Les Misérables, page 66
CHAPTER V--HINDRANCES
The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated at thisperiod by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire. These mail-wagonswere two-wheeled cabriolets, upholstered inside with fawn-coloredleather, hung on springs, and having but two seats, one for the postboy,the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed with those long,offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a distance, and whichmay still be seen on the road in Germany. The despatch box, an immenseoblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it.This coffer was painted black, and the cabriolet yellow.
These vehicles, which have no counterparts nowadays, had somethingdistorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing inthe distance, and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembledthe insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though withbut little corselet, drag a great train behind them. But they travelledat a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Arras at oneo'clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at M.sur M. a little before five o'clock in the morning.
That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdinroad, collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering thetown, with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, which was goingin the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a manenveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a violentshock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the traveller paid noheed and pursued his road at full gallop.
"That man is in a devilish hurry!" said the postman.
The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen strugglingin convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.
Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening?He did not know. He was driving at random, straight ahead. Whither?To Arras, no doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well.At times he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into thenight as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew himon. No one could have told what was taking place within him; every onewill understand it. What man is there who has not entered, at least oncein his life, into that obscure cavern of the unknown?
However, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan,done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive.He was, more than ever, as he had been at the first moment.
Why was he going to Arras?
He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hiredScaufflaire's cabriolet: that, whatever the result was to be, there wasno reason why he should not see with his own eyes, and judge of mattersfor himself; that this was even prudent; that he must know what tookplace; that no decision could be arrived at without having observed andscrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything from a distance;that, at any rate, when he should have seen that Champmathieu, somewretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow himto go to the galleys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there;and that Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Cochepaille, old convicts whohad known him; but they certainly would not recognize him;--bah! what anidea! that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth; thatall conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu, andthat there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures;that accordingly there was no danger.
That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from it;that, after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in hisown hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.
At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go toArras.
Nevertheless, he was going thither.
As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at thatfine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a halfan hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within himdraw back.
At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. lay farbehind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all thechilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes,but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as theevening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it, and bymeans of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these blacksilhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister qualityto the violent state of his soul.
Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimesborder on the highway, he said to himself, "And yet there are peoplethere within who are sleeping!"
The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the road,produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming when oneis joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad.
It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front ofthe inn, to allow the horse a breathing spell, and to have him givensome oats.
The horse belonged, as Scaufflaire had said, to that small race of theBoulonnais, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neckand shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin, finelegs, and solid hoofs--a homely, but a robust and healthy race. Theexcellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours, and had not adrop of sweat on his loins.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oatssuddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
"Are you going far in this condition?" said the man.
He replied, with an air of not having roused himself from his revery:--
"Why?"
"Have you come from a great distance?" went on the man.
"Five leagues."
"Ah!"
"Why do you say, 'Ah?'"
The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, with his eyesfixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:--
"Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainlywill not travel another quarter of a league."
He sprang out of the tilbury.
"What is that you say, my friend?"
"I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagueswithout you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Justsee here!"
The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered bythe mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that thenut no longer held firm.
"My friend," he said to the stableman, "is there a wheelwright here?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Do me the service to go and fetch him."
"He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!"
Master Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own threshold.He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when thelatter thinks a limb is broken.
"Can you repair this wheel immediately?"
"Yes, sir."
"When can I set out again?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"There is a long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir?"
"In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest."
"Impossible, sir."
"I will pay whatever you ask."
"Impossible."
"Well, in two hours, then."
"Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur willnot be able to start before to-morrow morning."
"The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replacethis wheel instead of repairing it?"
"How so?"
"You are a wheelwright?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again atonce."
"A spare wheel?"
"Yes."
"I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels makea pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard."
"In that case, sell me a pair of wheels."
"Not all wheels fit all axles, sir."
"Try, nevertheless."
"It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are buta poor country here."
"Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?"
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was ahired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.
"You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, Iwould not let it to you!"
"Well, sell it to me, then."
"I have none."
"What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see."
"We live in a poor country. There is, in truth," added the wheelwright,"an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois ofthe town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on thethirty-sixth of the month--never, that is to say. I might let thatto you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see itpass--and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses."
