Les Misérables, page 44
CHAPTER I--ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER
There was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first quarter of thiscentury, a sort of cook-shop which no longer exists. This cook-shop waskept by some people named Thénardier, husband and wife. It was situatedin Boulanger Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat againstthe wall. Upon this board was painted something which resembled aman carrying another man on his back, the latter wearing the big giltepaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red spots representedblood; the rest of the picture consisted of smoke, and probablyrepresented a battle. Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OFSERGEANT OF WATERLOO (_Au Sargent de Waterloo_).
Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of a hostelry.Nevertheless, the vehicle, or, to speak more accurately, the fragment ofa vehicle, which encumbered the street in front of the cook-shop ofthe _Sergeant of Waterloo_, one evening in the spring of 1818, wouldcertainly have attracted, by its mass, the attention of any painter whohad passed that way.
It was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are used in woodedtracts of country, and which serve to transport thick planks and thetrunks of trees. This fore-carriage was composed of a massive ironaxle-tree with a pivot, into which was fitted a heavy shaft, andwhich was supported by two huge wheels. The whole thing was compact,overwhelming, and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carriage of anenormous cannon. The ruts of the road had bestowed on the wheels, thefellies, the hub, the axle, and the shaft, a layer of mud, a hideousyellowish daubing hue, tolerably like that with which people are fondof ornamenting cathedrals. The wood was disappearing under mud, and theiron beneath rust. Under the axle-tree hung, like drapery, a huge chain,worthy of some Goliath of a convict. This chain suggested, not thebeams, which it was its office to transport, but the mastodons andmammoths which it might have served to harness; it had the air of thegalleys, but of cyclopean and superhuman galleys, and it seemed to havebeen detached from some monster. Homer would have bound Polyphemus withit, and Shakespeare, Caliban.
Why was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the street? Inthe first place, to encumber the street; next, in order that it mightfinish the process of rusting. There is a throng of institutions in theold social order, which one comes across in this fashion as one walksabout outdoors, and which have no other reasons for existence than theabove.
The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle, and inthe loop, as in the rope of a swing, there were seated and grouped, onthat particular evening, in exquisite interlacement, two little girls;one about two years and a half old, the other, eighteen months; theyounger in the arms of the other. A handkerchief, cleverly knotted aboutthem, prevented their falling out. A mother had caught sight of thatfrightful chain, and had said, "Come! there's a plaything for mychildren."
The two children, who were dressed prettily and with some elegance, wereradiant with pleasure; one would have said that they were two roses amidold iron; their eyes were a triumph; their fresh cheeks were full oflaughter. One had chestnut hair; the other, brown. Their innocent faceswere two delighted surprises; a blossoming shrub which grew near waftedto the passers-by perfumes which seemed to emanate from them; the childof eighteen months displayed her pretty little bare stomach with thechaste indecency of childhood. Above and around these two delicateheads, all made of happiness and steeped in light, the giganticfore-carriage, black with rust, almost terrible, all entangled in curvesand wild angles, rose in a vault, like the entrance of a cavern. A fewpaces apart, crouching down upon the threshold of the hostelry, themother, not a very prepossessing woman, by the way, though touchingat that moment, was swinging the two children by means of a long cord,watching them carefully, for fear of accidents, with that animal andcelestial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At every backwardand forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident sound, whichresembled a cry of rage; the little girls were in ecstasies; the settingsun mingled in this joy, and nothing could be more charming than thiscaprice of chance which had made of a chain of Titans the swing ofcherubim.
As she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in a discordant voice aromance then celebrated:--
"It must be, said a warrior."
Her song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented her hearingand seeing what was going on in the street.
In the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was beginning thefirst couplet of the romance, and suddenly she heard a voice saying verynear her ear:--
"You have two beautiful children there, Madame."
"To the fair and tender Imogene--"
replied the mother, continuing her romance; then she turned her head.
A woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This woman also had achild, which she carried in her arms.
She was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, which seemed veryheavy.
This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures that it ispossible to behold. It was a girl, two or three years of age. She couldhave entered into competition with the two other little ones, so far asthe coquetry of her dress was concerned; she wore a cap of fine linen,ribbons on her bodice, and Valenciennes lace on her cap. The folds ofher skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, anddimpled leg. She was admirably rosy and healthy. The little beautyinspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks. Of hereyes nothing could be known, except that they must be very large, andthat they had magnificent lashes. She was asleep.
She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar to herage. The arms of mothers are made of tenderness; in them children sleepprofoundly.
