Ob 07aug13 bz by Ash Long

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, August 7, 2013 - Page 17

Observer Classic Books

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Les Misérables by Victor Hugo BOOK EIGHTH THE IDYL IN THE RUE PLUMET AND THE EPIC IN THE RUE SAINT-DENIS CHAPTER IV A CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG Continued From Last Week “You bother me,” said Eponine. “But we must live, we must eat —” “Burst!” So saying, she seated herself on the underpinning of the fence and hummed:— “Mon bras si dodu, “My arm so plump, Ma jambe bien faite My leg well formed, Et le temps perdu.” And time wasted.” She had set her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she swung her foot with an air of indifference. Her tattered gown permitted a view of her thin shoulder-blades. The neighboring street lantern illuminated her profile and her attitude. Nothing more resolute and more surprising could be seen. The six rascals, speechless and gloomy at being held in check by a girl, retreated beneath the shadow cast by the lantern, and held counsel with furious and humiliated shrugs. In the meantime she stared at them with a stern but peaceful air. “There’s something the matter with her,” said Babet. “A reason. Is she in love with the dog? It’s a shame to miss this, anyway. Two women, an old fellow who lodges in the back-yard, and curtains that ain’t so bad at the windows. The old cove must be a Jew. I think the job’s a good one.” “Well, go in, then, the rest of you,” exclaimed Montparnasse. “Do the job. I’ll stay here with the girl, and if she fails us —” He flashed the knife, which he held open in his hand, in the light of the lantern. Thenardier said not a word, and seemed ready for whatever the rest pleased. Brujon, who was somewhat of an oracle, and who had, as the reader knows, “put up the job,” had not as yet spoken. He seemed thoughtful. He had the reputation of not sticking at anything, and it was known that he had plundered a police post simply out of bravado. Besides this he made verses and songs, which gave him great authority. Babet interrogated him:— “You say nothing, Brujon?” Brujon remained silent an instant longer, then he shook his head in various ways, and finally concluded to speak:— “See here; this morning I came across two sparrows fighting, this evening I jostled a woman who was quarrelling. All that’s bad. Let’s quit.” They went away. As they went, Montparnasse muttered:— “Never mind! if they had wanted, I’d have cut her throat.” Babet responded “I wouldn’t. I don’t hit a lady.” At the corner of the street they halted and exchanged the following enigmatical dialogue in a low tone:— “Where shall we go to sleep to-night?” “Under Pantin [Paris].” “Have you the key to the gate, Thenardier?” “Pardi.” Eponine, who never took her eyes off of them, saw them retreat by the road by which they had come. She rose and began to creep after them along the walls and the houses. She followed them thus as far as the boulevard. There they parted, and she saw these six men plunge into the gloom, where they appeared to melt away.

CHAPTER V THINGS OF THE NIGHT

After the departure of the ruffians, the Rue Plumet resumed its tranquil, nocturnal aspect. That which had just taken place in this street would not have astonished a forest. The lofty trees, the copses, the heaths, the branches rudely interlaced, the tall grass, exist in a sombre manner; the savage swarming there catches glimpses of sudden apparitions of the invisible; that which is below man distinguishes, through the mists, that which is beyond man; and the things of which we living beings are ignorant there meet face to face in the night. Nature, bristling and wild, takes alarm at certain approaches in which she fancies that she feels the supernatural. The forces of the gloom

● Victor Hugo know each other, and are strangely balanced by each other. Teeth and claws fear what they cannot grasp. Blood-drinking bestiality, voracious appetites, hunger in search of prey, the armed instincts of nails and jaws which have for source and aim the belly, glare and smell out uneasily the impassive spectral forms straying beneath a shroud, erect in its vague and shuddering robe, and which seem to them to live with a dead and terrible life. These brutalities, which are only matter, entertain a confused fear of having to deal with the immense obscurity condensed into an unknown being. A black figure barring the way stops the wild beast short. That which emerges from the cemetery intimidates and disconcerts that which emerges from the cave; the ferocious fear the sinister; wolves recoil when they encounter a ghoul.

CHAPTER VI MARIUS BECOMES PRACTICAL ONCE MORE TO THE EXTENT OF GIVING COSETTE HIS ADDRESS While this sort of a dog with a human face was mounting guard over the gate, and while the six ruffians were yielding to a girl, Marius was by Cosette’s side. Never had the sky been more studded with stars and more charming, the trees more trembling, the odor of the grass more penetrating; never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter noise; never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded more thoroughly to the inward music of love; never had Marius been more captivated, more happy, more ecstatic. But he had found Cosette sad; Cosette had been weeping. Her eyes were red. This was the first cloud in that wonderful dream. Marius’ first word had been: “What is the matter?” And she had replied: “This.” Then she had seated herself on the bench near the steps, and while he tremblingly took his place beside her, she had continued:— “My father told me this morning to hold myself in readiness, because he has business, and we may go away from here.” Marius shivered from head to foot. When one is at the end of one’s life, to die means

