Les Misérables
without remorse. Chassez across. In love there are no friends.
Everywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is open. No quarter,
war to the death! a pretty woman is a _casus belli_; a pretty woman is
flagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have been determined
by petticoats. Woman is man’s right. Romulus carried off the Sabines;
William carried off the Saxon women; Cæsar carried off the Roman women.
The man who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of
other men; and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men who are
widowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of
Italy: “Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has it.”
Tholomyès paused.
“Take breath, Tholomyès,” said Blachevelle.
At the same moment Blachevelle, supported by Listolier and Fameuil,
struck up to a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the
first words which come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as
destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the
wind, which have their birth in the vapor of pipes, and are dissipated
and take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group
replied to Tholomyès’ harangue:—
“The father turkey-cocks so grave
Some money to an agent gave,
That master good Clermont-Tonnerre
Might be made pope on Saint Johns’ day fair.
But this good Clermont could not be
Made pope, because no priest was he;
And then their agent, whose wrath burned,
With all their money back returned.”
This was not calculated to calm Tholomyès’ improvisation; he emptied
his glass, filled, refilled it, and began again:—
“Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither
prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be
merry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating!
Indigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting,
the female! Joy in the depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great
diamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festival
everywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute
thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the Allée de
l’Observatoire! O pensive infantry soldiers! O all those charming
nurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves! The pampas
of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odéon. My
soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is
beautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has sneezed out the
humming bird. Embrace me, Fantine!”
He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.
CHAPTER VIII—THE DEATH OF A HORSE
“The dinners are better at Édon’s than at Bombarda’s,” exclaimed
Zéphine.
“I prefer Bombarda to Édon,” declared Blachevelle. “There is more
luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are
mirrors [_glaces_] on the walls.”
“I prefer them [_glaces_, ices] on my plate,” said Favourite.
Blachevelle persisted:—
“Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda’s and of
bone at Édon’s. Now, silver is more valuable than bone.”
“Except for those who have a silver chin,” observed Tholomyès.
He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from
Bombarda’s windows.
A pause ensued.
“Tholomyès,” exclaimed Fameuil, “Listolier and I were having a
discussion just now.”
“A discussion is a good thing,” replied Tholomyès; “a quarrel is
better.”
“We were disputing about philosophy.”
“Well?”
“Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?”
“Désaugiers,” said Tholomyès.
This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:—
“I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still
talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie.
One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected
bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine. There are still human
beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of
the paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so
tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of
Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above
the level of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and
seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house
keeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four
francs and fifty centimes.”
Again Fameuil interrupted him:—
“Tholomyès, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?”
“Ber—”
“Quin?”
“No; Choux.”
And Tholomyès continued:—
“Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could
but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chæronea if he
could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas
in Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them. Alas! always the
same, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished by the creator in
creation! _Nil sub sole novum_, says Solomon; _amor omnibus idem_, says
Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud,
as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last
word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an
epoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy
and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn.
Aspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met; she was
the goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was
created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus.”
Tholomyès, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping,
had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The
shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a
Beauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was
dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda’s, the
worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This
incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter
had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, _Mâtin_ (the
jade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell,
never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passers-by,
Tholomyès’ merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomyès took
advantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution to a close with
this melancholy strophe:—
“Elle était de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses
Ont le même destin;
Et, rosse, elle a vécu ce que vivant les rosses,
L’espace d’un mâtin!” 3
“Poor horse!” sighed Fantine.
And Dahlia exclaimed:—
“There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be
such a pitiful fool as that!”
At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back,
looked resolutely at Tholomyès and said:—
“Come, now! the surprise?”
“Exactly. The moment has arrived,” replied Tholomyès. “Gentlemen, the
hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a
moment, ladies.”
“It begins with a kiss,” said Blachevelle.
“On the brow,” added Tholomyès.
Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress’s brow; then all four
filed out through the door, with their fingers on their lips.
Favourite clapped her hands on their departure.
“It is beginning to be amusing already,” said she.
“Don’t be too long,” murmured Fantine; “we are waiting for you.”
CHAPTER IX—A MERRY END TO MIRTH
When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the
window-sills, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one
window to the other.
They saw the young men emerge from the Café Bombarda arm in arm. The
latter turned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in
that dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the
Champs-Élysées.
“Don’t be long!” cried Fantine.
“What are they going to bring us?” said Zéphine.
“It will certainly be something pretty,” said Dahlia.
“For my part,” said Favourite, “I want it to be of gold.”
Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of
the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees,
and which diverted them greatly.
It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences.
Nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the
Champs-Élysées. The majority followed the quay and went through the
Passy Barrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow
and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by
trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately
disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge,
with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements,
changing all the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the
young girls. Favourite exclaimed:—
“What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away.”
It chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with
difficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out
again at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.
“That’s odd!” said she. “I thought the diligence never stopped.”
Favourite shrugged her shoulders.
“This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of
curiosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case: I am
a traveller; I say to the diligence, ‘I will go on in advance; you
shall pick me up on the quay as you pass.’ The diligence passes, sees
me, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not know life,
my dear.”
In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a
movement, like a person who is just waking up.
“Well,” said she, “and the surprise?”
“Yes, by the way,” joined in Dahlia, “the famous surprise?”
“They are a very long time about it!” said Fantine.
As Fantine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at
dinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter.
“What is that?” demanded Favourite.
The waiter replied:—
“It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies.”
“Why did you not bring it at once?”
“Because,” said the waiter, “the gentlemen ordered me not to deliver it
to the ladies for an hour.”
Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter’s hand. It was, in fact, a
letter.
“Stop!” said she; “there is no address; but this is what is written on
it—”
“THIS IS THE SURPRISE.”
She tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read [she knew how to
read]:—
“OUR BELOVED:—
“You must know that we have parents. Parents—you do not know much about
such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code,
which is puerile and honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks
implore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons;
they desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being
virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery
horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up
our stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the
arms of Laffitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence
tears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties!
We return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the
rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the
country that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects,
fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate
us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us
with speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu.
“For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you