by Victor Hugo
This sceptic, however, had a fanaticism; it was neither an idea, adogma, an act, nor a sense: it was a man,--Enjolras. Grantaire admired,loved, and revered Enjolras. Whom did this anarchical doubter cling toin this phalanx of absolute minds? To the most absolute. In what waydid Enjolras subjugate him,--by ideas? No, but by character. This is afrequently-observed phenomenon, and a sceptic who clings to a believeris as simple as the law of complementary colors. What we do not possessattracts us; no one loves daylight like the blind man; the dwarf adoresthe drum-major, and the frog has its eyes constantly fixed on heavento see the bird fly. Grantaire, in whom doubt grovelled, liked to seefaith soaring in Enjolras, and he felt the want of him, without clearlyunderstanding it, or even dreaming of explaining the fact to himself.This chaste, healthy, firm, upright, harsh, and candid nature charmedhim, and he instinctively admired his opposite. His soft, yielding,dislocated, sickly, and shapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolrasas to a spinal column, and his mental vertebra supported itself bythis firmness. Grantaire, by the side of Enjolras, became somebodyagain; and he was, moreover, himself composed of two apparentlyirreconcilable elements,--he was ironical and cordial. His mind coulddo without belief, but his heart could not do without friendship. Thisis a profound contradiction, for an affection is a conviction; but hisnature was so. There are some men apparently born to be the reverseof the coin, and their names are Pollux, Patroclus, Nisus, Eudamidas,Ephestion, and Pechmeja. They only live on the condition of beingbacked by another man; their name is a continuation, and is neverwritten except preceded by the conjunction _and_; their existence isnot their own, but is the other side of a destiny which is not theirs.Grantaire was one of these men.
We might almost say that affinities commence with the letters ofthe alphabet, and in the series, O and P are almost inseparable. Youmay, as you please, say O and P, or Orestes and Pylades. Grantaire,a true satellite of Enjolras, dwelt in this circle of young men; helived there, he solely enjoyed himself there, and he followed themeverywhere. His delight was to see their shadows coming and goingthrough the fumes of wine, and he was tolerated for his pleasanthumor. Enjolras, as a believer, disdained this sceptic, and as a soberman loathed this drunkard, but he granted him a little haughty pity.Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades: constantly repulsed by Enjolras,harshly rejected, and yet returning, he used to say of him, "What asplendid statue!"
CHAPTER II.
BOSSUET'S FUNERAL ORATION ON BLONDEAU.
On a certain afternoon, which, as we shall see, has some coincidencewith the events recorded above, Laigle de Meaux was sensually leaningagainst the door-post of the Café Musain. He looked like a caryatid outfor a holiday, and having nothing to carry but his reverie. Leaning onone's shoulder is a mode of lying down upright which is not disliked bydreamers. Laigle de Meaux was thinking, without melancholy, of a slightmisadventure which had occurred to him on the previous day but one atthe Law-school, and modified his personal plans for the future, which,as it was, were somewhat indistinct.
Reverie does not prevent a cabriolet from passing, or a dreamer fromnoticing the cabriolet. Laigle, whose eyes were absently wandering, sawthrough this somnambulism a two-wheeled vehicle moving across the PlaceSt. Michel at a foot-pace and apparently undecided. What did this cabwant? Why was it going so slowly? Laigle looked at it, and saw inside ayoung man seated by the side of the driver, and in front of the youngman a carpet-bag. The bag displayed to passers-by this name, written inlarge black letters on the card sewn to the cloth, MARIUS PONTMERCY.This name made Laigle change his attitude: he drew himself up, andshouted to the young man in the cab, "M. Marius Pontmercy!"
The cab stopped, on being thus hailed, and the young man, who alsoappeared to be thinking deeply, raised his eyes.
"Hilloh!" he said.
"Are you M. Pontmercy?"
"Yes."
"I was looking for you," Laigle of Meaux continued.
