Chương Chương 243 · MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A

PHENOMENON

One evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered that

he had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming

tiresome. He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper. He

strolled out beyond the Salpêtrière into deserted regions; that is

where windfalls are to be found; where there is no one, one always

finds something. He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be

the village of Austerlitz.

In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old garden

haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that garden, a passable

apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house, which

was not securely fastened, and where one might contrive to get an

apple. One apple is a supper; one apple is life. That which was Adam’s

ruin might prove Gavroche’s salvation. The garden abutted on a

solitary, unpaved lane, bordered with brushwood while awaiting the

arrival of houses; the garden was separated from it by a hedge.

Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found the lane, he

recognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit-house, he examined the

hedge; a hedge means merely one stride. The day was declining, there

was not even a cat in the lane, the hour was propitious. Gavroche began

the operation of scaling the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was

talking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of the breaks in the

hedge.

[Illustration: Succor from Below]

A couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the other side,

exactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating would have

been made, there was a sort of recumbent stone which formed a bench,

and on this bench was seated the old man of the garden, while the old

woman was standing in front of him. The old woman was grumbling.

Gavroche, who was not very discreet, listened.

“Monsieur Mabeuf!” said the old woman.

“Mabeuf!” thought Gavroche, “that name is a perfect farce.”

The old man who was thus addressed, did not stir. The old woman

repeated:—

“Monsieur Mabeuf!”

The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made up his mind

to answer:—

“What is it, Mother Plutarque?”

“Mother Plutarque!” thought Gavroche, “another farcical name.”

Mother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced to accept the

conversation:—

“The landlord is not pleased.”

“Why?”

“We owe three quarters rent.”

“In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters.”

“He says that he will turn you out to sleep.”

“I will go.”

“The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer leave her

fagots. What will you warm yourself with this winter? We shall have no

wood.”

“There is the sun.”

“The butcher refuses to give credit; he will not let us have any more

meat.”

“That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy.”

“What shall we have for dinner?”

“Bread.”

“The baker demands a settlement, and says, ‘no money, no bread.’”

“That is well.”

“What will you eat?”

“We have apples in the apple-room.”

“But, Monsieur, we can’t live like that without money.”

“I have none.”

The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He fell into

thought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It was almost dark.

The first result of Gavroche’s meditation was, that instead of scaling

the hedge, he crouched down under it. The branches stood apart a little

at the foot of the thicket.

“Come,” exclaimed Gavroche mentally, “here’s a nook!” and he curled up

in it. His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf’s bench. He

could hear the octogenarian breathe.

Then, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep.

It was a cat-nap, with one eye open. While he dozed, Gavroche kept on

the watch.

The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the lane formed

a livid line between two rows of dark bushes.

All at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their appearance.

One was in front, the other some distance in the rear.

“There come two creatures,” muttered Gavroche.

The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, who was bent and

thoughtful, dressed more than plainly, and who was walking slowly

because of his age, and strolling about in the open evening air.

The second was straight, firm, slender. It regulated its pace by that

of the first; but in the voluntary slowness of its gait, suppleness and

agility were discernible. This figure had also something fierce and

disquieting about it, the whole shape was that of what was then called

_an elegant_; the hat was of good shape, the coat black, well cut,

probably of fine cloth, and well fitted in at the waist. The head was

held erect with a sort of robust grace, and beneath the hat the pale

profile of a young man could be made out in the dim light. The profile

had a rose in its mouth. This second form was well known to Gavroche;

it was Montparnasse.

He could have told nothing about the other, except that he was a

respectable old man.

Gavroche immediately began to take observations.

One of these two pedestrians evidently had a project connected with the

other. Gavroche was well placed to watch the course of events. The

bedroom had turned into a hiding-place at a very opportune moment.

Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place, betokened

something threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin’s heart moved with

compassion for the old man.

What was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming to the aid of

another! It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse.

Gavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man, in the

first place, and the child in the second, would make but two mouthfuls

for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age.

