Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774)

by Hugo, Victor; Donougher, Christine (TRN)

  Book Four

  Help from Below May Be

  Help from Above

  I

  The outward wound and the inward healing

  THUS BY DEGREES the shadows deepened over their life. There remained to them only one distraction, one which had once been a source of happiness – the feeding of the hungry and the gift of clothing to those who were cold. During those visits to the poor, on which Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean, they regained something of the warmth that had formerly existed between them; and sometimes in the evening, after a successful day, when many needy persons had been succoured and many children’s lives made brighter, Cosette could be almost gay. It was at this period that they visited the Jondrettes.

  On the day following that visit Jean Valjean walked into the villa with his usual air of calm but with a large, inflamed, and suppurating wound resembling a burn on his left forearm, for which he accounted in an off-hand way. It led to his being confined to the house with a fever for more than a month. He refused to see a doctor, and when Cosette begged him to do so he said, ‘Call a vet if you like.’

  Cosette nursed him so devotedly and with such evident delight in serving him that all his former happiness was restored, the fears and misgivings all dispelled, and he reflected as he gazed at her, ‘Oh, most fortunate wound!’

  With her father ill Cosette recovered her fondness for the cottage at the back of the villa. She spent nearly all her time at his bedside, reading him the books he most enjoyed, which as a rule were books of travel. And Jean Valjean was a man reborn. The Luxembourg, the strange youth, Cosette’s withdrawal – all these shades were banished: to the extent, indeed, that he was inclined to say to himself, ‘I’m an old fool. I imagined it all.’

  Such was his happiness that his discovery that the so-called Jondrettes were in reality the Thénardiers scarcely troubled him. He had made good his escape and covered his tracks, and what else mattered? If he thought of them at all it was to grieve for their abject state. They were now in prison, and therefore, he assumed, no longer able to harm anyone – but how lamentable a family!

  As for the hideous spectacle at the Barrière du Maine, Cosette never referred to it.

  Sister Sainte-Mechtilde, at the convent, had given Cosette music lessons. She had the voice of a small wild creature possessed of a soul, and sometimes in the evening, when she sat with the invalid in his cottage, she would sing poignant little songs that rejoiced Jean Valjean’s heart.

  Spring came, and the garden at that time of year was so delightful that he said to her, ‘You never go in it, but I want you to’ … ‘Why then,’ said Cosette, ‘I will.’

  So to humour her father she resumed her walks in the garden, but generally alone, for Valjean seldom entered it, as we know, probably because he was afraid of being seen through the gate.

  Jean Valjean’s wound, in short, brought about a great change. When Cosette saw that he was recovering and that he seemed happier, she herself had a sense of contentment of which she was scarcely aware, so gently and naturally did it come to her. This was in March. The winter was ending and the days were growing longer, and winter with its passing always takes with it something of our sorrows. Then came April, the dawn of summer, fresh as all dawns, and merry as childhood, if inclined to be fretful at times, like all young things. Nature in that month sheds rays of enchanted light which, from the sky and the clouds, from trees, meadows, and flowers, pierce to the heart of man.

  Cosette was still too young not to be responsive to the magic of April. Insensibly, without her realizing it, the shadows lifted from her heart. Spring brings light to the sorrowing just as the midday sun does to the darkness of a cave. Cosette was no longer really unhappy, although she was scarcely aware of the change in her. When after breakfast she prevailed upon her father to spend a little time in the garden, and strolled up and down with him nursing his injured arm, she was unconscious of her happiness or of how often she laughed.

  Jean Valjean watched in rapture as her cheeks regained the glow of health.

  ‘Most fortunate wound!’ he thought, and was positively grateful to the Thénardiers.

  When he was fully recovered he resumed his habit of solitary night-time walks. It would be a mistake to suppose that one can wander in this fashion through the deserted districts of Paris without ever meeting with an adventure.

  II

  Mère Plutarque accounts for a phenomenon

  It occurred one evening to the boy Gavroche that he had had nothing to eat all day. Nor, for that matter, had he had anything the day before. It was becoming tiresome, so he resolved to go in search of supper. He went on the prowl in the unfrequented regions beyond the Salpêtrière. This was where he thought he might be lucky. In places where there is no one about there are things to be found. He came to a small group of houses which he judged to be the village of Austerlitz.

