Les Misérables
me.”
He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of
dawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on
their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was
still black night.
He rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even
yet.
From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A
sharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from the
earth.
Below him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and
shortened in a singular manner through the darkness.
As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, “Hold!”
said he, “there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now.”
But this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first roused
him thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stars
were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was
able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury
harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the
trampling of the horse’s hoofs on the pavement.
“What vehicle is this?” he said to himself. “Who is coming here so
early in the morning?”
At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.
He shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice:—
“Who is there?”
Some one said:—
“I, Monsieur le Maire.”
He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.
“Well!” he replied, “what is it?”
“Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o’clock in the morning.”
“What is that to me?”
“The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.”
“What cabriolet?”
“The tilbury.”
“What tilbury?”
“Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?”
“No,” said he.
“The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire.”
“What coachman?”
“M. Scaufflaire’s coachman.”
“M. Scaufflaire?”
That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had
passed in front of his face.
“Ah! yes,” he resumed; “M. Scaufflaire!”
If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have
been frightened.
A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle
with a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning
wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him.
She even ventured to uplift her voice once more:—
“What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?”
“Say that it is well, and that I am coming down.”
CHAPTER V—HINDRANCES
The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated at this
period by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire. These
mail-wagons were two-wheeled cabriolets, upholstered inside with
fawn-colored leather, hung on springs, and having but two seats, one
for the postboy, the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed
with those long, offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a
distance, and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The
despatch box, an immense oblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle
and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black, and the
cabriolet yellow.
These vehicles, which have no counterparts nowadays, had something
distorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing in
the distance, and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled
the insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though with
but little corselet, drag a great train behind them. But they travelled
at a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Arras at one
o’clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at
M. sur M. a little before five o’clock in the morning.
That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdin
road, collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering the
town, with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, which was going
in the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a man
enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a
violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the
traveller paid no heed and pursued his road at full gallop.
“That man is in a devilish hurry!” said the postman.
The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen struggling
in convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.
Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening? He
did not know. He was driving at random, straight ahead. Whither? To
Arras, no doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well. At
times he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into the
night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew him
on. No one could have told what was taking place within him; every one
will understand it. What man is there who has not entered, at least
once in his life, into that obscure cavern of the unknown?
However, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan,
done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive.
He was, more than ever, as he had been at the first moment.
Why was he going to Arras?
He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired
Scaufflaire’s cabriolet: that, whatever the result was to be, there was
no reason why he should not see with his own eyes, and judge of matters
for himself; that this was even prudent; that he must know what took
place; that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and
scrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything from a distance;
that, at any rate, when he should have seen that Champmathieu, some
wretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him
to go to the galleys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there;
and that Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Cochepaille, old convicts who
had known him; but they certainly would not recognize him;—bah! what an
idea! that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth; that
all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu, and
that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures;
that accordingly there was no danger.
That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from
it; that, after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in
his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.
At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go
to Arras.
Nevertheless, he was going thither.
As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at that
fine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half
an hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him
draw back.
At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. lay far
behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all the
chilly figures of a winter’s dawn as they passed before his eyes, but
without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the
evening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it, and by
means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these black
silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister
quality to the violent state of his soul.
Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which
sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself, “And yet there are
people there within who are sleeping!”
The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the
road, produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming
when one is joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad.
It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front of
the inn, to allow the horse a breathing spell, and to have him given
some oats.
The horse belonged, as Scaufflaire had said, to that small race of the
Boulonnais, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough
neck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin,
fine legs, and solid hoofs—a homely, but a robust and healthy race. The
excellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours, and had not a
drop of sweat on his loins.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats
suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
“Are you going far in this condition?” said the man.
He replied, with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie:—
“Why?”
“Have you come from a great distance?” went on the man.
“Five leagues.”
“Ah!”
“Why do you say, ‘Ah?’”
The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, with his eyes
fixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:—
“Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly
will not travel another quarter of a league.”
He sprang out of the tilbury.
“What is that you say, my friend?”
“I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues
without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just
see here!”
The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by
the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that the
nut no longer held firm.
“My friend,” he said to the stableman, “is there a wheelwright here?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Do me the service to go and fetch him.”
“He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!”
Master Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own
threshold. He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a
surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.
“Can you repair this wheel immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When can I set out again?”
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow!”
“There is a long day’s work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir?”
“In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest.”
“Impossible, sir.”
“I will pay whatever you ask.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, in two hours, then.”
“Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur
will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.”
“The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace
this wheel instead of repairing it?”
“How so?”
“You are a wheelwright?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at
once.”
“A spare wheel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make
a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.”
“In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.”
“Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.”
“Try, nevertheless.”
“It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but
a poor country here.”
“Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?”
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a
hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.
“You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, I
would not let it to you!”
“Well, sell it to me, then.”
“I have none.”
“What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see.”
“We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,” added the wheelwright,
“an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of
the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on
the thirty-sixth of the month—never, that is to say. I might let that
to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it
pass—and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses.”
“I will take two post-horses.”
“Where is Monsieur going?”
“To Arras.”
“And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?”
“Yes, of course.”
“By taking two post-horses?”
“Why not?”
“Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o’clock