While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and

hideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the

spider on the fly. Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded

upon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him,

and Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream. A moment later one of

these men was underneath the other, groaning, struggling, with a knee

of marble upon his breast. Only, it was not just what Gavroche had

expected. The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who

was on top was the old man. All this took place a few paces distant

from Gavroche.

The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that in such a

terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant and the assailed

had exchanged rôles.

“Here’s a hearty veteran!” thought Gavroche.

He could not refrain from clapping his hands. But it was applause

wasted. It did not reach the combatants, absorbed and deafened as they

were, each by the other, as their breath mingled in the struggle.

Silence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. Gavroche indulged in

this aside: “Can he be dead!”

The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry. He rose to

his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse:—

“Get up.”

Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. Montparnasse’s

attitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of the wolf who has

been caught by a sheep.

Gavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to reinforce his eyes

with his ears. He was enjoying himself immensely.

He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character of a

spectator. He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue which borrowed

from the darkness an indescribably tragic accent. The goodman

questioned, Montparnasse replied.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work?”

“It bores me.”

“What is your trade?”

“An idler.”

“Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What would you like to

be?”

“A thief.”

A pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought. He

stood motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse.

Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged in the

twitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare. He gave a jerk, tried a

crook of the knee, twisted his limbs desperately, and made efforts to

escape.

The old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his arms with

one hand, with the sovereign indifference of absolute force.

The old man’s reverie lasted for some time, then, looking steadily at

Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the midst of

the darkness where they stood, a solemn harangue, of which Gavroche did

not lose a single syllable:—

“My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most

laborious of lives. Ah! You declare yourself to be an idler! prepare to

toil. There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it? It is

the rolling-mill. You must be on your guard against it, it is crafty

and ferocious; if it catches hold of the skirt of your coat, you will

be drawn in bodily. That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet

time, and save yourself! Otherwise, it is all over with you; in a short

time you will be among the gearing. Once entangled, hope for nothing

more. Toil, lazybones! there is no more repose for you! The iron hand

of implacable toil has seized you. You do not wish to earn your living,

to have a task, to fulfil a duty! It bores you to be like other men?

Well! You will be different. Labor is the law; he who rejects it will

find ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman, you will be

a slave. Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp you again on the

other. You do not desire to be its friend, you shall be its negro

slave. Ah! You would have none of the honest weariness of men, you

shall have the sweat of the damned. Where others sing, you will rattle

in your throat. You will see afar off, from below, other men at work;

it will seem to you that they are resting. The laborer, the harvester,

the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in glory like the

blessed spirits in paradise. What radiance surrounds the forge! To

guide the plough, to bind the sheaves, is joy. The bark at liberty in

the wind, what delight! Do you, lazy idler, delve, drag on, roll,

march! Drag your halter. You are a beast of burden in the team of hell!

Ah! To do nothing is your object. Well, not a week, not a day, not an

hour shall you have free from oppression. You will be able to lift

nothing without anguish. Every minute that passes will make your

muscles crack. What is a feather to others will be a rock to you. The

simplest things will become steep acclivities. Life will become

monstrous all about you. To go, to come, to breathe, will be just so

many terrible labors. Your lungs will produce on you the effect of

weighing a hundred pounds. Whether you shall walk here rather than

there, will become a problem that must be solved. Any one who wants to

go out simply gives his door a push, and there he is in the open air.

If you wish to go out, you will be obliged to pierce your wall. What

does every one who wants to step into the street do? He goes

downstairs; you will tear up your sheets, little by little you will

make of them a rope, then you will climb out of your window, and you

will suspend yourself by that thread over an abyss, and it will be

night, amid storm, rain, and the hurricane, and if the rope is too

short, but one way of descending will remain to you, to fall. To drop

hap-hazard into the gulf, from an unknown height, on what? On what is

beneath, on the unknown. Or you will crawl up a chimney-flue, at the

risk of burning; or you will creep through a sewer-pipe, at the risk of

drowning; I do not speak of the holes that you will be obliged to mask,

of the stones which you will have to take up and replace twenty times a

day, of the plaster that you will have to hide in your straw pallet. A

lock presents itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket a key made by a

locksmith. If you wish to pass out, you will be condemned to execute a

terrible work of art; you will take a large sou, you will cut it in two

plates; with what tools? You will have to invent them. That is your

business. Then you will hollow out the interior of these plates, taking

great care of the outside, and you will make on the edges a thread, so

that they can be adjusted one upon the other like a box and its cover.