  On one of his previous excursions to those parts he had noticed an old garden, frequented by an old man and woman, in which there was a sizeable apple-tree and a tumbledown storage-shed which might well contain apples. An apple is a meal; it is a source of life. What had been Adam’s downfall might be the saving of Gavroche. The garden was flanked by a lane that was otherwise bordered by thickets in default of houses. It had a hedge.

  Gavroche located the lane, the garden, the apple-tree, and the shed, and he examined the hedge, which could easily be negotiated. The sun was setting and there was not so much as a cat in the lane; all things seemed propitious. But as Gavroche was starting to get through the hedge he heard the sound of a voice in the garden, and peering through he saw, within a few feet of the spot where he had intended to enter, a fallen stone serving as a garden bench on which was seated the old man belonging to the garden, with the old woman standing in front of him. Gavroche paused and listened.

  ‘Monsieur Mabeuf!’ the old woman said.

  ‘Mabeuf! What a crazy name!’ reflected Gavroche.

  The old man made no response and the woman repeated:

  ‘Monsieur Mabeuf!’

  This time, still staring at the ground, the old man deigned to reply.

  ‘Well, Mère Plutarque, what is it?’

  ‘Plutarque – another crazy name,’ reflected Gavroche.

  ‘Monsieur Mabeuf,’ the woman said in a voice which compelled the old man to listen, ‘the landlord’s complaining.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You owe three quarters’ rent.’

  ‘So in three months’ time I shall owe four.’

  ‘He says he’s going to turn you out.’

  ‘Then I shall have to go.’

  ‘And the greengrocer says that until she’s been paid she won’t bring any more faggots. How are we going to heat the place this winter? We shall have no firewood.’

  ‘There’s always the sun.’

  ‘And the butcher won’t let us have any more meat.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Meat disagrees with me. It’s too rich.’

  ‘So what are we to live on?’

  ‘On bread.’

  ‘But it’s the same with the baker, he won’t give us any more credit either.’

  ‘Ah, well.’

  ‘So what are you going to eat?’

  ‘We still have some apples.’

  ‘But, Monsieur, we can’t go on like this, without any money at all.’

  ‘I have no money.’

  The woman went off, leaving the old man to himself. He sat thinking. Gavroche was also thinking. It was now nearly dark.

  The first result of Gavroche’s thinking was that instead of scrambling through the hedge he crept into the middle of it at a point where the stems of the bushes were wide enough apart. ‘A private bed-chamber,’ he reflected. He was now almost directly behind the stone on which Père Mabeuf was seated, so close to him that he could hear the old man’s breathing.

  Here, for lack of supper, he settled down to sleep; but it was a catlike sleep with one eye open – Gavroche was always on
the alert. The faint glow of the night sky cast its pallor on the earth, and the lane was like a white line drawn between two dark rows of undergrowth. And suddenly two figures appeared on the white line, one following at a short distance behind the other.

  ‘Callers,’ muttered Gavroche.

  The first figure looked like that of a respectable elderly man, clad with the utmost simplicity and walking slowly because of his age, as though he were out for a stroll under the stars. The second figure, also male, was erect and slender. It was matching its pace to that of the first, but in a manner which suggested nimbleness and agility. There was something fierce and disquieting about this second figure, which nevertheless had a look of elegance – a well-shaped hat and a well-cut coat, probably of good cloth, which fitted tightly at the waist. Beneath the hat a youthful face was faintly discernible. There was a rose in the young man’s mouth. Gavroche recognized him instantly. It was Montparnasse.

  Gavroche crouched and watched, his bed-chamber an admirable post of observation. Clearly the second figure had designs upon the first, and that Montparnasse should be on the hunt at this hour, and in this place, was a fearsome thought. Gavroche’s urchin heart went out to the elderly victim.

