 CHAPTER XIX OCCUPIING ONE SELF WITH OBSCURE DEPTHS Hardly was Monsieur Leblanc seated when he turned his eyes towards the palates which were empty. "'How is the poor little wounded girl?' he inquired. "'Bad!' replied Jean-Drette, with a heart broken and grateful smile. "'Very bad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken her to the Bourb to have her hurt dressed. You will see them presently. They will be back immediately.' "'Madame Fabante, who seems to me to be better, went on Monsieur Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jean-Drette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat. "'She is dying,' said Jean-Drette. "'But what do you expect, sir? She has so much courage that woman has. She's not a woman. She's an ox.' The Jean-Drette touched by his compliment deprecated it with the affected ears of a flattered monster. "'You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jean-Drette.' "'Jean-Drette?' said Monsieur Leblanc. I thought your name was Fabante. "'Fabante, alias, Jean-Drette,' replied the husband hurriedly, an artistic sobriquet. And, launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which Monsieur Leblanc did not catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection of voice. Ah, we have had a happy life together, this poor darling and I. What would there be left for us if we had not that? We are so wretched, my respectable sir. We have arms, but there is no work. We have the will. No work. I don't know how the government arranges that, but on my word of honour, sir, I am not Jacobin, sir. I am not Abusango. I don't wish them any evil, but if I were the ministers, on my most sacred word things would be different. Here, for instance, I wanted to have my girls taught the trade of paper box-makers. You will say to me, what, a trade? Yes, a trade, a simple trade, a bread-winner. What a fall, my benefactor! What a degradation when one has been what we have been. Alas, there is nothing left to us of our days of prosperity. One thing only, a picture, of which I think a great deal, but which I am willing to part with, for I must live. Item, one must live. While Jean-Drette thus talked with an apparent incoherence which detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression of his physiognomy, Marius raised his eyes and perceived at the other end of the room a person whom he had not seen before. A man had just entered so softly that the door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. This man wore a violet knitted vest, which was old, worn, spotted, cut, and gaping at every fold. Wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes on his feet, no shirt, had his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his face smeared with black. He had seated himself in silence on the nearest bed, and as he was behind Jean-Drette, he could only be indistinctly seen. That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze caused Monsieur Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius. He could not refrain from a gesture of surprise which did not escape Jean-Drette. Ah, I see! exclaimed Jean-Drette, buttoning up his coat with an air of complacence. You are looking at your overcoat. It fits me, my faith, but it fits me. Who is that man? said Monsieur Leblanc. Him? ejaculated Jean-Drette. He's a neighbour of mine. Don't pay any attention to him. The neighbour was a singular-looking individual. However, manufactories of chemical products abound in the full-burg sem or so, many of the workmen might have black faces. Besides this, Monsieur Leblanc's whole person was expressive of candid and intrepid confidence. He went on. Excuse me, what were you saying, Monsieur Fabantoux? I was telling you, sir, and dear protector, replied Jean-Drette, placing his elbows on the table and contemplating Monsieur Leblanc with steady and tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa constrictor. I was telling you that I have a picture to sell. A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered and seated himself on the bed behind Jean-Drette. Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink or lamp-black. Although this man had literally glided into the room, he had not been able to prevent Monsieur Leblanc catching sight of him. Don't mind them, said Jean-Drette. They are people who belong in the house. So I was saying that there remains in my possession a valuable picture, but stop, sir, take a look at it. He rose, went to the wall, at the foot of which stood the panel which we have already mentioned, and turned it round, still leaving it supported against the wall. It really was something which resembled a picture and which the candle illuminated somewhat. Marius could make nothing out of it as Jean-Drette stood between the picture and him. He only saw a coarse dob and a sort of principal personage covered with the harsh crudity of foreign canvases and screen paintings. What is that? asked Monsieur Leblanc. Jean-Drette exclaimed, a painting by a master, a picture of great value, my benefactor. I am as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters. It recalls souvenirs to me. But I have told you, and I will not take it back, that I am so wretched that I will part with it. Either by chance or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness, Monsieur Leblanc's glance returned to the bottom of the room as he examined the picture. There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one standing near the doorpost, all four with bare arms and motionless with faces smeared with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall with closed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was old, his white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced a horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young. One wore a beard, the other wore his hair long. None of them had on shoes. Those who did not wear socks were barefooted. Jean-Drette noticed that Monsieur Leblanc's eye was fixed on these men. They are friends, they are neighbours, said he. Their faces are black because they work in charcoal, they are chimney-builders. Don't trouble yourself about them, my benefactor, but buy my picture. Have pity on my misery. I will not ask you much for it. How much do you think it is worth? Well, said Monsieur Leblanc, looking Jean-Drette full in the eye, and with the manner of a man who is on his guard, it is some signboard for a tavern, and is worth about three francs. Jean-Drette replied sweetly, Have you your pocketbook with you? I should be satisfied with a thousand crowns. Monsieur Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast a rapid glance around the room. He had Jean-Drette on his left on the side next to the window, and the Jean-Drette woman and the four men on his right on the side next to the door. The four men did not stir, and did not even seem to be looking on. Jean-Drette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vague an eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that Monsieur Leblanc might have supposed that what he had before him was a man who had gone simply mad with misery. If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor, said Jean-Drette, I shall be left without resources. There will be nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river. When I think that I wanted to have my two girls taught the middle-class paper-box trade, the making of boxes for New Year's gifts, well, a table with a board at the end to keep the glasses from falling off is required. Then a special stove is needed, a pot with three compartments, for the different degrees of strength of the paste, according as it is to be used for wood, paper, or stuff, a paring-knife to cut the cardboard, a mold to adjust it, a hammer to nail the steels, pincers, how the devil do I know what all, and all that in order to earn four sous a day, and you have to work fourteen hours a day, and each box passes through the workwoman's hands thirteen times, and you can't wet the paper, and you mustn't spot anything, and you must keep the paste hot, the devil, I tell you, four sous a day, how do you suppose a man is to live? As he spoke, Jean-Drette did not look at Monsieur Leblanc, who was observing him. Monsieur Leblanc's eye was fixed on Jean-Drette, and Jean-Drette's eye was fixed on the door. Marius' eager attention was transferred from one to the other. Monsieur Leblanc seemed to be asking himself, is this man an idiot? Jean-Drette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner of varying inflections of the whining and supplicating order, there is nothing left for me, but to throw myself into the river, I went down three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz the other day for that purpose. All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash. The little man drew himself up, and became terrible, took a step toward Monsieur Leblanc, and cried in a voice of thunder. That