The top and bottom thus screwed together, nothing will be suspected. To

the overseers it will be only a sou; to you it will be a box. What will

you put in this box? A small bit of steel. A watch-spring, in which you

will have cut teeth, and which will form a saw. With this saw, as long

as a pin, and concealed in a sou, you will cut the bolt of the lock,

you will sever bolts, the padlock of your chain, and the bar at your

window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece finished, this

prodigy accomplished, all these miracles of art, address, skill, and

patience executed, what will be your recompense if it becomes known

that you are the author? The dungeon. There is your future. What

precipices are idleness and pleasure! Do you know that to do nothing is

a melancholy resolution? To live in idleness on the property of

society! to be useless, that is to say, pernicious! This leads straight

to the depth of wretchedness. Woe to the man who desires to be a

parasite! He will become vermin! Ah! So it does not please you to work?

Ah! You have but one thought, to drink well, to eat well, to sleep

well. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep on

a plank with a fetter whose cold touch you will feel on your flesh all

night long, riveted to your limbs. You will break those fetters, you

will flee. That is well. You will crawl on your belly through the

brushwood, and you will eat grass like the beasts of the forest. And

you will be recaptured. And then you will pass years in a dungeon,

riveted to a wall, groping for your jug that you may drink, gnawing at

a horrible loaf of darkness which dogs would not touch, eating beans

that the worms have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a

cellar. Ah! Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child, who were

sucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who have, no doubt, a

mother still alive! I conjure you, listen to me, I entreat you. You

desire fine black cloth, varnished shoes, to have your hair curled and

sweet-smelling oils on your locks, to please low women, to be handsome.

You will be shaven clean, and you will wear a red blouse and wooden

shoes. You want rings on your fingers, you will have an iron necklet on

your neck. If you glance at a woman, you will receive a blow. And you

will enter there at the age of twenty. And you will come out at fifty!

You will enter young, rosy, fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all your

white teeth, and your handsome, youthful hair; you will come out

broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks! Ah! my

poor child, you are on the wrong road; idleness is counselling you

badly; the hardest of all work is thieving. Believe me, do not

undertake that painful profession of an idle man. It is not comfortable

to become a rascal. It is less disagreeable to be an honest man. Now

go, and ponder on what I have said to you. By the way, what did you

want of me? My purse? Here it is.”

And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in the latter’s

hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, after which he allowed it

to slide gently into the back pocket of his coat, with the same

mechanical precaution as though he had stolen it.

All this having been said and done, the goodman turned his back and

tranquilly resumed his stroll.

“The blockhead!” muttered Montparnasse.

Who was this goodman? The reader has, no doubt, already divined.

Montparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disappeared in the dusk.

This contemplation was fatal to him.

While the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near.

Gavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that Father

Mabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound asleep. Then the

gamin emerged from his thicket, and began to crawl after Montparnasse

in the dark, as the latter stood there motionless. In this manner he

came up to Montparnasse without being seen or heard, gently insinuated

his hand into the back pocket of that frock-coat of fine black cloth,

seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and having recourse once more to

his crawling, he slipped away like an adder through the shadows.

Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was engaged

in thought for the first time in his life, perceived nothing. When

Gavroche had once more attained the point where Father Mabeuf was, he

flung the purse over the hedge, and fled as fast as his legs would

carry him.

The purse fell on Father Mabeuf’s foot. This commotion roused him.

He bent over and picked up the purse.

He did not understand in the least, and opened it.

The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some small

change; in the other lay six napoleons.

M. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper.

“That has fallen from heaven,” said Mother Plutarque.

BOOK FIFTH—THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING