Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774)

by Hugo, Victor; Donougher, Christine (TRN)

  ‘Poor horse,’ sighed Fantine, and Dahlia exclaimed, ‘Well, listen to her, making a fuss about a horse.’

  But Favourite, taking advantage of the diversion, confronted Tholomyès with a resolute expression, arms crossed and head thrust back.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘and what about the surprise?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Tholomyès. ‘The time has come. Gentlemen, it is time for us to surprise our ladies. Ladies, we must ask you to wait here for a few minutes.’

  ‘It begins with a kiss,’ said Blachevelle.

  ‘On the forehead,’ said Tholomyès.

  Each solemnly kissed his mistress on the forehead; then the four young men moved in single file to the door, each with a finger to his lips.

  Favourite clapped her hands as they went out.

  ‘It’s fun already,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t be too long. We shall be waiting,’ murmured Fantine.

  IX

  Merry end to happiness

  The girls, left to themselves, leaned in pairs on the two windowsills and chattered as they gazed down into the street. They saw the young men come out arm-in-arm and turn to wave gaily before disappearing in the dusty Sunday hubbub of the Champs-Élysées.

  ‘Don’t be long!’ called Fantine.

  ‘What do you think they’ll bring us?’ said Zéphine.

  ‘Something nice, I’m sure,’ said Dahlia.

  ‘Me,’ said Favourite, ‘I hope it will be something in gold.’

  Their attention was presently caught by a stir of activity at the water’s edge which was visible through the trees. It was the hour of departure for mails and diligences, when nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed by way of the Champs-Élysées, generally following the river embankment and leaving the town by the Passy gate. Great yellow- and black-painted vehicles with jingling harness drove by at short intervals, swaying under their canvas-covered load of travellers’ luggage, packed with briefly glimpsed heads, grinding the cobblestones to dust and thundering past the crowd in a shower of sparks as though they were manned by furies. This commotion delighted the girls.

  ‘Heavens, the noise!’ said Favourite. ‘They’re like heaps of old iron trying to fly.’

  One of these conveyances, of which they had only a glimpse through a thick cluster of elms, stopped for a moment and then drove on at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.

  ‘Surely that’s unusual,’ she said. ‘I thought the stage-coaches never stopped.’

  Favourite made a gesture.

  ‘Fantine is wonderful,’ she said. ‘I never cease to marvel. She’s amazed by the most ordinary things. Listen, dear. Suppose I’m a passenger and I say to the driver, “I’m going on ahead. I’ll be on the embankment, and you can pick me up as you pass.” So the driver watches out for me and picks me up. It happens every day. My love, you know nothing about life.’

  Some time passed in chatter of this kind and presently a thought struck Favourite.

  ‘Well!’ she said. ‘What about this surprise?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dahlia, ‘the great surprise.’

  ’They’re being very slow,’ sighed Fantine.

  As she finished sighing the waiter who had served their meal entered. He had something that looked like a letter in his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Favourite.

  ‘It was left behind by the gentlemen, to be handed to the ladies.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you bring it to us at once?’

  Favourite snatched it from him and found that it was indeed a sealed letter.

  ‘There’s no address,’ she said. ‘But this is what is written outside: “Here is the Surprise.” ’

  She hurriedly broke the seal, unfolded the sheet and read aloud (she was the one who could read):

  Beloved mistresses!

  Be it known to you that we have parents. The word is one that means little to you, but in the simple and honourable definition of the Code Civil it means fathers and mothers. And they are distressed, these excellent old people. They want us back. They call us prodigals and promise to kill the fatted calf upon our return. Being dutiful, we obey. When you read these lines five fiery horses will be taking us home to our papas and mammas. We are clearing out – going, going, gone – taking flight on the arms and wings of Laffitte and Caillard, those worthy coach-proprietors. The Toulouse coach is rescuing us from the primrose path which is yourselves, sweet loves. We are returning to the ways of society, duty and good behaviour at a steady trot of three leagues an hour. Our country requires that, like everyone else, we should become prefects, fathers of families, rural guards and Councillors of State. Honour us for our self-sacrifice. Weep for us a little and speedily replace us. If this letter rends your hearts, treat it in a like fashion. Adieu.

