by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER I.
FEBRUARY 16, 1833.
The night of February 16 was a blessed night, for it had above itsshadow the open sky. It was the wedding-night of Marius and Cosette.
The day had been adorable; it was not the blue festival dreamed ofby the grandfather, a fairy scene, with a confusion of cherubim andcupids above the head of the married couple, a marriage worthy of beingrepresented over a door, but it had been sweet and smiling. The fashionof marrying in 1833 was not at all as it is now. France had not yetborrowed from England that supreme delicacy of carrying off a wife,of flying on leaving the church, hiding one's self as if ashamed ofone's happiness, and combining the manœuvres of a bankrupt with theravishment of the Song of Songs. We had not yet understood how chaste,exquisite, and decent it is to jolt one's paradise in a postchaise; tovary the mystery with click-clacks of the whip; to select an inn bedas the nuptial couch, and to leave behind one, at the conventionalalcove at so much per night, the most sacred recollection of life,jumbled with the _tête-à-têtes_ of the guard of the diligence and thechamber-maid. In the second half of the nineteenth century, in whichwe now are, the mayor and his scarf, the priest and his chasuble,the law and God, are no longer sufficient; they must be complementedby the postilion of Lonjumeau; blue jacket with red facings andbell buttons, a leather-bound plate, green leather breeches, oathsto the Norman horses with their knotted tails, imitation gold lace,oil-skin hat, heavy, dusty horses, an enormous whip, and strong boots.France does not carry the elegance to such an extent as to shower onthe postchaise, as the English nobility do, old shoes and batteredslippers, in memory of Churchill, afterwards Marlborough or Malbrouck,who was assailed on his wedding-day by the anger of an aunt whichbrought him good luck. Shoes and slippers do not yet form part of ournuptial celebrations; but, patience, with the spread of good taste weshall yet come to it.
In 1833,--it is a century since then,--marriage was not performed at asmart trot; people still supposed at that epoch, whimsically enough,that a marriage is a private and social festival, that a patriarchalbanquet does not spoil a domestic solemnity; that gayety, even if itbe excessive, so long as it is decent, does no harm to happiness;and finally, that it is venerable and good for the fusion of thesetwo destinies from which a family will issue, to begin in the house,and that the household may have in future the nuptial chamber as awitness; and people were so immodest as to many at home. The weddingtook place, then, according to this fashion which is now antiquated,at M. Gillenormand's; and though this affair of marrying is so simpleand natural, the publication of the banns, drawing up the deeds, themayoralty, and the church always cause some complication, and theycould not be ready before February 16. Now--we note this detail for thepure satisfaction of being exact--it happened that the 16th was MardiGras. There were hesitations and scruples, especially on the part ofAunt Gillenormand.
"A Mardi Gras!" the grandfather exclaimed; "all the better. There is aproverb that,--
'Mariage un Mardi gras N'aura point d'enfants ingrats.'
All right. Done for the 16th. Do you wish to put it off, Marius?"
"Certainly not," said the amorous youth.
"We'll marry then," said the grandfather.
The marriage, therefore, took place on the 16th, in spite of the publicgayety. It rained on that day, but there is always in the sky a littleblue patch at the service of happiness, which lovers see, even whenthe rest of creation are under their umbrellas. On the previous dayJean Valjean had handed to Marius, in the presence of M. Gillenormand,the five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs. As the marriage tookplace in the ordinary way, the deeds were very simple. Toussaint washenceforth useless to Jean Valjean, so Cosette inherited her, andpromoted her to the rank of lady's-maid. As for Jean Valjean, a niceroom was furnished expressly for him at M. Gillenormand's, and Cosettehad said to him so irresistibly, "Father, I implore you," that shehad almost made him promise that he would come and occupy it. A fewdays before that fixed for the marriage an accident happened to JeanValjean; he slightly injured the thumb of his right hand. It was notserious, and he had not allowed any one to poultice it, or even seeit, not even Cosette. Still, it compelled him to wrap up his hand ina bandage and wear his arm in a sling, and this, of course, preventedhim from signing anything. M. Gillenormand, as supervising guardianto Cosette, took his place. We will not take the reader either to themayoralty or to church. Two lovers are not usually followed so far,and we are wont to turn our back on the drama so soon as it puts abridegroom's bouquet in its button-hole. We will restrict ourselves tonoting an incident which, though unnoticed by the bridal party, markedthe drive from the Rue des Filles du Calvaire to St. Paul's Church.
The Rue St. Louis was being repaired at the time, and it was blockedfrom the Rue du Parc Royal, hence it was impossible for the carriage togo direct to St. Paul's. As they were obliged to change their course,the most simple plan was to turn into the boulevard. One of the guestsdrew attention to the fact that, as it was Mardi Gras, there wouldbe a block of vehicles. "Why so?" M. Gillenormand asked. "On accountof the masks." "Famous," said the grandfather; "we will go that way.These young people are going to marry and see the serious side oflife, and seeing the masquerade will be a slight preparation for it."They turned into the boulevard: the first of the wedding carriagescontained Cosette and Aunt Gillenormand, M. Gillenormand, and JeanValjean. Marius, still separated from his bride, according to custom,was in the second. The nuptial procession, on turning out of the Ruedes Filles du Calvaire, joined the long file of vehicles making anendless chain from the Madeleine to the Bastille, and from the Bastilleto the Madeleine. Masks were abundant on the boulevard: and thoughit rained every now and then, Paillasse, Pantalon, and Gille wereobstinate. In the good humor of that winter of 1833 Paris had disguiseditself as Venus. We do not see a Mardi Gras like this now-a-days, foras everything existing is a wide-spread carnival, there is no carnivalleft. The sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians, and the windowswith gazers; and the terraces crowning the peristyles of the theatreswere covered with spectators. In addition to the masks, they lookat the file--peculiar to Mardi Gras as to Longchamp--of vehicles ofevery description, citadines, carts, curricles, and cabs, marching inorder rigorously riveted to each other by police regulations, and, asit were, running on rails. Any one who happens to be in one of thesevehicles is at once spectator and spectacle. Policemen standing bythe side of the boulevard kept in place these two interminable filesmoving in a contrary direction, and watched that nothing should impedethe double current of these two streams, one running up, the otherdown, one towards the Chaussée d'Antin, the other towards the FaubourgSt. Antoine. The escutcheoned carriages of the Peers of France andAmbassadors held the crown of the causeway, coming and going freely;and certain magnificent and gorgeous processions, notably the BœufGras, had the same privilege. In this Parisian gayety England clackedhis whip, for the post-chaise of Lord Seymour, at which a popularsobriquet was hurled, passed with a great noise.
In the double file, along which Municipal Guards galloped likewatch-dogs, honest family arks, crowded with great-aunts andgrandmothers, displayed at windows healthy groups of disguisedchildren, Pierrots of seven and Pierrettes of six, ravishing littlecreatures, feeling that they officially formed part of the publicmerriment, penetrated with the dignity of their Harlequinade, anddisplaying the gravity of functionaries. From time to time a blockoccurred somewhere in the procession of vehicles; one or other of thetwo side files stopped until the knot was untied, one impeded vehiclesufficing to block the whole line. Then they started again. Thewedding carriages were in the file, going towards the Bastille on theright-hand side of the boulevard. Opposite the Rue du Pont-aux-Chouxthere was a stoppage, and almost at the same moment the file on theother side proceeding towards the Madeleine stopped too. At this pointof the procession there was a carriage of masks. These carnages, or, tospeak more correctly, these cartloads of masks, are well known to theParisians; if they failed on Mardi Gras or at mid-Lent, people wouldsay, "
There's something behind it. Probably we are going to have achange of Ministry." A heap of Harlequins, Columbines, and Pantaloonsjolted above the heads of the passers-by,--all possible grotesques,from the Turk to the savage. Hercules supporting Marquises, fish-fagswho would make Rabelais stop his ears, as well as Mænads who would makeAristophanes look down, tow perukes, pink fleshings, three-corneredhats, pantaloons, spectacles, cries given to the pedestrians, handson hips, bold postures, naked shoulders, masked faces, and unmuzzledimmodesty; a chaos of effronteries driven by a coachman in a head-dressof flowers,--such is this institution. Greece felt the want of Thespis'cart, and France needs Vadé's fiacre. All may be parodied, even parody.The Saturnalia, that grimace of antique beauty, by swelling andswelling becomes the Mardi Gras: and the Bacchanal, formerly crownedwith vine-leaves, inundated by sunshine, and displaying marble breastsin a divine semi-nudity, is now flabby under the drenched rags of theNorth, has ended by being called a chie-en-lit.