to go away; when one is at the beginning of it, to go away means to die. He incessantly gazed at, and he sometimes touched lightly with his breath, the short locks on the nape of her neck, and he declared to himself that there was not one of those short hairs which did not belong to him, Marius. He gazed upon and adored the things that she wore, her knot of ribbon, her gloves, her sleeves, her shoes, her cuffs, as sacred objects of which he was the master. He dreamed that he was the lord of those pretty shell combs which she wore in her hair, and he even said to himself, in confused and suppressed stammerings of voluptuousness which did not make their way to the light, that there was not a ribbon of her gown, not a mesh in her stockings, not a fold in her bodice, which was not his. Beside Cosette he felt himself beside his own property, his own thing, his own despot and his slave. It seemed as though they had so intermingled their souls, that it would have been impossible to tell them apart had they wished to take them back again.—“This is mine.” “No, it is mine.” “I assure you that you are mistaken. This is my property.” “What you are taking as your own is myself.”— Marius was something that made a part of Cosette, and Cosette was something which made a part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette within him. To have Cosette, to possess Cosette, this, to him, was not to be distinguished from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, of this intoxication, of this virgin possession, unprecedented and absolute, of this sovereignty, that these words: “We are going away,” fell suddenly, at a blow, and that the harsh voice of reality cried to him: “Cosette is not yours!” Marius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been living, as we have said, outside of life; those words, going away! caused him to re-enter it harshly. He found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his hand was very cold. She said to him in her turn: “What is the matter?” He replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard him:— “I did not understand what you said.” She began again:— “This morning my father told me to settle all my little affairs and to hold myself in readiness, that he would give me his linen to put in a trunk, that

he was obliged to go on a journey, that we were to go away, that it is necessary to have a large trunk for me and a small one for him, and that all is to be ready in a week from now, and that we might go to England.” “But this is outrageous!” exclaimed Marius. It is certain, that, at that moment, no abuse of power, no violence, not one of the abominations of the worst tyrants, no action of Busiris, of Tiberius, or of Henry VIII., could have equalled this in atrocity, in the opinion of Marius; M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter off to England because he had business there. He demanded in a weak voice:— “And when do you start?” “He did not say when.” “And when shall you return?” “He did not say when.” Marius rose and said coldly:— “Cosette, shall you go?” Cosette turned toward him her beautiful eyes, all filled with anguish, and replied in a sort of bewilderment:— “Where?” “To England. Shall you go?” “Why do you say you to me?” “I ask you whether you will go?” “What do you expect me to do?” she said, clasping her hands. “So, you will go?” “If my father goes.” “So, you will go?” Cosette took Marius’ hand, and pressed it without replying. “Very well,” said Marius, “then I will go elsewhere.” Cosette felt rather than understood the meaning of these words. She turned so pale that her face shone white through the gloom. She stammered:— “What do you mean?” Marius looked at her, then raised his eyes to heaven, and answered: “Nothing.” When his eyes fell again, he saw Cosette smiling at him. The smile of a woman whom one loves possesses a visible radiance, even at night. “How silly we are! Marius, I have an idea.” “What is it?” “If we go away, do you go too! I will tell you where! Come and join me wherever I am.” Marius was now a thoroughly roused man. He had fallen back into reality. He cried to Cosette:— “Go away with you! Are you mad? Why, I should have to have money, and I have none! Go to England? But I am in debt now, I owe, I don’t know how much, more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, one of my friends with whom you are not acquainted! I have an old hat which is not worth three francs, I have a coat which lacks buttons in front, my shirt is all ragged, my elbows are torn, my boots let in the water; for the last six weeks I have not thought about it, and I have not told you about it. You only see me at night, and you give me your love; if you were to see me in the daytime, you would give me a sou! Go to England! Eh! I haven’t enough to pay for a passport!” He threw himself against a tree which was close at hand, erect, his brow pressed close to the bark, feeling neither the wood which flayed his skin, nor the fever which was throbbing in his temples, and there he stood motionless, on the point of falling, like the statue of despair. He remained a long time thus. One could remain for eternity in such abysses. At last he turned round. He heard behind him a faint stifled noise, which was sweet yet sad. It was Cosette sobbing. She had been weeping for more than two hours beside Marius as he meditated. He came to her, fell at her knees, and slowly prostrating himself, he took the tip of her foot which peeped out from beneath her robe, and kissed it. She let him have his way in silence. There are moments when a woman accepts, like a sombre and resigned goddess, the religion of love. “Do not weep,” he said. She murmured:— “Not when I may be going away, and you cannot come!” He went on:— “Do you love me?”

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