Виктор Мари Гюго
Les Misérables, v. 1
CHAPTER IV
SUFFERINGS IN SLEEP
Three A.M. had struck, and he had been walking about in this way for five hours without a break, when he fell into his chair. He fell asleep, and had a dream. This dream, like most dreams, was only connected with his situation by something poignant and mournful, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so much that he wrote it down at a later date, and we think we are bound to transcribe it verbatim; for whatever the history of this man may be, it would be incomplete if we omitted it. Here it is then; on the envelope we notice the line, —The dream I had on that night.
"I was upon a plain, a large mournful plain, on which no grass grew. It did not seem to me to be day, but it was not night. I was walking with my brother, the brother of my boyish years, of whom I am bound to say I never think, and whom I scarce remember. We were talking, and met travellers. We spoke about a woman, formerly a neighbor of ours, who had always worked with her window open, since she had occupied a front room. While talking, we felt cold on account of this open window. There were no trees on the plain. We saw a man pass close by us; he was a perfectly naked man, of the color of ashes, mounted on a horse of an earthen color. The man had no hair, and I could see his skull, and the veins on his skull. He held in his hand a wand, which was supple as a vine-twig and heavy as lead. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.
"My brother said to me: 'Let us turn into the hollow way.'
"It was a hollow way in which not a bramble or even a patch of moss could be seen; all was earth-colored, even the sky. After going a few yards, I received no answer when I spoke, and I noticed that my brother was no longer with me. I entered a village that I saw, and I fancied that it must be Romainville. The first street I entered was deserted; I entered a second street, and behind the angle formed by the two streets a man was standing against the wall. I asked this man, "What is this place? where am I?" but he gave me no answer. I saw the door of a house open, and walked in.
"The first room was deserted, and I entered a second. Behind the door of this room there was a man leaning against the wall. I asked him, "To whom does this house belong? where am I?" but the man gave me no answer. I went out into the garden of the house, and it was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing; I said to the man, "Whose is this garden? where am I?" but he made me no answer.
"I wandered about this village and fancied that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors open. Not a living soul passed along the street, moved in the rooms, or walked in the gardens. But there was behind every corner, every door, and every tree, a man standing silently. I never saw more than one at a time, and these men looked at me as I passed.
"I left the village and began walking about the fields. At the end of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming after me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in the town, and they had strange heads. They did not appear to be in a hurry, and yet they walked faster than I, and made no noise in walking. In an instant this crowd joined me and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earth-colored. Then the man I had seen first and questioned when I entered the town said to me, "Where are you going? do you not know that you have been dead for a long time?" I opened my mouth to answer, and I perceived that there was no one near me."
He woke up, chilled to the marrow, for a wind, cold as the morning breeze, was shaking the open window. The fire had died away, the candle was nearly burned out, and it was still black night. He rose and went to the window; there were still no stars in the sky. From his window he could see the yard and his street, and a dry sharp sound on the ground below him induced him to look out. He saw two red stars whose rays lengthened and shortened curiously in the gloom. As his mind was half submerged in the mist of dreams, he thought, "There are no stars in the sky: they are on the earth now." A second sound like the first completely woke him, and he perceived that those two stars were carriage lamps, and by the light which they projected he could distinguish the shape of the vehicle; it was a tilbury, in which a small white horse was harnessed. The sound he had heard was the pawing of the horse's hoof on the ground.
"What's the meaning of this conveyance?" he said to himself. "Who can have come at so early an hour?"
At this moment there was a gentle tap at his bed-room door; he shuddered from head to foot, and shouted in a terrible voice, "Who's there?"
Some one replied, "I, sir," and he recognized his old servant's voice.
"Well," he continued, "what is it?"
"It is getting on for four o'clock, sir."
"What has that to do with me?"
"The tilbury has come, sir."
"What tilbury?"
"Did you not order one?"
"No," he said.
"The ostler says that he has come to fetch M. le Maire."
"What ostler?"
"M. Scaufflaire's."
This name made him start as if a flash of lightning had passed before his eyes.
"Ah, yes," he repeated, "M. Scaufflaire."
