Les Misérables, v. 1/5: Fantine

  CHAPTER V.

  OBSTACLES.

  The letter-bags between Arras and M---- were still carried in smallmail-carts, dating from the Empire. They were two-wheeled vehicles,lined with tawny leather, hung on springs, and having only two seats,one for the driver, and another for a passenger. The wheels were armedwith those long offensive axle-trees, which kept other carriages ata distance, and may still be seen on German roads. The compartmentfor the bags was an immense oblong box at the back; it was paintedblack, and the front part was yellow. These vehicles, like which wehave nothing at the present day, had something ugly and humpbackedabout them, and when you saw them pass at a distance or creeping up ahill on the horizon, they resembled those insects called, we think,termites, and which with a small body drag a heavy burden after them.They went very fast, however, and the mail which left Arras at one inthe morning, after the Paris mail had arrived, reached M---- a littlebefore five A.M.

  On this morning, the mail-cart, just as it entered M----, and whileturning a corner, ran into a tilbury drawn by a white horse, coming inthe opposite direction, and in which there was only one sitter, a manwrapped in a cloak. The wheel of the tilbury received a rather heavyblow, and though the driver of the mail-cart shouted to the man tostop, he did not listen, but went on at a smart trot.

  "The man is in a deuce of a hurry," said the courier.

  The man in this hurry was he whom we have just seen struggling inconvulsions, assuredly deserving of pity. Where was he going? He couldnot have told. Why was he hurrying? He did not know. He was goingonwards unthinkingly. Where to? Doubtless to Arras; but he might alsobe going elsewhere.

  He buried himself in the darkness as in a gulf. Something urged himon; something attracted him. What was going on in him no one couldtell, but all will understand it,--for what man has not entered, atleast once in his life, this obscure cavern of the unknown? However,he had settled, decided, and done nothing; not one of the acts of hisconscience had been definitive, and he was still as unsettled as at thebeginning.

  Why was he going to Arras? He repeated what he had already said onhiring the gig of Scaufflaire--that, whatever the result might be,there would be no harm in seeing with his own eyes, and judging mattersfor himself--that this was prudent; and he was bound to know what wasgoing on--that he could not decide anything till he had observed andexamined--that, at a distance, a man made mountains of molehills--thatafter all, when he had seen this Champmathieu, his conscience wouldprobably be quietly relieved, and he could let the scoundrel go to thegalleys in his place: that Javert would be there and the three convictswho had known him,--but, nonsense! they would not recognize him, forall conjectures and suppositions were fixed on this Champmathieu, andthere is nothing so obstinate as conjectures and suppositions,--andthat hence he incurred no danger. It was doubtless a black moment,but he would emerge from it. After all, he held his destiny, howeveradverse it might try to be, in his own hands, and was master of it. Heclung wildly to the latter thought.

  Although, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to goto Arras, yet he went. While reflecting he lashed the horse, whichwas going at that regular and certain trot which covers two leaguesand a half in an hour; and as the gig advanced, he felt somethingwithin him recoil. At day-break he was in the open country, and thetown of M---- was far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white;he looked, without seeing them, at all the cold figures of a winterdawn. Morning has its spectres like night. He did not see them, butunconsciously, and through a sort of almost physical penetration, theseblack outlines of trees and hills added something gloomy and sinisterto the violent state of his soul. Each time that he passed one of thoseisolated houses which skirt high roads, he said to himself: "And yetthere are people asleep in them." The trot of the horse, the bells onthe harness, the wheels on the stones, produced a gentle and monotonoussound, which is delightful when you are merry, and mournful when youare sad.

  It was broad daylight when he reached Hesdin, and he stopped at the innto let the horse breathe and give it a feed. This horse, as Scaufflairehad said, belonged to that small Boulonnais breed, which has too largea head, too much stomach, and not enough neck, but which also has awide crupper, lean, slender legs, and a solid hoof: it is an uglybut strong and healthy breed. The capital little beast had done fiveleagues in two hours, and had not turned a hair.

  He did not get out of the tilbury; the ostler who brought the oatssuddenly stooped down and examined the left wheel.

  "Are you going far in this state?" the man said.

  He answered almost without emerging from his reverie,--

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Have you come any distance?" the ostler continued.

  "Five leagues."

  "Ah!"

  "Why do you say, 'Ah'?"

