CHAPTER III.
WHILE COSETTE AND TOUSSAINT SLEEP.
Jean Valjean re-entered with Marius's letter: he groped his wayup-stairs, pleased with the darkness like an owl that holds its prey,gently opened and closed the door, listened whether he could hear anysound, convinced himself that Cosette and Toussaint were, according toall appearances, asleep, and plunged into the Fumade lighting-bottlethree or four matches before he could procure a spark, for his handtrembled so, as what he had just done was a robbery. At last his candlewas lit, he sat down at the table, opened the letter, and read. Insuch violent emotions men do not read, they hurl down, so to speak,the paper they hold, clutch it like a victim, crumple it, bury in itthe nails of their fury or delight, they run to the end, they dash atthe beginning: the attention is feverish, it understands the essentialfacts, it seizes on one point, and all the rest disappears. In the notefrom Marius to Cosette Jean Valjean only saw these words,--
"I die: when you read this my soul will be near you."
In the presence of this line he felt a horrible bedazzlement; heremained for a moment as if crushed by the change of emotion which tookplace in him. He gazed at Marius's letter with a species of drunkenamazement, he had before his eyes this splendor,--the death of thehated being. He uttered a frightful cry of internal joy. So all wasover, and the dénouement arrived more quickly than he could have daredto hope. The being that encumbered his destiny was disappearing; hewent away of his own accord, freely and willingly, without his doinganything in the matter, without any fault on the part of him, JeanValjean; "that man" was going to die, perhaps was already dead. Herehis fever made its calculations; "No, he is not yet dead. The letterwas evidently written to be read by Cosette on the next morning: sincethe two volleys he had heard between eleven o'clock and midnightnothing had occurred: the barricade would not be seriously attackedtill daybreak; but no matter, from the moment when 'that man' is mixedup in this war, he is lost, he is caught in the cog-wheels." JeanValjean felt himself delivered; he was going to find himself once morealone with Cosette; the rivalry ceased and the future began again.He need only keep the note in his pocket, and Cosette would neverknow what had become of "that man;" "I have only to let things taketheir course. That man cannot escape, and if he is not dead yet, itis certain that he is going to die. What happiness!" All this saidinternally, he became gloomy: he went down and aroused the porter.About an hour later Jean Valjean left the house in the uniform of aNational Guard and armed. The porter had easily obtained for him in theneighborhood the articles to complete his equipment: he had a loadedmusket and a full cartouche-box. He proceeded in the direction of themarkets.
CHAPTER IV.
GAVROCHE'S EXCESS OF ZEAL.
In the mean while an adventure had happened to Gavroche; afterconscientiously stoning the lamp in the Rue du Chaume, he approachedthe Rue des Vieilles Haudriettes, and not seeing "a cat" there, foundthe opportunity excellent for striking up a song at the full pitch ofhis lungs. His march, far from being checked by the singing, becameaccelerated, and he sowed along the sleeping or terrified houses thefollowing incendiary verses:--
"L'oiseau médit dans les charmilles, Et prétend qu'hier Atala Avec un Russe s'en alla. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles, Parce que l'autre jour Mila Cogna sa vitre, et m'appela. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Les drôlesses sont fort gentilles, Leur poison qui m'ensorcela Griserait Monsieur Orfila. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"J'aime l'amour et ses bisbilles, J'aime Agnès, j'aime Paméla, Lise en m'allumant se brûla. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles De Suzette et de Zéila, Mon âme à leurs plis se mêla. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Amour, quand, dans l'ombre où tu brilles, Tu coiffes de roses Lola, Je me damnerais pour cela. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Jeanne, à ton miroir tu t'habilles! Mon cœur un beau jour s'envola; Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui l'a. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles, Je montre aux étoiles Stella, Et je leur dis: 'Regardez-la.' Où vont les belles filles, Lon la."
Gavroche, while singing, was lavish of his pantomime, for gesture isthe mainstay of a chorus. His face, an inexhaustible repertory ofmasks, made grimaces more convulsive and more fantastic than the mouthsof a torn sheet in a stiff breeze. Unluckily, as he was alone and inthe dark, this was neither seen nor visible. Much wealth is lost inthis way. Suddenly he stopped short.
"We must interrupt the romance," he said.
His catlike eye had just distinguished inside a gateway what is calledin painting an ensemble, that is to say, a being and a thing; the thingwas a handcart, the being an Auvergnat sleeping inside it. The shaftsof the cart were upon the pavement, and the Auvergnat's head leaned onthe backboard of the truck. His body lay along this inclined plane,and his feet touched the ground. Gavroche, with his experience of thethings of this world, recognized a drunkard: it was some street-cornerporter who had drunk too much and was sleeping too much.
"Such is the use," Gavroche thought, "to which summer nights may beturned. The Auvergnat sleeps in his truck. I take the truck for therepublic, and leave the Auvergnat for the monarchy."
His mind had just been illumined by this flash.
"That truck would be famous on our barricade!"
The Auvergnat was snoring. Gavroche gently pulled the truck behind andthe Auvergnat in front, that is to say, by the feet, and in a secondthe porter was lying imperturbably flat on the pavement. The truck wasliberated. Gavroche, accustomed constantly to face unexpected events,had always everything about him. He felt in one of his pockets andpulled out a scrap of paper and a piece of red pencil stolen from somecarpenter. He wrote
_République Française_Received this truck.
And he signed, GAVROCHE.
This done, he placed the paper in the snoring porter's velvet waistcoatpocket, seized the handcart, and started in the direction of themarkets, thrusting the truck before him at a gallop with a glorioustriumphal row. This was dangerous, for there was a post at the RoyalPrinting Office, and Gavroche did not think of that. This post was heldby suburban National Guards; a certain amount of alarm was beginning toarouse the squad, and heads were raised in the guard-beds. Two lampsbroken so shortly after each other, and this singing at the pitch ofthe lungs, were a good deal for these cowardly streets, which liketo go to bed at sunset, and put the extinguisher on their candle atso early an hour. For an hour past the gamin had been making in thispeaceful district the noise of a fly in a bottle. The suburban sergeantlistened and waited, for he was a prudent man. The wild rolling of thetruck filled up the measure of possible awaiting, and determined thesergeant to attempt a reconnoisance.
"There must be a whole band of them," he said, "so we will advancegently."
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box, andwas playing the deuce in the quarter, so the sergeant ventured out ofthe guard-house on tiptoe. All at once, Gavroche, pushing his truck,found himself, just as he was turning out of the Rue des VieillesHaudriettes, face to face with a uniform, a shako, a pompon, and amusket. For the second time he stopped short.
"Hilloh!" he said, "it's he. Good-day, public order."
Gavroche's surprises were short and rapidly thawed.
"Where are you going, scamp?" the sergeant cried.
"Citizen," said Gavroche, "I have not yet called you bourgeois, so whydo you insult me?"
"Where are you going, scoundrel?"
"Sir," Gavroche continued, "it is possible that you were a man of senseyesterday, but you must have sent in your resignation this morning."
"I ask you where you are going, villain?"
Gavroche answered,--
"You speak politely. Really, no one would fancy you that age. You oughtto sell your hair at one hundred francs apiece, and that would bringyou in five hundred francs."
"Where are you going, where are you going, where are you going, bandit?"
Gavroche retorted,--
"Those are ugly words. The first time they give you the breast theyought to wash your mouth out better."
The sergeant levelled his bayonet.
"Will you tell me where you are going or not, wretch?"
"My general," said Gavroche, "I am going to fetch the doctor for mywife, who is taken in labor."
"To arms!" the sergeant shouted.
It is the masterpiece of powerful minds to save themselves by what hasruined them; and Gavroche measured the whole situation at a glance.It was the truck that had compromised him, and so the truck must nowprotect him. At the moment when the sergeant was going to rush onGavroche, the truck, converted into a projectile and launched at fullspeed, rolled upon him furiously, and the sergeant, struck in thestomach, fell back into the gutter, while his musket was dischargedin the air. On hearing their sergeant's cry, the guard hurried forthpell-mell; the shot produced a general discharge blindly, after whichthe guns were reloaded, and they began again. This blindman's bufffiring lasted a good quarter of an hour, and killed sundry panes ofglass. In the mean while, Gavroche, who had turned back, stopped fiveor six streets off, and sat down panting on the bench at the corner ofthe Enfants Rouges, and listened. After breathing for a few minutes, heturned in the direction where the musketry was raging, raised his lefthand to the level of his nose, and thrust it out thrice, while strikingthe back of his head with his right hand,--a sovereign gesture, inwhich the Parisian gamins have condensed French irony, and which isevidently effective, as it has already lasted more than half a century.This gayety was troubled by a bitter reflection.
"Yes," he said, "I am delighted, I overflow with joy, I crack my sides,but I am losing my way, and shall be obliged to steer a roundaboutcourse. I only hope I shall reach the barricade betimes."
After saying this he ran off again, and while running asked himself,"Where was I?" and he began his song again, which gradually died outin the darkness of the streets.
"Mais il reste encor des bastilles, Et je vais mettre le holà Dans l'ordre public que voilà. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Quelqu'un veut-il jouer aux quilles? Tout l'ancien monde s'écroula, Quand la grosse boule roula. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Vieux bon peuple, à coups de béquilles, Cassons ce Louvre où s'étala La monarchie en falbala. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Nous en avons forcé les grilles, Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour-là Tenait mal, et se décolla. Où vont les belles filles, Lon la."
The turn-out of the Guard produced some results, for a truck wascaptured and the drunkard made prisoner. The first was placed inthe Green Yard, while the second was afterwards brought before acourt-martial as an accomplice. The public minister of that daydisplayed in this circumstance his indefatigable zeal in the defence ofsociety. Gavroche's adventure, which has remained as a tradition inthe Temple quarter, is one of the most terrible reminiscences of theold bourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in their memory,--"Thenight attack on the guard-house of the Royal Printing Office."
END OF PART FOURTH.
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