"I will take two post-horses."
"Where is Monsieur going?"
"To Arras."
"And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?"
"Yes, of course."
"By taking two post-horses?"
"Why not?"
"Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o'clockto-morrow morning?"
"Certainly not."
"There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by takingpost-horses--Monsieur has his passport?"
"Yes."
"Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras beforeto-morrow. We are on a cross-road. The relays are badly served, thehorses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginning;heavy teams are required, and horses are seized upon everywhere, fromthe post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or fourhours at the least at every relay. And, then, they drive at a walk.There are many hills to ascend."
"Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Some onecan surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood."
"Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?"
"That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it."
"Then--"
"But I can surely hire a horse in the village?"
"A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch?"
"Yes."
"That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. Youwould have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But youwill not find one for sale nor to let, for five hundred francs, or for athousand."
"What am I to do?"
"The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man, andset out on your journey to-morrow."
"To-morrow will be too late."
"The deuce!"
"Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass?"
"To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well as theone coming."
"What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel?"
"A day, and a good long one."
"If you set two men to work?"
"If I set ten men to work."
"What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?"
"That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub; and the felly isin a bad state, too."
"Is there any one in this village who lets out teams?"
"No."
"Is there another wheelwright?"
The stableman and the wheelwright replied in concert, with a toss of thehead.
"No."
He felt an immense joy.
It was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it who hadbroken the wheel of the tilbury and who was stopping him on the road.He had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had just made everypossible effort to continue the journey; he had loyally and scrupulouslyexhausted all means; he had been deterred neither by the season, norfatigue, nor by the expense; he had nothing with which to reproachhimself. If he went no further, that was no fault of his. It did notconcern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the act ofhis own conscience, but the act of Providence.
He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of hislungs for the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed to him that thehand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the last twentyhours had just released him.
It seemed to him that God was for him now, and was manifesting Himself.
He said himself that he had done all he could, and that now he hadnothing to do but retrace his steps quietly.
If his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a chamberof the inn, it would have had no witnesses, no one would have heard him,things would have rested there, and it is probable that we should nothave had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is aboutto peruse; but this conversation had taken place in the street. Anycolloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are alwayspeople who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he wasquestioning the wheelwright, some people who were passing back and forthhalted around them. After listening for a few minutes, a young lad, towhom no one had paid any heed, detached himself from the group and ranoff.
At the moment when the traveller, after the inward deliberation which wehave just described, resolved to retrace his steps, this child returned.He was accompanied by an old woman.
"Monsieur," said the woman, "my boy tells me that you wish to hire acabriolet."
These simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child made theperspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the handwhich had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness behind him, readyto seize him once more.
He answered:--
"Yes, my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire."
And he hastened to add:--
"But there is none in the place."
"Certainly there is," said the old woman.
"Where?" interpolated the wheelwright.
"At my house," replied the old woman.
He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again.
The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-cart.The wheelwright and the stable-man, in despair at the prospect of thetraveller escaping their clutches, interfered.
"It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an actualfact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs; the raincame into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture; itwould not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle oldstage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trustedhimself to it," etc., etc.
All this was true; but this trap, this ramshackle old vehicle, thisthing, whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to Arras.
He paid what was asked, left the tilbury with the wheelwright to berepaired, intending to reclaim it on his return, had the white horseput to the cart, climbed into it, and resumed the road which he had beentravelling since morning.
At the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he had felt, amoment previously, a certain joy in the thought that he should notgo whither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort ofwrath, and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back?After all, he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one wasforcing him to it.
And assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose.
As he left Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him: "Stop! Stop!" Hehalted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish andconvulsive element resembling hope.
It was the old woman's little boy.
"Monsieur," said the latter, "it was I who got the cart for you."
"Well?"
"You have not given me anything."
He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almostodious.
"Ah! it's you, you scamp?" said he; "you shall have nothing."
He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed.
He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it good.The little horse was courageous, and pulled for two; but it was themonth of February, there had been rain; the roads were bad. And then,it was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very heavy, and in addition,there were many ascents.