Could the old woman have seen him at this moment, she would have been horrified. There was a lengthened silence, during which he stupidly examined the candle flame and rolled up some of the wax in his fingers. The old woman, who was waiting, at length mustered up courage to raise her voice again.
"M. le Maire, what answer am I to give?"
"Say it is quite right, and that I shall be down directly."
CHAPTER V
OBSTACLES
The letter-bags between Arras and M – were still carried in small mail-carts, dating from the Empire. They were two-wheeled vehicles, lined with tawny leather, hung on springs, and having only two seats, one for the driver, and another for a passenger. The wheels were armed with those long offensive axle-trees, which kept other carriages at a distance, and may still be seen on German roads. The compartment for the bags was an immense oblong box at the back; it was painted black, and the front part was yellow. These vehicles, like which we have nothing at the present day, had something ugly and humpbacked about them, and when you saw them pass at a distance or creeping up a hill on the horizon, they resembled those insects called, we think, termites, and which with a small body drag a heavy burden after them. They went very fast, however, and the mail which left Arras at one in the morning, after the Paris mail had arrived, reached M – a little before five A.M.
On this morning, the mail-cart, just as it entered M – , and while turning a corner, ran into a tilbury drawn by a white horse, coming in the opposite direction, and in which there was only one sitter, a man wrapped in a cloak. The wheel of the tilbury received a rather heavy blow, and though the driver of the mail-cart shouted to the man to stop, he did not listen, but went on at a smart trot.
"The man is in a deuce of a hurry," said the courier.
The man in this hurry was he whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions, assuredly deserving of pity. Where was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hurrying? He did not know. He was going onwards unthinkingly. Where to? Doubtless to Arras; but he might also be going elsewhere.
He buried himself in the darkness as in a gulf. Something urged him on; something attracted him. What was going on in him no one could tell, but all will understand it, – for what man has not entered, at least once in his life, this obscure cavern of the unknown? However, he had settled, decided, and done nothing; not one of the acts of his conscience had been definitive, and he was still as unsettled as at the beginning.
Why was he going to Arras? He repeated what he had already said on hiring the gig of Scaufflaire – that, whatever the result might be, there would be no harm in seeing with his own eyes, and judging matters for himself – that this was prudent; and he was bound to know what was going on – that he could not decide anything till he had observed and examined – that, at a distance, a man made mountains of molehills – that after all, when he had seen this Champmathieu, his conscience would probably be quietly relieved, and he could let the scoundrel go to the galleys in his place: that Javert would be there and the three convicts who had known him, – but, nonsense! they would not recognize him, for all conjectures and suppositions were fixed on this Champmathieu, and there is nothing so obstinate as conjectures and suppositions, – and that hence he incurred no danger. It was doubtless a black moment, but he would emerge from it. After all, he held his destiny, however adverse it might try to be, in his own hands, and was master of it. He clung wildly to the latter thought.
Although, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras, yet he went. While reflecting he lashed the horse, which was going at that regular and certain trot which covers two leagues and a half in an hour; and as the gig advanced, he felt something within him recoil. At day-break he was in the open country, and the town of M – was far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he looked, without seeing them, at all the cold figures of a winter dawn. Morning has its spectres like night. He did not see them, but unconsciously, and through a sort of almost physical penetration, these black outlines of trees and hills added something gloomy and sinister to the violent state of his soul. Each time that he passed one of those isolated houses which skirt high roads, he said to himself: "And yet there are people asleep in them." The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the stones, produced a gentle and monotonous sound, which is delightful when you are merry, and mournful when you are sad.
It was broad daylight when he reached Hesdin, and he stopped at the inn to let the horse breathe and give it a feed. This horse, as Scaufflaire had said, belonged to that small Boulonnais breed, which has too large a head, too much stomach, and not enough neck, but which also has a wide crupper, lean, slender legs, and a solid hoof: it is an ugly but strong and healthy breed. The capital little beast had done five leagues in two hours, and had not turned a hair.
He did not get out of the tilbury; the ostler who brought the oats suddenly stooped down and examined the left wheel.
"Are you going far in this state?" the man said.