"How so?" asked Marius, for it was really he, who had just left hisgrandfather's and had before him a face which he saw for the firsttime. "I do not know you."
"And I don't know you either."
Marius fancied that he had to do with a practical joker, and, as he wasnot in the best of tempers at the moment, frowned. Laigle imperturbablycontinued,--
"You were not at lecture the day before yesterday!"
"Very possibly."
"It is certain."
"Are you a student?" Marius asked.
"Yes, sir, like yourself. The day before yesterday I entered theLaw-school by chance; as you know, a man has an idea like thatsometimes. The Professor was engaged in calling over the names, and youare aware how ridiculously strict they are in the school at the presentmoment. Upon the third call remaining unanswered, your name is erasedfrom the list, and sixty francs are gone."
Marius began to listen, and Laigle continued,--
"It was Blondeau who was calling over. You know Blondeau has a pointedand most malicious nose, and scents the absent with delight. Hecraftily began with the letter P, and I did not listen, because I wasnot compromised by that letter. The roll-call went on capitally, therewas no erasure, and the universe was present. Blondeau was sad, andI said to myself aside, 'Blondeau, my love, you will not perform theslightest execution to-day,' All at once Blondeau calls out, 'MariusPontmercy!' No one answered, and so Blondeau, full of hope, repeats ina louder voice,'Marius Pontmercy!' and takes up his pen. I have bowels,sir, and said to myself hurriedly, 'The name of a good fellow is goingto be erased. Attention! he is not a proper student, a student whostudies, a reading man, a pedantic sap, strong in science, literature,theology, and philosophy. No, he is an honorable idler, who loungesabout, enjoys the country, cultivates the grisette, pays his court tothe ladies, and is perhaps with my mistress at this moment. I must savehim: death to Blondeau!' At this moment Blondeau dipped his pen, blackwith erasures, into the ink, looked round his audience, and repeatedfor the third time, 'Marius Pontmercy!' I answered,'Here!' and so yourname was not erased."
"Sir!" Marius exclaimed.
"And mine was," Laigle of Meaux added.
"I do not understand you," said Marius.
Laigle continued,--
"And yet it was very simple. I was near the desk to answer, and nearthe door to bolt. The Professor looked at me with a certain fixedness,and suddenly Blondeau, who must be the crafty nose to which Boileaurefers, leaps to the letter L, which is my letter, for I come fromMeaux, and my name is L'Aigle."
"L'Aigle!" Marius interrupted, "what a glorious name!"
"Blondeau arrives, sir, at that glorious name, and exclaims 'L'Aigle!'I answer,'Here!' Then Blondeau looks at me with the gentleness of atiger, smiles, and says,--'If you are Pontmercy you are not Laigle, 'aphrase which appears offensive to you, but which was only lugubriousfor me. After saying this, he erased me."
Marius exclaimed,--
"I am really mortified, sir--"
"Before all," Laigle interrupted, "I ask leave to embalm Blondeauin a few phrases of heart-felt praise. I will suppose him dead, andthere will not be much to alter in his thinness, paleness, coldness,stiffness, and smell, and I say, _Erudimini qui judicatis terram_. Herelies Blondeau the nosy, Blondeau Nasica, the ox of discipline, _bosdisciplinœ_, the mastiff of duty, the angel of the roll-call, who wasstraight, square, exact, rigid, honest, and hideous. God erased him ashe erased me."
Marius continued, "I am most grieved--"
"Young man," said Laigle, "let this serve you as a lesson; in future bepunctual."
"I offer you a thousand apologies."
"And do not run the risk of getting your neighbor erased."
"I am in despair--"
Laigle burst into a laugh. "And I am enchanted. I was on the downwardroad to become a lawyer, and this erasure saves me. I renounce thetriumphs of the bar. I will not defend the orphan or attack the widow.I have obtained my expulsion, and I am indebted to you for it, M.Pontmercy. I intend to pay you a solemn visit of thanks. Where do youlive?"
"In this cab,"
said Marius.
"A sign of opulence," Laigle remarked calmly; "I congratulate you, foryou have apartments at nine thousand francs a year."
At this moment Courfeyrac came out of the café Marius smiled sadly.
"I have been in this lodging for two hours, and am eager to leave it;but I do not know where to go."
"Come home with me," Courfeyrac said to him.
"I ought to have the priority," Laigle observed; "but then I have nohome."
"Hold your tongue, Bossuet," Courfeyrac remarked.
"Bossuet!" said Marius. "Why, you told me your name was Laigle."
"Of Meaux," Laigle answered; "metaphorically, Bossuet."
Courfeyrac got into the cab.
"Hôtel de la Porte St Jacques, driver," he said.
The same evening Marius was installed in a room in this house, nextdoor to Courfeyrac.
CHAPTER III.
MARIUS IS ASTONISHED.
In a few days Marius was a friend of Courfeyrac, for youth is theseason of prompt weldings and rapid cicatrizations. Marius by the sideof Courfeyrac breathed freely, a great novelty for him. Courfeyracasked him no questions, and did not even think of doing so, for at thatage faces tell everything at once, and words are unnecessary. There aresome young men of whose countenances you may say that they gossip,--youlook at them and know them. One morning, however, Courfeyrac suddenlyasked him the question,--
"By the way, have you any political opinion?"
"Of course!" said Marius, almost offended by the question.
"What are you?"
"Bonapartist democrat."
"The gray color of the reassured mouse," Courfeyrac remarked.
On the next day he led Marius to the Café Musain, and whispered in hisear with a smile, "I must introduce you to the Revolution," and he ledhim to the room of the Friends of the A. B. C. He introduced him to hiscompanions, saying in a low voice, "A pupil," which Marius did not atall comprehend Marius had fallen into a mental wasps' nest, but thoughhe was silent and grave, he was not the less winged and armed.
Marius, hitherto solitary, and muttering soliloquies and asides throughhabit and taste, was somewhat startled by the swarm of young men aroundhim. The tumultuous movement of all these minds at liberty and at workmade his ideas whirl, and at times, in his confusion, they flew sofar from him that he had a difficulty in finding them again. He heardphilosophy, literature, art, history, and religion spoken of in anunexpected way; he caught a glimpse of strange aspects, and as he didnot place them in perspective, he was not sure that he was not gazingat chaos. On giving up his grandfather's opinions for those of hisfather, he believed himself settled; but he now suspected, anxiously,and not daring to confess it to himself, that it was not so. The anglein which he looked at everything was beginning to be displaced afresh,and a certain oscillation shook all the horizons of his brain. It was astrange internal moving of furniture, and it almost made him ill.
It seemed as if there were no "sacred things" for these young men,and Marius heard singular remarks about all sorts of matters whichwere offensive to his still timid mind. A play-bill came under notice,adorned with the title of an old stock tragedy, of the so-calledclassical school. "Down with the tragedy dear to the bourgeois!"Bahorel shouted, and Marius heard Combeferre reply,--
"You are wrong, Bahorel. The cits love tragedy, and they must be leftat peace upon that point. Periwigged tragedy has a motive, and I amnot one of those who for love of Æschylus contests its right to exist.There are sketches in nature and ready-made parodies in creation; abeak which is no beak, wings which are no wings, gills which are nogills, feet which are no feet, a dolorous cry which makes you inclinedto laugh,--there you have the duck. Now, since poultry exist by theside of the bird, I do not see why classic tragedy should not existface to face with ancient tragedy."
Or else it happened accidentally that Marius passed along the Rue JeanJacques Rousseau between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and the latter seizedhis arm.
"Pay attention I this is the Rue Plûtrière, now called Rue Jean JacquesRousseau, on account of a singular family that lived here sixty yearsback, and they were Jean Jacques and Thérèse. From time to time littlecreatures were born; Thérèse fondled them, and Jean Jacques took themto the Foundling."
And Enjolras reproved Courfeyrac.
"Silence before Jean Jacques! I admire that man. I grant that heabandoned his children, but he adopted the people."
Not one of these young men ever uttered the words,--the Emperor;Jean Prouvaire alone sometimes said Napoleon; all the rest spoke ofBonaparte. Enjolras pronounced it _Buonaparte_. Marius was vaguelyastonished.--_Initium sapientiœ_
CHAPTER IV.
THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAFÉ MUSAIN.
One of the conversations among the young men at which Marius waspresent, and in which he mingled now and then, was a thorough shockfor his mind. It came off in the back room of the Café Musain, andnearly all the Friends of the A. B. C. were collected on that occasion,and the chandelier was solemnly lighted. They talked about one thingand another, without passion and with noise, and with the exceptionof Enjolras and Marius, who were silent, each harangued somewhathap-hazard. Conversations among chums at times display these peacefultumults. It was a game and a jumble as much as a conversation; wordswere thrown and caught up, and students were talking in all the fourcorners.
No female was admitted into this back room, excepting Louison, thewasher-up of caps, who crossed it from time to time to go from thewash-house to the "laboratory." Grantaire, who was perfectly tipsy, wasdeafening the corner he had seized upon, by shouting things, reasonableand unreasonable, in a thundering voice:--
"I am thirsty, mortals; I have dreamed that the tun of Heidelberg hada fit of apoplexy, and that I was one of the dozen leeches applied toit. I want to drink, for I desire to forget life. Life is a hideousinvention of somebody whom I am unacquainted with. It lasts no time andis worth nothing, and a man breaks his neck to live. Life is a sceneryin which there are no practicables, and happiness is an old side-sceneonly painted on one side. Ecclesiastes says, 'All is vanity,' and Iagree with the worthy gentleman, who possibly never existed. Zero, notliking to go about naked, clothed itself in vanity. Oh, vanity! thedressing up of everything in big words! A kitchen is a laboratory, adancer a professor, a mountebank a gymnast, a boxer a pugilist, anapothecary a chemist, a barber an artist, a bricklayer an architect,a jockey a sportsman, and a woodlouse a pterygibranch. Vanity has anobverse and a reverse; the obverse is stupid,--it is the negro withhis glass beads; the reverse is ridiculous,--it is the philosopherin his rags. I weep over the one and laugh at the other. What arecalled honors and dignities, and even honor and dignity, are generallypinchbeck. Kings make a toy of human pride. Caligula made a horse aconsul, and Charles II. knighted a sirloin of beef. Drape yourselves,therefore, between the consul Incitatus and the baronet Roastbeef. Asto the intrinsic value of people, it is not one bit more respectable;just listen to the panegyric which one neighbor makes of another. Whiteupon white is ferocious. If the lily could talk, how it would run downthe dove; and a bigoted woman talking of a pious woman is more venomousthan the asp and the whip-snake. It is a pity that I am an ignoramus,for I would quote a multitude of things; but I know nothing. But forall that I have always had sense; when I was a pupil of Gros, insteadof daubing sketches, I spent my time in prigging apples. _Rapin_ isthe male of _rapine_. So much for myself; but you others are as goodas I, and I laugh at your perfections, excellency, and qualities, forevery quality has its defect. The saving man is akin to the miser, thegenerous man is very nearly related to the prodigal, and the braveman trenches on the braggart. When you call a man very pious, youmean that he is a little bigoted, and there are just as many vicesin virtue as there are holes in the mantle of Diogenes. Which do youadmire, the killed or the killer, Cæsar or Brutus? People generallystick up for the killer: Long live Brutus! for he was a murderer. Suchis virtue; it may be virtue, but it is folly at the same time. Thereare some queer spots on these great men;
the Brutus who killed Cæsarwas in love with the statue of a boy. This statue was made by the Greeksculptor Strongylion, who also produced that figure of an Amazon calledFinelegs, Euchnemys, which Nero carried about with him when travelling.This Strongylion only left two statues, which brought Brutus and Nerointo harmony; Brutus was in love with one and Nero with the other.History is but one long repetition, and one century is a plagiarism ofanother. The battle of Marengo is a copy of the battle of Pydna; theTolbiae of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as much alike astwo drops of blood. I set but little value on victory. Nothing is sostupid as conquering; the true glory is convincing. But try to proveanything; you satisfy yourself with success; what mediocrity! andwith conquering; what a wretched trifle! Alas! vanity and cowardiceare everywhere, and everything obeys success, even grammar. _Si voletusus_, as Horace says. Hence I despise the whole human race. Supposewe descend from universals to particulars? Would you wish me to beginadmiring the peoples? What people, if you please? Is it Greece,--theAthenians? Parisians of former time killed Phocion, as you might sayColigny, and adulated tyrants to such a pitch that Anacephorus saidof Pisistratus, 'His urine attracts the bees.' The most considerableman in Greece for fifty years was the grammarian Philetas, who was soshort and small that he was obliged to put lead in his shoes to keepthe wind from blowing him away. On the great square of Corinth therewas a statue sculptured by Selamon, and catalogued by Pliny, and itrepresented Episthatus. What did Episthatus achieve? He invented thecross-buttock. There you have a summary of Greece and glory, and nowlet us pass to others. Should I admire England? Should I admire France?France, why,--on account of Paris? I have just told you my opinion ofthe Athenians. England, why,--on account, of London? I hate Carthage,and, besides, Loudon, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters ofmisery: in the single parish of Charing Cross one hundred persons dieannually of starvation. Such is Albion, and I will add, as crowningpoint, that I have seen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath of rosesand with blue spectacles. So, a groan for England. If I do not admireJohn Bull, ought I to admire Brother Jonathan with his peculiarinstitution? Take away 'Time is money,' and what remains of England?Take away 'Cotton is king,' and what remains of America? Germany islymph and Italy bile. Shall we go into ecstasies about Russia? Voltaireadmired that country, and he also admired China. I allow that Russiahas its beauties, among others a powerful despotism; but I pity thedespots, for they have a delicate health. An Alexis decapitated, aPeter stabbed, a Paul strangled, another Paul flattened out withboot-heels, sundry Ivans butchered, several Nicholases and Basilspoisoned,--all this proves that the palace of the Emperor of Russia isin a flagrantly unhealthy condition. All the civilized nations offer tothe admiration of the thinker one detail, war: now, war, civilized war,exhausts and collects all the forms of banditism, from the brigandagesof the trabuceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa down to the forays of theComanche Indians in the Doubtful Pass. 'Stuff!' you will say to me,'Europe is better than Asia after all,' I allow that Asia is absurd,but I do not exactly see what cause you have to laugh at the GrandLama, you great western nations, who have blended with your fashionsand elegances all the complicated filth of majesty, from the dirtychemise of Queen Isabelle down to the _chaise percée_ of the Dauphin.At Brussels the most beer is consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, atMadrid the most chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at London themost wine, at Constantinople the most coffee, and at Paris the mostabsinthe,--these are all useful notions. Paris, after all, bears awaythe bell, for in that city the very rag-pickers are sybarites: andDiogenes would as soon have been a rag-picker on the Place Maubert asa philosopher at the Piræus. Learn this fact also: the wine-shops ofthe rag-pickers are called 'bibines,' and the most celebrated are the_Casserole_ and the _Abattoir_. Therefore O restaurants, wine-shops,music-halls, tavern-keepers, brandy and absinthe dispensers,boozing-kens of the rag-pickers, and caravansaries of caliphs, I callyou to witness, I am a voluptuary. I dine at Richard's for fifty sous,and I want Persian carpets in which to roll the naked Cleopatra. Whereis Cleopatra? Ah, it is you, Louison. Good-evening."