As for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty-stricken. Shewas dressed like a working-woman who is inclined to turn into a peasantagain. She was young. Was she handsome? Perhaps; but in that attire itwas not apparent. Her hair, a golden lock of which had escaped, seemedvery thick, but was severely concealed beneath an ugly, tight, close,nun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile displays beautiful teeth whenone has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did not seem to have beendry for a very long time. She was pale; she had a very weary and rathersickly appearance. She gazed upon her daughter asleep in her arms withthe air peculiar to a mother who has nursed her own child. A large bluehandkerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a fichu, andconcealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and all dottedwith freckles, her forefinger was hardened and lacerated with theneedle; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff, a linen gown,and coarse shoes. It was Fantine.
It was Fantine, but difficult to recognize. Nevertheless, onscrutinizing her attentively, it was evident that she still retainedher beauty. A melancholy fold, which resembled the beginning of irony,wrinkled her right cheek. As for her toilette, that aerial toilette ofmuslin and ribbons, which seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music,full of bells, and perfumed with lilacs had vanished like that beautifuland dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken for diamonds in the sunlight;it melts and leaves the branch quite black.
Ten months had elapsed since the "pretty farce."
What had taken place during those ten months? It can be divined.
After abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine had immediatelylost sight of Favourite, Zéphine and Dahlia; the bond once broken on theside of the men, it was loosed between the women; they would have beengreatly astonished had any one told them a fortnight later, that theyhad been friends; there no longer existed any reason for such a thing.Fantine had remained alone. The father of her child gone,--alas! suchruptures are irrevocable,--she found herself absolutely isolated, minusthe habit of work and plus the taste for pleasure. Drawn away by her_liaison_ with Tholomyès to disdain the pretty trade which she knew, shehad neglected to keep her market open; it was now closed to her. She hadno resource. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not know how towrite; in her childhood she had only been taught to sign her name;she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle to Tholomyès, then asecond, then a third. Tholomyès replied to none of them. Fantine heardthe gossips say, as they looked at her child: "Who takes those childrenseriously! One only shrugs one's shoulders over such children!" Then shethought of Tholomyès, who had shrugged his shoulders over his child,and who did not take that innocent being seriously; and her heart grewgloomy toward that man. But what was she to do? She no longer knew towhom to apply. She had committed a fault, but the foundation of hernature, as will be remembered, was modesty and virtue. She was vaguelyconscious that she was on the verge of falling into distress, and ofgliding into a worse state. Courage was necessary; she possessed it, andheld herself firm. The idea of returning to her native town of M. surM. occurred to her. There, some one might possibly know her and give herwork; yes, but it would be necessary to conceal her fault. In a confusedway she perceived the necessity of a separation which would be morepainful than the first one. Her heart contracted, but she took herresolution. Fantine, as we shall see, had the fierce bravery of life.She had already valiantly renounced finery, had dressed herself inlinen, and had put all her silks, all her ornaments, all her ribbons,and all her laces on her daughter, the only vanity which was left toher, and a holy one it was. She sold all that she had, which producedfor her two hundred francs; her little debts paid, she had only abouteighty francs left. At the age of twenty-two, on a beautiful springmorning, she quitted Paris, bearing her child on her back. Any one whohad seen these two pass would have had pity on them. This woman had,in all the world, nothing but her child, and the child had, in all theworld, no one but this woman. Fantine had nursed her child, and this hadtired her chest, and she coughed a little.
We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Félix Tholomyès. Let usconfine ourselves to saying, that, twenty years later, under King LouisPhilippe, he was a great provincial lawyer, wealthy and influential, awise elector, and a very severe juryman; he was still a man of pleasure.
Towards the middle of the day, after having, from time to time, for thesake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four sous a league, inwhat was then known as the _Petites Voitures des Environs de Paris_, the"little suburban coach service," Fantine found herself at Montfermeil,in the alley Boulanger.
As she passed the Thénardier hostelry, the two little girls, blissfulin the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and she had halted infront of that vision of joy.
Charms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this mother.
She gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of angels is anannouncement of Paradise. She thought that, above this inn, she beheldthe mysterious HERE of Providence. These two little creatures wereevidently happy. She gazed at them, she admired them, in such emotionthat at the moment when their mother was recovering her breath betweentwo couplets of her song, she could not refrain from addressing to herthe remark which we have just read:--
"You have two pretty children, Madame."
The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed on theiryoung.
The mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the wayfarersit down on the bench at the door, she herself being seated on thethreshold. The two women began to chat.
"My name is Madame Thénardier," said the mother of the two little girls."We keep this inn."
Then, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed humming betweenher teeth:--
"It must be so; I am a knight, And I am off to Palestine."