  The ostler bent down again, remained silent for a moment, with his eyefixed on the wheel, and then said as he drew himself up,--

  "Because this wheel, which may have gone five leagues, cannot possiblygo another mile."

  He jumped out of the tilbury.

  "What are you saying, my friend?"

  "I say that it is a miracle you and your horse did not roll into aditch by the road-side. Just look."

  The wheel was, in fact, seriously damaged. The blow dealt it by themail-cart had broken two spokes, and almost carried away the axle-tree.

  "My good fellow," he said to the ostler, "is there a wheelwright here?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "Be good enough to go and fetch him."

  "He lives close by. Hilloh, Master Bourgaillard."

  Master Bourgaillard was standing in his doorway: he examined the wheel,and made a face like a surgeon regarding a broken leg.

  "Can you mend this wheel?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When can I start again?"

  "To-morrow: there is a good day's work. Are you in a hurry, sir?"

  "In a great hurry: I must set out again in an hour at the latest."

  "It is impossible, sir."

  "I will pay anything you ask."

  "Impossible."

  "Well, in two hours?"

  "It is impossible for to-day; you will not be able to go on tillto-morrow."

  "My business cannot wait till to-morrow. Suppose, instead of mendingthis wheel, you were to put another on?"

  "How so?"

  "You are a wheelwright, and have probably a wheel you can sell me, andthen I could set out again directly."

  "I have no ready-made wheel to suit your gig, for wheels are sold inpairs, and it is not easy to match one."

  "In that case, sell me a pair of wheels."

  "All wheels, sir, do not fit all axle-trees."

  "At any rate try."

  "It is useless, sir; I have only cart-wheels for sale, for ours is asmall place."

  "Have you a gig I can hire?"

  The wheelwright had noticed at a glance that the tilbury was a hiredvehicle; he shrugged his shoulders.

  "You take such good care of gigs you hire, that if I had one I wouldnot let it to you."

  "Well, one to sell me?"

  "I have not one."

  "What, not a tax-cart? I am not particular, as you see."

  "This is a small place. I have certainly," the wheelwright added, "anold cal?che in my stable, which belongs to a person in the town, andwho uses it on the thirty-sixth of every month. I could certainly letit out to you, for it is no concern of mine, but the owner must not seeit pass; and besides, it is a cal?che, and will want two horses."

  "I will hire post-horses."

  "Where are you going to, sir?"

  "To Arras."

  "And you wish to arrive to-day?"

  "Certainly."

  "By taking post-horses?"

  "Why not?"

  "Does it make any difference to you if you reach Arras at four o'clockto-morrow morning?"

  "Of course it does."

  "There is one thing to be said about hiring post-horses; have you yourpassport, sir?"

 
"Yes."

  "Well, if you take post-horses, you will not reach Arras beforeto-morrow. We are on a cross-country road. The relays are badly served,and the horses are out at work. This is the ploughing season, andas strong teams are required, horses are taken anywhere, from thepost-houses like the rest. You will have to wait three or four hours,sir, at each station, and only go at a foot-pace, for there are manyhills to ascend."

  "Well, I will ride. Take the horse out. I suppose I can purchase asaddle here?"

  "Of course, but will this horse carry a saddle?"

  "No, I remember now that it will not."

  "In that case--"

  "But surely I can hire a saddle-horse in the village?"

  "What! to go to Arras without a break?"

  "Yes."

  "You would want a horse such as is not to be found in these parts. Inthe first place, you would have to buy it, as you are a stranger, butyou would not find one to buy or hire for five hundred francs,--not fora thousand."

  "What is to be done?"

  "The best thing is to let me mend the wheel and put off your journeytill to-morrow."

  "To-morrow will be too late."

  "Hang it!"

  "Is there not the Arras mail-cart? When does that pass?"

  "Not till to-night."

  "What! you will take a whole day in mending that wheel?"

  "An honest day."

  "Suppose you employed two workmen?"

  "Ay, if I had ten."

  "Suppose the spokes were tied with cords?"

  "What is to be done with the axle? Besides, the felloe is in a badstate."

  "Is there any one who lets out vehicles in the town?"

  "No."

  "Is there another wheelwright?"

  The ostler and the wheelwright replied simultaneously--,

  "No."