He answered almost without emerging from his reverie, —
"Why do you ask?"
"Have you come any distance?" the ostler continued.
"Five leagues."
"Ah!"
"Why do you say, 'Ah'?"
The ostler bent down again, remained silent for a moment, with his eye fixed on the wheel, and then said as he drew himself up, —
"Because this wheel, which may have gone five leagues, cannot possibly go another mile."
He jumped out of the tilbury.
"What are you saying, my friend?"
"I say that it is a miracle you and your horse did not roll into a ditch by the road-side. Just look."
The wheel was, in fact, seriously damaged. The blow dealt it by the mail-cart had broken two spokes, and almost carried away the axle-tree.
"My good fellow," he said to the ostler, "is there a wheelwright here?"
"Of course, sir."
"Be good enough to go and fetch him."
"He lives close by. Hilloh, Master Bourgaillard."
Master Bourgaillard was standing in his doorway: he examined the wheel, and made a face like a surgeon regarding a broken leg.
"Can you mend this wheel?"
"Yes, sir."
"When can I start again?"
"To-morrow: there is a good day's work. Are you in a hurry, sir?"
"In a great hurry: I must set out again in an hour at the latest."
"It is impossible, sir."
"I will pay anything you ask."
"Impossible."
"Well, in two hours?"
"It is impossible for to-day; you will not be able to go on till to-morrow."
"My business cannot wait till to-morrow. Suppose, instead of mending this wheel, you were to put another on?"
"How so?"
"You are a wheelwright, and have probably a wheel you can sell me, and then I could set out again directly."
"I have no ready-made wheel to suit your gig, for wheels are sold in pairs, and it is not easy to match one."
"In that case, sell me a pair of wheels."
"All wheels, sir, do not fit all axle-trees."
"At any rate try."
"It is useless, sir; I have only cart-wheels for sale, for ours is a small place."
"Have you a gig I can hire?"
The wheelwright had noticed at a glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle; he shrugged his shoulders.
"You take such good care of gigs you hire, that if I had one I would not let it to you."
"Well, one to sell me?"
"I have not one."
"What, not a tax-cart? I am not particular, as you see."
"This is a small place. I have certainly," the wheelwright added, "an old calèche in my stable, which belongs to a person in the town, and who uses it on the thirty-sixth of every month. I could certainly let it out to you, for it is no concern of mine, but the owner must not see it pass; and besides, it is a calèche, and will want two horses."
"I will hire post-horses."
"Where are you going to, sir?"
"To Arras."
"And you wish to arrive to-day?"
"Certainly."
"By taking post-horses?"
"Why not?"
"Does it make any difference to you if you reach Arras at four o'clock to-morrow morning?"
"Of course it does."
"There is one thing to be said about hiring post-horses; have you your passport, sir?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you take post-horses, you will not reach Arras before to-morrow. We are on a cross-country road. The relays are badly served, and the horses are out at work. This is the ploughing season, and as strong teams are required, horses are taken anywhere, from the post-houses like the rest. You will have to wait three or four hours, sir, at each station, and only go at a foot-pace, for there are many hills to ascend."
"Well, I will ride. Take the horse out. I suppose I can purchase a saddle here?"
"Of course, but will this horse carry a saddle?"
"No, I remember now that it will not."
"In that case – "
"But surely I can hire a saddle-horse in the village?"
"What! to go to Arras without a break?"
"Yes."
"You would want a horse such as is not to be found in these parts. In the first place, you would have to buy it, as you are a stranger, but you would not find one to buy or hire for five hundred francs, – not for a thousand."
"What is to be done?"
"The best thing is to let me mend the wheel and put off your journey till to-morrow."
"To-morrow will be too late."
"Hang it!"
"Is there not the Arras mail-cart? When does that pass?"
"Not till to-night."
"What! you will take a whole day in mending that wheel?"
"An honest day."
"Suppose you employed two workmen?"
"Ay, if I had ten."
"Suppose the spokes were tied with cords?"
"What is to be done with the axle? Besides, the felloe is in a bad state."
"Is there any one who lets out vehicles in the town?"
"No."
"Is there another wheelwright?"
