Les Misérables
movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in
his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he
set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious
growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog
was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.
It was a dog’s kennel.
He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his
staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the
kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his
rags.
He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in
order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manœuvre
with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as _la
rose couverte_.
When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found
himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without
shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of
straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated
himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim,
“I am not even a dog!”
He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town,
hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford
him shelter.
He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he
felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and
gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of
those low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the
harvest, resemble shaved heads.
The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of
night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest
upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole
sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still
floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these
clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a
gleam of light fell upon the earth.
The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a
particularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and
mean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole
effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.
There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree,
which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.
This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of
intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious
aspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in
that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly
desolate, that after a moment of immobility and reverie he turned back
abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.
He retraced his steps; the gates of D—— were closed. D——, which had
sustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in
1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been
demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town
again.
It might have been eight o’clock in the evening. As he was not
acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.
In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he
passed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.
At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is
there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard
to the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon
himself, were printed for the first time.
Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down
on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.
At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man
stretched out in the shadow. “What are you doing there, my friend?”
said she.
He answered harshly and angrily: “As you see, my good woman, I am
sleeping.” The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was
the Marquise de R——
“On this bench?” she went on.
“I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years,” said the man;
“to-day I have a mattress of stone.”
“You have been a soldier?”
“Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”
“Why do you not go to the inn?”
“Because I have no money.”
“Alas!” said Madame de R——, “I have only four sous in my purse.”
“Give it to me all the same.”
The man took the four sous. Madame de R—— continued: “You cannot obtain
lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is
impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no
doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity.”
“I have knocked at all doors.”
“Well?”
“I have been driven away everywhere.”
The “good woman” touched the man’s arm, and pointed out to him on the
other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the
Bishop’s palace.
“You have knocked at all doors?”
“Yes.”
“Have you knocked at that one?”
“No.”
“Knock there.”
CHAPTER II—PRUDENCE COUNSELLED TO WISDOM.
That evening, the Bishop of D——, after his promenade through the town,
remained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work
on _Duties_, which was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully
compiling everything that the Fathers and the doctors have said on this
important subject. His book was divided into two parts: firstly, the
duties of all; secondly, the duties of each individual, according to
the class to which he belongs. The duties of all are the great duties.
There are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards
God (_Matt._ vi.); duties towards one’s self (_Matt._ v. 29, 30);
duties towards one’s neighbor (_Matt._ vii. 12); duties towards animals
(_Matt._ vi. 20, 25). As for the other duties the Bishop found them
pointed out and prescribed elsewhere: to sovereigns and subjects, in
the Epistle to the Romans; to magistrates, to wives, to mothers, to
young men, by Saint Peter; to husbands, fathers, children and servants,
in the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithful, in the Epistle to the
Hebrews; to virgins, in the Epistle to the Corinthians. Out of these
precepts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole, which he
desired to present to souls.
At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with a good deal of
inconvenience upon little squares of paper, with a big book open on his
knees, when Madame Magloire entered, according to her wont, to get the
silver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop,
knowing that the table was set, and that his sister was probably
waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the
dining-room.
The dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, which had a
door opening on the street (as we have said), and a window opening on
the garden.
Madame Magloire was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the
table.
As she performed this service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle
Baptistine.
A lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace. A wood
fire was burning there.
One can easily picture to one’s self these two women, both of whom were
over sixty years of age. Madame Magloire small, plump, vivacious;
Mademoiselle Baptistine gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than
her brother, dressed in a gown of puce-colored silk, of the fashion of
1806, which she had purchased at that date in Paris, and which had
lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which possess the merit of
giving utterance in a single word to an idea which a whole page would
hardly suffice to express, Madame Magloire had the air of a _peasant_,
and Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a _lady_. Madame Magloire wore a
white quilted cap, a gold Jeannette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her
neck, the only bit of feminine jewelry that there was in the house, a
very white fichu puffing out from a gown of coarse black woollen stuff,
with large, short sleeves, an apron of cotton cloth in red and green
checks, knotted round the waist with a green ribbon, with a stomacher
of the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse shoes on
her feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseilles.
Mademoiselle Baptistine’s gown was cut on the patterns of 1806, with a
short waist, a narrow, sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps
and buttons. She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as
the _baby_ wig. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, vivacious, and
kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and her
upper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather
crabbed and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace, she
talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom; but as
soon as Monseigneur began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed
passively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptistine did not even
speak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasing him. She had never
been pretty, even when she was young; she had large, blue, prominent
eyes, and a long arched nose; but her whole visage, her whole person,
breathed forth an ineffable goodness, as we stated in the beginning.
She had always been predestined to gentleness; but faith, charity,
hope, those three virtues which mildly warm the soul, had gradually
elevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb,
religion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virgin! Sweet memory which
has vanished!
Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at the
episcopal residence that evening, that there are many people now living
who still recall the most minute details.
At the moment when the Bishop entered, Madame Magloire was talking with
considerable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine on a
subject which was familiar to her and to which the Bishop was also
accustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door.
It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame
Magloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken of a
prowler of evil appearance; a suspicious vagabond had arrived who must
be somewhere about the town, and those who should take it into their
heads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant
encounters. The police was very badly organized, moreover, because
there was no love lost between the Prefect and the Mayor, who sought to
injure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to
play the part of their own police, and to guard themselves well, and
care must be taken to duly close, bar and barricade their houses, and
to _fasten the doors well_.
Madame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just
come from his room, where it was rather cold. He seated himself in
front of the fire, and warmed himself, and then fell to thinking of
other things. He did not take up the remark dropped with design by
Madame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine,
desirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother,
ventured to say timidly:—
“Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother?”
“I have heard something of it in a vague way,” replied the Bishop. Then
half-turning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees, and raising
towards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew
joyous, and which was illuminated from below by the firelight,—“Come,
what is the matter? What is the matter? Are we in any great danger?”
Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a
little without being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a