  For nearly two years we have made you happy. Do not bear us ill-will.

  Signed: Blachevelle

  Fameuil

  Listolier

  Félix Tholomyès

  Post-Scriptum. The dinner is paid for.

  The four girls gazed at one another.

  Favourite was the first to break the silence.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘it’s a good joke.’

  ‘It’s very funny,’ said Zéphine.

  ‘I’m sure it was Blachevelle’s idea,’ said Favourite. ‘It makes me quite in love with him. No sooner lost than loved. That’s how things are.’

  ‘No,’ said Dahlia, ‘it was Tholomyès’s idea. It’s typical.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Favourite, ‘down with Blachevelle and long live Tholomyès!’

  ‘Long live Tholomyès!’ cried Dahlia and Zéphine and burst out laughing.

  Fantine joined in the laughter; but when, an hour later, she was back in her room she wept bitterly. It was her first love, as we have said. She had given herself to Tholomyès as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.

  Book Four

  To Trust is Sometimes to Surrender

  I

  A meeting between mothers

  DURING THE first quarter of this century, in the village of Mont-fermeil not far from Paris, there existed a small tavern which has since disappeared. It was kept by a couple called Thénardier and was situated in the Ruelle du Boulanger. Nailed to the wall over the door was a board with a painted design depicting a soldier carrying another on his back, the latter clad in the starred and braided uniform of a general. Splashes of red paint represented blood, and the rest of the picture was filled with what was presumably the smoke of battle. Across the bottom ran the inscription: ‘The Sergeant of Waterloo’.

  Nothing is more commonplace than a cart or wagon outside a tavern, but the vehicle, or remains of a vehicle, which was to be seen outside the Sergeant of Waterloo on a certain spring evening in 1818 must surely have attracted the notice of a passing painter by its massive proportions. It was the fore-part of one of those drags used by foresters for carrying sawn timbers and tree-trunks, consisting of a massive iron pivot with an axle-shaft and two very large wheels. The general effect, resembling the gun-carriage of an enormous cannon, was lumbering and shapeless. Wheels, hubs, and shaft were smothered in a thick coating of yellow mud not unlike the plaster sometimes daubed on cathedrals. The woodwork was hidden under mud and the metalwork under rust, and from the axle there hung in loops a great chain that could have served to secure a criminal Goliath. It might have been designed for the harnessing of mastodons rather than the transport of timber; and it had a look of prison about it, superhuman fetters that could have been struck off the limbs of some monster. Homer might have associated it with Polyphemus, Shakespeare with Caliban.

  What was it doing there? It served no purpose except to block the street until it mouldered into dust. Our ancient social order is filled with similar encumbrances, surviving for no other reason.

  The lower part of the looped chain hung close to the ground, and seated on it as though it were a swing, forming a pretty group, were two little girls, the elder, age
d about two and a half, holding the younger, aged eighteen months, in her arms. A shawl had been carefully tied to prevent them falling. Some mother, seeing that unsightly chain, had thought, ‘What a nice toy for the children.’

  The two children, who looked well cared-for, were clearly delighted with it. They were like roses on a scrap-heap, their eyes bright, their pink cheeks round with laughter. One was russet-haired, the other dark. The innocent faces shone with excitement, and the smaller of the two, with the chaste indecency of childhood, displayed a stretch of bare stomach. Above and around this picture of happiness loomed the piece of monstrous, mud-coated wreckage, its uncouth, twisted shape causing it to resemble the mouth of a cavern. The mother, a woman of no very attractive appearance but likeable at that moment, was seated a few yards away in the doorway of the tavern, swinging the children by pulling on a length of string, while at the same time she kept an eye on them with that protective watchfulness, half animal, half angelic, which is the quality of motherhood. With every movement the rusty links emitted a screech like a cry of protest; the children squealed with delight, the glow of sunset shone upon their rapture and nothing could have been more charming than this freak of chance that had turned an ugly monstrosity into a swing for cherubs.