has nothing to do with the question. Do you know me? End of book eight, chapter nineteen. Chapter twenty of book eight of Les Miserables, volume three by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Eastman. Les Miserables, volume three by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood. Book eight, The Wicked Poor Man. Chapter twenty, The Trap. The door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and a loud view of three men clad in blue linen louses, and masked with masks of black paper. The first was thin, and had a long iron-tipped cudgel. The second, who was a sort of colossus, carried by the middle of the handle with the blade downward, a butcher's poleaxe for slaughtering cattle. The third, a man with thick-set shoulders, not so slender as the first, held in his hand an enormous key stolen from the door of some prison. It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jean Grette had been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man with the cudgel, the thin one. Is everything ready? said Jean Grette. Yes, replied the thin man. Where is Montparnasse? The young principal actor stopped to chat with her girl. Which? The eldest. Is there a carriage at the door? Yes. Is the team hardest? Yes. With two good horses. Excellent. Is it waiting where I ordered? Yes. Good, said Jean Grette. Monsieur Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing everything around him in the den, like a man who understands what he has fallen into. And his head, directed in turn toward all the heads which surrounded him, moved on his neck with an astonished and attentive slowness. But there was nothing in his air which resembled fear. He had improvised an entrenchment out of the table. And the man, who but an instant previously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, had suddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust fist on the back of his chair with a formidable and surprising gesture. This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply. The father of a woman whom we love is never a stranger to us. Marius felt proud of that unknown man. Three of the men of whom Gendret had said, they are chimney-builders, had armed themselves from the pile of old iron. One with a heavy pair of shears, the second with weighing-tongs, the third with a hammer, and had placed themselves across the entrance without uttering a syllable. The old man had remained on the bed and had merely opened his eyes. The Gendret woman had seated herself beside him. Marius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for intervention would arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling, in the direction of the corridor, in readiness to discharge his pistol. Gendret, having terminated his colloquy with the man with the cudgel, turned once more to Mr. Leblanc, and repeated his question, accompanying it with that low, repressed, and terrible laugh which was peculiar to him. So you do not recognize me? Mr. Leblanc looked him full in the face and replied, No. Then Gendret advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle, crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close to Mr. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as possible without forcing Mr. Leblanc to retreat. And in this posture of a wild beast who was about to bite, he exclaimed, My name is not Fabanteau. My name is not Gendret. My name is Tenardier. I am the innkeeper of Montfermets. Do you understand, Tenardier? Now do you know me? An almost imperceptible flush crossed Mr. Leblanc's brow, and he replied with a voice which neither trembled nor rose above its ordinary level, with his accustomed placidity. No more than before. Marius did not hear this reply. Anyone who had seen him at that moment through the darkness would have perceived that he was haggard, stupid, thunderstruck. At the moment when Gendret said, My name is Tenardier, Marius had trembled in every limb, and had leaned against the wall as though he felt the cold of a steel blade through his heart. Then his right arm, all ready to discharge the signal shot, dropped slowly, and at the moment when Gendret repeated, Tenardier, do you understand? Marius's faltering fingers had come near letting the pistol fall. Gendret, by revealing his identity, had not moved Mr. Leblanc, but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Tenardier, with which Mr. Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well. Let the reader recall what that name meant to him. That name he had worn on his heart inscribed in his father's testament. He bore it at the bottom of his mind, in the depths of his memory, in that sacred injunction. A certain Tenardier saved my life. If my son encounters him, he will do him all the good that lies in his power. That name it will be remembered, was one of the pieties of his soul. He mingled it with the name of his father in his worship. What? This man was that Tenardier, the innkeeper of Montfermets, whom he had so long and so vainly sought? He had found him at last, and how? His father's saviour was a ruffian. That man, to whose service Marius was burning to devote himself, was a monster. That liberator of Colonel Pomercy was on the point of committing a crime whose scope Marius did not as yet clearly comprehend, but which resembled an assassination. And against him, great God, what a fatality! What a bitter mockery of fate! His father had commanded him from the depths of his coffin to do all the good in his power to this Tenardier, and for four years Marius had cherished no other thought than to equip this dead of his father's. And at the moment when he was on the eve of having a brigand seized in the very act of crime by justice, destiny cried to him, this is Tenardier. He could at last repay this man for his father's life, saved amid a hailstorm of grapeshot on the heroic field of Waterloo, and repay it with the scaffold. He had sworn to himself that if ever he found that Tenardier, he would address him only by throwing himself at his feet, and now he actually had found him, but it was only to deliver him over to the executioner. His father said to him, sicker Tenardier, and he replied to that adored and sated voice by crushing Tenardier. He was about to offer to his father in his grave the spectacle of that man who had torn him from death at the peril of his own life, executed on the plaza Jacques through the means of his son, of that Marius of whom he had entrusted that man by his will. And what a mockery, to have so long worn on his breast his father's last commands, written in his own hand, only to act in so horribly contrary a sense. But on the other hand, now look on that trap and not prevent it. Condemn the victim and despair the assassin. Could one be held to any gratitude towards so miserable a wretch? All the ideas which Marius had cherished for the last four years were pierced through and through, as it were, by this unforeseen blow. He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown to themselves, he held in his hand all those beings who were moving about there before his eyes. If he fired the pistol, Monsieur Leblanc was saved, and Tenardier lost. If he did not fire, Monsieur Leblanc would be sacrificed, and who knows, Tenardier would escape. Should he dash down the one or allow the other to fall? Remorse awaited him in either case. What was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to the most imperious souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to himself, to the most sacred duty, to the most venerated text. Should he ignore his father's testament, or allow the perpetration of a crime? On the one hand, it seemed to him that he heard his arseoul supplicating for her father, and on the other, the colonel commending to Tenardier to his care. He felt that he was going mad. His knees gave way beneath him. And he had not even the time for deliberation, so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes was hastening to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he had thought himself the master, and which was now sweeping him away. He was on the verge of swooning. In the meantime, Tenardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no other name, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort of frenzy and wild triumph. He seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney-piece with so vile and a bang, that the wick came near being extinguished, and the tallow bespattered the wall. Then he turned to Miser de Blanc with a horrible look, and spit out these words. Then for, smoked brown, cooked, speech-cocked! And again he began to march back and forth in full eruption. Ah, he cried, so I found you again at last, Mr. Philanthropist, Mr. Threadbear Millionaire, Mr. Giver of Dolls, you old nanny! Ha, so you don't recognize me. No, it wasn't you who came to Montfermets to my inn eight years ago on Christmas Eve 1823. It wasn't you who carried off