الفصل الفصل 187 · POVERTY A GOOD NEIGHBOR FOR MISERY

Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling into

the clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment, little by

little, without, however, being made melancholy by it. Marius met

Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however; twice a

month at most.

Marius’ pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer

boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented alleys

of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market

garden, the beds of lettuce, the chickens on the dung-heap, the horse

turning the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and

some of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister. He

was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way.

It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the Gorbeau

house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness, had taken up

his abode there. He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.

Some of his father’s old generals or old comrades had invited him to go

and see them, when they learned about him. Marius had not refused their

invitations. They afforded opportunities of talking about his father.

Thus he went from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General Bellavesne,

to General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music and dancing

there. On such evenings, Marius put on his new coat. But he never went

to these evening parties or balls except on days when it was freezing

cold, because he could not afford a carriage, and he did not wish to

arrive with boots otherwise than like mirrors.

He said sometimes, but without bitterness: “Men are so made that in a

drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In

order to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing

is asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots.”

All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by reverie.

Marius’ political fevers vanished thus. The Revolution of 1830 assisted

in the process, by satisfying and calming him. He remained the same,

setting aside his fits of wrath. He still held the same opinions. Only,

they had been tempered. To speak accurately, he had no longer any

opinions, he had sympathies. To what party did he belong? To the party

of humanity. Out of humanity he chose France; out of the Nation he

chose the people; out of the people he chose the woman. It was to that

point above all, that his pity was directed. Now he preferred an idea

to a deed, a poet to a hero, and he admired a book like Job more than

an event like Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation,

he returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught a glimpse

through the branches of the trees of the fathomless space beyond, the

nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery, all that which is

only human seemed very pretty indeed to him.

He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived at the

truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended by gazing at

nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth can perceive from the

bottom of her well.

This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his combinations,

his scaffoldings, his projects for the future. In this state of

reverie, an eye which could have cast a glance into Marius’ interior

would have been dazzled with the purity of that soul. In fact, had it

been given to our eyes of the flesh to gaze into the consciences of

others, we should be able to judge a man much more surely according to

what he dreams, than according to what he thinks. There is will in

thought, there is none in dreams. Reverie, which is utterly

spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the

form of our spirit. Nothing proceeds more directly and more sincerely

from the very depth of our soul, than our unpremeditated and boundless

aspirations towards the splendors of destiny. In these aspirations,

much more than in deliberate, rational co-ordinated ideas, is the real

character of a man to be found. Our chimæras are the things which the

most resemble us. Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the

impossible in accordance with his nature.

Towards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who waited on

Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette family, had

been turned out of doors. Marius, who passed nearly the whole of his

days out of the house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors.

“Why are they turned out?” he asked.

“Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters.”

“How much is it?”

“Twenty francs,” said the old woman.

Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer.

“Here,” he said to the old woman, “take these twenty-five francs. Pay

for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell them

that it was I.”