‘Scauffaire?’ And suddenly a light dawned. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Scaufflaire.’
Had the old woman been able to see his expression at that moment she would have been frightened out of her wits.
There was a pause. He was staring stupidly at the candle, and, scraping up a little of the melted wax, he rolled it into a ball between his fingers. The old woman waited and at length ventured to raise her voice.
‘Monsieur le maire, what am I to say to him?’
‘Tell him to wait. I’m coming down.’
V
Spokes in the wheel
The postal service between Arras and Montreuil-sur-mer in those days still made use of small conveyances dating from the time of the Empire. They were two-wheel carts upholstered inside with rough leather, mounted on cylindrical springs and having two seats, one for the driver and one for a passenger. The wheels were fitted with those long, aggressive hubs that keep other vehicles at a distance and are still to be seen in Germany. The very large oblong mailbox was built into the back and painted black, while the trap itself was yellow.
We have nothing like them today. They had an oddly humpbacked appearance, and seen from far off, as they came into sight on the crest of a hill, they resembled the insects known, I think, as termites, which can pull a load much bigger than themselves. They travelled very fast. The post-cart which left Arras at one o’clock in the morning, having picked up the Paris mail, reached Montreuil-sur-mer a little before five.
As it approached the town that morning, coming down the slope from Hesdin, the post-cart clashed on a bend in the road with a small tilbury with a white horse which was being driven in the opposite direction by its sole occupant, a man in a greatcoat. The wheel of the tilbury received a heavy blow. The postman called to the driver to stop, but he took no notice and drove on at a fast trot.
‘He’s in a devil of a hurry,’ the postman said.
Where was he going, this man in a hurry whose tribulations must surely have moved us to compassion? He could not have said. Why was he driving so fast? He did not know. He was driving blindly, he did not know where. To Arras, certainly; but perhaps to another place as well. He realized this at moments and shuddered.
He was driving through the darkness as though into an abyss. Something thrust him forward and something drew him on. His state of mind was such as no words can describe but all men will understand. Is there any man who, once at least in his life, has not found himself in that blackness of uncertainty? He had resolved nothing, decided nothing, settled nothing. Out of all his agonies of conscience no finality had emerged. More than ever he was back where he had started.
Why, then, was he going to Arras?
He repeated the arguments he had used when he hired the tilbury – that whatever the outcome it could do no harm for him to see with his own eyes and decide for himself; that it was even prudent, since he needed to know what took place; that no judgement could be formed except through firsthand observation and considered scrutiny; that distance made molehills into mountains, and when he set eyes on this Champmathieu, and saw him to be the worthless creature he doubtless was, he might well find it within his conscience to let him go to prison in his place. It was true that Javert would be there, as well as Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille, convicts who had known him in the past; but they would never recognize him in the Madeleine he now was. The thing was inconceivable. Even Javert had been completely misled. Suspicion and conjecture – than which nothing is more pig-headed – were entirely concentrated on Champmathieu.
So he was in no danger. This was a dark moment in his life, but one that he could live through. When all was said, his fate, however ugly it might prove to be, was in his own hands; he was its master. He clung to this thought.
In his heart he would have preferred not to go to Arras.
However he was going there, and he whipped up his horse, keeping it to the steady trot which covers seven or eight miles in an hour, but feeling something shrink within him as he drew nearer.
By daybreak he was in open country with Montreuil-sur-mer a good distance behind him. He watched the skyline grow light, and was aware, without observing it, of the chilly aspect of a winter’s dawn. Morning, like evening, has its ghosts. He did not see them but was still conscious, as though by their physical presence, of the dark shapes of trees and hills making their mournful contribution to his violently agitated state of mind. Passing an occasional isolated house at the side of the road, he thought to himself, ‘And there are people still sleeping!’ The clop of the horse’s hoofs, the jingle of harness and the clatter of the wheels over cobbles were a monotonous accompaniment to his thoughts – delightful sounds when we are in good spirits, but most dismal when we are melancholy.
It was broad daylight when he reached Hesdin, where he stopped at an inn to rest and feed his horse.
The horse, as Scaufflaire had said, was of the small, Boulonnais stock, overlarge in the head and belly and short in the neck, but with a broad chest and wide rump, stringy legs and sure feet; an unbeautiful breed, but healthy and robust. It had covered five leagues in two hours and there was no sweat on its flanks.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stable-lad who brought the oats bent down suddenly to examine the left wheel and asked:
‘Are you going far like this?’
He answered absently: ‘Why?’
‘Have you come far?’ the boy asked.
‘About five leagues.’
‘Ah.’
‘What does that “ah” mean?’
The boy took another close look at the wheel and then stood up.
‘That wheel may have lasted for five leagues, but it certainly won’t do more than another half league.’
He jumped down from the tilbury. ‘Why do you say that, lad?’
‘I say it’s a marvel you’ve done as much as five leagues without going into the ditch. You can see for yourself.’
