at the opera are pink female savages. They do not eat men, they crunch them; or, magicians that they are, they transform them into oysters and swallow them. The Caribbeans leave only the bones, they leave only the shell. Such are our morals. We do not devour, we gnaw; we do not exterminate, we claw.


The French Revolution is a heap of blackguards.


How pretty she was—that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last time I saw her at Longchamps, her hair curled in sustained sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation muff!


I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin,” said he.


a charming fool.


Oh!


what people these are! Corbière! Humann! Casimir Périer! There’s a minister for you! I can imagine this in a journal: ‘M. Gillenorman, minister!’ that would be a farce. Well! They are so stupid that it would pass


What a charming grand seigneur,


and what a fine air he had with his blue ribbon!


The elixir of gold,


the yellow dye of Bestucheff, General Lamotte’s drops, in the eighteenth century,—this was the great remedy for the catastrophes of love, the panacea against Venus, at one louis the half-ounce phial. Louis XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope.


I hope that I shall not see ninety-three twice.


When a man is passionately fond of women, and when he has himself a wife for whom he cares but little, who is homely, cross, legitimate, with plenty of rights, perched on the code, and jealous at need, there is but one way of extricating himself from the quandry and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife control the purse-strings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her fingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes the education of half-share tenants and the training of farmers, convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues scriveners, visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up leases, dictates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arranges, disarranges, hoards, lavishes; she commits follies, a supreme and personal delight, and that consoles her. While her husband disdains her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband.


All that’s the Rue Quincampois!


How much wages do you want a month?


Thirty francs.


What is your name?


Olympie.


You shall have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette.


Well, what now? What’s the matter? You are finely taken aback, and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Duc d’Angoulême, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis d’Alluye, brother to the Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the age of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Présidente Jacquin, a son, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta and a counsellor of state; one of the great men of this century, the Abbé Tabaraud, is the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of the ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible! Upon that I declare that this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him be taken care of. It is not his fault. I insist upon it that the mother shall treat them well. I shall go to see them from time to time. I lost him young,


That was indecently done! I am really ashamed of this pilfering. Everything has degenerated in this century, even the rascals. Morbleu! this is not the way to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a forest, but badly robbed. Silvæ sint consule dignæ!


He is the disgrace of my family,


The day is vulgar,


and deserves only a closed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the zenith lights up its stars.


Here, sir! rascal, scoundrel, come here!—Answer me, you scamp! Just let me see you, you good-for-nothing!


a very mixed society,


Refoncez dans vos culottes Le bout d’ chemis’ qui vous pend. Qu’on n’ dis’ pas qu’ les patriotes Ont arboré l’ drapeau blanc?


an abominably Jacobin chamber,


Ah! ça ira ça ira ça ira! Les Bonapartistes à la lanterne!


a Buonapartist.


friends and brothers


Do you know? That is the Lamothe of the affair of the necklace.


held in consideration


celebrity


All kings who are not the King of France, are provincial kings.


To what was the editor of the Courrier Français condemned?


To be suspended.


Sus is superfluous. There goes his Excellency the Evil One.


poor child,


a brigand of the Loire.


the disgrace of his family.


these are gardens,


these are bouquets.


brigand of the Loire.


You are a colonel, you are a baron, you are an officer of the Legion of Honor!


Sire, I thank you for my widow.


illegal


I do not know whether I no longer understand French, or whether you no longer speak it; but the fact is that I do not understand.


A Monsieur le Commandant Pontmercy.


General Bonaparte


Mr. Crown Attorney, am I permitted to wear my scar?


The greatest families are forced into it.


a bandit his Baronship.


Bah! Who is there who is not fifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?


Mark, Abbé, I make a cannon.


The Cardinals are the peers of France of Rome; the lords are the peers of France of England.


soiled by the usurper.


My people.


Thanks for Royalism! It has rendered more than one service. It has brought back tradition, worship, religion, respect. It is faithful, brave, chivalric, loving, devoted. It has mingled, though with regret, the secular grandeurs of the monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. Its mistake is not to understand the Revolution, the Empire, glory, liberty, young ideas, young generations, the age. But this mistake which it makes with regard to us,—have we not sometimes been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose heirs we are, ought to be intelligent on all points. To attack Royalism is a misconstruction of liberalism. What an error! And what blindness! Revolutionary France is wanting in respect towards historic France, that is to say, towards its mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the 5th of September, the nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility of the Empire was treated after the 5th of July. They were unjust to the eagle, we are unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems that we must always have something to proscribe! Does it serve any purpose to ungild the crown of Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We scoff at M. de Vaublanc for erasing the N’s from the bridge of Jena! What was it that he did? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well as Marengo. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N’s. That is our patrimony. To what purpose shall we diminish it? We must not deny our country in the past any more than in the present. Why not accept the whole of history? Why not love the whole of France?


Marius, you will set out for Vernon to-morrow.


Why?


To see your father.


Nothing is more simple,


It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence. Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach which leaves the Cour des Fontaines at six o’clock, and which arrives in the evening. Take it. He says that here is haste.