  While she swung the children, the mother was tunelessly singing a popular sentimental ditty of the moment. Her preoccupation with this, and with them, caused her to ignore what was going on in the street. But suddenly a voice spoke from close beside her.

  ‘You have two very pretty children, Madame.’

  The mother broke off her song and looked round. A young woman was standing near her. She too had a child which she held in her arms. She also had with her a large travelling-bag which looked very heavy.

  The child was the most enchanting creature imaginable, a little girl of between two and three, the prettiness of whose attire matched that of the innkeeper’s children. She wore a linen bonnet trimmed with Valenciennes lace, and a ribboned frock whose rumpled skirt disclosed a firm white dimpled thigh. She was apple-cheeked, pink, and healthy. Nothing could be seen of her closed eyes except that they were large with very long lashes. She was sleeping in her mother’s arms with the perfect confidence of her age.

  The mother, who seemed poor and unhappy, had the look of a town worker reverting to her peasant state. She was young and perhaps pretty but the clothes she was wearing did not allow this to appear. A single lock of her seemingly abundant fair hair had escaped from beneath the tight, plain cap that she wore tied under her chin. A smile might have shown that she had fine teeth, but she did not smile; she looked indeed as though it were a long time since she had been dry-eyed. She was pale and evidently tired, and her gaze, as she glanced at her sleeping child, was one of intense solicitude. A large blue kerchief, like an invalid’s shawl, draped the upper part of her body, with beneath it a calico dress and thick shoes, and over all a cloak of coarse wool. Her hands were rough and freckled, one forefinger pricked and calloused. It was Fantine.

  It was Fantine, but scarcely to be recognized, although a closer examination would have shown that she still retained her beauty. But now a line of sadness, like the beginning of cynicism, ran down her right cheek. The airy garments, the gauzes and muslins, the gaiety and music, all this had vanished like the sparkle of hoarfrost from a tree, leaving only the blackened branches behind.

  Ten months had elapsed since the ‘merry prank’, and it is not hard to imagine what had happened in that time.

  After heedlessness had come the reckoning. Fantine had at once lost touch with Favourite, Zéphine, and Dahlia. The bond broken by the men had been cast aside by the women, and they would have been surprised a fortnight later if anyone had reminded them that they had once been friends, since now their friendship served no purpose. Fantine was left in solitude. Being abandoned by the father of her child – and such partings, alas, are irrevocable – she was thrown entirely on her own resources, having lost the habit of work and gained an aptitude for pleasure. The liaison with Tholomyès had caused her to despise her former calling; she had neglected the employments that had once been open to her and now had lost them. Nothing else was offered. She could scarcely read and could not write, having been taught as a child only to sign her name. She paid a letter-writer to write to Tholomyès, three letters in all, but he did not answer. She heard the street gossips murmur as they looked at her child, ‘Does any man worry about these by-blows? They simply shrug their shoulders’ – and her heart was hardened towards Tholomyès. What was she to do now, where was she to turn? She had done wrong, but she was essentially modest and virtuous. Perceiving the depth of degradation that threatened her, she had the fortitude to resist it. She resolved to return to her native town, Montreuil-sur-mer, where someone who knew her might give her work. It meant that she would have to conceal the evidence of her wrong-doing, and confusedly she foresaw another separation, even more heartrending than the first. But she held to her resolution. Fantine, as we shall see, possessed great courage in the face of life.

  She had already renounced all personal adornment, wearing the plainest clothes and reserving her silks and laces for her daughter, her one remaining vanity and one which she held sacred. She sold all her possessions, which produced two hundred francs, but only eighty remained after her debts were paid. And on a fine spring morning she left Paris, a girl of twenty-two with her baby on her back. Those who saw them pass may well have pitied them. The girl had nothing in the world except her child, the child nothing except her mother. Fantine had breast-fed her, and this had weakened her chest, causing her to cough a little.

