Bab Bab 183 · MARIUS INDIGENT

[Illustration: Excellence of Misfortune]

Life became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes and his

watch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is called _de

la vache enragé_; that is to say, he endured great hardships and

privations. A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread,

nights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a

fire, weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the

elbows, an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door

which one finds locked on one at night because one’s rent is not paid,

the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers of

neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever nature

accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Marius learned how all

this is eaten, and how such are often the only things which one has to

devour. At that moment of his existence when a man needs his pride,

because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he was

badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when

youth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more

than once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame and

the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and terrible trial from

which the feeble emerge base, from which the strong emerge sublime. A

crucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires a

scoundrel or a demi-god.

For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are

instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves

step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes.

Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited

with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life,

misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle

which have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander

than the heroes who win renown.

Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a

step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of

soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good

milk for the magnanimous.

There came a moment in Marius’ life, when he swept his own landing,

when he bought his sou’s worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer’s, when

he waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker’s and

purchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though

he had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the

butcher’s shop on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who

elbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm,

who had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a

brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the

butcher’s astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven

sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between

two books, and went away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he

cooked for himself, he lived for three days.

On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the

third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and

sent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on

every occasion, saying that he needed nothing.

He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we

have just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he

had not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him.

The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next.

What was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some

good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned

by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was

green. Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. This made

his coat black. As he wished always to appear in mourning, he clothed

himself with the night.

In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. He was

supposed to live in Courfeyrac’s room, which was decent, and where a

certain number of law-books backed up and completed by several

dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the

regulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac’s quarters.

When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of the fact in

a letter which was cold but full of submission and respect. M.

Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read it, tore it in four

pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three days later,

Mademoiselle Gillenormand heard her father, who was alone in his room,

talking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever he was greatly

agitated. She listened, and the old man was saying: “If you were not a

fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the

same time.”