by Victor Hugo
Thénardier was upon the crest of this ruin a little after three o‘clock in the morning.
How had he got there? That is what nobody has ever been able to explain or understand. The lightning must have both confused and helped him. Did he use the ladders and the scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof to roof, from inclosure to inclosure, from compartment to compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then the buildings of the Cour Saint Louis, the encircling wall, and from thence to the ruin on the Rue du Roi de Sicile? But there were gaps in this route which seemed to render it impossible. Did he lay down the plank from his bed as a bridge from the roof of the Bel Air to the encircling wall, and did he crawl on his belly along the coping of the wall, all round the prison as far as the ruin? But the encircling wall of La Force followed an indented and uneven line, it rose and fell, it sank down to the barracks of the firemen, it rose up to the bathing-house, it was cut by buildings, it was not of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as on the Rue Pavée, it had slopes and right angles everywhere; and then the sentinels would have seen the dark outline of the fugitive; on this supposition again, the route taken by Thénardier is still almost inexplicable. By either way, an impossible flight. Had Thénardier, illuminated by that fearful thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches, iron gratings into osier screens, a cripple into an athlete, an old gouty person into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thénardier invented and extemporised a third method? It has never been discovered.
One cannot always comprehend the marvels of escape. The man who escapes, let us repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight; the effort towards deliverance is not less surprising than the flight towards the sublime; and we say of an escaped robber: How did he manage to scale that roof? just as it is said of Corneille: Where did he learn that he would die?
However this may be, dripping with sweat, soaked through by the rain, his clothes in strips, his hands skinned, his elbows bleeding, his knees torn, Thénardier had reached what children, in their figurative language, call the cutting edge of the wall of the ruin, he had stretched himself on it at full length, and there his strength failed him. A steep escarpment, three stories high, separated him from the pavement of the street.
The rope which he had was too short.
He was waiting there, pale, exhausted, having lost all the hope which he had had, still covered by night, but saying to himself that day was just about to dawn, dismayed at the idea of hearing in a few moments the neighbouring clock of Saint Paul’s strike four, the hour when they would come to relieve the sentinel and would find him asleep under the broken roof, gazing with a kind of stupor through the fearful depth, by the glimmer of the lamps, upon the wet and black pavement, that longed for yet terrible pavement which was death yet which was liberty.
He asked himself if his three accomplices in escape had succeeded, if they had heard him, and if they would come to his aid. He listened. Except a patrolman, nobody had passed through the street since he had been there. Nearly all the travel of the gardeners of Montreuil Charonne, Vin cennes, and Bercy to the Market, is through the Rue Saint Antoine.
The clock struck four. Thénardier shuddered. A few moments afterwards, that wild and confused noise which follows upon the discovery of an escape, broke out in the prison. The sounds of doors opening and shutting, the grinding of gratings upon their hinges, the tumult in the guard-house, the harsh calls of the gate-keepers, the sound of the butts of muskets upon the pavement of the yards reached him. Lights moved up and down in the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along the attic of the Bâtiment Neuf, the firemen of the barracks alongside had been called. Their caps, which the torches lighted up in the rain, were going to and fro along the roofs. At the same time Thénardier saw in the direction of the Bastille a whitish tint throwing a dismal pallor over the lower part of the sky.
He was on the top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out beneath the storm, with two precipices, at the right and at the left, unable to stir, giddy at the prospect of falling, and horror-stricken at the certainty of arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, went from one of these ideas to the other: “Dead if I fall, taken if I stay.”
In this anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still wrapped in darkness, a man who was gliding along the walls, and who came from the direction of the Rue Pavée, stop in the recess above which Thénardier was as it were suspended. This man was joined by a second, who was walking with the same precaution, then by a third, then by a fourth. When these men were together, one of them lifted the latch of the gate in the fence, and they all four entered the inclosure of the shanty. They were exactly under Thénardier. These men had evidently selected this recess so as to be able to talk without being seen by the passers-by or by the sentinel who guards the gate of La Force a few steps off. It must also be stated that the rain kept this sentinel blockaded in his sentry-box. Thénardier, not being able to distinguish their faces, listened to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels that he is lost.
Something which resembled hope passed before Thénardier’s eyes; these men spoke argot.
The first said, in a low voice, but distinctly:
“Décarrons. What is it we maquillons icigo?”es
The second answered:
“Il lansquine enough to put out the riffe of the rabouin. And then the coqueurs are going by, there is a grivier there who carries a gaffe, shall we let them emballer us icicaille?”et
These are two words, icigo and icicaille, which both mean ici [here], and which belong, the first to the argot of the Barrières, the second to the argot of the Temple, were revelations to Thénardier. By icigo he recognised Brujon, who was a prowler of the Barrières, and by icicaille Babet, who, among all his other trades, had been a second-hand dealer at the Temple.
The ancient argot of the age of Louis XIV, is now spoken only at the Temple, and Babet was the only one who spoke it quite purely. Without icicaille, Thenardier would not have recognised him, for he had entirely disguised his voice.
Meanwhile the third put in a word:
“Nothing is urgent yet, let us wait a little. How do we know that he doesn’t need our help?”
By this, which was only French, Thénardier recognised Montparnasse, whose elegance consisted in understanding all argots and speaking none.
As to the fourth, he was silent, but his huge shoulders betrayed him. Thénardier had no hesitation. It was Gueulemer.
Brujon replied almost impetuously, but still in a low voice:
“What is it you bonnez us there? The tapissier couldn’t draw his crampe. He don’t know the trus, indeed! Bouliner his limace and faucher his empaffes, maquiller a tortouse, caler boulins in the lourdes, braser the taffes, maquiller caroubles, faucher the Bards, balance his tortouse outside, panquer himself, camoufler himself, one must be a mariol? The old man couldn’t do it, he don’t know how to goupiner! ”eu
Babet added, still in that prudent, classic argot which was spoken by Poulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, strongly-coloured, and hazardous argot which Brujon used, what the language of Racine is to the language of André Chénier:
“Your orgue tapissier must have been made marron on the stairs. One must be arcasien. He is a galifard. He has been played the harnache by a roussin, perhaps even by a roussi, who has beaten him comtois. Lend your oche, Montparnasse, do you hear those criblements in the college? You have seen all those camoufles. He has tombé, come! He must be left to draw his twenty longes. I have no taf, I am no taffeur, that is colombé, but there is nothing more but to make the lezards, or otherwise they will make us gambiller for it. Don’t renauder, come with nousiergue. Let us go and picter a rouillarde encible.“ev
“Friends are not left in difficulty,” muttered Montparnasse.
“I bonnis you that he is malade,” replied Brujon. “At the
hour which toque, the tapissier isn’t worth a broque! We can do nothing here. Décarrons. I expect every moment that a cogne will cintrer me in pogne!”ew
Montparnasse resisted now but feebly; the truth is, that these four men, with that faithfulness which bandits exhibit in never abandoning each other, had been prowling all night about La Force at whatever risk, in hope of seeing Thénardier rise above some wall. But the night which was becoming really too fine, it was storming enough to keep all the streets empty, the cold which was growing upon them, their soaked clothing, their wet shoes, the alarming uproar which had just broken out in the prison, the passing hours, the patrolmen they had met, hope departing, fear returning, all this impelled them to retreat. Montparnasse himself, who was, perhaps, to some slight extent a son-in-law of Thénardier, yielded. A moment more, they were gone. Thénardier gasped upon his wall like the shipwrecked sailors of the Méduse on their raft when they saw the ship which had appeared, vanish in the horizon.
He dared not call them, a cry overheard might destroy all; he had an idea, a final one, a flash of light; he took from his pocket the end of Brujon’s rope, which he had detached from the chimney of the Bâtiment Neuf, and threw it into the inclosure.