  But what was he to do? For him to attempt to intervene would merely amuse Montparnasse – one weakling going to the rescue of another. There could be no escaping the fact that to that redoubtable eighteen-year-old cut-throat the two of them put together, an ageing man and a child, would be a couple of mouthfuls.

  ‘While Gavroche was still deliberating, the attack was launched, swift and ferocious as that of a tiger on a wild ass, or a spider on a fly. Montparnasse, tossing away his rose, flung himself upon his victim, seizing him from behind, and Gavroche could scarcely restrain a cry. A moment later one of the two men was on the ground, writhing and struggling with a knee like marble planted on his chest. But it was not at all what Gavroche had expected. The man on his back was Montparnasse, and the one on top was the elderly man, who had not only withstood the attack but had retaliated so drastically that in the twinkling of an eye the situation of victim and assailant had been reversed.

  ‘What a splendid old boy!’ thought Gavroche and could not refrain from clapping his hands; but although he was within a few yards of them the gesture was wasted, since both contestants were too intent upon their struggle.

  There was presently a pause. Montparnasse lay motionless and for an instant Gavroche wondered if he were dead. The elderly man had not uttered a sound. He got to his feet and said:

  ‘Get up.’

  Montparnasse did so, but the other still had a grip on him. Montparnasse had the abashed and furious look of a wolf savaged by a sheep. Gavroche, delighted by the turn of events, was watching with eyes and ears intent, and he was rewarded for his anxious sympathy by being able to catch most of the ensuing dialogue. The elderly man asked:

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’m nineteen.’

  ‘You’re strong and healthy. Why don’t you work?’

  ‘It bores me.’

  ‘What is your business in life?’

  ‘Loafer.’

  ‘Talk sense. Can I do anything to help you? What do you want to be?’

  ‘A thief.’

  There was another pause. The elderly man seemed plunged in thought; but although he stayed motionless he did not relax his hold on Montparnasse who, lithe and supple, was again kicking and struggling like an animal in a trap. His efforts were disregarded. The other kept him under control with the calm assurance of overwhelming strength. He thought for some time, and when at length he spoke it was to deliver a lecture, rendered the more solemn by the darkness that enshrouded them, which, although it was uttered in low tones, was spoken with such emphasis that Gavroche did not miss a word.