  He felt an immense joy, for it was evident that Providence wasinterfering. Providence had broken the tilbury wheel and stopped hisjourney. He had not yielded to this species of first summons; he hadmade every possible effort to continue his journey; he had loyally andscrupulously exhausted all resources; he had not recoiled before theseason, fatigue, or expense; and he had nothing to reproach himselfwith. If he did not go farther, it did not concern him; it was not hisfault, it was not the doing of his conscience, but of Providence. Hebreathed freely and fully for the first time since Javert's visit. Hefelt as if the iron hand which had been squeezing his heart for twentyhours had relaxed its grasp; God now appeared to be on his side, anddeclared Himself openly. He said to himself that he had done all in hispower, and at present need only return home quietly.

  Had the conversation with the wheelwright taken place in an inn-room,it would probably have not been heard by any one,--matters would haveremained in this state, and we should probably not have had to recordany of the following events; but the conversation took place in thestreet. Any colloquy in the street inevitably produces a crowd, forthere are always people who only ask to be spectators. While he wasquestioning the wheelwright, some passers-by stopped around, and a ladto whom no one paid any attention, after listening for some moments,ran off. At the instant when the traveller made up his mind to turnback, this boy returned, accompanied by an old woman.

  "Sir," the woman said, "my boy tells me that you wish to hire aconveyance?"

  This simple remark, made by an old woman led by a child, made theperspiration pour down his back. He fancied he saw the hand which hadlet him loose reappear in the shadow behind him, ready to clutch himagain. He replied,--

  "Yes, my good woman, I want to hire a gig."

  And he hastily added, "But there is not one in the town."

  "Yes there is," said the old woman.

  "Where?" the wheelwright remarked.

  "At my house," the old crone answered.

  He gave a start, for the fatal hand had seized him again. The poorwoman really had a sort of wicker-cart under a shed. The wheelwrightand the ostler, sorry to see the traveller escape them, interfered:--

  "It was a frightful rattle-trap, and had no springs,--it is a factthat the inside seats were hung with leathern straps--the rain got intoit--the wheels were rusty, and ready to fall to pieces--it would not gomuch farther than the tilbury--the gentleman had better not get intoit,"--and so on.

  All this was true; but the rattle-trap, whatever it might be, rolledon two wheels, and could go to Arras. He paid what was asked, leftthe tilbury to be repaired against his return, had the horse put intothe cart, got in, and went his way. At the moment when the cart movedahead, he confessed to himself that an instant before he had felt asort of joy at the thought that he could not continue his journey. Heexamined this joy with a sort of passion, and found it absurd. Why didhe feel joy at turning back? After all, he was making this journey ofhis free will, and no one forced him to do so. And assuredly nothingcould happen, except what he liked. As he was leaving Hesdin, he hearda voice shouting to him, "Stop, stop!" He stopped the cart with ahurried movement in which there was something feverish and convulsivethat resembled joy. It was the old woman's boy.

  "Sir," he said, "it was I who got you the cart."

  "Well?"

  "You have given me nothing."

  He who gave to all, and so easily, considered this demand exorbitant,and almost odious.

  "Oh, it's you, scamp," he said; "well, you will not have anything."

  He flogged his horse, which started again at a smart trot. He had lostmuch time at Hesdin, and would have liked to recover it. The littlehorse was courageous, and worked for two; but it was February, ithad been raining, and the roads were bad. The cart too ran much moreheavily than the tilbury, and there were numerous ascents. He tooknearly four hours in going from Hesdin to St. Pol: four hours forfive leagues! At St. Pol he pulled up at the first inn he came to,and had the horse put in a stable. As he had promised Scaufflaire, hestood near the crib while it was eating, and had troubled and confusedthoughts. The landlady entered the stable.

  "Do you not wish to breakfast, sir?"

  "It is true," said he, "I am very hungry."

  He followed the woman, who had a healthy, ruddy face; she led him to aground-floor room, in which were tables covered with oil-cloth.

  "Make haste," he remarked, "for I am in a great hurry."

  A plump Flemish servant-girl hastened to lay the cloth, and he lookedat her with a feeling of comfort.

  "That was the trouble," he thought; "I had not breakfasted."

  He pounced upon the bread, bit a mouthful, and then slowly laid it backon the table, and did not touch it again. A wagoner was sitting atanother table, and he said to him,--

  "Why is their bread so bitter?"

  The wagoner was a German, and did not understand him; he returned tohis horse. An hour later he had left St. Pol, and was proceeding towardTinques, which is only five leagues from Arras. What did he do duringthe drive? What was he thinking of? As in the morning, he looked atthe trees, the roofs, the ploughed fields, and the diversities of alandscape which every turn in the road changes, as he passed them. Tosee a thousand different objects for the first and last time is mostmelancholy! Travelling is birth and death at every moment. Perhapsin the vaguest region of his mind he made a comparison between thechanging horizon and human existence, for everything in this life iscontinually flying before us. Shadow and light are blended; after adazzling comes an eclipse; every event is a turn in the road, and allat once you are old. You feel something like a shock, all is black,you distinguish an obscure door, and the gloomy horse of life whichdragged you, stops, and you see a veiled, unknown form unharnessing it.Twilight was setting in at the moment when the school-boys, leavingschool, saw this traveller enter Tinques. He did not halt there, but ashe left the village, a road-mender, who was laying stones, raised hishead, and said to him,--

  "Your horse is very tired."

  The poor brute, in fact, could not get beyond a walk.

  "Are you going to Arras?" the road-mender continued.

  "Yes."

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sp; "If you go at that pace, you will not reach it very soon."

  He stopped his horse, and asked the road-mender--,

  "How far is it from here to Arras?"

  "Nearly seven long leagues."

  "How so? The post-book says only five and a quarter leagues."

  "Ah" the road-mender continued, "you do not know that the road is underrepair; you will find it cut up about a mile farther on, and it isimpossible to pass."

  "Indeed!"

  "You must take the road on the left, that runs to Carency, and crossthe river; when you reach Camblin you will turn to the right, for it isthe Mont St. Eloy road that runs to Arras."

  "But I shall lose my way in the dark."

  "You do not belong to these parts?"

  "No."

  "And it is a cross-road; stay, sir," the road-mender continued; "willyou let me give you a piece of advice? Your horse is tired, so returnto Tinques, where there is a good inn; sleep there, and go to Arrasto-morrow."

  "I must be there to-night."

  "That is different. In that case go back to the inn all the same, andhire a second horse. The stable boy will act as your guide across thecountry."

  He took the road-mender's advice, turned back, and half an hour afterpassed the same spot at a sharp trot with a strong second horse. Astable lad, who called himself a postilion, was sitting on the shaftsof the cart. Still he felt that he had lost time, for it was now dark.They entered the cross-road, and it soon became frightful; the carttumbled from one rut into another, but he said to the postilion,--

  "Keep on at a trot, and I will give you a double fee."

  In one of the jolts the whipple-tree broke.

  "The whipple-tree is broken, sir," said the postilion, "and I do notknow how to fasten my horse, and the road is very bad by night. If youwill go back and sleep at Tinques, we can get to Arras at an early hourto-morrow."

  He answered, "Have you a piece of rope and a knife?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He cut a branch and made a whipple-tree; it was a further loss oftwenty minutes, but they started again at a gallop. The plain wasdark, and a low, black fog was creeping over the hills. A heavy wind,which came from the sea, made in all the corners of the horizon anoise like that of furniture being moved. All that he could see hadan attitude of terror, for how many things shudder beneath the mightybreath of night! The cold pierced him, for he had eaten nothing sincethe previous morning. He vaguely recalled his other night-excursion, onthe great plain of D---- eight years before, and it seemed to him tobe yesterday. A clock struck from a distant steeple, and he asked thelad,--

  "What o'clock is that?"

  "Seven, sir, and we shall be at Arras by eight, for we have only threeleagues to go."

  At this moment he made for the first time this reflection--andconsidered it strange that it had not occurred to him before--that allthe trouble he was taking was perhaps thrown away; he did not even knowthe hour for the trial, and he might at least have asked about that; itwas extravagant to go on thus, without knowing if it would be of anyservice. Then he made some mental calculations: usually the sittings ofassize courts began at nine o'clock; this matter would not occupy muchtime, the theft of the apples would be easily proved, and then therewould be merely the identification, four or five witnesses to hear, andlittle for counsel to say. He would arrive when it was all over.

  The postilion flogged the horses; they had crossed the river and leftMont St Hoy behind them; the night was growing more and more dark.