The ostler and the wheelwright replied simultaneously – ,
"No."
He felt an immense joy, for it was evident that Providence was interfering. Providence had broken the tilbury wheel and stopped his journey. He had not yielded to this species of first summons; he had made every possible effort to continue his journey; he had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all resources; he had not recoiled before the season, fatigue, or expense; and he had nothing to reproach himself with. If he did not go farther, it did not concern him; it was not his fault, it was not the doing of his conscience, but of Providence. He breathed freely and fully for the first time since Javert's visit. He felt as if the iron hand which had been squeezing his heart for twenty hours had relaxed its grasp; God now appeared to be on his side, and declared Himself openly. He said to himself that he had done all in his power, and at present need only return home quietly.
Had the conversation with the wheelwright taken place in an inn-room, it would probably have not been heard by any one, – matters would have remained in this state, and we should probably not have had to record any of the following events; but the conversation took place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably produces a crowd, for there are always people who only ask to be spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright, some passers-by stopped around, and a lad to whom no one paid any attention, after listening for some moments, ran off. At the instant when the traveller made up his mind to turn back, this boy returned, accompanied by an old woman.
"Sir," the woman said, "my boy tells me that you wish to hire a conveyance?"
This simple remark, made by an old woman led by a child, made the perspiration pour down his back. He fancied he saw the hand which had let him loose reappear in the shadow behind him, ready to clutch him again. He replied, —
"Yes, my good woman, I want to hire a gig."
And he hastily added, "But there is not one in the town."
"Yes there is," said the old woman.
"Where?" the wheelwright remarked.
"At my house," the old crone answered.
He gave a start, for the fatal hand had seized him again. The poor woman really had a sort of wicker-cart under a shed. The wheelwright and the ostler, sorry to see the traveller escape them, interfered: —
"It was a frightful rattle-trap, and had no springs, – it is a fact that the inside seats were hung with leathern straps – the rain got into it – the wheels were rusty, and ready to fall to pieces – it would not go much farther than the tilbury – the gentleman had better not get into it," – and so on.
All this was true; but the rattle-trap, whatever it might be, rolled on two wheels, and could go to Arras. He paid what was asked, left the tilbury to be repaired against his return, had the horse put into the cart, got in, and went his way. At the moment when the cart moved ahead, he confessed to himself that an instant before he had felt a sort of joy at the thought that he could not continue his journey. He examined this joy with a sort of passion, and found it absurd. Why did he feel joy at turning back? After all, he was making this journey of his free will, and no one forced him to do so. And assuredly nothing could happen, except what he liked. As he was leaving Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him, "Stop, stop!" He stopped the cart with a hurried movement in which there was something feverish and convulsive that resembled joy. It was the old woman's boy.
"Sir," he said, "it was I who got you the cart."
"Well?"
"You have given me nothing."
He who gave to all, and so easily, considered this demand exorbitant, and almost odious.
"Oh, it's you, scamp," he said; "well, you will not have anything."
He flogged his horse, which started again at a smart trot. He had lost much time at Hesdin, and would have liked to recover it. The little horse was courageous, and worked for two; but it was February, it had been raining, and the roads were bad. The cart too ran much more heavily than the tilbury, and there were numerous ascents. He took nearly four hours in going from Hesdin to St. Pol: four hours for five leagues! At St. Pol he pulled up at the first inn he came to, and had the horse put in a stable. As he had promised Scaufflaire, he stood near the crib while it was eating, and had troubled and confused thoughts. The landlady entered the stable.
"Do you not wish to breakfast, sir?"
"It is true," said he, "I am very hungry."
He followed the woman, who had a healthy, ruddy face; she led him to a ground-floor room, in which were tables covered with oil-cloth.
"Make haste," he remarked, "for I am in a great hurry."
A plump Flemish servant-girl hastened to lay the cloth, and he looked at her with a feeling of comfort.
"That was the trouble," he thought; "I had not breakfasted."
He pounced upon the bread, bit a mouthful, and then slowly laid it back on the table, and did not touch it again. A wagoner was sitting at another table, and he said to him, —
"Why is their bread so bitter?"