This Madame Thénardier was a sandy-complexioned woman, thin andangular--the type of the soldier's wife in all its unpleasantness; andwhat was odd, with a languishing air, which she owed to her perusalof romances. She was a simpering, but masculine creature. Old romancesproduce that effect when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shopwoman. She was still young; she was barely thirty. If this crouchingwoman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame of aperambulating colossus suitable for fairs, might have frightened thetraveller at the outset, troubled her confidence, and disturbed whatcaused what we have to relate to vanish. A person who is seated insteadof standing erect--destinies hang upon such a thing as that.
The traveller told her story, with slight modifications.
That she was a working-woman; that her husband was dead; that herwork in Paris had failed her, and that she was on her way to seek itelsewhere, in her own native parts; that she had left Paris that morningon foot; that, as she was carrying her child, and felt fatigued, she hadgot into the Villemomble coach when she met it; that from Villemombleshe had come to Montfermeil on foot; that the little one had walked alittle, but not much, because she was so young, and that she had beenobliged to take her up, and the jewel had fallen asleep.
At this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate kiss, which wokeher. The child opened her eyes, great blue eyes like her mother's, andlooked at--what? Nothing; with that serious and sometimes severe air oflittle children, which is a mystery of their luminous innocence inthe presence of our twilight of virtue. One would say that they feelthemselves to be angels, and that they know us to be men. Then the childbegan to laugh; and although the mother held fast to her, she slipped tothe ground with the unconquerable energy of a little being which wishedto run. All at once she caught sight of the two others in the swing,stopped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration.
Mother Thénardier released her daughters, made them descend from theswing, and said:--
"Now amuse yourselves, all three of you."
Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expirationof a minute the little Thénardiers were playing with the new-comer atmaking holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure.
The new-comer was very gay; the goodness of the mother is written in thegayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of wood which served herfor a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly. Thegrave-digger's business becomes a subject for laughter when performed bya child.
The two women pursued their chat.
"What is your little one's name?"
"Cosette."
For Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child's name was Euphrasie. But outof Euphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and gracefulinstinct of mothers and of the populace which changes Josepha intoPepita, and Françoise into Sillette. It is a sort of derivative whichdisarranges and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists. We haveknown a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon.
"How old is she?"
"She is going on three."
"That is the age of my eldest."
In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an attitude ofprofound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened; a big wormhad emerged from the ground, and they were afraid; and they were inecstasies over it.
Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have said that therewere three heads in one aureole.
"How easily children get acquainted at once!" exclaimed MotherThénardier; "one would swear that they were three sisters!"
This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had beenwaiting for. She seized the Thénardier's hand, looked at her fixedly,and said:--
"Will you keep my child for me?"
The Thénardier made one of those movements of surprise which signifyneither assent nor refusal.
Cosette's mother continued:--
"You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My work will notpermit it. With a child one can find no situation. People are ridiculousin the country. It was the good God who caused me to pass your inn. WhenI caught sight of your little ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy,it overwhelmed me. I said: 'Here is a good mother. That is just thething; that will make three sisters.' And then, it will not be longbefore I return. Will you keep my child for me?"
"I must see about it," replied the Thénardier.
"I will give you six francs a month."
Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:--
"Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in advance."
"Six times seven makes forty-two," said the Thénardier.
"I will give it," said the mother.
"And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses," added theman's voice.
"Total, fifty-seven francs," said Madame Thénardier. And she hummedvaguely, with these figures:--
"It must be, said a warrior."
"I will pay it," said the mother. "I have eighty francs. I shall haveenough left to reach the country, by travelling on foot. I shallearn money there, and as soon as I have a little I will return for mydarling."
The man's voice resumed:--
"The little one has an outfit?"
"That is my husband," said the Thénardier.
"Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure.--I understood perfectlythat it was your husband.--And a beautiful outfit, too! a senselessoutfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns like a lady. It is here,in my carpet-bag."
"You must hand it over," struck in the man's voice again.
"Of course I shall give it to you," said the mother. "It would be veryqueer if I were to leave my daughter quite naked!"
The master's face appeared.
"That's good," said he.
The bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night at the inn, gaveup her money and left her child, fastened her carpet-bag once more, nowreduced in volume by the removal of the outfit, and light henceforthand set out on the following morning, intending to return soon. Peoplearrange such departures tranquilly; but they are despairs!
A neighbor of the Thénardiers met this mother as she was setting out,and came back with the remark:--
"I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough torend your heart."
When Cosette's mother had taken her departure, the man said to thewoman:--
"That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten francs whichfalls due to-morrow; I lacked fifty francs. Do you know that I shouldhave had a bailiff and a protest after me? You played the mouse-trapnicely with your young ones."
"Without suspecting it," said the woman.