The tradition of the coaches of masks dates back to the oldest timesof the Monarchy. The accounts of Louis XI. allow the Palace steward"twenty sous tournois for three coaches of masquerades." In our timethese noisy piles of creatures generally ride in some old coucou theroof of which they encumber, or cover with their tumultuous group alandau the hood of which is thrown back. There are twenty in a carriageintended for six. You see them on the seat, on the front stool, on thesprings of the hood, and on the pole, and they even straddle acrossthe lamps. They are standing, lying down, or seated, cross-legged, orwith pendent legs. The women occupy the knees of the men, and thiswild pyramid is seen for a long distance over the heads of the crowd.These vehicles form mountains of merriment in the midst of the mob,and Collé, Panard, and Piron flow from them enriched with slang, andthe fish-fag's catechism is expectorated from above upon the people.This fiacre, which has grown enormous through its burden, has anair of conquest; Hubbub is in front and Hurly-burly behind. Peopleshout in it, sing in it, yell in it, and writhe with happiness in it;gayety roars there, sarcasm flashes, and joviality is displayed like apurple robe; two jades drag in it farce expanded into an apotheosis,and it is the triumphal car of laughter,--a laughter, though, toocynical to be frank, and in truth this laughter is suspicious. It hasa mission,--that of verifying the carnival to the Parisians. Thesefish-fag vehicles, in which some strange darkness is perceptible,cause the philosopher to reflect; there is something of the governmentin them, and you lay your finger there on a curious affinity betweenpublic men and public women. It is certainly a sorry thought, thatheaped-up turpitudes give a sum-total of gayety; that a people can beamused by building up ignominy on opprobrium; that spying, acting asa caryatid to prostitution, amuses the mob while affronting it; thatthe crowd is pleased to see pass on four wheels this monstrous livingpile of beings, spangled rags, one half ordure, one half light, whobark and sing; that they should clap their hands at all this shame,and that no festival is possible for the multitude unless the policepromenade in its midst these twenty-headed hydras of joy. Most sad thiscertainly is, but what is to be done? These tumbrels of beribboned andflowered filth are insulted and pardoned by the public laughter, andthe laughter of all is the accomplice of the universal degradation.Certain unhealthy festivals disintegrate the people and convert theminto populace; but a populace, like tyrants, requires buffoons. Theking has Roquelaure, and the people has Paillasse. Paris is the greatmad city wherever it is not the great sublime city, and the carnivalthere is political. Paris, let us confess it, willingly allows infamyto play a farce for its amusement, and only asks of its masters--whenit has masters--one thing, "paint the mud for me." Rome was of the samehumor; she loved Nero, and Nero was a Titanic débardeur.
Accident willed it, as we have just said, that one of the shapelessgroups of masked men and women collected in a vast barouche stoppedon the left of the boulevard while the wedding party stopped on theright. The carriage in which the masks were, noticed opposite to it thecarriage in which was the bride.
"Hilloh!" said a mask, "a wedding."
"A false wedding," another retorted, "we are the true one."
And, as they were too far off to address the wedding party, and asthey also feared the interference of the police, the two masks lookedelsewhere. The whole vehicle-load of masquers had plenty of work amoment after, for the mob began hissing it, which is the caress givenby the mob to masquerades, and the two masks who had just spokenwere obliged to face the crowd with their comrades, and found allthe missiles of the market repertory scarce sufficient to reply tothe atrocious jaw-lashing from the people. A frightful exchange ofmetaphors took place between the masks and the crowd. In the mean whiletwo other masks in the same carriage, a Spaniard with an exaggeratednose, an oldish look, and enormous black moustaches, and a thin andvery youthful fish-girl, wearing a half-mask, had noticed the weddingalso, and while their companions and the spectators were insulting eachother, held a conversation in a low voice. Their aside was coveredby the tumult and was lost in it. The showers had drenched the opencarriage; the February wind is not warm, and so the fish-girl whileanswering the Spaniard shivered, laughed, and coughed. This was thedialogue, which we translate from the original slang:--
"Look here."
"What is it, pa?"
"Do you see that old man?"
"What old man?"
"There, in the wedding coach, with his arm in a sling."
"Yes. Well?"
"I feel sure that I know him."
"Ah!"
"May my neck be cut, and I never said you, thou, or I, in my life, if Ido not know that Parisian."
"To-day Paris is Pantin."
"Can you see the bride by stooping?"
"No."
"And the bridegroom?"
"There is no bridegroom in that coach."
"Nonsense."
"Unless it be the other old man."
"Come, try and get a look at the bride by stooping."
"I can't."
"No matter, that old fellow who has something the matter with his paw,I feel certain I know him."
"And what good will it do you, your knowing him?"
"I don't know. Sometimes!"
"I don't care a curse for old fellows."
"I know him."
"Know him as much as you like."
"How the deuce is he at the wedding?"
"Why, we are there too."
"Where does the wedding come from?"
"How do I know?"
"Listen."
"Well, what is it?"
"You must do something."
"What is it?"
"Get out of our trap and follow that wedding."
"What to do?"
"To know where it goes and what it is. Make haste and get down; run, mydaughter, for you are young."
"I can't leave the carriage."
"Why not?"
"I am hired."
"Oh, the devil!"
"I owe the Préfecture my day's work."
"That's true."
"If I leave the carriage, the first inspector who sees me will arrestme. You know that."
"Yes, I know it."
"To-day I am bought by Pharos" (the government).
"No matter, that old fellow bothers me."
"All old men bother you, and yet you ain't a chicken yourself."
"He is in the first carriage."
"Well, what then?"
"In the bride's carriage."
"What next?"
"So he is the father."
"How does that concern me?"
"I tell you he is the father."
"You do nothing but talk about that father."
"Listen."
"Well, what?"
"I can only go away masked, for I am hidden here, and no one knows I amhere. But to-morrow there will be no masks, for it is Ash Wednesday,and I run a risk of being nailed. I shall be obliged to go back to myhole, but you are free."
"Not quite."
"Well, more so than I am."
"Well, what t
hen?"
"You must try to find out where that wedding party is going to."
"Going to?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I know."
"Where to, then?"
"To the Cadran Bleu."
"But that is not the direction."
"Well, then! to La Rapée."
"Or elsewhere."
"They can do as they like, for weddings are free."
"That is not the thing. I tell you that you must try to find out for mewhat that wedding is, and where it comes from."
"Of course! that would be funny. It's so jolly easy to find out a weekafter where a wedding party has gone to that passed during the MardiGras. A pin in a bundle of hay. Is it possible?"
"No matter, you must try. Do you hear, Azelma?"
The two files recommenced their opposite movement on the boulevard, andthe carriage of masks lost out of sight that which contained the bride.