  ‘My poor boy, sheer laziness has started you on the most arduous of careers. You call yourself a loafer, but you will have to work harder than most men. Have you ever seen a treadmill? It is a thing to beware of, a cunning and diabolical device; if it catches you by the coat-tails it will swallow you up. Another name for it is idleness. You should change your ways while there is still time. Otherwise you’re done for; in a very little while you will be caught in the machinery, and then there’s no more hope. No rest for the idler; nothing but the iron grip of incessant struggle. You don’t want to earn your living honestly, do a job, fulfil a duty; the thought of being like other men bores you. But the end is the same. Work is the law of life, and to reject it as boredom is to submit to it as torment. Not wanting to be a workman you will become a slave. If work fails to get you with one hand it will get you with the other; you won’t treat it as a friend, and so you will become its Negro slave. You flinch from the fatigues of honest men, and for this you will sweat like the damned; where other men sing you will groan, and their work, as you contemplate it from the depths, will look to you like rest. The ploughman and the harvester, the sailor and the blacksmith, they will be bathed for you in radiance like souls in Paradise. The splendid glow of a smith’s furnace! The joy of leading a horse, of binding a sheaf of corn! The wonder of a ship sailing in freedom over the seas! But you, the idler, will toil and plod and suffer like an ox in the harness of Hell, when all you wanted to do was– nothing! Not a week will pass, not a day, without its overwhelming pressures; everything you do will cost an effort and every moment will see your muscles strained. What other men find light as a feather for you will have the heaviness of lead. The gentlest slope will seem steep and all life will be a matter of monstrous difficulty. The simplest acts, the very act of breathing, will be a labour to you, your very lungs will seem to have a crushing weight. To go in one direction rather than another will present you with a problem to be solved. The ordinary man when he wants to leave his home has only to open the door, and there he is, outside; but you will have to break through your own wall. What do ordinary people do when they want to go into the street? They simply walk downstairs. But you will have to tear up your sheets and make a rope of them, because you must go out by way of the window; and there you will be, dangling on your rope in darkness, rain or tempest; and if the rope proves too short your only course will be to drop. To drop at random from a doubtful height, and into what? Into whatever may chance to be below, into the unknown. Or you’ll climb by way of a chimney, at the risk of getting burnt, or crawl through a sewer at the risk of drowning. I say nothing about the holes that must be covered up, the stones that must be removed and replaced, the plaster to be disposed of. You are confronted by a lock of which the householder has the key in his pocket, the work of a locksmith. If you want to break it you have to create a masterpiece. First you will take a large sou piece and cut it in two slices. As for the tools you use for this purpose, you will have to invent them. That’s your affair. Then you will hollow the inside of the slices, taking care not to damage the outside of the coin, and cut a thread in the rims so that they can be screwed together without any trace being visible. To the world at large it will be nothing but a coin, but to you it will be a box in which you will carry a scrap of steel – a watch-spring in which you have cut teeth, making it into a saw. And with this saw, coiled in a sou piece, you will cut through the bolt of a lock, the shank of a padlock, or the bars of your prison-cell and the fetter on your leg. And what will your reward be for working this miracle of art, skill, and patience if you are found to be its author? It will be prison. That is your future. Indolence and the life of pleasure – what snares they are! Can you not see that to decide to do nothing is the most wretched of all decisions? To live in idleness on the body politic is to be useless, that is to say harmful, and it can only end in misery. Woe to those who choose to be parasites, they become vermin! But you don’t want to work. All you want is rich food and drink and a soft bed. You will end by drinking water, eating black bread, and sleeping on a bed of planks with fetters on your limbs, with the night cold piercing to your bones. You will break your chains and escape. All right – but you will crawl on your stomach
through the undergrowth and live on grass like the beasts of the field. And you will be caught. After which you will spend years in an underground cell, chained to the wall, groping for the water-jug, gnawing crusts of bread that a dog would not touch, and maggoty beans – like a cockroach in a cellar! Have pity on yourself, my poor lad! You’re still young. You were sucking at your mother’s breast less than twenty years ago, and doubtless she is still alive. In her name I beseech you to listen to me. You want fine black cloth and glossy pumps, hair smoothly combed and scented; you want to be a gay dog and please the girls! But what you’ll get is a shaven head, a red smock, and clogs. You want rings on your fingers, but you’ll have one round your neck, and a cut of the whip if you so much as look at a woman. You’ll start on that life at twenty and end at fifty. You’ll start young and fresh, bright-eyed and white-toothed, and you’ll end broken and bent, wrinkled, toothless and repellent, with white hair. My poor boy, you’re on the wrong road. Sloth is a bad counsellor. Crime is the hardest of all work. Take my advice, don’t be led into the drudgery of idleness. Rascality is a comfortless life; honesty is far less demanding. Now clear out and think about what I have said. Incidentally, what did you want of me? My purse, I suppose. Here it is.’

  At length releasing his hold on Montparnasse, the elderly man handed him his purse, and Montparnasse, after weighing it for a moment in his hand, thrust it into the tail-pocket of his coat with as much care as if he had stolen it.

  Having said his say, the elderly man turned away and went calmly on with his walk. The reader will have no difficulty in guessing who he was.

  ‘Old babbler!’ muttered Montparnasse, and stood staring after him as he vanished in the gloom.

  His momentary bemusement was unfortunate for him. While the stranger was disappearing in one direction, Gavroche was approaching from the other.

  Gavroche had first glanced through the hedge to make sure that Père Mabeuf, who had presumably fallen asleep, was still in the same place. Then he scrambled out and crept towards where Montparnasse was still standing. Slipping his hand into the pocket of that handsome tail-coat, he deftly removed the purse, after which he slipped away like a lizard into the shadows. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard and in any case had been moved to thought, perhaps for the first time in his life, was quite unconscious of what had happened. Gavroche got back to the place where Père Mabeuf was sleeping, tossed the purse over the hedge and then made off at top speed.