  We shall have no further occasion to mention Monsieur Félix Tholomyès. It is enough to say that twenty years later, under King Louis-Philippe, he had become an influential, rich, and portly provincial attorney, a prudent voter and stern magistrate; but always a man of pleasure.

  In the early afternoon, having travelled a part of the way at the cost of a few sous in one of the small public conveyances which then operated on the outskirts of Paris, Fantine reached Montfermeil and presently found herself in the Ruelle du Boulanger. Passing the Thénardiers’ tavern, she had seen the two children on their improvised swing. There are sights which cast a spell, and for the young mother this was one of them. She stood gazing in enchantment, seeming to see in them the pointing finger of Providence itself. They were so evidently happy! Such was her delight that when the mother paused for breath between two lines of her song she could not refrain from murmuring:

  ‘You have two very pretty children.’

  The fiercest animals are disarmed by a tribute to their young. The mother thanked her and invited her to sit on the bench by the door while she herself remained seated on the step.

  ‘My name is Thénardier,’ she said. ‘My husband and I keep this inn.’

  This Madame Thénardier was robust, big-boned, and redheaded, a typical soldier’s woman with the roughness characteristic of her kind, yet, oddly, with a hint of sentiment, a kind of mannish simper which she owed to her fondness for popular fiction, those fustian romances which cater for the fantasy of shop girls and tavern-wenches. She was still young, not more than thirty. Had she been standing upright, instead of sitting crouched in the doorway, her height and general look of a fair-ground wrestler might have alarmed the stranger and so shaken her confidence as to prevent the events to be related from taking place. Destinies may be decided by the fact that a person is seated and not standing.

  Fantine told her story, altering it slightly. She was a working woman whose husband had died, and since she could not find work in Paris she was on her way to look for it in her own part of the country. She had left Paris on foot that morning, had travelled part of the way in a country omnibus and had walked from Villemomble to Montfermeil. Her little girl had walked a part of the way but was still very small; in the end she had had to pick her up, and the poor love had fallen asleep.

  As she spoke these words she gave her daughter a most loving kiss, wak
ing her up. The child opened wide eyes as blue as her mother’s and gazing at the world saw what? – nothing and everything, with that intent, sometimes stem expression of small children which is among the marvels of their shining innocence, in contrast to our own sullied virtues. It is as though they know themselves to be angels and the rest of us only human. Then she laughed and, although her mother tried to restrain her, wriggled free with the irresistible vigour of a child who wants to be on the move. Seeing the other children on their swing she stopped short and put out her tongue in token of delight. Mme Thénardier lifted the little girls off the swing and said:

  ‘Now you can all play together.’

  Friendly relations are soon established at that age. In a matter of minutes the three were busily digging holes in the ground, to their great satisfaction. The newcomer had a self-assured gaiety which reflected her mother’s devotion. She had found a scrap of wood to use as a spade and was energetically digging what might have been a mouse’s grave – even a gravedigger’s work is charming when done by a child.

  The two women went on talking.

  ‘What’s your little girl’s name?’

  ‘Cosette.’

  In fact, it was Euphrasie, but the mother had turned it into Cosette by the use of that touching alchemy of simple people which transforms Josef into Pepita and Françoise into Silette. It is a kind of linguistics which baffles the etymologist. We once knew a grandmother who contrived to turn Theodore into Gnon.

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Nearly three.’

  The little girls were now grouped in a posture of dismay and excitement. Something had happened. They had uncovered a large worm and were at once frightened and ecstatic. Huddled together with their heads touching, they seemed to be enclosed in a halo.

  ‘It’s wonderful how quickly children get to know each other,’ said Mme Thénardier. ‘Look at them. They might all be sisters.’