that Fontaine's child from me. The lark! It wasn't you who had a yellow grapecoat, no, nor a package of duds in your hand, as you had this morning here. Say, wife, it seems to be his mania to carry packets of woolen stockings into houses. Old charity-monger, get out with you. Are you a hosier, Mr. Millionaire? You give away your stock and trade to the poor holy man. What bosh! Mary Andrew! Ah, and you don't recognize me. Well, I recognize you that I do. I recognized you the very moment you poked your snout in here. Ha, you'll find out presently that it isn't all roses to thrust yourself in that fashion into people's houses under the pretext that they are taverns in wretched clothes, with the air of a poor man to whom one would give a sue, to deceive persons, to play the generous, to take away their means of livelihood and to make threats in the woods, and you can't call things quits because afterwards, when people are ruined, you bring a coat that is too large and too miserable hospital-bligus, you old blaggard, you child-stealer! He paused and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment. One would have said that his wrath had fallen into some hole like the Rhone. Then, as though he were concluding aloud the things which he had been saying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table with his fist and shouted, and with his goody-goody air, and apostrophizing Monsieur Leblanc, Pardl, you made game of me in the past. You are the cause of all my misfortunes. For fifteen hundred francs you got a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich people, and who had already brought in a great deal of money, and from whom I might have extracted enough to live on all my life. A girl who would have made up to me for everything that I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing but one continual row, and where, like a fool, I ate at my last farthing. Oh, I wish all the wine folks drank in my house had been poised into those who drank it. Well, never mind. Say now, you must have thought me ridiculous when you went off with the lark. You had your cudgel in the forest. You were the stronger. Revenge. I'm the one to hold the trumps today. You're in a sorry case, my good fellow. Oh, but I can laugh. Really, I laugh. Didn't he fall into the trap? I told him that I was an actor, that my name was Fabanteau, that I had played comedy with Mons au Mars, with Mons au Mouche, that my landlady insisted on being paid tomorrow the 4th of February. And he didn't even notice that the 8th of January, and that the 4th of February, is the time when the quarter runs out. Absurd idiot. And the four miserable Philips, which he has brought me. Scoundrel. He hadn't the heart even to go as high as a hundred francs. And how he swallowed my platitudes. That did amuse me. I said to myself, blockhead, come, I've got you. I lick your paws this morning, but I'll gnaw your heart this evening. Tenardier paused. He was out of breath. His little narrow chest panted like a forge-bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble happiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature. Which finds that it can, at last, harass what it has feared and insult what it has flattered. The joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel on the head of Goliath. The joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend a sick bull, so nearly dead that he could no longer defend himself, but sufficiently alive to suffer still. Monsieur Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he paused, I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. I am a very poor man and anything but a millionaire. I do not know you. You are mistaking me for some other person. Ah, word to Nardier Horsley. I'm pretty lie. You stick to that pleasantry, do you? You're floundering my old buck. Ha! You don't remember. You don't see who I am. Excuse me, sir, said Monsieur Leblanc with a politeness of accent, which at that moment seemed peculiarly strange and powerful. I see that you are a villain. Who has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a susceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish? At this word, villain, the female to Nardier sprang from the bed. To Nardier grasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands. Don't you stir, he shouted to his wife, and turning to Monsieur Leblanc. Villain! Yes, I know you call us that, you rich gentleman. Stop! It's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I have no bread, that I have not a single stew, that I am a villain. It's three days since I have had anything to eat, so I'm a villain. You folks, warm your feet. You have Sikosky boots. You have wadded grape posts. Like archbishops, you lodge on the first floor in houses that have porters. You eat truffles. You eat asparagus at forty francs the bunch in the month of January. And green peas. You guard yourselves. And when you want to know whether it is cold, you look in the papers to see what the engineer Chevalier's thermometer says about it. We. It is we who are thermometers. We don't need to go out and look on the quay at the corner of the tour de l'horloge to find out the number of degrees of cold. We feel our blood congealing in our veins and the ice forming round our hearts. And we say, there is no God. And you come to our caverns. Yes, our caverns for the purpose of calling us villains. But we'll devour you. But we'll devour you poor little things. Just see here, Mr. Millionaire, I have been a solid man. I have felt a license. I have been an elector. I am a bourgeois that I am. And it's quite possible that you are not. Here, T'Nardier took a step towards the man who stood near the door and added with a shutter. When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me like a cobbler. Then addressing Sir Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy. And listen to this Mr. Philanthropist. I'm not a suspicious character, not a benefit. I'm not a man whose name nobody knows and who comes and abducts children from houses. I'm an old French soldier. I ought to have been decorated. I was out water loose so I was. And in the battle I saved a general called the Compte of I don't know what. He told me his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn't hear. All I caught was mercy. I'd rather have had his name than his thanks. That would have helped me to find him again. The picture that you see here and which was painted by David at Brucasselle. Do you know what it represents? It represents me. David wished to immortalize that feat of prowess. I have that general on my back and I am carrying him through the great shot. There's the history of it. That general never did a single thing for me. He was no better than the rest. But nonetheless I saved his life at the risk of my own and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket. I am a soldier of waterloo by all the furies. And now that I have had the goodness to tell you all this, let's have an end of it. I want money. I want a deal of money. I must have an enormous lot of money or I'll exterminate you by the thunder of the good God. Marius had regained some measure of control over his anguish and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished. It certainly was the tenardier of the will. Marius shuddered at that reproach of ingratitude directed against his father and which he was on the point of so fatally justifying. His perplexity was redoubled. Moreover, there was in all these words of tenardier, in his accent, in his gesture, in his glance which started flames at every word. There was in this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything, in that mixture of braggadocio and abjectness of pride and pettiness, of rage and folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments, in that immodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous delights of violence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something which was as hideous as evil and as heart-rending as the truth. The picture of the master, the painting by David which he had proposed that Monsieur Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else as the reader has defined, than the sign of his tavern, painted as it will be remembered by himself, the only relic which he had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermé. And of Part 1 of Book 8, Chapter 20. Part 2 of Chapter 20 of Book 8 of Les Miserables. Volume 3 by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Les Miserables. Volume 3 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood. Book 8. The Wicked Poor Man. Chapter 20. The Trap. Part 2. As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual array, Marius could examine this thing, and in the dob he actually did recognize a battle, a background of smoke and a man carrying another man. It was the group composed of Pont-Mercy and Ténardier. The sergeant, the rescuer, the Colonel