M. Pontmercy’s house. M. Pontmercy? Is this his house? Can I speak with him? But I am his son! He is expecting me.


He no longer expects you,


For my son.—The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle-field of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course. At that same battle of Waterloo, a sergeant saved my life. The man’s name was Thénardier. I think that he has recently been keeping a little inn, in a village in the neighborhood of Paris, at Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meets him, he will do all the good he can to Thénardier.


This is my place, sir. I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you a while ago, and for again disturbing you at this moment; you must have thought me intrusive, and I will explain myself.


There is no need of that, Sir. Sir,


Yes! I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of me. You see, I am attached to this place. It seems to me that the mass is better from here. Why? I will tell you. It is from this place, that I have watched a poor, brave father come regularly, every two or three months, for the last ten years, since he had no other opportunity and no other way of seeing his child, because he was prevented by family arrangements. He came at the hour when he knew that his son would be brought to mass. The little one never suspected that his father was there. Perhaps he did not even know that he had a father, poor innocent! The father kept behind a pillar, so that he might not be seen. He gazed at his child and he wept. He adored that little fellow, poor man! I could see that. This spot has become sanctified in my sight, and I have contracted a habit of coming hither to listen to the mass. I prefer it to the stall to which I have a right, in my capacity of warden. I knew that unhappy gentleman a little, too. He had a father-in-law, a wealthy aunt, relatives, I don’t know exactly what all, who threatened to disinherit the child if he, the father, saw him. He sacrificed himself in order that his son might be rich and happy some day. He was separated from him because of political opinions. Certainly, I approve of political opinions, but there are people who do not know where to stop. Mon Dieu! a man is not a monster because he was at Waterloo; a father is not separated from his child for such a reason as that. He was one of Bonaparte’s colonels. He is dead, I believe. He lived at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a curé, and his name was something like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had a fine sword-cut, on my honor.


Pontmercy,


Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him?


Sir, he was my father.


Ah! you are the child! Yes, that’s true, he must be a man by this time. Well! poor child, you may say that you had a father who loved you dearly!


I have arranged a hunting-party with some friends. Will you permit me to be absent for three days?


Four! Go and amuse yourself. Some love affair!


Bah! bah! He is just of the age for the girls! The deuce! I thought it was only an affair of gallantry. It seems that it is an affair of passion!


Father! Here I am! It is I! I have the same heart as thou! I am thy son! Alas!


Long live the Emperor!


The great nation!


In love! I know all about it.


Where is it that he goes off like this?


He is getting decidedly wild,


Go! Here he is passing the night out again.


This is too much! But where is it that he goes?


You here, Théodule!


On my way through town, aunt.


Embrace me.


Here goes!


You will remain with us a week at least?


I leave this very evening, aunt.


It is not possible!


Mathematically!


Remain, my little Théodule, I beseech you.


My heart says ‘yes,’ but my orders say ‘no.’ The matter is simple. They are changing our garrison; we have been at Melun, we are being transferred to Gaillon. It is necessary to pass through Paris in order to get from the old post to the new one. I said: ‘I am going to see my aunt.’


Here is something for your trouble.


For my pleasure, you mean to say, my dear aunt.


Are you making the journey on horseback, with your regiment?


No, aunt. I wanted to see you. I have special permission. My servant is taking my horse; I am travelling by diligence. And, by the way, I want to ask you something.


What is it?


Is my cousin Marius Pontmercy travelling so, too?


How do you know that?


On my arrival, I went to the diligence to engage my seat in the coupé.


Well?


A traveller had already come to engage a seat in the imperial. I saw his name on the card.


What name?


Marius Pontmercy.


The wicked fellow! Ah! your cousin is not a steady lad like yourself. To think that he is to pass the night in a diligence!


Just as I am going to do.


But you—it is your duty; in his case, it is wildness.


Bosh!


Are you aware whether your cousin knows you?


No. I have seen him; but he has never deigned to notice me.


So you are going to travel together?


He in the imperial, I in the coupé.


Where does this diligence run?


To Andelys.


Then that is where Marius is going?


Unless, like myself, he should stop on the way. I get down at Vernon, in order to take the branch coach for Gaillon. I know nothing of Marius’ plan of travel.


Marius! what an ugly name! what possessed them to name him Marius? While you, at least, are called Théodule.


I would rather be called Alfred,


Listen, Théodule.


I am listening, aunt.


Pay attention.


I am paying attention.


You understand?


Yes.


Well, Marius absents himself!


Eh! eh!


He travels.


Ah! ah!


He spends the night out.


Oh! oh!


We should like to know what there is behind all this.


Some petticoat or other. A lass.


That is evident. Do us a favor. Follow Marius a little. He does not know you, it will be easy. Since a lass there is, try to get a sight of her. You must write us the tale. It will amuse his grandfather.


As you please, aunt. Here I am a duenna.


You are not the man to play such pranks, Théodule. You obey discipline, you are the slave of orders, you are a man of scruples and duty, and you would not quit your family to go and see a creature.


Vernon! relay of Vernon! Travellers for Vernon!


Good, this is where I get out.


Can that be Marius?


Give your ladies flowers!


Come now, this piques my curiosity. Who the deuce is he going to carry those flowers to? She must be a splendidly handsome woman for so fine a bouquet. I want to see her. Capital. Rendezvous seasoned with a bit of mass are the best sort. Nothing is so exquisite as an ogle which passes over the good God’s head. The rendezvous is appointed outside. Let’s have a look at the lass.


He is sleeping out.


I like this better. Victory! We are about to penetrate the mystery! We are going to learn the most minute details; we are going to lay our finger on the debaucheries of our sly friend! Here we have the romance itself. I have the portrait! For this evidently is a portrait. I know all about such things. That is worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid they are! Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, probably! Young men have such bad taste nowadays!


Let us see, father,


From the same to the same. I know what it is. A billet-doux.


Ah! let us read it!


For my son.—The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course. It is the slasher’s handwriting.


Carry those duds away.


A pretty state of things!


Well! well! well! well! well! so you are a baron now. I present you my compliments. What is the meaning of this?


It means that I am the son of my father.


I am your father.


My father, was a humble and heroic man, who served the Republic and France gloriously, who was great in the greatest history that men have ever made, who lived in the bivouac for a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and bullets, in snow and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured two flags, who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and abandoned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was to love too fondly two ingrates, his country and myself.


Marius! Abominable child! I do not know what your father was! I do not wish to know! I know nothing about that, and I do not know him! But what I do know is, that there never was anything but scoundrels among those men! They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps, thieves! I say all! I say all! I know not one! I say all! Do you hear me, Marius! See here, you are no more a baron than my slipper is! They were all bandits in the service of Robespierre! All who served B-u-o-naparté were brigands! They were all traitors who betrayed, betrayed, betrayed their legitimate king! All cowards who fled before the Prussians and the English at Waterloo! That is what I do know! Whether Monsieur your father comes in that category, I do not know! I am sorry for it, so much the worse, your humble servant!


Down with the Bourbons, and that great hog of a Louis XVIII.!


Be off!


Revolution, but civilization


even to chimæras,


The good must be innocent,


Never a lawyer. What a fine old man! What a monument! They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the reason they are intelligent.


What is your request?


Sire, a post-office.


What is your name?


L’Aigle. Sire. I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules. This surname furnished my name. I am called Lesgueules, by contraction Lesgle, and by corruption l’Aigle.


I live under falling tiles.


Good day, Guignon,


Pull off my boots, you five-louis jade.


You may fly away on the four L’s,


Grantaire is impossible


If I only chose! There is but one certainty, my full glass. They are greatly in advance to be dead. There is a gibbet which has been a success. J’aimons les filles, et j’aimons le bon vin.


What fine marble!


Monsieur Marius Pontmercy!


Hey?


You are M. Marius Pontmercy?


Certainly.


I was looking for you,


How so? I do not know you.


Neither do I know you. You were not at the school day before yesterday.


That is possible.


That is certain.


You are a student?


Yes, sir. Like yourself. Day before yesterday, I entered the school, by chance. You know, one does have such freaks sometimes. The professor was just calling the roll. You are not unaware that they are very ridiculous on such occasions. At the third call, unanswered, your name is erased from the list. Sixty francs in the gulf. It was Blondeau who was making the call. You know Blondeau, he has a very pointed and very malicious nose, and he delights to scent out the absent. He slyly began with the letter P. I was not listening, not being compromised by that letter. The call was not going badly. No erasures; the universe was present. Blondeau was grieved. I said to myself: ‘Blondeau, my love, you will not get the very smallest sort of an execution to-day.’ All at once Blondeau calls, ‘Marius Pontmercy!’ No one answers. Blondeau, filled with hope, repeats more loudly: ‘Marius Pontmercy!’ And he takes his pen. Monsieur, I have bowels of compassion. I said to myself hastily: ‘Here’s a brave fellow who is going to get scratched out. Attention. Here is a veritable mortal who is not exact. He’s not a good student. Here is none of your heavy-sides, a student who studies, a greenhorn pedant, strong on letters, theology, science, and sapience, one of those dull wits cut by the square; a pin by profession. He is an honorable idler who lounges, who practises country jaunts, who cultivates the grisette, who pays court to the fair sex, who is at this very moment, perhaps, with my mistress. Let us save him. Death to Blondeau!’ At that moment, Blondeau dipped his pen in, all black with erasures in the ink, cast his yellow eyes round the audience room, and repeated for the third time: ‘Marius Pontmercy!’ I replied: ‘Present!’ This is why you were not crossed off.


Monsieur!—


And why I was,


I do not understand you,


Nothing is more simple. I was close to the desk to reply, and close to the door for the purpose of flight. The professor gazed at me with a certain intensity. All of a sudden, Blondeau, who must be the malicious nose alluded to by Boileau, skipped to the letter L. L is my letter. I am from Meaux, and my name is Lesgle.


L’Aigle! what fine name!


Monsieur, Blondeau came to this fine name, and called: ‘Laigle!’ I reply: ‘Present!’ Then Blondeau gazes at me, with the gentleness of a tiger, and says to me: ‘If you are Pontmercy, you are not Laigle.’ A phrase which has a disobliging air for you, but which was lugubrious only for me. That said, he crossed me off.