He took nearly four hours to go from Hesdin to Saint-Pol; four hours forfive leagues.
At Saint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he came toand led to the stable; as he had promised Scaufflaire, he stood besidethe manger while the horse was eating; he thought of sad and confusingthings.
The inn-keeper's wife came to the stable.
"Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?"
"Come, that is true; I even have a good appetite."
He followed the woman, who had a rosy, cheerful face; she led him to thepublic room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth.
"Make haste!" said he; "I must start again; I am in a hurry."
A big Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste; helooked at the girl with a sensation of comfort.
"That is what ailed me," he thought; "I had not breakfasted."
His breakfast was served; he seized the bread, took a mouthful, and thenslowly replaced it on the table, and did not touch it again.
A carter was eating at another table; he said to this man:--
"Why is their bread so bitter here?"
The carter was a German and did not understand him.
He returned to the stable and remained near the horse.
An hour later he had quitted Saint-Pol and was directing his coursetowards Tinques, which is only five leagues from Arras.
What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in themorning, he watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fieldspass by, and the way in which the landscape, broken at every turn of theroad, vanished; this is a sort of contemplation which sometimessuffices to the soul, and almost relieves it from thought. What is moremelancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for thefirst and the last time? To travel is to be born and to die at everyinstant; perhaps, in the vaguest region of his mind, he did makecomparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: allthe things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark andbright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse;we look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing;each event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we are old; we feela shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomyhorse of life, which has been drawing us halts, and we see a veiled andunknown person unharnessing amid the shadows.
Twilight was falling when the children who were coming out of schoolbeheld this traveller enter Tinques; it is true that the days were stillshort; he did not halt at Tinques; as he emerged from the village, alaborer, who was mending the road with stones, raised his head and saidto him:--
"That horse is very much fatigued."
The poor beast was, in fact, going at a walk.
"Are you going to Arras?" added the road-mender.
"Yes."
"If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early."
He stopped his horse, and asked the laborer:--
"How far is it from here to Arras?"
"Nearly seven good leagues."
"How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter."
"Ah!" returned the road-mender, "so you don't know that the road isunder repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on;there is no way to proceed further."
"Really?"
"You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will crossthe river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right; that isthe road to Mont-Saint-Éloy which leads to Arras."
"But it is night, and I shall lose my way."
"You do not belong in these parts?"
"No."
"And, besides, it is all cross-roads; stop! sir," resumed theroad-mender; "shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired;return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can reachArras to-morrow."
"I must be there this evening."
"That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an extrahorse; the stable-boy will guide you through the cross-roads."
He followed the road-mender's advice, retraced his steps, and, half anhour later, he passed the same spot again, but this time at full speed,with a good horse to aid; a stable-boy, who called himself a postilion,was seated on the shaft of the cariole.
Still, he felt that he had lost time.
Night had fully come.
They turned into the cross-road; the way became frightfully bad; thecart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion:--
"Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee."
In one of the jolts, the whiffle-tree broke.
"There's the whiffle-tree broken, sir," said the postilion; "I don'tknow how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; ifyou wish to return and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras earlyto-morrow morning."
He replied, "Have you a bit of rope and a knife?"
"Yes, sir."
He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.
This caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again at agallop.
The plain was gloomy; low-hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over thehills and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish gleamsin the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced asound in all quarters of the horizon, as of some one moving furniture;everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How manythings shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!
He was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before;he vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain inthe neighborhood of D----, eight years previously, and it seemed butyesterday.
The hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy:--
"What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but threeleagues still to go."
At that moment, he for the first time indulged in this reflection,thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner: thatall this trouble which he was taking was, perhaps, useless; that he didnot know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should, at least,have informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go thus straightahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not; thenhe sketched out some calculations in his mind: that, ordinarily, thesittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o'clock in the morning;that it could not be a long affair; that the theft of the apples wouldbe very brief; that there would then remain only a question of identity,four or five depositions, and very little for the lawyers to say; thathe should arrive after all was over.
The postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river and leftMont-Saint-Éloy behind them.
The night grew more profound.
