Les Misérables
of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was forced to rise
and put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did not accomplish
without pausing and sitting down two or three times, and he was
compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped his brow from
time to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not
stand, he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession of
him; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated by the
Bishop’s candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled. He wrote
slowly the few following lines:
“Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband was
right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away; but there is
a little error in what he believed, though he was in the right. He is
excellent. Love him well even after I am dead. Monsieur Pontmercy, love
my darling child well. Cosette, this paper will be found; this is what
I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see the figures, if I have the
strength to recall them, listen well, this money is really thine. Here
is the whole matter: White jet comes from Norway, black jet comes from
England, black glass jewellery comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest,
the most precious, the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as
well as in Germany. What is needed is a little anvil two inches square,
and a lamp burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was
formerly made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine. It does
not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better. Buckles are made
with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means of this wax, to a
little framework of black iron. The glass must be violet for iron
jewellery, and black for gold jewellery. Spain buys a great deal of it.
It is the country of jet . . .”
Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of
those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.
“Oh!” he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God
alone], “all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile which
passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without even seeing
her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice, to touch her
dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then to die! It is
nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without seeing her. She
would smile on me, she would say a word to me, would that do any harm
to any one? No, all is over, and forever. Here I am all alone. My God!
My God! I shall never see her again!” At that moment there came a knock
at the door.
CHAPTER IV—A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING
That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as
Marius left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his
study, having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying:
“The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber.”
Cosette had taken the grandfather’s arm and was strolling in the
garden.
A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse
paper, coarsely folded—the very sight of certain missives is
displeasing.
The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.
Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an
odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription:
“To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel.” The
recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well.
It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a
whole world within him. This was certainly the paper, the fashion of
folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known
handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had so
diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again
exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had
come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
“Monsieur le Baron:—If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I
might have been baron Thénard, member of the Institute [acadenmy of
ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if this
memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses. The benefit
with which you will honor me will be reciprocle. I am in possession of
a secret concerning an individual. This individual concerns you. I
hold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor to be
huseful to you. I will furnish you with the simple means of driving
from your honorabel family that individual who has no right there,
madame la baronne being of lofty birth. The sanctuary of virtue cannot
cohabit longer with crime without abdicating.
“I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.
“With respect.”
The letter was signed “Thénard.”
This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation.
The certificate of origin was complete.
Marius’ emotion was profound. After a start of surprise, he underwent a
feeling of happiness. If he could now but find that other man of whom
he was in search, the man who had saved him, Marius, there would be
nothing left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes, put
them in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the bell.
Basque half opened the door.
“Show the man in,” said Marius.
Basque announced:
“Monsieur Thénard.”
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter stranger
to him.
This man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin swathed in
a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta over
his eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his brow on
a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen in “high
life.” His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from head to foot, in
garments that were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals
depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch. He held in his
hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude, and the curve in his
spine augmented the profundity of his bow.
The first thing that struck the observer was, that this personage’s
coat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned, had not been
made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging in the Rue
Beautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose profession was
to change villains into honest men. Not for too long, which might have
proved embarrassing for the villain. The change was on sight, for a day
or two, at the rate of thirty sous a day, by means of a costume which
resembled the honesty of the world in general as nearly as possible.
This costumer was called “the Changer”; the pickpockets of Paris had
given him this name and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably
complete wardrobe. The rags with which he tricked out people were
almost probable. He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his
shop hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a
magistrate, there the outfit of a Curé, beyond the outfit of a banker,
in one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the
habiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a
statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays
in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into
which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this
dressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to the
part which he wished to play, the costume which suited him, and on
descending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody. On the
following day, the clothes were faithfully returned, and the Changer,
who trusted the thieves with everything, was never robbed. There was
one inconvenience about these clothes, they “did not fit”; not having
been made for those who wore them, they were too tight for one, too
loose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one. Every
pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at
his ease in the Changer’s costumes. It was necessary that one should
not be either too fat or too lean. The Changer had foreseen only
ordinary men. He had taken the measure of the species from the first
rascal who came to hand, who is neither stout nor thin, neither tall
nor short. Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from
which the Changer’s clients extricated themselves as best they might.
So much the worse for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman, for
instance, black from head to foot, and consequently proper, would have
been too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume of
a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer’s catalogue; we
copy:
“A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots
and linen.” On the margin there stood: _ex-ambassador_, and a note
which we also copy: “In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green
glasses, seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton.”
All this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole
costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams
were white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover,
one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only
detail; as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his
coat and laid upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent
button.
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris, he
would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom
Basque had just shown in, the statesman’s suit borrowed from the
pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius’ disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he
expected to see turned to the newcomer’s disadvantage.
He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made
exaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone:
“What do you want?”
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a
crocodile will furnish some idea:
“It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor
of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet
monsieur personally, several years ago, at the house of Madame la
Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the
Vicomte Dambray, peer of France.”
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize
some one whom one does not know.
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man’s speech. He spied on
his accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased; the
pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry, shrill tone
which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
“I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray,” said he. “I have
never set foot in the house of either of them in my life.”
The reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious at
any cost, insisted.
“Then it must have been at Chateaubriand’s that I have seen Monsieur! I
know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to
me: ‘Thénard, my friend . . . won’t you drink a glass of wine with