This rope fell at their feet.
“A widow! ”ex said Babet.
“My tortouse!”ey said Brujon.
“There is the innkeeper,” said Montparnasse.
They raised their eyes. Thénardier advanced his head a little.
“Quick!” said Montparnasse, “have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?”
“Yes.”
“Tie the two ends together, we will throw him the rope, he will fasten it to the wall, he will have enough to get down.”
Thénardier ventured to speak:
“I am benumbed.”
“We will warm you.”
“I can’t stir.”
“Let yourself slip down, we will catch you.”
“My hands are stiff.”
“Only tie the rope to the wall.”
“I can’t.”
“One of us must get up,” said Montparnasse.
“Three stories!” said Brujon.
An old plaster flue, which had served for a stove which had formerly been in use in the shanty, crept along the wall, rising almost to the spot at which they saw Thénardier. This flue, then very much cracked and full of seams, has since fallen, but its traces can still be seen. It was very small.
“We could get up by that,” said Montparnasse.
“By that flue!” exclaimed Babet, “an orgue,ez never! it would take a mion.”fa
“It would take a môme,”fb added Brujon.
“Where can we find a brat?” said Gueulemer.
“Wait,” said Montparnasse, “I have the thing.”
He opened the gate of the fence softly, made sure that nobody was passing in the street, went out carefully, shut the door after him, and started on a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thénardier; Babet, Brujon, and Gueulemer kept their teeth clenched; the door at last opened again, and Montparnasse appeared, out of breath, with Gavroche. The rain still kept the street entirely empty.
Little Gavroche entered the inclosure and looked upon these bandit forms with a quiet air. The water was dripping from his hair. Gueulemer addressed him:
“Brat, are you a man?”
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders and answered:
“A môme like mézig is an orgue, and orgues like vousailles are mômes.”fc
“How the mion plays with the spittoon!”fd exclaimed Babet.
“The môme pantinois isn’t maquillé of fertille lansquinée,”fe added Brujon.
“What is it you want?” said Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:
“To climb up by this flue.”
“With this widow,”ff said Babet.
“And ligoter the tortouse,”fg continued Brujon.
“To the monté of the montant,”fh resumed Babet.
“To the pieu of the vanterne,”fi added Brujon.
“And then?” said Gavroche.
“That’s it!” said Gueulemer.
The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and made that inexpressible and disdainful sound with the lips which signifies:
“That’s all?”
“There is a man up there whom you will save,” replied Montparnasse.
“Will you?” added Brujon.
“Goosy!” answered the child, as if the question appeared to him absurd; and he took off his shoes.
Gueulemer caught up Gavroche with one hand, put him on the roof of the shanty, the worm-eaten boards of which bent beneath the child’s weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon had tied together during the absence of Montparnasse. The gamin went towards the flue, which it was easy to enter, thanks to a large hole at the roof. Just as he was about to start, Thénardier, who saw safety and life approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the first gleam of day lighted up his forehead reeking with sweat, his livid cheeks, his thin and savage nose, his grey bristly beard, and Gavroche recognised him:
“Hold on!” said he, “it is my father!—Well, that don’t hinder!”
And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely commenced the ascent.
He reached the top of the ruin, bestrode the old wall like a horse, and tied the rope firmly to the upper cross-bar of the window.
A moment afterwards Thénardier was in the street.
As soon as he had touched the pavement, as soon as he felt himself out of danger, he was no longer either fatigued, benumbed, or trembling; the terrible things through which he had passed vanished like a whiff of smoke, all that strange and ferocious intellect awoke, and found itself erect and free, ready to march forward. The man’s first words were these:
“Now, who are we going to eat?”
It is needless to explain the meaning of this frightfully transparent word, which signifies all at once to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder. Eat, real meaning: devour.
“Let us hide first,” said Brujon, “finish in three words and we will separate immediately. There was an affair which had a good look in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rusty grating upon a garden, some lone women.”
“Well, why not?” inquired Thénardier.
“Your féefj Eponine, has been to see the thing,” answered Babet.
“And she brought a biscuit to Magnon,” added Gueulemer, “nothing to maquiller there.”fk
“The fée isn’t loffe,”fl said Thénardier. “Still we must see.”
“Yes, yes,” said Brujon, “we must see.”
Meantime none of these men appeared longer to see Gavroche who, during this colloquy, had seated himself upon one of the stone supports of the fence; he waited a few minutes, perhaps for his father to turn towards him, then he put on his shoes, and said:
“It is over? you have no more use for me? men! you are out of your trouble. I am going. I must go and get my mômes up.”
And he went away.
The five men went out of the inclosure one after another.
When Gavroche had disappeared at the turn of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Thénardier aside.
“Did you notice that mion?” he asked him.
“What mion?”
“The mion who climbed up the wall and brought you the rope.”
“Not much.”
“Well, I don’t know, but it seems to me that it is your son.”
“Pshaw!” said Thénardier, “do you think so?”
[Book Seven “Argot (On Slang),” does not appear in this abridged edition.]
BOOK EIGHT
ENCHANTMENT AND DESPAIR
1
SUNSHINE
THE READER HAS UNDERSTOOD that Eponine, having recognised through the grating the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet, to which Magnon had sent her, had begun by diverting the bandits from the Rue Plumet,
had then conducted Marius thither, and that after several days of ecstasy before that grating, Marius, drawn by that force which pushes the iron towards the magnet and the lover towards the stones of which the house of her whom he loves is built, had finally entered Cosette’s garden as Romeo did the garden of Juliet. It had even been easier for him than for Romeo; Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to push aside a little one of the bars of the decrepit grating, which was loosened in its rusty socket, like the teeth of old people. Marius was slender, and easily passed through.
As there was never anybody in the street, and as, moreover, Marius entered the garden only at night, he ran no risk of being seen.
From that blessed and holy hour when a kiss affianced these two souls, Marius came every evening. If, at this period of her life, Cosette had fallen into the love of a man who was unscrupulous and a libertine, she would have been ruined; for there are generous natures which give themselves, and Cosette was one. One of the magnanimities of woman is to yield. Love, at that height at which it is absolute, is associated with an inexpressibly celestial blindness of modesty. But what risks do you run, 0 noble souls! Often, you give the heart, we take the body. Your heart remains to you, and you look upon it in the darkness, and shudder. Love has no middle term; either it destroys, or it saves. All human destiny is this dilemma. This dilemma, destruction or salvation, no fatality proposes more inexorably than love. Love is life, if it be not death. Cradle; coffin also. The same sentiment says yes and no in the human heart. Of all the things which God has made, the human heart is that which sheds most light, and, alas! most night.
God willed that the love which Cosette met, should be one of those loves which save.fm
Through all the month of May of that year 1832, there were there, every night, in that poor, wild garden, under that shrubbery each day more odourous and more dense, two beings composed of every chastity and every innocence, overflowing with all the felicities of Heaven, more nearly archangels than men, pure, noble, intoxicated, radiant, who were resplendent to each other in the darkness. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown, and to Marius that Cosette had a halo. They touched each other, they beheld each other, they clasped each other’s hands, they pressed closely to each other; but there was a distance which they did not pass. Not that they respected it; they were ignorant of it. Marius felt a barrier, the purity of Cosette, and Cosette felt a support, the loyalty of Marius. The first kiss was the last also. Marius, since, had not gone beyond touching Cosette’s hand, or her neckerchief, or her ringlets, with his lips. Cosette was to him a perfume, and not a woman. He breathed her. She refused nothing and he asked nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius was satisfied. They lived in that ravishing condition which might be called the dazzling of a soul by a soul. It was that ineffable first embrace of two virginities in the ideal. Two swans meeting upon the Jungfrau.fn