The wheel was, in fact, badly damaged. The clash with the post-cart had cracked two spokes and loosened the hub.
‘Is there a wheelwright handy?’ Madeleine asked.
‘Certainly, Monsieur.’
‘Will you be so good as to fetch him.’
‘He’s next door – hey, Maître Bourgaillard!’
Maître Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing in his doorway. He came over to look at the wheel and pursed his lips like a surgeon over a broken leg.
‘Can you repair it for me immediately?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘When shall I be able to leave?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘It will take a good day’s work. Is Monsieur in a great hurry?’
‘A very great hurry. I must be on my way in an hour at the most.’
‘Monsieur, that is impossible.’
‘I’ll pay whatever you ask.’
‘It can’t be done.’
‘Well then, two hours.’
‘It still can’t be done. I shall have to make two new spokes and a hub. Monsieur will not be able to leave before tomorrow.’
‘My business won’t wait until tomorrow. If you can’t repair the wheel, can you replace it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re a wheelwright. Can you not sell me a new wheel? Then I could get on at once.’
‘A single wheel? I haven’t one that would fit. Wheels go in pairs, Monsieur. They have to match.’
‘Then let me have a pair.’
‘But all wheels don’t fit all axles, Monsieur.’
‘You can at least try.’
‘It wouldn’t do, Monsieur. I only have cartwheels to sell. We’re small people in these parts.’
‘Have you a gig for hire?’
The wheelwright had seen at a glance that the tilbury was hired. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘You make a fine mess of the things you hire. I wouldn’t let you have one even if I could.’
‘Wil
l you sell me one?’
‘I haven’t got one to sell.’
‘Not a light carriage of any kind? I’m not particular.’
‘This is a small village. All the same,’ said the wheelwright, ‘there’s an old barouche which I house in my shed for a gentleman from the town who only uses it once in a month of Sundays. No reason why I shoudn’t hire you that one provided the owner doesn’t know. But it’s a barouche, like I said. It needs two horses.’
‘I’ll hire post-horses.’
‘Where would your honour be going?’
‘To Arras.’
‘And you want to arrive today?’
‘I must.’
‘It wouldn’t do for you to arrive at four in the morning?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well, you see, when it comes to hiring post-horses … Your honour has identity papers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you can hire post-horses but you still won’t get to Arras before tomorrow. This is a side-road and the stages are badly served. And it’s the start of the ploughing season when the farmers need big teams. They get horses wherever they can, from the posts or anywhere else. You’d have to wait three or four hours at every stage. And you’d be going at a walk. There are a lot of hills.’
‘Then I shall have to ride. Will you please unharness the tilbury. I take it someone can sell me a saddle.’
‘Yes. But is this a saddle-horse?’
‘Ah. It’s as well you reminded me. It won’t take a saddle.’
‘In that case …’
‘Surely there’s a horse in the village I can hire?’
‘To go from here to Arras in one stretch? It would take a better horse than you’ll find in these parts. You’d have to buy it in any case, because you aren’t known round here. But you’d never get one, even if you offered a thousand francs.’
‘Then what am I to do?’
‘The only honest advice I can give you is to let me repair the wheel and go on tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow will be too late.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Isn’t there a mail that goes to Arras? When does it arrive here?’
‘Tonight. The mails both travel at night, one up, one down.’
‘And it will really take a whole day’s work to repair this wheel?’
‘A long one at that.’
‘Even if you put two men on it?’
‘Even if I put ten.’
‘Can’t you bind the spokes with twine?’
‘Yes, perhaps; but that won’t mend the hub. And the felloe’s in bad shape.’
‘Is there anyone in the town with carriages for hire?’
‘No.’
‘Is there another wheelwright?’
The stable-boy and Maître Bourgaillard both shook their heads.
Madeleine felt a sense of overwhelming relief.
Clearly this was the work of Providence. It was by pure mischance that his wheel had been broken, a gesture on the part of Providence that at first he had ignored. He had done everything in his power to continue his journey, scrupulously examining every possibility. He had not let himself be put off by the season of the year, by fatigue, or by the cost. He had no cause to reproach himself. If he could get no further it was not his doing; Providence alone was to blame.
He drew a deep breath, able for the first time since Javert’s visit to breathe freely, feeling that the iron band which for twenty hours had constricted his chest was now loosened. God was on his side and had declared the fact. He told himself that he had done his utmost and might now turn back with his conscience at rest.
If this conversation had taken place inside the inn, without being overheard, it is probable that the matter would have ended there, and that the long train of events which were to follow would never have occurred. But a conversation in a village street invariably attracts an audience. There are always people who want to hear. A group of spectators had gathered round them while he was questioning the wheelwright, among them a boy who slipped unnoticed out of the circle and broke into a run.
Just as Madeleine was finally making up his mind, this youngster returned, bringing with him an elderly woman.
‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘my boy tells me that you want to hire a gig.’