rescued. Marius was like a drunken man. This picture restored his father to life in some sort. It was no longer the signboard of the wine-shop at Montfermé. It was a resurrection. A tomb had yawned. A phantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart beating in his temples. He had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears. His bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister panel, terrified him, and it seemed to him that the misshaped inspector was gazing intently at him. When Ténardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot eyes on Monsieur Leblanc and said to him in a low, curt voice, What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you? Monsieur Leblanc held his peace. In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor. If there's any wood to be split, I'm there. It was the man with the axe who was growing merry. At the same moment, an enormous, bristling and clayy face made its appearance at the door with a hideous laugh which exhibited not teeth, but fangs. It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe. Why have you taken off your mask? cried Ténardier in a rage. For fun, retorted the man. For the last few minutes, Monsieur Leblanc had appeared to be watching and following all the movements of Ténardier, who, blinded and dazzled by his own rage, was stalking to and fro in the den, with full confidence that the door was guarded and of holding an unarmed man fast. He being armed himself, of being nine against one, supposing that the female Ténardier counted for but one man. During his address to the man with the pole axe, he had turned his back to Monsieur Leblanc. Monsieur Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with his foot and the table with his fist, and with one bound, with prodigious agility, before Ténardier had time to turn around, he had reached the window. To open it, to scale the frame, to bestride it, was the work of a second only. He was half out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him back energetically into the Hubble. These were the three chimney builders who had flung themselves upon him. At the same time, the Ténardier woman had wound her hands and his hair. At the trampling which ensued, the other Ruffians rushed up from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up with a stone-breakers hammer in his hand. One of the chimney builders, whose smirked face was lighted up by the candle and in whom Marius recognized, in spite of his dobbing, Pancheau, Elias Prentonnier, Elias Bigrenay, lifted above Monsieur Leblanc's head, a sort of bludgeon made of two balls of lead at the two ends of a bar of iron. Marius could not resist the sight. My father, he thought, forgive me, and his fingers sought the trigger of his pistol. The shot was on the point of being discharged when Ténardier's voice shouted, Don't harm him! This desperate attempt of the victim, far from exasperating Ténardier, had calmed him. There existed in him two men, the ferocious man and the adroit man. Up to that moment, in the excess of his triumph in the presence of the prey which had been brought down and which did not stir, the ferocious man had prevailed. When the victim struggled and tried to resist, the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand. Don't hurt him! he repeated, and without suspecting it, his first success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being discharged, and to paralyze Marius, in whose opinion the urgency of the case disappeared and who, in the face of this new phase, saw no inconvenience in waiting a while longer. Who knows whether some chance would not arise which would deliver him from the horrible alternative of allowing Irsu's father to perish or of destroying the Colonel's saviour. A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the chest, Monsieur Leblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in the middle of the room, then with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown two more assailants, and he held one under each of his knees. The wretches were rattling in the throat beneath this pressure as under a granite millstone. But the other four had seized the formidable old man by both arms and the back of his neck, and were holding him doubled up over the two chimney-builders on the floor. Thus the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing those beneath him and stifling under those on top of him, endeavoring in vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped upon him, Monsieur Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of ruffians like the wild boar beneath the howling pile of dogs and hounds. They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window, and there they held him in awe. The Tainardier woman had not released her clutch on his hair. Don't you mix yourself up in this affair, said Tainardier. You'll tear your shawl. The Tainardier obeyed as the female wolf obeys the male wolf with a growl. Now, said Tainardier, search him, you other fellows. Monsieur Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance. They searched him. He had nothing on his person except a leather purse containing six francs and his handkerchief. Tainardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket. What! No pocket-book, he demanded. No, Norwatch, replied one of the chimney-builders. Never mind, murmured the masked man who carried the big key in the voice of a ventriloquist. He's a tuffled fellow. Tainardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle of ropes, and threw them at the man. Tie him to the leg of the bed, said he. Anne, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across the room by the blow from Monsieur Leblanc's fist, and who made no movement, he added. Is Bouletroielle dead? No, replied Piconai. He's drunk. Sweep him into a corner, said Tainardier. Two of the chimney-builders pushed the drunken man into the corner near the heap of old iron with their feet. Babette, said Tainardier, in a low tone to the man with the cudgel. Why did you bring so many? They were not needed. What can you do? replied the man with the cudgel. They all wanted to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no business going on. The pallet on which Monsieur Leblanc had been thrown was a sort of hospital bed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly hewn. Monsieur Leblanc let them take their own course. The Ruffians bound him securely in an upright attitude with his feet on the ground at the head of the bed, the end which was most remote from the window and nearest to the fireplace. When the last knot had been tied, Tainardier took a chair and seated himself almost facing Monsieur Leblanc. Tainardier no longer looked like himself. In the course of a few moments his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil and cunning sweetness. Marius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile of a man in official life the almost bestial mouth which had been foaming but a moment before. He gazed with amazement on that fantastic and alarming metamorphosis, and he felt as a man might feel who should behold a tiger converted into a lawyer. Monsieur, said Tainardier, and dismissing with a gesture the Ruffians who still kept their hands on Monsieur Leblanc, stand off a little and let me have a talk with the gentleman. All retired towards the door, he went on. Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the window. You might have broken your leg. Now if you will permit me we will converse quietly. In the first place I must communicate to you an observation which I have made which is that you have not uttered the faintest cry. Tainardier was right, this detail was correct, although it had escaped Marius in his agitation. Monsieur Leblanc had barely pronounced a few words without raising his voice, and even during his struggle with the six Ruffians near the window he had preserved the most profound and singular silence. Tainardier continued, Monde Dieu, you might have shouted stop thief a bit and I should not have thought it improper. Murder! That too is said occasionally, and so far as I am concerned, I should not have taken it in bad part. It is very natural that you should make a little row when you find yourself with persons who don't inspire you with sufficient confidence. You might have done that and no one would have troubled you on that account. You would not even have been gagged. And I will tell you why. This room is very private. That's its only recommendation, but it has that in its favour. You might fire off a mortar and it would produce about as much noise at the nearest police station as the snores of a drunken man. Here a cannon would make a boom, and the thunder would make a poof. It's a handy lodging, but in short you did not shout, and it is better so. I present you my compliments, and I will tell you the conclusion that I draw from that fact. My dear sir, when a man shouts, who