CHAPTER I.
THE LARK'S FIELD.
Marius witnessed the unexpected dénouement of the snare upon whosetrack he had placed Javert, but the Inspector had scarce left thehouse, taking his prisoners with him in three hackney coaches, ereMarius stepped out of the house in his turn. It was only nine in theevening, and Marius went to call on Courfeyrac, who was no longer theimperturbable inhabitant of the Pays Latin. He had gone to live in theRue de la Verrière, "for political reasons;" and this district was oneof those in which insurrectionists of the day were fond of installingthemselves. Marius said to Courfeyrac, "I am going to sleep here,"and Courfeyrac pulled off one of his two mattresses, laid it on theground, and said, "There you are!" At seven o'clock the next morningMarius returned to No. 50-52, paid his quarter's rent, and what he owedto Mame Bougon, had his books, bed, table, chest-of-drawers, and twochairs, placed on a truck, and went away without leaving his address;so that, when Javert returned in the morning to question Marius aboutthe events of the previous evening, he only found Mame Bougon, who saidto him, "Gone away." Mame Bougon was convinced that Marius was in someway an accomplice of the robbers arrested the previous evening. "Whowould have thought it!" she exclaimed to the portresses of the quarter,"a young man whom you might have taken for a girl!"
Marius had two reasons for moving so promptly, the first was that henow felt a horror of this house, in which he had seen so closely,and in all its most repulsive and ferocious development, a socialugliness more frightful still, perhaps, than the wicked rich man,--thewicked poor man. The second was that he did not wish to figure at thetrial,--which would in all probability ensue,--and be obliged to giveevidence against Thénardier. Javert believed that the young man, whosename he forgot, had been frightened and had run away, or else had noteven returned home; he made some efforts, however, to find him, whichwere unsuccessful. A month elapsed, then another. Marius was stillliving with Courfeyrac, and had learned from a young barrister, anhabitual walker of the Salle des Pas Perdus, that Thénardier was insolitary confinement, and every Monday he left a five-franc piece forhim at the wicket of La Force. Marius, having no money left, borrowedthe five francs of Courfeyrac; it was the first time in his life thathe borrowed money. These periodical five francs were a double enigmafor Courfeyrac who gave them, and for Thénardier who received them."Where can they go to?" Courfeyrac thought. "Where can they come from?"Thénardier asked himself.
Marius, however, was heart-broken, for everything had disappeared againthrough a trap-door. He saw nothing ahead of him, and his life was oncemore plunged into the mystery in which he had been groping. He had seenagain momentarily and very closely the girl whom he loved, the old manwho appeared her father,--the strange beings who were his only interestand sole hope in this world,--and at the moment when he fancied that heshould grasp them, a breath had carried off all these shadows. Not aspark of certainty and truth had flashed even from that most terrificcollision, and no conjecture was possible. He no longer knew the nameof which he had felt so certain, and it certainly was not Ursule, andthe Lark was a nickname; and then, what must he think of the old man?Did he really hide himself from the police? The white-haired workmanwhom Marius had met in the vicinity of the Invalides reverted to hismind, and it now became probable that this workman and M. Leblanc wereone and the same. He disguised himself then, and this man had hisheroic side and his equivocal side. Why did he not call for help? whydid he fly? was he, yes or no, the father of the girl? and, lastly, washe really the man whom Thénardier fancied he recognized? Thénardiermight have been mistaken. These were all so many insoluble problems.All this, it is true, in no way lessened the angelic charm of themaiden of the Luxembourg. Poignant distress,--Marius had a passion inhis heart, and night over his eyes. He was impelled, he was attracted,and he could not stir; all had vanished, except love, and he had lostthe sudden instincts and illuminations of even that love. Usually, thisflame which burns us enlightens us a little, and casts some usefullight without, but Marius no longer even heard the dumb counsel ofpassion. He never said to himself, Suppose I were to go there, or trythis thing or the other? She whom he could no longer call Ursule wasevidently somewhere, but nothing advised Marius in what direction heshould seek her. All his life was now summed up in two words,--absoluteuncertainty, in an impenetrable fog,--and though he still longed to seeher, he no longer hoped it. As a climax, want returned, and he feltits icy breath close to him and behind him. In all these torments,and for a long time, he had discontinued his work, and nothing ismore dangerous than discontinued work; for it is a habit which a manloses,--a habit easy to give up, but difficult to re-acquire.
A certain amount of reverie is good, like a narcotic taken in discreetdoses. It lulls to sleep the at times harsh fevers of the workingbrain, and produces in the mind a soft and fresh vapor which correctthe too sharp outlines of pure thought, fills up gaps and spaces hereand there, and rounds the angles of ideas. But excess of reveriesubmerges and drowns, and woe to the mental workman who allowshimself to fall entirely from thinking into reverie! He believes thathe can easily rise again, and says that, after all, it is the samething. Error! Thought is the labor of the intellect, and reverie itsvoluptuousness; substituting reverie for thought is like confounding aperson with his nutriment. Marius, it will be remembered, began withthat; passion arrived, and finished by hurling him into objectlessand bottomless chimeras. In such a state a man only leaves his hometo go and dream, and it is an indolent childishness, a tumultuousand stagnant gulf, and in proportion as work diminishes, necessitiesincrease. This is a law; man in a dreamy state is naturally lavish andeasily moved, and the relaxed mind can no longer endure the contractedlife. There is, in this mode of existence, good mingled with evil,for if the softening be mournful, the generosity is healthy and good.But the poor, generous, and noble-minded man who does not work isruined; the resources dry up, and necessity arises. This is a fatalincline, on which the most honest and the strongest men are draggeddown like the weakest and the most vicious, and which leads to oneof two holes,--suicide or crime. Through going out to dream, a dayarrives when a man goes out to throw himself into the water. Excess ofdreaminess produces such men as Escousse and Libras. Marius went downthis incline slowly, with his eyes fixed upon her whom he no longersaw. What we have just written seems strange, and yet it is true,--therecollection of an absent being is illumined in the gloom of the heart;the more it disappears the more radiant it appears, and the despairingand obscure soul sees this light on its horizon, the star of its innernight. She was Marius's entire thought, he dreamed of nothing else.He felt confusedly that his old coat was becoming an outrageous coat,and that his new coat was growing an old coat, that his boots werewearing out, that his hat was wearing out, that his shirts were wearingout,--that is to say, that his life was wearing out; and he said tohimself, Could I but see her again before I die!
One sole sweet idea was left him, and it was that she had loved him,that her glance had told him so; and that she did not know his namebut that she knew his soul, and that however mysterious the spot mightbe where she now was, she loved him still. Might she not be dreamingof him as he was dreaming of her? At times in those inexplicable hourswhich every loving heart knows, as he had only reason to be sad, andyet felt within him a certain quivering of joy, he said to himself,"Her thoughts are visiting me," and then added, "Perhaps my thoughtsalso go to her." This illusion, at which he shook his head a momentafter, sometimes, however, contrived to cast rays which resembled hopeinto his soul at intervals. Now and then, especially at that eveninghour which most saddens dreamers, he poured out upon virgin paperthe pure, impersonal, and ideal reveries with which love filled hisbrain. He called this "writing to her." We must not suppose, however,that his reason was in disorder, quite the contrary. He had lost thefaculty of working and going firmly toward a determined object, but heretained clear-sightedness and rectitude more fully than ever. Mariussaw by a calm and real, though singular, light, all that was takingplace before him, even the most indifferent m
en and facts, and spokecorrectly of everything with a sort of honest weariness and candiddisinterestedness. His judgment, almost detached from hope, soared farabove him. In this state of mind nothing escaped him, nothing deceivedhim, and he discovered at each moment the bases of life,--humanity anddestiny. Happy, even in agony, is the man to whom God has granted asoul worthy of love and misfortune! He who has not seen the things ofthis world and the heart of man in this double light has seen nothingof the truth and knows nothing.
The soul that loves and suffers is in a sublime state.
Days succeeded each other, and nothing new occurred; it really seemedto him that the gloomy space which he still had to traverse wasbecoming daily reduced. He fancied that he could already see distinctlythe brink of the bottomless abyss.
"What!" he repeated to himself, "shall I not see her again before thattakes place?"
After going up the Rue St. Jacques, leaving the barrière on one side,and following for some distance the old inner boulevard, you reach theRue de la Santé, then the Glacière, and just before coming to the smallstream of the Gobelins, you notice a sort of field, the only spot onthe long and monotonous belt of Parisian boulevards, where Ruysdaelwould be tempted to sit down. I know not whence the picturesque aspectis obtained, for you merely see a green field crossed by ropes, onwhich rags hang to dry; an old house built in the time of Louis XIII.,with its high-pitched roof quaintly pierced with garret-windows;broken-down grating; a little water between poplar trees; women'slaughter and voices; on the horizon you see the Pantheon, the tree ofthe Sourds-Muets, the Val de Grâce, black, stunted, fantastic, amusing,and magnificent, and far in the background the stern square towers ofNotre Dame. As the place is worth the trouble of visiting, no one goesthere; scarce a cart or a wagon passes in a quarter of an hour. It oncehappened that Marius's solitary rambles led him to this field, and onthat day there was a rarity on the boulevard, a passer-by. Marius,really struck by the almost savage grace of the field, asked him: "Whatis the name of this spot?"
The passer-by answered, "It is the Lark's field;" and added, "It washere that Ulbach killed the shepherdess of Ivry."
But, after the words "the Lark," Marius heard no more, for a word attimes suffices to produce a congelation in a man's dreamy condition:the whole thought is condensed round an idea, and is no longer capableof any other perception. The Lark, that was the appellation whichhad taken the place of Ursule in the depths of Marius's melancholy."Stay," he said, with that sort of unreasoning stupor peculiar to suchmysterious asides, "this is her field, I shall learn here where shelives." This was absurd but irresistible, and he came daily to thisLark's field.