The wagoner was a German, and did not understand him; he returned to his horse. An hour later he had left St. Pol, and was proceeding toward Tinques, which is only five leagues from Arras. What did he do during the drive? What was he thinking of? As in the morning, he looked at the trees, the roofs, the ploughed fields, and the diversities of a landscape which every turn in the road changes, as he passed them. To see a thousand different objects for the first and last time is most melancholy! Travelling is birth and death at every moment. Perhaps in the vaguest region of his mind he made a comparison between the changing horizon and human existence, for everything in this life is continually flying before us. Shadow and light are blended; after a dazzling comes an eclipse; every event is a turn in the road, and all at once you are old. You feel something like a shock, all is black, you distinguish an obscure door, and the gloomy horse of life which dragged you, stops, and you see a veiled, unknown form unharnessing it. Twilight was setting in at the moment when the school-boys, leaving school, saw this traveller enter Tinques. He did not halt there, but as he left the village, a road-mender, who was laying stones, raised his head, and said to him, —
"Your horse is very tired."
The poor brute, in fact, could not get beyond a walk.
"Are you going to Arras?" the road-mender continued.
"Yes."
"If you go at that pace, you will not reach it very soon."
He stopped his horse, and asked the road-mender – ,
"How far is it from here to Arras?"
"Nearly seven long leagues."
"How so? The post-book says only five and a quarter leagues."
"Ah" the road-mender continued, "you do not know that the road is under repair; you will find it cut up about a mile farther on, and it is impossible to pass."
"Indeed!"
"You must take the road on the left, that runs to Carency, and cross the river; when you reach Camblin you will turn to the right, for it is the Mont St. Eloy road that runs to Arras."
"But I shall lose my way in the dark."
"You do not belong to these parts?"
"No."
"And it is a cross-road; stay, sir," the road-mender continued; "will you let me give you a piece of advice? Your horse is tired, so return to Tinques, where there is a good inn; sleep there, and go to Arras to-morrow."
"I must be there to-night."
"That is different. In that case go back to the inn all the same, and hire a second horse. The stable boy will act as your guide across the country."
He took the road-mender's advice, turned back, and half an hour after passed the same spot at a sharp trot with a strong second horse. A stable lad, who called himself a postilion, was sitting on the shafts of the cart. Still he felt that he had lost time, for it was now dark. They entered the cross-road, and it soon became frightful; the cart tumbled from one rut into another, but he said to the postilion, —
"Keep on at a trot, and I will give you a double fee."
In one of the jolts the whipple-tree broke.
"The whipple-tree is broken, sir," said the postilion, "and I do not know how to fasten my horse, and the road is very bad by night. If you will go back and sleep at Tinques, we can get to Arras at an early hour to-morrow."
He answered, "Have you a piece of rope and a knife?"
"Yes, sir."
He cut a branch and made a whipple-tree; it was a further loss of twenty minutes, but they started again at a gallop. The plain was dark, and a low, black fog was creeping over the hills. A heavy wind, which came from the sea, made in all the corners of the horizon a noise like that of furniture being moved. All that he could see had an attitude of terror, for how many things shudder beneath the mighty breath of night! The cold pierced him, for he had eaten nothing since the previous morning. He vaguely recalled his other night-excursion, on the great plain of D – eight years before, and it seemed to him to be yesterday. A clock struck from a distant steeple, and he asked the lad, —
"What o'clock is that?"
"Seven, sir, and we shall be at Arras by eight, for we have only three leagues to go."
At this moment he made for the first time this reflection – and considered it strange that it had not occurred to him before – that all the trouble he was taking was perhaps thrown away; he did not even know the hour for the trial, and he might at least have asked about that; it was extravagant to go on thus, without knowing if it would be of any service. Then he made some mental calculations: usually the sittings of assize courts began at nine o'clock; this matter would not occupy much time, the theft of the apples would be easily proved, and then there would be merely the identification, four or five witnesses to hear, and little for counsel to say. He would arrive when it was all over.
The postilion flogged the horses; they had crossed the river and left Mont St Hoy behind them; the night was growing more and more dark.