comes? The police. And after the police? Justice. Well, you have not made an outcry. That is because you don't care to have the police and the courts come in any more than we do. It is because, I have long suspected it, you have some interest in hiding something. On our side we have the same interest, so we can come to an understanding. As he spoke thus, it seemed as though Thénaudier, who kept his eyes fixed on Monsieur Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp points which darted from the pupils into the very conscience of his prisoner. Moreover, his language, which was stamped with a sort of moderated, subdued insolence and crafty insolence, was reserved in almost choice, and in that rascal, who had been nothing but a robber a short time previously, one now felt the man who had studied for the priesthood. The silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution which had been carried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his own life, that resistance opposed to the first impulsive nature, which is to utter a cry, all this, it must be confessed, now that his attention had been called to it, troubled Marius, and affected him with painful astonishment. Thénaudier's well-grounded observation, still further obscured for Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave and singular prison, on whom Corphira had bestowed the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc. But whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with executioners, half plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was closing in upon him to the extent of a degree, with every moment of the past, in the presence of Thénaudier's wrath, as in the presence of his sweetness, this man remained impassive. And Marius could not refrain from admiring at such a moment the superbly melancholy visage. Here, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror, and which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one of those men who command amazement in desperate circumstances. Extreme as was the crisis, inevitable as was the catastrophe, there was nothing here of the agony of the drowning man who opens his horror-filled eyes under the water. Thénaudier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the fireplace, shoved aside the screen which he leaned against the neighboring pallet, and thus unmasked the brassiere full of glowing coals, in which the prisoner could clearly see the chisel, white-hot and spotted here and there, with tiny scarlet stars. Then Thénaudier returned to his seat beside Monsieur Leblanc. I continue, said he. We can come to an understanding. Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose my temper just now. I don't know what I was thinking of. I went a great deal too far. I said extravagant things. For example, because you are a millionaire, I told you that I exacted money, a lot of money, a deal of money. That would not be reasonable. Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you have expenses of your own. Who is not? I don't want to ruin you. I am not a greedy fellow, after all. I am not one of those people who, because they have the advantage of the position, profit by the fact to make themselves ridiculous. Why, I am taking things into consideration and making a sacrifice on my side. I only want 200,000 francs. Monsieur Leblanc uttered not a word. Thénaudier went on. You see that I put not a little water in my wine. I am very moderate. I don't know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you don't stick it money, and a benevolent man like yourself can certainly give 200,000 francs to the father of a family who is out of luck. Certainly you are reasonable too. You haven't imagined that I should take all the trouble I have today and organize this affair this evening, which has been labor well bestowed in the opinion of these gentlemen merely to wind up by asking you for enough to go and drink red wine at 15 Sioux and eat veal at Dainoyer. 200,000 francs, it's surely worth all that. This trifle once out of your pocket I guarantee you that that's the end of the matter and that you have no further demands to fear. You will say to me, but I haven't 200,000 francs about me. Oh, I'm not extortionate. I don't demand that. I only ask one thing of you. Have the goodness to write what I am about to dictate to you. Here Thénaudier paused. Then he added, emphasizing his words and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier. I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know how to write. A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile. Thénaudier pushed the table close to Monsieur le Blanc and took an ink stand, a pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer which he left half open and in which gleamed the long blade of the knife. He placed the sheet of paper before Monsieur le Blanc. Right, said he. The prisoner spoke at last. How do you expect me to write? I am bound. That's true. Excuse me, ejaculated Thénaudier. You are quite right. And turning to Bicranay, untie the gentleman's right arm. Pangeau, Elias Prentonnier, Elias Bicranay, executed Thénaudier's order. When the prisoner's right arm was free, Thénaudier dipped the pen in the ink and presented it to him. Understand thoroughly, sir, that you are in our power, at our discretion, that no human power can get you out of this, and that we shall be really grieved if we are forced to proceed to disagreeable extremities. I know neither your name nor your address, but I warn you that you will remain bound until the person charged with carrying the letter which you are about to write shall have returned. Now be so good as to write. What? demanded the prisoner. I will dictate. Monsieur Leblanc took the pen. Thénaudier began to dictate. My daughter, the prisoner, shuddered and raised his eyes to Thénaudier. Put down my daughter, said Thénaudier. Monsieur Leblanc obeyed. Thénaudier continued. Come instantly. He paused. You address her as thou, do you not? Who? asked Monsieur Leblanc. Pablo! cried Thénaudier. The little one, the lark. Monsieur Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion. I do not know what you mean. Go on, nevertheless, ejaculated Thénaudier, and he continued to dictate. Come immediately. I am in absolute need of thee. The person who will deliver this note to thee is instructed to conduct thee to me. I am writing for thee. Come with confidence. Monsieur Leblanc had written the whole of this. Thénaudier resumed. Ah! erase, come with confidence. That might lead her to suppose that everything was not as it should be, and that distrust is possible. Monsieur Leblanc erased the three words. Now, pursued Thénaudier, sign it. What's your name? The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded. For whom is this letter? You know well, retorted Thénaudier, for the little one. I just told you so. It was evident that Thénaudier avoided naming the young girl in question. He said the lark. He said the little one. But he did not pronounce her name. The precaution of a clever man guarding his secret from his accomplices. To mention the name was to deliver the whole affair into their hands, and to tell them more about it than there was any need of their knowing. He went on. Sign. What is your name? Your ben fabre, said the prisoner. Thénaudier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand into his pocket, and drew out the handkerchief, which had been seized on Monsieur Leblanc. He looked for the mark on it, and held it close to the candle. U F. That's it. Your ben fabre. Well, sign it U F. The prisoner signed. As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me. I will fold it. That done, Thénaudier resumed. Address it Mademoiselle Fabre, at your house. I know that you live a long distance from here, near Saint-Jacques-du-Opa, because you go to mass there every day. But I don't know in what street. I see that you understand your situation. As you've not lied about your name, you will not lie about your address. Write it yourself. The prisoner paused thoughtfully for a moment, then he took the pen and wrote, Mademoiselle Fabre, at Monsieur Urbain Fabre, rue Saint-Dominique-Denfer, number seventeen. Thénaudier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsion. Wife! he cried. The Thénaudier woman hastened to him. Here's the letter. You know what you have to do. There was a carriage at the door, set out once, and returned didot. And addressing the man with the meat-axe. Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the mistress. You will get up behind the fiac. You know where you left the team? Yes, said the man. In depositing his axe in a corner, he followed Madame Thénaudier. As they set off, Thénaudier thrust his head through the half-open door, and shouted into the corridor, Above all things, don't lose the letter. Remember that you carried two hundred thousand francs with you. The Thénaudier's harsh voice replied, Be easy. I have it in my bosom. A minute had not elapsed when the sound of the cracking of a whip was heard, which rapidly retreated and died away. Good! growled Thénaudier. They're going at a fine pace. At such a gallop, the bourgeois will be back inside three-quarters of an hour. He drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms and presenting his muddy boots to the brassiere. My feet are cold! said he. Only five ruffians now remained in the den with Thénaudier in the prisoner. These men, through the black masks or paste which covered their faces, and made of them, at fear's pleasure, charcoal burners, negroes or demons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and it could be felt that they perpetrated a crime like a bit of work, tranquilly, without either wrath or mercy, with a sort of ennui. They were crowded together in one corner like brutes, and remained silent. Thénaudier warmed his feet. The prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A sombre calm had succeeded to the wild uproar, which had filled the garret but a few moments before. The candle, on which a large stranger had formed, cast but a dim light in the immense Hubble. The brassiere had grown dull, and all those monstrous heads cast misshapen shadows on the walls and ceiling. No sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old drunken man who was fast asleep. Chapter 20 Part 3 of Book 8 of Les Miserables, Volume 3 by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood Book 8 The Wicked Poor Man Chapter 20 The Trap, Part 3 Marius waited in a state of anxiety that was augmented by every trifle. The enigma was more impenetrable than ever. Who was this little one whom Thénaudier had called the lark? Was she his Ursule? The prisoner had not seemed to be affected by that word, the lark, and had replied in the most natural manner in the world. I do not know what you mean. On the other hand, the two letters UF were explained. They meant Urbafab, and Ursule was no longer named Ursule. This was what Marius perceived most clearly of all. A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post, from which he was observing and commanding this whole scene. There he stood, almost incapable of movement or reflection, as though annihilated by the abominable things viewed at such close quarters. He waited, in the hope of some incident, no matter of what nature, since he could not collect his thoughts and did not know upon what course to decide. In any case, he said, if she is the lark, I shall see her, for the Thénaudier woman is to bring her hither. That will be the end, and then I will give my life and my blood, if necessary, but I will deliver her. Nothing shall stop me. Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thénaudier seemed to be absorbed in gloomy reflections. The prisoner did not stir. Still Marius fancied that it intervals, and for the last few moments, he had heard a faint dull noise in the direction of the prisoner. All at once Thénaudier addressed the prisoner. By the way, monsieur Fabbe, I might as well say it to you at once. These few words appeared to be the beginning of an explanation. Marius strained his ears. My wife will be back shortly. Don't get impatient. I think that the lark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite natural that you should keep her. Only listen to me a bit. My wife will go and hunter up with your letter. I told my wife to dress herself in the way she did, so that your young lady might make no difficulty about following her. They will both enter the carriage with my comrade behind. Somewhere outside the barrier there is a trap harnessed to two very good horses. Your young lady will be taken to it. She will alight from the fiacre. My comrade will enter the other vehicle with her, and my wife will come back here to tell us it's done. As for the young lady, no harm will be done to her. The trap will conduct her to a place where she will be quiet, and just as soon as you have handed over to me those little two hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the lark. That's all. The prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a pause, to Nardier continued, It's very simple as you see. There'll be no harm done unless you wish that there should be harm done. I'm telling you how things stand. I warn you so that you may be prepared. He paused. The prisoner did not break the silence, and to Nardier resumed. As soon as my wife returns and says to me, The lark is on the way. We will release you, and you will be free to go and sleep at home. You see that our intentions are not evil. Terrible images passed through Marius's mind. What? That young girl whom they were abducting was not to be brought back? One of those monsters was to bear her off into the darkness? Wither! And what if it were she? It was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop beating. What was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those scoundrels in the hands of justice? But the horrible man with a meat-axe would, nonetheless, be out of reach with the young girl, and Marius reflected on to Nardier's words, of which he perceived the bloody significance. If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the lark. Now it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by his own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved that he felt himself restrained. This frightful situation, which had already lasted above half an hour, was changing its aspect every moment. Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all the most heartbreaking conjectures seeking hope and finding none. The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence of the den. In the midst of this silence the door at the bottom of the staircase was heard to open and shut again. The prisoner made a movement in his bonds. Here's the bourgeois, said Nardier. He had hardly uttered the words when the Nardier woman did in fact rush hastily into the room, red, panting, breathless, with flaming eyes, and cried as she smote her huge hands on her thighs simultaneously. False address! The ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance behind her and picked up his axe again. She resumed, Nobody there! Rue Saint-Storminique number 17? No, Monsieur Abafab, they know not what it means. She paused, choking, then went on, Monsieur T'Nardier, that old fellow has duped you. You are too good, you see. If it had been me, I'd have chopped the beast in four quarters to begin with. And if he had acted ugly, I'd have boiled him alive. He would have been obliged to speak and say where the girl is and where he keeps his shiners. That's the way I should have managed matters. People are perfectly right when they say that men are a deal stupider than women. Nobody at number 17. It's nothing but a big carriage gate. No, Monsieur Faber in the Rue Saint-Storminique. And after all that racing and feed to the coachmen and all, I spoke to both the porter and the fortress, a fine stout woman, and they know nothing about him. Marius breathed freely once more. She, Ursul or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her, was safe. While his exasperated wife vociferated, T'Nardier had seated himself on the table. For several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his right foot, which hung down, and stared at the brazier with an air of savage reverie. Finally he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly ferocious tone, a false address, what did you expect to gain by that? To gain time, cried the prisoner in a thundering voice, and at the same instant he shook off his bonds they were cut. The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg. Before the seven men had time to collect their senses and dash forward, he had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched out his hand to the brazier, and had then straightened himself up again, and now T'Nardier, the female T'Nardier, and the Ruffians huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovel, stared at him in stupefaction, as, almost free and in a formidable attitude, he brandished above his head the red hot chisel, which emitted a threatening glow. The judicial examination, to which the ambush in the Gorbo House eventually gave rise, established the fact that a large sous-piece, cut and worked in a peculiar fashion, was found in the garret when the police made their dissent on it. This sous-piece was one of those marvels of industry which are engendered by the patience of the galleys in the shadows and for the shadows, marvels which are nothing else than instruments of escape. These hideous and delicate products of wonderful art are to jeweler's work what the metaphors of slang are to poetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the galleys, just as there are Vions in language. The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliverance finds means sometimes without tools, sometimes with a common