The harmless words, so inoffensively uttered, made him break into a cold sweat. The hand that had had him by the throat seemed to re-emerge from the darkness he thought he had left behind him, preparing to renew its grip.
He answered, ‘That is true, Madame. I do wish to hire a gig.’ And then he said quickly: ‘But there isn’t one to be had.’
‘But there is,’ the woman said.
‘Where is it?’ asked the wheelwright.
‘In my yard.’
Madeleine trembled. The hand had seized him again.
The old woman did indeed possess a sort of gig with a wicker body which she kept under a lean-to shed in her yard. The stable-boy and the wheelwright, disconsolate at losing a customer, both vigorously decried it. It was a wreck, they said – a box mounted unsprung on its axle, with seats slung on leather straps – open to the weather – wheels rusted and rotten with damp – no more fit to take the road than the tilbury – the gentleman would be mad to trust himself to it – and so on …
All this was true, but decrepit though it was, the vehicle had both its wheels and might still get him to Arras.
He paid what was asked, left the tilbury to be repaired by the wheelwright, had the white horse harnessed to the gig, got in and continued on his way.
He confessed to himself as he started that a very short time before he had rejoiced in the thought that he need go no further: now he looked back on this rejoicing with a kind of anger, finding it absurd. Why take pleasure in retreat? After all, he had undertaken this journey of his own free will, no one had compelled him. And certainly nothing would come of it unless he decided otherwise.
As he was leaving Hesdin he heard a voice calling to him, ‘Stop! Stop!’ He pulled up sharply, with a gesture of convulsive eagerness akin to hope.
It was the boy, the old woman’s servant.
‘Monsieur, I’m the one who found the gig for you.’
‘Well?’
‘You haven’t given me anything.’
Open-handed though he normally was, he found this demand excessive and almost nauseating.
‘So that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘You’ll get nothing from me.’
He whipped up his horse and drove on.
He would have liked to make up the time he had lost in Hesdin. The little horse was sturdy and very willing, but the month was February, there had been rain and the roads were in a bad state. Moreover this gig was heavy and sluggish compared with the tilbury and there were a great many hills. It took him nearly four hours to reach Saint-Pol, a distance of perhaps fifteen miles.
He had the horse unharnessed and taken round to the stable at the first inn he came to, and, as he had promised Scaufflaire, he watched while it was fed. His thoughts were sombre and confused.
The innkeeper’s wife came out to the stable.
‘Is not Monsieur going to dine?’
‘Why yes,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m hungry.’
She was a woman with a fresh, cheerful face. He followed her into a low-ceilinged room with oilcloth on the tables.
‘You must be quick,’ he said. ‘I have very little time.’
A plump Flemish maid hurriedly laid a place for him and he looked at her with a sense of reassurance.
‘That’s what’s wrong with me,’ he thought ‘I’ve had no breakfast.’
His meal was served. He snatched up a piece of bread, swallowed a mouthful, then put it down and ate no more. Turning to a carter at the next table he said:
‘Why is the bread here so bitter?’
The man was German and did not understand.
An hour later he had left Saint-Pol and was heading for Tinques, which is some twelve miles from Arras.
What were his thoughts during this part of the journey? As in the morning he watched the passing of trees, thatched roofs, tilled fields, the changing vistas appearing at every bend in the road, an occupation soothing to the spirit that may almost take the place of thought. Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time. To journey is to be born and the each minute. Perhaps somewhere in the vague recesses of his mind he perceived parallels between this series of dissolving views and our human life. All the elements of life are in constant flight from us, with darkness and clarity intermingled, the vision and the eclipse; we look and hasten, reaching out our hands to clutch; every happening is a bend in the road … and suddenly we have grown old. We have a sense of shock and gathering darkness; ahead is a black doorway; the life that bore us is a flagging horse, and a veiled stranger is waiting in the shadows to unharness it.
Twilight was gathering when the children coming out of school in Tinques saw the traveller enter the village. These were indeed the shortest days in the year. He did not stop in Tinques, and as he was leaving it a roadmender looked up and said:
‘That’s a very tired horse.’
The poor beast could indeed only manage a walk.
‘Are you going to Arras?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’
‘At the rate you’re going you’ll be a long time getting there.’
He reined in the horse and asked: ‘How far is it?’
‘A good seven leagues.’
‘What! But the postal guide makes it five and a quarter.’
‘Ah, but the road’s up for repair. You’ll find it closed a quarter of an hour from here. You’ll have to go round. You turn left for Carency, you cross the river and then turn right when you get to Camblin. That’s the Mont-Saint-Eloy road, which goes to Arras.’
‘But it’s getting dark. I shall lose my way.’
‘You don’t live in these parts?’
‘No.’
‘And it’s all side-lanes. If you want my advice, Monsieur,’ said the roadman, ‘you’ll go back to Tinques and stop the night. There’s a good inn, and your horse is worn out. You can go on to Arras in the morning.’
‘But I have to be there this evening.’
Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774) Page 27