Les Misérables
Stop! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece, and
I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see
Cosette again soon. Mon Dieu! how wrong it is not to see one’s children
for years! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good
M. le Maire is to go! it is very cold! it is true; he had on his cloak,
at least? he will be here to-morrow, will he not? to-morrow will be a
festival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on
my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montfermeil is! I
took that journey on foot once; it was very long for me, but the
diligences go very quickly! he will be here to-morrow with Cosette: how
far is it from here to Montfermeil?”
The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, “Oh, I think that he
will be here to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! to-morrow!” said Fantine, “I shall see Cosette to-morrow!
you see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill; I am
mad; I could dance if any one wished it.”
A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not
have understood the change; she was all rosy now; she spoke in a lively
and natural voice; her whole face was one smile; now and then she
talked, she laughed softly; the joy of a mother is almost infantile.
“Well,” resumed the nun, “now that you are happy, mind me, and do not
talk any more.”
Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice: “Yes, lie
down again; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister
Simplice is right; every one here is right.”
And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to
stare all about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air, and she said
nothing more.
The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall
into a doze. Between seven and eight o’clock the doctor came; not
hearing any sound, he thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly, and
approached the bed on tiptoe; he opened the curtains a little, and, by
the light of the taper, he saw Fantine’s big eyes gazing at him.
She said to him, “She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little
bed, will she not, sir?”
The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added:—
“See! there is just room.”
The doctor took Sister Simplice aside, and she explained matters to
him; that M. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their
doubt they had not thought it well to undeceive the invalid, who
believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil; that it was possible,
after all, that her guess was correct: the doctor approved.
He returned to Fantine’s bed, and she went on:—
“You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good
morning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can
hear her asleep; her little gentle breathing will do me good.”
“Give me your hand,” said the doctor.
She stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh:—
“Ah, hold! in truth, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will
arrive to-morrow.”
The doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had
decreased; her pulse had regained its strength; a sort of life had
suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn-out creature.
“Doctor,” she went on, “did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has
gone to get that mite of a child?”
The doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emotions should be
avoided; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchona, and, in case the
fever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he
took his departure, he said to the sister:—
“She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should
actually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises
so astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well
that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all
those things are such mysteries: we may be able to save her.”
CHAPTER VII—THE TRAVELLER ON HIS ARRIVAL TAKES PRECAUTIONS FOR
DEPARTURE
It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening when the cart, which we left
on the road, entered the porte-cochère of the Hotel de la Poste in
Arras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted
from it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the
people of the inn, sent back the extra horse, and with his own hands
led the little white horse to the stable; then he opened the door of a
billiard-room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there,
and leaned his elbows on a table; he had taken fourteen hours for the
journey which he had counted on making in six; he did himself the
justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom, he was
not sorry.
The landlady of the hotel entered.
“Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper?”
He made a sign of the head in the negative.
“The stableman says that Monsieur’s horse is extremely fatigued.”
Here he broke his silence.
“Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow
morning?”
“Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least.”
He inquired:—
“Is not the posting-station located here?”
“Yes, sir.”
The hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport, and
inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to M.
sur M. by the mail-wagon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced to be
vacant; he engaged it and paid for it. “Monsieur,” said the clerk, “do
not fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o’clock in the
morning.”
This done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town.
He was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were dark, and he walked
on at random; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the
passers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchon, and found himself in
a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was
passing along with a lantern. After some hesitation, he decided to
apply to this man, not without having first glanced behind and in front
of him, as though he feared lest some one should hear the question
which he was about to put.
“Monsieur,” said he, “where is the court-house, if you please.”
“You do not belong in town, sir?” replied the bourgeois, who was an
oldish man; “well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of
the court-house, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the
prefecture; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this
moment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the
prefecture.”
“Is it there that the Assizes are held?” he asked.
“Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop’s
palace before the Revolution. M. de Conzié, who was bishop in ’82,
built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is
held.”
On the way, the bourgeois said to him:—
“If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings
generally close at six o’clock.”
When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to
him four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy
building.
“Upon my word, sir, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do you
see those four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light
there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly
protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an
interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness?”
He replied:—
“I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the
lawyers.”
“That is different,” said the bourgeois. “Stop, sir; here is the door
where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase.”
He conformed to the bourgeois’s directions, and a few minutes later he
was in a hall containing many people, and where groups, intermingled
with lawyers in their gowns, were whispering together here and there.
It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men
robed in black, murmuring together in low voices, on the threshold of
the halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome
of these words. Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to
be the result. All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful
observer so many sombre hives where buzzing spirits construct in
concert all sorts of dark edifices.
This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of
the episcopal palace, and served as the large hall of the palace of
justice. A double-leaved door, which was closed at that moment,
separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting.
The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer
whom he met.
“What stage have they reached, sir?” he asked.
“It is finished,” said the lawyer.
“Finished!”
This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round.
“Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative?”
“No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced?”
“Of course. Nothing else was possible.”
“To penal servitude?”
“For life.”
He continued, in a voice so weak that it was barely audible:—
“Then his identity was established?”
“What identity?” replied the lawyer. “There was no identity to be
established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her
child; the infanticide was proved; the jury threw out the question of
premeditation, and she was condemned for life.”
“So it was a woman?” said he.
“Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking?”
“Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still
lighted?”
“For another case, which was begun about two hours ago.”
“What other case?”
“Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a
man arrested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of
theft. I don’t know his name exactly. There’s a bandit’s phiz for you!
I’d send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone.”
“Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?” said he.
“I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the
hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the
hearing is resumed, you might make an effort.”
“Where is the entrance?”
“Through yonder large door.”
The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced,
almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all
possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had, in
turn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire.
When he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more; but
he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure.
He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The
docket of the session was very heavy; the president had appointed for
the same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the
infanticide, and now they had reached the convict, the old offender,
the “return horse.” This man had stolen apples, but that did not appear
to be entirely proved; what had been proved was, that he had already
been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to
his case. However, the man’s examination and the depositions of the
witnesses had been completed, but the lawyer’s plea, and the speech of
the public prosecutor were still to come; it could not be finished
before midnight. The man would probably be condemned; the
attorney-general was very clever, and never _missed_ his culprits; he
was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses.
An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Assizes.
He inquired of this usher:—
“Will the door be opened soon, sir?”