I am mortified, sir—


First of all. I demand permission to embalm Blondeau in a few phrases of deeply felt eulogium. I will assume that he is dead. There will be no great change required in his gauntness, in his pallor, in his coldness, and in his smell. And I say: ‘Erudimini qui judicatis terram. Here lies Blondeau, Blondeau the Nose, Blondeau Nasica, the ox of discipline, bos disciplinæ, the bloodhound of the password, the angel of the roll-call, who was upright, square, exact, rigid, honest, and hideous. God crossed him off as he crossed me off.’


I am very sorry—


Young man, let this serve you as a lesson. In future, be exact.


I really beg you a thousand pardons.


Do not expose your neighbor to the danger of having his name erased again.


I am extremely sorry—


And I am delighted. I was on the brink of becoming a lawyer. This erasure saves me. I renounce the triumphs of the bar. I shall not defend the widow, and I shall not attack the orphan. No more toga, no more stage. Here is my erasure all ready for me. It is to you that I am indebted for it, Monsieur Pontmercy. I intend to pay a solemn call of thanks upon you. Where do you live?


In this cab,


A sign of opulence. I congratulate you. You have there a rent of nine thousand francs per annum.


hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques.


By the way, have you any political opinions?


The idea!


What are you?


A democrat-Bonapartist.


The gray hue of a reassured rat. I must give you your entry to the revolution. A pupil.


Down with tragedy dear to the bourgeois!


You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, and the bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. Bewigged tragedy has a reason for its existence, and I am not one of those who, by order of Æschylus, contest its right to existence. There are rough outlines in nature; there are, in creation, ready-made parodies; a beak which is not a beak, wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws which are not paws, a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh, there is the duck. Now, since poultry exists by the side of the bird, I do not see why classic tragedy should not exist in the face of antique tragedy.


Pay attention. This is the Rue Plâtrière, now called Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, on account of a singular household which lived in it sixty years ago. This consisted of Jean-Jacques and Thérèse. From time to time, little beings were born there. Thérèse gave birth to them, Jean-Jacques represented them as foundlings.


Silence in the presence of Jean-Jacques! I admire that man. He denied his own children, that may be; but he adopted the people.


—And as for me, although I am hardly a legist, and at the most, an amateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in accordance with the terms of the customs of Normandy, at Saint-Michel, and for each year, an equivalent must be paid to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving the rights of others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well as those seized with inheritance, and that, for all emphyteuses, leases, freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages—


Echo, plaintive nymph,


Let us begin by finding names. When one has the names, one finds the subject.


That is true. Dictate. I will write.


Monsieur Dorimon.


An independent gentleman?


Of course.


His daughter, Célestine.


—tine. What next?


Colonel Sainval.


Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin.


The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a just parade, mathematical parries, bigre! and he is left-handed.


You are in luck, that you are,


That is a fault of hers. One’s mistress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you.


Ingrate! a woman who laughs is such a good thing! And you never quarrel!


That is because of the treaty which we have made. On forming our little Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each our frontier, which we never cross. What is situated on the side of winter belongs to Vaud, on the side of the wind to Gex. Hence the peace.


Peace is happiness digesting.


And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with Mamselle—you know whom I mean?


She sulks at me with cruel patience.


Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness.


Alas!


In your place, I would let her alone.


That is easy enough to say.


And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?


Yes. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very literary, with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her.


My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be elegant, and produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of double-milled cloth at Staub’s. That will assist.


At what price?


Let us not insult the gods. The gods may not have taken their departure. Jupiter does not impress me as dead. The gods are dreams, you say. Well, even in nature, such as it is to-day, after the flight of these dreams, we still find all the grand old pagan myths. Such and such a mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the Vignemale, for example, is still to me the headdress of Cybele; it has not been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe into the hollow trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes in turn with his fingers, and I have always believed that Io had something to do with the cascade of Pissevache.


The charter metamorphosed into flame.


June 18th, 1815, Waterloo.


Pardieu! that number 18 is strange and strikes me. It is Bonaparte’s fatal number. Place Louis in front and Brumaire behind, you have the whole destiny of the man, with this significant peculiarity, that the end treads close on the heels of the commencement.


You mean to say, the crime and the expiation.


Corsica, a little island which has rendered France very great.


France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she is France. Quia nomina leo.


God forbid that I should diminish France! But amalgamating Napoleon with her is not diminishing her. Come! let us argue the question. I am a newcomer among you, but I will confess that you amaze me. Where do we stand? Who are we? Who are you? Who am I? Let us come to an explanation about the Emperor. I hear you say Buonaparte, accenting the u like the Royalists. I warn you that my grandfather does better still; he says Buonaparté’. I thought you were young men. Where, then, is your enthusiasm? And what are you doing with it? Whom do you admire, if you do not admire the Emperor? And what more do you want? If you will have none of that great man, what great men would you like? He had everything. He was complete. He had in his brain the sum of human faculties. He made codes like Justinian, he dictated like Cæsar, his conversation was mingled with the lightning-flash of Pascal, with the thunderclap of Tacitus, he made history and he wrote it, his bulletins are Iliads, he combined the cipher of Newton with the metaphor of Mahomet, he left behind him in the East words as great as the pyramids, at Tilsit he taught Emperors majesty, at the Academy of Sciences he replied to Laplace, in the Council of State he held his own against Merlin, he gave a soul to the geometry of the first, and to the chicanery of the last, he was a legist with the attorneys and sidereal with the astronomers; like Cromwell blowing out one of two candles, he went to the Temple to bargain for a curtain tassel; he saw everything; he knew everything; which did not prevent him from laughing good-naturedly beside the cradle of his little child; and all at once, frightened Europe lent an ear, armies put themselves in motion, parks of artillery rumbled, pontoons stretched over the rivers, clouds of cavalry galloped in the storm, cries, trumpets, a trembling of thrones in every direction, the frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map, the sound of a superhuman sword was heard, as it was drawn from its sheath; they beheld him, him, rise erect on the horizon with a blazing brand in his hand, and a glow in his eyes, unfolding amid the thunder, his two wings, the grand army and the old guard, and he was the archangel of war! Let us be just, my friends! What a splendid destiny for a nation to be the Empire of such an Emperor, when that nation is France and when it adds its own genius to the genius of that man! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have for halting-places all capitals, to take his grenadiers and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of dynasties, and to transfigure Europe at the pace of a charge; to make you feel that when you threaten you lay your hand on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow in a single man, Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemagne; to be the people of some one who mingles with your dawns the startling announcement of a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalides to rouse you in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious words which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram! To cause constellations of victories to flash forth at each instant from the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire a pendant to the Roman Empire, to be the great nation and to give birth to the grand army, to make its legions fly forth over all the earth, as a mountain sends out its eagles on all sides to conquer, to dominate, to strike with lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through glory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet-blast of Titans, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime; and what greater thing is there?


To be free,


Si César m’avait donné La gloire et la guerre, Et qu’il me fallait quitter L’amour de ma mère, Je dirais au grand César: Reprends ton sceptre et ton char, J’aime mieux ma mère, ô gué! J’aime mieux ma mère!


My mother?—


Citizen, my mother is the Republic.


Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you.


Yes.


But I must have my money.


Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me,


What is to become of you?


I do not know in the least,


What are you going to do?


I do not know.


Have you any money?


Fifteen francs.


Do you want me to lend you some?


Never.


Have you clothes?


Here is what I have.


Have you trinkets?


A watch.


Silver?


Gold; here it is.


I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock-coat and a pair of trousers.


That is good.


You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a hat and a coat.


And my boots.


What! you will not go barefoot? What opulence!


That will be enough.


I know a watchmaker who will buy your watch. No; it is not good. What will you do after that?


Whatever is necessary. Anything honest, that is to say.


Do you know English?


No.


Do you know German? So much the worse.


Why?


Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting up a sort of an encyclopædia, for which you might have translated English or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one can live by it.


I will learn English and German.


And in the meanwhile?


In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch. That is not bad, with my fifteen francs, that makes eighty.


And the hotel bill?


Hello, I had forgotten that. I have ten francs left,


The deuce, you will eat up five francs while you are learning English, and five while learning German. That will be swallowing a tongue very fast, or a hundred sous very slowly.


Let me never hear the name of that blood-drinker again!


If you were not a fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the same time.


simplified matters. for every day


What, when my father lay dying on the field of battle, did Thénardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot, and bear him off on his shoulders, and yet he owed him nothing, and I, who owe so much to Thénardier, cannot join him in this shadow where he is lying in the pangs of death, and in my turn bring him back from death to life! Oh! I will find him! You do not know me; well, I do know you! Here I am. Dispose of me!


I could not do otherwise than turn him out. If the thing were to do over again, would I do it? yes, no.


Oh! if he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would give him!


What is your grandson doing?


What has become of him?


Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other.


had been unkind to his father. it was certainly the least he could do;


He will be worthy of it.


He operated on me for a cataract,


Certainly I approve of political opinions,


Have you never been married? I have forgotten. Oh! if I were only rich!


Monsieur, it is the water-carrier.


We have the indigo!


—The beauty pouted, and the dragoon—


Bouddha and the Dragon. Yes, it is true that there was a dragon, which, from the depths of its cave, spouted flame through his maw and set the heavens on fire. Many stars had already been consumed by this monster, which, besides, had the claws of a tiger. Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting the dragon. That is a good book that you are reading, Mother Plutarque. There is no more beautiful legend in existence.


Men are so made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In order to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots.


Why are they turned out?


Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters.


How much is it?


Twenty francs,


Here, take these twenty-five francs. Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell them that it was I.


Father, Théodule is coming to present his respects to you this morning.


Who’s Théodule?


Your grandnephew.


Ah!


Théodule, your grandnephew. Approve of everything.


Good day, uncle,


Ah! so it’s you; that is well, sit down. That pack of brats! they convene on the Place du Panthéon! by my life! urchins who were with their nurses but yesterday! If one were to squeeze their noses, milk would burst out. And they deliberate to-morrow, at midday. What are we coming to? What are we coming to? It is clear that we are making for the abyss. That is what the descamisados have brought us to! To deliberate on the citizen artillery! To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the National Guard! And with whom are they to meet there? Just see whither Jacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a million against a counter, that there will be no one there but returned convicts and released galley-slaves. The Republicans and the galley-slaves,—they form but one nose and one handkerchief. Carnot used to say: ‘Where would you have me go, traitor?’ Fouché replied: ‘Wherever you please, imbecile!’ That’s what the Republicans are like.


That is true,


When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn carbonaro! Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican! Pssst! In the first place, the people want none of your republic, they have common sense, they know well that there always have been kings, and that there always will be; they know well that the people are only the people, after all, they make sport of it, of your republic—do you understand, idiot? Is it not a horrible caprice? To fall in love with Père Duchesne, to make sheep’s-eyes at the guillotine, to sing romances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of ’93—it’s enough to make one spit on all these young fellows, such fools are they! They are all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for them to breathe the air which blows through the street to lose their senses. The nineteenth century is poison. The first scamp that happens along lets his beard grow like a goat’s, thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his old relatives. He’s a Republican, he’s a romantic. What does that mean, romantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies. A year ago, they ran to Hernani. Now, I just ask you, Hernani! antitheses! abominations which are not even written in French! And then, they have cannons in the courtyard of the Louvre. Such are the rascalities of this age!


You are right, uncle,


Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum! For what purpose? Do you want to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere? What have those cartridges to do with the Venus de Medici? Oh! the young men of the present day are all blackguards! What a pretty creature is their Benjamin Constant! And those who are not rascals are simpletons! They do all they can to make themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are afraid of women, in the presence of petticoats they have a mendicant air which sets the girls into fits of laughter; on my word of honor, one would say the poor creatures were ashamed of love. They are deformed, and they complete themselves by being stupid; they repeat the puns of Tiercelin and Potier, they have sack coats, stablemen’s waistcoats, shirts of coarse linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and their rigmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use of their jargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all this awkward batch of brats has political opinions, if you please. Political opinions should be strictly forbidden. They fabricate systems, they recast society, they demolish the monarchy, they fling all laws to the earth, they put the attic in the cellar’s place and my porter in the place of the King, they turn Europe topsy-turvy, they reconstruct the world, and all their love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the laundresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah! Marius! Ah! you blackguard! to go and vociferate on the public place! to discuss, to debate, to take measures! They call that measures, just God! Disorder humbles itself and becomes silly. I have seen chaos, I now see a mess. Students deliberating on the National Guard,—such a thing could not be seen among the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches! Savages who go naked, with their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock, with a club in their paws, are less of brutes than those bachelors of arts! The four-penny monkeys! And they set up for judges! Those creatures deliberate and ratiocinate! The end of the world is come! This is plainly the end of this miserable terraqueous globe! A final hiccough was required, and France has emitted it. Deliberate, my rascals! Such things will happen so long as they go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the Odéon. That costs them a sou, and their good sense, and their intelligence, and their heart and their soul, and their wits. They emerge thence, and decamp from their families. All newspapers are pests; all, even the Drapeau Blanc! At bottom, Martainville was a Jacobin. Ah! just Heaven! you may boast of having driven your grandfather to despair, that you may!


That is evident. There should be no other newspaper than the Moniteur, and no other book than the Annuaire Militaire.


It is like their Sieyès! A regicide ending in a senator; for that is the way they always end. They give themselves a scar with the address of thou as citizens, in order to get themselves called, eventually, Monsieur le Comte. Monsieur le Comte as big as my arm, assassins of September. The philosopher Sieyès! I will do myself the justice to say, that I have never had any better opinion of the philosophies of all those philosophers, than of the spectacles of the grimacer of Tivoli! One day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles of violet velvet sown with bees, with hats à la Henri IV. They were hideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys from the tiger’s court. Citizens, I declare to you, that your progress is madness, that your humanity is a dream, that your revolution is a crime, that your republic is a monster, that your young and virgin France comes from the brothel, and I maintain it against all, whoever you may be, whether journalists, economists, legists, or even were you better judges of liberty, of equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine! And that I announce to you, my fine fellows!


Parbleu! that is wonderfully true.


You are a fool.


Do not aspire to be venerable Let me give you a piece of advice, my dear fellow. Don’t read so many books, and look a little more at the lasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint of fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized. Good morning, Monsieur l’Abbé! Seeing that his servant woman wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.


He is an ex-officer.


Here’s a very tidy widower.


Ah! Monsieur Leblanc is on his bench.


I have just met Marius’ new hat and new coat, with Marius inside them. He was going to pass an examination, no doubt. He looked utterly stupid.


Shun excess, my son, keep at an equal distance from despotism and from anarchy.


She could not, however, help feeling esteem and consideration for me, if she only knew that I am the veritable author of the dissertation on Marcos Obrégon de la Ronde, which M. François de Neufchâteau put, as though it were his own, at the head of his edition of Gil Blas.


Never mind!


Three days in succession! If there is any sense, in putting on one’s best clothes every day, and making people run like this!


Ah! good Heavens! I shall not have time to strike an attitude. What are they coming in this direction for? What! She will pass here? Her feet will tread this sand, this walk, two paces from me?


I am coming myself.


Come and dine with me. Have you read the paper? What a fine discourse Audry de Puyraveau delivered! I will treat you to the play.


I should like to put that woman in my collection,


But it is very agreeable, all the same to have the cross!


That’s queer!


No, that’s serious.


He is on duty,


the attention of the father.


The father his daughter


Ursule! what a delicious name! I feel that her whole soul lies within it! O modesty!


Well, what is the matter?


Perhaps he was there! perhaps he saw!


Is that the gentleman who lives on the first floor, who has just come in?


No. He is the gentleman on the third floor.


On the front?


Parbleu! the house is only built on the street.


And what is that gentleman’s business?


He is a gentleman of property, sir. A very kind man who does good to the unfortunate, though not rich himself.


What is his name?


Are you a police spy, sir?


Good. I know that her name is Ursule, that she is the daughter of a gentleman who lives on his income, and that she lives there, on the third floor, in the Rue de l’Ouest.


Hello! the lamp is not lighted yet. But it is dark. Can they have gone out?


The gentleman on the third floor?


Has moved away,


How long ago?


Yesterday.


Where is he living now?


I don’t know anything about it.


So he has not left his new address?


No. Come! So it’s you! but you are decidedly a spy then?


Babet, Dental Artist, Member of the Academies, makes physical experiments on metals and metalloids, extracts teeth, undertakes stumps abandoned by his brother practitioners. Price: one tooth, one franc, fifty centimes; two teeth, two francs; three teeth, two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this opportunity. Take advantage of this opportunity There’s a fortune! my wife has not the wit to present me with a child like that! undertake Paris. Claquesous is a nocturne for two voices.


Who did it?


Perhaps it was Patron-Minette.


What is the use? Why did I follow her? I was so happy at the mere sight of her! She looked at me; was not that immense? She had the air of loving me. Was not that everything? I wished to have, what? There was nothing after that. I have been absurd. It is my own fault,


I see that you have been simply an animal. Here, come to the Chaumière.


But this is the place, all the same, where all lost women are found,


After all, it was probably only a resemblance.


What is there that is cheap now? Everything is dear. There is nothing in the world that is cheap except trouble; you can get that for nothing, the trouble of the world!


The bobbies have come. They came near nabbing me at the half-circle.


I saw them. I bolted, bolted, bolted!


Good, those unhappy girls dropped it. Poor mothers! There is one thing sadder than to see one’s children die; it is to see them leading an evil life. How gloomy my life has become! Young girls are always appearing to me, only formerly they were angels and now they are ghouls.


You will be robbed,


Of what? Come in. What do you want, Ma’am Bougon?


Excuse me, sir—


What do you wish, Mademoiselle?


Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Marius.


MY AMIABLE NEIGHBOR, YOUNG MAN: I have learned of your goodness to me, that you paid my rent six months ago. I bless you, young man. My eldest daughter will tell you that we have been without a morsel of bread for two days, four persons and my spouse ill. If I am not deseaved in my opinion, I think I may hope that your generous heart will melt at this statement and the desire will subjugate you to be propitious to me by daigning to lavish on me a slight favor. I am with the distinguished consideration which is due to the benefactors of humanity,— JONDRETTE. P.S. My eldest daughter will await your orders, dear Monsieur Marius.


Hullo! you have a mirror!


Ah! books! I know how to read, I do! —General Bauduin received orders to take the château of Hougomont which stands in the middle of the plain of Waterloo, with five battalions of his brigade. Ah! Waterloo! I know about that. It was a battle long ago. My father was there. My father has served in the armies. We are fine Bonapartists in our house, that we are! Waterloo was against the English. And I know how to write, too! Do you want to see? Look here, I’m going to write a word to show you. The bobbies are here. There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We have received an education, my sister and I. We have not always been as we are now. We were not made— Bah! J’ai faim, mon père. Pas de fricot. J’ai froid, ma mère. Pas de tricot. Grelotte. Lolotte! Sanglote. Jacquot! Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets sometimes. But I don’t like the benches in the galleries. One is cramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there sometimes; and people who smell bad. Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome fellow? You pay no heed to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the staircase, and then I often see you going to a person named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz, sometimes when I have been strolling in that quarter. It is very becoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus.


Mademoiselle. I have here a package which belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return it to you.


We have been looking everywhere for that! Dieu de Dieu! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you who found it! On the boulevard, was it not? It must have been on the boulevard? You see, we let it fall when we were running. It was that brat of a sister of mine who was so stupid. When we got home, we could not find it anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is useless, as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we said that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that they had said to us: ‘Nix.’ So here they are, those poor letters! And how did you find out that they belonged to me? Ah! yes, the writing. So it was you that we jostled as we passed last night. We couldn’t see. I said to my sister: ‘Is it a gentleman?’ My sister said to me: ‘I think it is a gentleman.’ Here! this is for that old fellow who goes to mass. By the way, this is his hour. I’ll go and carry it to him. Perhaps he will give us something to breakfast on. Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today? It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst! No, it’s too cold. Why, there’s water there!


At all events, there is my dinner for to-day, and to-morrow we will see.


Good! the sun is shining! Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain’t this fine! You’re a jolly thief! I’m your humble servant! Bravo for the good fellows! Two days’ wine! and meat! and stew! we’ll have a royal feast! and a good fill! Good morning, sir. It’s all right. I’ll go and find my old man. That’s good! it’s hard! it breaks my teeth!


Let us get some little idea of what these people are like, and in what condition they are.


The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead! Just look at Père-Lachaise! The great, those who are rich, are up above, in the acacia alley, which is paved. They can reach it in a carriage. The little people, the poor, the unhappy, well, what of them? they are put down below, where the mud is up to your knees, in the damp places. They are put there so that they will decay the sooner! You cannot go to see them without sinking into the earth. Oh! I could eat the whole world!


I bolted, bolted, bolted!


Canaille! canaille! everybody is canaille!


Calm yourself, my little friend. Don’t hurt yourself, my dear. You are too good to write to all those people, husband.


He is coming!


Who?


The gentleman!


The philanthropist?


Yes.


From the church of Saint-Jacques?


That old fellow?


And he is coming?


He is following me.


You are sure?


I am sure.


There, truly, he is coming?


He is coming in a fiacre.


In a fiacre. He is Rothschild. How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, how is it that you arrive before him? You gave him our address at least? Did you tell him that it was the last door at the end of the corridor, on the right? If he only does not make a mistake! So you found him at the church? Did he read my letter? What did he say to you?


Ta, ta, ta, how you do gallop on, my good man! See here: I entered the church, he was in his usual place, I made him a reverence, and I handed him the letter; he read it and said to me: ‘Where do you live, my child?’ I said: ‘Monsieur, I will show you.’ He said to me: ‘No, give me your address, my daughter has some purchases to make, I will take a carriage and reach your house at the same time that you do.’ I gave him the address. When I mentioned the house, he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then he said: ‘Never mind, I will come.’ When the mass was finished, I watched him leave the church with his daughter, and I saw them enter a carriage. I certainly did tell him the last door in the corridor, on the right.


And what makes you think that he will come?


I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That is what made me run so.


How do you know that it was the same fiacre?


Because I took notice of the number, so there!


What was the number?


Good, you are a clever girl.


A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won’t put these shoes on again, and that I won’t, for the sake of my health, in the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I don’t know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch, and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time. I prefer to go barefoot.


You are right, but then, you will not be allowed to enter churches, for poor people must have shoes to do that. One cannot go barefoot to the good God,


He is following on my heels,


Wife! you hear. Here is the philanthropist. Extinguish the fire.


What do you mean to do, my dear?


Get into bed,


Just see there! What follies you commit! She has cut herself breaking that pane for you!


So much the better! Peace! I suppress the liberty of the press.


Now, we can receive the philanthropist.


Feel how cold I am,


Bah! I am much colder than that.


You always have something better than any one else, so you do! even bad things.


Down with you!


My treasure, I entreat you, it is nothing of consequence, don’t cry, you will anger your father.


No! quite the contrary! sob! sob! that’s right. There now! He is not coming! What if he were not to come! I shall have extinguished my fire, wrecked my chair, torn my shirt, and broken my pane all for nothing.


And wounded the child!


Do you know, that it’s beastly cold in this devil’s garret! What if that man should not come! Oh! See there, you! He makes us wait! He says to himself: ‘Well! they will wait for me! That’s what they’re there for.’ Oh! how I hate them, and with what joy, jubilation, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I could strangle all those rich folks! all those rich folks! These men who pretend to be charitable, who put on airs, who go to mass, who make presents to the priesthood, preachy, preachy, in their skullcaps, and who think themselves above us, and who come for the purpose of humiliating us, and to bring us ‘clothes,’ as they say! old duds that are not worth four sous! And bread! That’s not what I want, pack of rascals that they are, it’s money! Ah! money! Never! Because they say that we would go off and drink it up, and that we are drunkards and idlers! And they! What are they, then, and what have they been in their time! Thieves! They never could have become rich otherwise! Oh! Society ought to be grasped by the four corners of the cloth and tossed into the air, all of it! It would all be smashed, very likely, but at least, no one would have anything, and there would be that much gained! But what is that blockhead of a benevolent gentleman doing? Will he come? Perhaps the animal has forgotten the address! I’ll bet that that old beast— Enter, sir! Deign to enter, most respected benefactor, and your charming young lady, also.


Monsieur, in this package you will find some new clothes and some woollen stockings and blankets.


Our angelic benefactor overwhelms us. Hey? What did I say? Duds! No money! They are all alike! By the way, how was the letter to that old blockhead signed?


Fabantou,


The dramatic artist, good!


I see that you are greatly to be pitied, Monsieur—


Fabantou. Dramatic artist, sir, and one who has had some success. A pupil of Talma! Sir! I am a pupil of Talma! Fortune formerly smiled on me—Alas! Now it is misfortune’s turn. You see, my benefactor, no bread, no fire. My poor babes have no fire! My only chair has no seat! A broken pane! And in such weather! My spouse in bed! Ill!


Poor woman!


My child wounded! Cry! bawl! her bleeding wrist! It came through an accident while working at a machine to earn six sous a day. It may be necessary to cut off her arm.


Really?