wooden-handled knife, to saw a sous into two thin plates. To hollow out these plates without affecting the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow on the edge of the sous in such a manner that the plates will adhere again. This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will, it is a box. In this box he hides a watchspring, and this watchspring, properly handled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron. The unfortunate convict is supposed to possess merely a sous. Not at all. He possesses liberty. It was a large sous of this sort, which, during the subsequent search of the police, was found under the bed near the window. They also found a tiny saw of blue steel which would fit the sous. It is probable that the prisoner had this sous-piece on his person at the moment when the ruffians searched him, that he contrived to conceal it in his hand, and that afterward, having his right-hand free, he unscrewed it and used it as a saw to cut the cords which fastened him, which would explain the faint noise and almost imperceptible movements which Marius had observed. As he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying himself, he had not cut the bonds of his left leg. The ruffians had recovered from their first surprise. Be easy, said Bikrani to Tnardie. He still holds by one leg, and he can't get away. I'll answer for that. I tied that paw for him. In the meanwhile the prisoner had begun to speak. You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble of defending it. When you think that you can make me speak, that you can make me write what I do not choose to write, that you can make me say what I do not choose to say. He stripped up his left sleeve and added, See here. At the same moment he extended his arm and laid the glowing chisel which he held in his left hand by its wooden handle on his bare flesh. The crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the odor peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel. Marius reeled in utter horror. The very ruffians shuddered, hardly a muscle of the old man's face contracted, and while the red hot iron sank into the smoking wound, impassive and almost august he fixed on Tnardie his beautiful glance in which there was no hatred and where suffering vanished in serene majesty. With grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and the senses, when subjected to physical suffering, cause the soul to spring forth and make it appear on the brow, just as rebellions among the soldiery forced the captain to show himself. Wretches said he, Have no more fear of me than I have for you. And, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it through the window which had been left open. The horrible glowing tool disappeared into the night, whirling as it flew, and fell far away on the snow. The prisoner resumed. Do what you please with me. He was disarmed. Seize him, said Tnardie. Two of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulder, and the masked man with a ventriloquist's voice took up his station in front of him, ready to smash his skull at the slightest movement. At the same time, Marius heard below him at the base of the partition, but so near that he could not see who was speaking, this colloquy conducted in a low tone. There is only one thing left to do. Cut his throat! That's it. It was the husband and wife taking counsel together. Tnardie walked slowly towards the table, opened the drawer, and took out the knife. Marius fretted with a handle of his pistol. Unprecedented perplexity. For the last hour he had had two voices in his conscience, the one in joining him to respect his father's testament, the other crying to him to rescue the prisoner. These two voices continued uninterruptedly that struggle which tormented him to agony. Up to that moment he had cherished a vague hope that he should find some means of reconciling these two duties, but nothing within the limits of possibility had presented itself. However, the peril was urgent, the last bounds of delay had been reached, Tnardie was standing thoughtfully a few paces distant from the prisoner. Marius cast a wild glance about him, the last mechanical resource of despair. All at once a shutter ran through him. At his feet, on the table, a bright ray of light from the full moon illuminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of paper. On this paper he read the following line written that very morning in large letters by the eldest of the Tnardie girls. The bobbies are here. An idea, a flash, crossed Marius's mind. This was the expedient of which he was in search, the solution of that frightful problem which was torturing him of sparing the assassin and saving the victim. He knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized the sheet of paper, softly detached a bit of plaster from the wall, wrapped the paper round it, and tossed the hole through the crevice into the middle of the den. It was high time. Tnardie had conquered his last fears or his last scruples, and was advancing on the prisoner. Something is falling, cried the Tnardie woman. What is it? asked her husband. The woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster. She handed it to her husband. Where did this come from? demanded Tnardie. Pardie ejaculated his wife. Where do you suppose it came from? Through the window, of course. I saw it pass, said Bikrenay. Tnardie rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to the candle. It's in Eponine's handwriting. The devil! He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and showed her the line written on the sheet of paper. Then he added in a subdued voice, quick, the latter, let's leave the bacon in the mousetrap and decamp. Without cutting that man's throat, asked the Tnardie woman, we haven't the time. Through what? resumed Bikrenay. Through the window, replied Tnardie. Since Ponine has thrown the stone through the window, it indicates that the house is not watched on that side. The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge key on the floor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and clenched his fists three times rapidly, without uttering a word. This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks for action on board ship. The ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him. In the twinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside the window, and solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks. The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around him. He seemed to be dreaming or praying. As soon as the ladder was arranged, Tnardie cried, Come, the bourgeois first. And he rushed headlong to the window. But just as he was about to throw his leg over, Bikrenay seized him roughly by the collar. Not much, come now, you old dog, after us. After us, yelled the ruffians. You are children, said Tnardie. We are losing time. The police are on our heels. Well, said the ruffians, let's draw lots to see who shall go down first. Tnardie exclaimed, Are you mad? Are you crazy? What a pack of boobies! You want to waste time, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger, by a short straw, with written names thrown into a hat. Would you like my hat? cried a voice on the threshold. All wheeled round. It was Javert. He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with a smile. End of Book 8, Chapter 20. Chapter 21. One should always begin by arresting the victims. At nightfall, Javert had posted his men, and had gone into ambush himself, between the trees of the Rue de la Beriaire des Gobelons, which faced the Gorbo House on the other side of the boulevard. He had begun operations by opening his pockets, and dropping into it the two young girls who were charged with keeping a watch on the approaches to the den. But he had only caged a Zelma. As for Eponine, she was not at her post, she had disappeared, and he had not been able to seize her. Then Javert had made a point, and had bent his ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon. The comings and goings of the fiacos had greatly agitated him. At last he had grown impatient, and, sure that there was a nest there, sure of being in luck, having recognized many of the Ruffians who had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs without waiting for the pistol shot. It will be remembered that he had Marius's past key. He had arrived just in the nick of time. The terrified Ruffians flung themselves on the arms which they had abandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. In less than a second, these seven men, horrible to behold, had grouped themselves in an attitude of defence, one with his metax, another with his key, another with his bludgeon, the rest with shears, pincers, and hammers. Thenardier had his knife in his fist. The Thenardier woman snatched up an enormous paving-stone which lay in the angle of the window and served her daughters as an ottoman. Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces into the room, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his sword in its sheath. Holt there, said he. You shall not go out by the window. You shall go through the door. It's less unhealthy. There are seven of you. There are fifteen of us. Don't let's fall to colouring each other like men of Auvailne. Beegrenade drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed under his blouse, and put it in Thenardier's hand, whispering in the latter's ear, It's Javert. I don't dare fire at that man. Do you dare? Parble, replied The Thenardier. Well then, fire! The Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert. Javert, who was only three paces from him, stared intently at him and contented himself with saying, Come now, don't fire. You'll miss fire. The Thenardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire. Didn't I tell you so? ejaculated Javert. Beegrenade flung his bludgeon at Javert's feet. You're the emperor of the fiends I surrender. And you, Javert, asked the rest of the ruffians? They replied, So do we. Javert began again calmly. That's right. That's good. I said so. You are nice fellows. I only ask one thing, said Beegrenade, and that is, that I might not be denied tobacco while I am in confinement. Granted, said Javert, and turning round and calling behind him, Come in now. A squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agents armed with bludgeons and cudgels, rushed in at Javert's summons. They peen in the ruffians. This throng of men, sparely lighted by the single candle, filled the den with shadows. Handcuff them all, shouted Javert. Come on, cried a voice, which was not the voice of a man, but of which no one would have ever said, It is a woman's voice. The Thenardier woman had entrenched herself in one of the angles of the window, and it was she who had just given vent to this roar. The policemen and agents recoiled. She had thrown off her shawl, but retained her bonnet. Her husband, who was crouching behind her, was almost hidden under the discarded shawl, and she was shielding him with her body, as she elevated the paving-stone above her head with the gesture of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock. Beware! she shouted. All crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space was cleared in the middle of the garret. The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians, who had allowed themselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse and guttural accents, that cowards. Javert smiled, and advanced across the open space which the Thenardier was devouring with her eyes. Don't come near me, she cried, or I'll crush you. What a Grenadier, ejaculated Javert. You've got a beard like a man, mother, but I have claws like a woman. And he continued to advance. The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far apart, threw herself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone at Javert's head. Javert ducked. The stone passed over him, struck the wall behind, knocked off a huge piece of plastering, and, rebounding from angle to angle across the hovel, now luckily almost empty, rested at Javert's feet. At the same moment, Javert reached the Thenardier couple. One of his big hands descended on the woman's shoulder, the other on the husband's head. The handcuffs, he shouted. The policeman trooped in in force, and in a few seconds Javert's order had been executed. The Thenardier female, overwhelmed, stared at her pinging hands, and at those of her husband, who had dropped to the floor and exclaimed, weeping, My daughters! They are in the jug, said Javert. In the meanwhile, the agents had called sight of the drunken man asleep behind the door, and were shaking him. He awoke, stammering, Is it all over, gentlet? Yes, replied Javert. The six pinioned ruffians were standing, and still preserved their spectral man. All three besmeared with black, all three masked. Keep on your masks, said Javert, and, passing them in review, with a glance of a Frederick II at a Potsdam parade, he said to the three chimney-builders, Then, turning to the three masked men, he said to the man with the meat-axe, and to the man with the cudgel, and to the ventriloquist, Your health, Kluksu! At that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians' prisoner, who, ever since the entrance of the police, had not uttered a word, and had held his head down. Untie the gentleman, said Javert, and let no one go out. That said, he seated himself with sovereign dignity before the table, where the candle and the writing materials still remained, drew a stamped paper from his pocket, and began to prepare his report. When he had written the first lines, which are formulas that never vary, he raised his eyes. Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step forward. The policeman glanced round them. Well, so Javert, where is he? The prisoner of the ruffians, Monsieur Leblanc, Monsieur Urban Fabre, the father of Ursul, or the lark, had disappeared. The door was guarded, but the window was not. As soon as he had found himself released from his bonds, and while Javert was drawing up his report, he had taken advantage of confusion, the crowd, the darkness, and of a moment when the general attention was diverted from him, to dash out of the window. An agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no one outside. The rope ladder was still shaking. The devil ejaculated Javert between his teeth. He must have been the most valuable of the lot. Chapter Twenty-Two The Little One Who Was Crying in Volume Two On the day following that, on which these events took place, in the house on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital, a child, who seemed to be coming from the direction of the bridge of Outstalitz, was ascending the side alley on the right in the direction of the berriere de Fontainebleau. Night had fully come. This lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers in the month of February, and was singing at the top of his voice. At the corner of the rue du Petit Banquier, a bent old woman was rummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a street lantern. The child jostled her as he passed, then recoiled, exclaiming, Hello, and I took it for an enormous, enormous dog. He pronounced the word enormous the second time, with a jeering swell of the voice, which might be tolerably well represented by capitals, an enormous, enormous dog. The old woman straightened herself up in a fury. Nasty brat! she grumbled. If I hadn't been bending over, I know well where I would have planted my foot on you. The boy was already far away. Kiss, kiss, he cried. After that I don't think I was mistaken. The old woman, choking with indignation, now rose completely upright, and the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted up her livid face, all hollowed into angles and wrinkles, with crow's feet meeting the corners of her mouth. Her body was lost in the darkness, and only her head was visible. One would have pronounced her a mask of decrepitude carved out by a light from the night. The boy surveyed her. Madame, said he, does not possess that style of beauty which pleases me. He then pursued his road, and resumed his song. Le roi coup des abeaux, s'en aller à la chasse, à la chasse au corbeau. At the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived in front of Numbers 50 to 52, and finding the door fastened, he began to assault it with resounding and heroic kicks, which betrayed rather the man's shoes that he was wearing than the child's feet which he owned. In the meanwhile, the very old woman whom he had encountered at the corner of the Rue du Petit Banquier hastened up behind him, uttering clamorous cries and indulging in lavish and exaggerated gestures. What's this? What's this? Lord God! He's battering the door down. He's knocking the house down. The kicks continued. The old woman strained her lungs. Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays? All at once she paused. She had recognized the gammon. What! So it's that imp! Why, it's the old lady, said the lad. Good day, Bougon Mouche! I have come to see my ancestors. The old woman retorted with a composite grimace and a wonderful improvisation of hatred taking advantage of feebleness and ugliness, which was, unfortunately, wasted in the dark. There's no one here. Bah! retorted the boy, where's my father? At La Force. Come now, and my mother? At Saint Lazare. Well, and my sisters? At the Madeleonettes. The lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Mam Bougon, and said, Ah! Then he executed a pirouette on his heel. A moment later, the old woman, who had remained on the doorstep, heard him singing in his clear, young voice, as he plunged under the black elm trees in the wintery wind. End of Book 8, Chapters 21 and 22 End of Les Miserables, Volume 3 by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood