Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774)

by Hugo, Victor; Donougher, Christine (TRN)

  ‘No wallet?’ he asked.

  ‘No watch either,’ said one of the men.

  ‘It’s what you’d expect,’ said the masked man with the key, in a voice like that of a ventriloquist … ‘He’s an old hand.’

  Thénardier, going across to the corner by the door, picked up a bundle of rope and tossed it to them.

  ‘Tie him to the foot of the bed,’ he said. He stood looking down at the old man, who was still lying motionless where he had been felled by Monsieur Leblanc’s fist. ‘Is Boulatruelle dead?’

  ‘He’s drunk, that’s all,’ said Bigrenaille.

  ‘Shift him out of the way,’ said Thénardier, and they rolled him over and dumped him by the heap of scrap-metal.

  ‘Look, Babet, why did you bring so many people?’ said Thénardier in an aside to the man with the cudgel.’ It’s more than we need.’

  ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ the other said.‘ They all wanted to be in on it. Business is slack just now.’

  The bed in question was something like a hospital bed, with four thick, roughly squared wooden bed-posts. Monsieur Leblanc still made no resistance. They roped him solidly, standing upright, to the post furthest from the window and nearest to the hearth.

  When this was done Thénardier moved a chair and sat down almost facing him. The transformation in Thénardier was extraordinary Within a few minutes his expression had changed from one of frenetic violence to a look of cool calculation. It was hard to believe that this politely smiling mouth was the same one that had been foaming in bestial frenzy so short a time before, and Marius, observing this sinister metamorphosis, felt the amazement of a man who sees a tiger transformed into an attorney.

  ‘Monsieur …’ Thénardier began. Breaking off, he waved away the men who were still holding Monsieur Leblanc. ‘Move back a little. I want to talk to the gentleman.’

  They withdrew towards the door, and he began again.

  ‘Monsieur, you were foolish to try to jump out of the window. You might have broken your leg. Now, if you will allow me, we will discuss things quietly. But first I must tell you of something that has astonished me. Throughout this meeting you have not uttered a single cry.’

  It was an undeniable fact, although Marius in his disturbed state had failed to notice it. The few words Monsieur Leblanc had spoken had been uttered without his having raised his voice. Even during the struggle by the window he had maintained a complete and singular silence.

  ‘You might have shouted for help,’ Thénardier went on.‘ I should not have been surprised if you had. It’s natural enough to do a bit of shouting when you find yourself surrounded by people whom you have cause to mistrust. We wouldn’t have tried to prevent you. We wouldn’t even have gagged you. And I’ll tell you why. It’s because this place is very sound-proof. There’s nothing else to be said for it, but there is that. You could explode a bomb in this room, and to the nearest police post it would sound like a drunkard’s snore. You could fire a cannon! So, you see, it’s a handy place. But you didn’t shout, and so much the better, I applaud your discretion. But shall I tell you the conclusion I draw from it? My dear sir, when anyone shouts for help who is most likely to answer? The police. And what comes after the police? – the law. So if you didn’t shout it’s because you are no more anxious to bring law and the police into the affair than we are ourselves. Which means – and I have long suspected this – that you have something to hide. The same applies to us. We have a common interest, and therefore we shall be able to come to terms.’

  While he talked in this fashion, Thénardier, with his eyes intent upon Monsieur Leblanc, seemed to be seeking to bore into his very soul. In his choice of language, the crafty moderation, and the undertone of insolence, one might catch a glimpse of the man who by his own avowal had once ‘studied to be a priest’.

  And to Marius, now that he was aware of it, it must be said that the prisoner’s strange conduct, his refusal to obey the natural impulse of any man in his situation, which amounted to a total disregard for his own safety, came as a painful shock. Thénardier’s shrewd observation served only to intensify the fog of mystery surrounding the aloof, enigmatic figure whom Courfeyrac had christened ‘Monsieur Leblanc’. But whatever he might be, as he stood there, bound with ropes and surrounded by a murderous gang, suspended as it were over a pit that seemed every minute to grow deeper, confronting with an equal impassiveness Thénardier’s venomous fury and his cool argument, Marius could not help admiring the dignified melancholy of his countenance. His was clearly a spirit inaccessible to fear and incapable of dismay. He was one of those men who rise above the astonishment of desperate circumstance. Great though this crisis was, inevitable though disaster seemed, there was in his eyes nothing of the wild stare of the drowning man who sinks for the last time.

  Rising casually to his feet, Thénardier went over to the fireplace and moved the screen, unmasking the glowing brazier in which the red-hot chisel was plainly discernible, its surface flecked with small points of light. Then he resumed his seat facing Monsieur Leblanc

  ‘To continue,’ he said. ‘We can come to terms. Let us do so amicably. I was wrong to fly into a rage in the way I did. I lost my head and talked extravagantly. I went too far. For example, I said that because you are a millionaire I intended to demand a great deal of money, an enormous amount. But that would not be reasonable. However rich you may be, you have expenses, as who has not? I have no wish to ruin you. I’m not a bloodsucker. I’m not one of those people who, because they have the upper hand, make ridiculous demands. I am prepared to meet you half-way and make concessions on my side. All I am asking is two hundred thousand francs.’

  Monsieur Leblanc said nothing. Thénardier continued:

  ‘As you see, I’m watering my wine to no small extent. I don’t know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you have little regard for money and that a man as addicted to good works as yourself can certainly spare two hundred thousand francs for the father of a family in unhappy circumstances. You are a reasonable man yourself, and you will not suppose that I have gone to the trouble of organizing this affair – and all these gentlemen will agree that it is well contrived – simply in order to be able to drink cheap wine and eat scrag-end of veal for the rest of my life. Two hundred thousand is what it is worth, and I give you my word that once this trifle has been handed over our business will be concluded and you will have nothing more to fear. You will, of course, point out that you haven’t got two hundred thousand francs on you. I am not so foolish as to have expected it. At the moment I am only asking one thing, that you will write a letter that I shall dictate.’

  Here Thénardier paused. Speaking with particular emphasis and with a sidelong, smiling glance at the brazier, he said:

  ‘I must warn you that it will not do for you to pretend you can’t write.’

  A Grand Inquisitor would have been envious of that smile.

  Thénardier moved the table close to Monsieur Leblanc. He then got pen and ink and a sheet of paper out of the drawer, which he left open, revealing that it also contained a long-bladed knife. He thrust the paper towards Monsieur Leblanc.

  ‘Now write,’ he said.

  For the first time the prisoner spoke.

  ‘How do you expect me to write with my arms bound?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Thénardier. ‘I apologize.’ He turned to Bigrenaille. ‘Untie the gentleman’s right arm.’

  The man did so, and when the prisoner’s right hand was free Thénardier dipped the pen in the ink and passed it to him.

  ‘You will please note, Monsieur, that you are completely at our mercy; but although no human power can save you, we should deeply regret having to proceed to unpleasant extremes. I do not know your name or your address, but I must warn you that you will remain bound until the messenger entrusted with the letter you are about to write has returned. I will now dictate.’

  Monsieur Leblanc held the pen poised. ‘My dear daughter –’ Thénardier began, and at
this the other started and stared at him. ‘No,’ said Thénardier. ‘Better make it, My dearest daughter.’ Monsieur Leblanc wrote accordingly, and he went on: ‘You are to come at once.’ Then he broke off. ‘I suppose you address her as tu?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Monsieur Leblanc.

  ‘The girl, of course,’ said Thénardier. ‘The child – the Lark.’

  Monsieur Leblanc said without the least sign of emotion:

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Thénardier and resumed his dictation: ‘… come at once. I need you very urgently. The bearer of this note will bring you to me. I shall be waiting. You have nothing to fear.’ Again he changed his mind. ‘No. Leave out that last sentence. It might make her suspicious. And now you must sign it. What is your name?’

  The prisoner put down his pen and asked:

  ‘Who is this letter for?’

  ‘You know perfectly well. It’s for the girl. I’ve already told you.’

  It was apparent that Thénardier wished to avoid naming the girl. He had talked about ‘the child’ and ‘the Lark’, but, with the prudence of a wary man resolved to keep his secret from his accomplices, he had given her no precise name. To have done so would have been to deliver the whole business into their hands and tell them more than they needed to know. He repeated:

  ‘Go on – sign it. What is your name?’

  ‘Urbain Fabre,’ the prisoner replied.

  With a catlike movement Thénardier plunged his hand in his pocket and whipped out the handkerchief taken from Monsieur Leblanc. He held it up to the light of the candle, inspecting it for initials.

  ‘U.F.,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign the letter U.F.’

  The prisoner did so.

  ‘And now give it to me. It needs two hands to fold it, so I’ll attend to that myself. Good,’ said Thénardier.’ Now you must address it – to Mademoiselle Fabre, at the place where you live. I know it isn’t far from here, somewhere near Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, because that’s where you attend Mass; but I don’t know the street. I see you understand the position. You haven’t lied to me about your name, so you won’t do so about your address. Write it yourself.’

  The prisoner reflected for a moment, then took up the pen and wrote:

  ‘To Mademoiselle Fabre, care of Monsieur Urbain Fabre, 17 Rue Saint-Dominique-d’Enfer.’

  Thénardier snatched up the letter with a sort of feverish excitement. ‘Wife,’ he called, and she hurried forward. ‘Here it is. You know what you have to do. There’s a fiacre down below. Get off at once and come back quick as you can.’

  He turned to the man with the pole-axe.

  ‘As you’ve taken your mask off you might as well go with her. Get up behind the fiacre. You know where it’s waiting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man, and dropping his pole-axe in a corner, he followed the woman out of the room. Thrusting his head round the door, Thénardier shouted after her: ‘Whatever you do, don’t lose that letter. Remember it’s worth two hundred thousand francs!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ her hoarse voice replied. ‘I’ve pushed it down my front.’

  In less than a minute they heard the cracking of a whip, which rapidly died away.

  ‘Good,’ grunted Thénardier. ‘They aren’t wasting any time. At that rate she’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour.’

  He moved one of the chairs and sat down with his arms folded and his muddy boots stretched out towards the brazier.

  ‘My feet are cold,’ he muttered.

  Five members of the gang were now left in the room with Thénardier and the prisoner. The men, with their masks or black-smeared faces, might have been taken for coal-miners, Negroes or demons, according to taste, and they gave the impression that they treated crime as a business, going about it calmly, without anger or pity, indeed with a sort of boredom. They were huddled silently in a corner, like so many animals. Thénardier toasted his feet. The prisoner had relapsed into silence. A gloomy quiet had succeeded the furious hubbub of so short a time before. The candle, its tallow spreading like a mushroom, scarcely lighted the big garret; the brazier was dying down, and the heads of the men cast monstrous shadows on the walls and ceiling. No sound was to be heard except the breathing of the old drunkard, now fast asleep.

  Marius waited in a state of anxiety which everything served to increase. The puzzle was more mystifying than ever. Who was the ‘child’ whom Thénardier had also called ‘the Lark’? Was it his ‘Ursula’? The prisoner had seemed quite unaffected by the mention of the Lark, and had answered in the most natural of voices, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ At least the riddle of the initials was now resolved. The U.F. stood for Urbain Fabre, and Ursula was not Ursula. This was the one thing that was clear to Marius. He stayed at his observation-post, kept there by a sort of hideous fascination, almost incapable of movement or reflection, as though paralysed by the abominable things he had witnessed. He was waiting upon events, in any case, unable to collect his thoughts or decide what he should do.

  ‘At least,’ he reflected, ‘if she is the Lark I shall know it, because the woman is going to bring her here. That will settle the matter. I will sacrifice my life to save her, if need be. Nothing shall prevent me.’

  Nearly half an hour passed. Thénardier seemed lost in his own dark thoughts. The prisoner did not move. Nevertheless it seemed to Marius that now and then a slight, furtive sound came from his direction. But suddenly Thénardier turned to him.

  ‘Monsieur Fabre,’ he said, ‘I may as well tell you this at once.’

  Marius pricked up his ears. It sounded like the beginning of a disclosure.

  ‘My wife will be back, we have only to wait. I believe the Lark is truly your daughter, and it’s only right that you should have her. But listen. My wife will take her the letter. I told her to dress herself respectably, as you saw, so the young lady will have no misgivings about accompanying her. They will get into the fiacre, with my friend up at the back. But another cab will be waiting at a spot outside one of the gates with two excellent horses. The girl will be transferred to this, with my friend, and my wife will come back here to report that everything is in order. No one is going to harm your young lady. She’ll be taken to a safe place and returned to you when the two hundred thousand francs has been paid. But if you should do anything to bring about my arrest, that will be unfortunate for the Lark. You understand?’

  The prisoner said nothing. After a pause Thénardier concluded:

  ‘You see, it’s quite simple. Nothing bad will happen unless you bring it about. I’m only warning you.’

  He paused again, and again the prisoner said nothing.

  ‘As soon as my wife reports that the Lark is on her way,’ said Thénardier, ‘we will release you and you will be free to sleep in your own bed. As you see, we have no evil intentions.’

  Marius was so appalled that his heart seemed to stop beating. The girl was not to be brought here but conveyed to some unknown destination! He could not seriously doubt who the girl was. And what was he to do? Fire the warning shot and deliver these villains into the hands of the police? But the man who had gone with the woman would still be free, and he would have the girl; and Marius recalled Thénardier’s ominous words – that will be unfortunate for the Lark’… It was not only his father’s injunction that now made Marius hold his hand, but the danger that threatened his beloved.

  The time dragged by. His dilemma seemed more hideous with every minute that passed. Marius reviewed the heart-rending possibilities, seeking desperately for a ray of hope and finding none, the tumult in his mind strangely contrasting with the funereal silence of the room.

  At length the silence was broken by the sound of the house-door opening and closing. The prisoner stirred in his bonds.

  ‘Here she is,’ said Thénardier.

  And a moment later the woman rushed into the room, flushed and breathless, her eyes glaring, banging her la
rge hands against her thighs.

  ‘It was a fake address!’ she cried.

  Her escort, following her in, picked up his pole-axe.

  ‘A fake?’ Thénardier repeated.

  ‘There’s no Monsieur Urbain Fabre at 17, Rue Saint-Dominique! They’ve never heard of him!’ She spluttered and went on: ‘The old man’s been fooling you, Monsieur Thénardier. You’re too good, that’s the trouble. Me, I’d have carved his face up for a start, and if he still wouldn’t talk I’d have roasted him until he told us where the girl is and how to get the money. But men haven’t the sense of women. There’s no Monsieur Fabre at Number 17. It’s a big house with a courtyard and a door-keeper and everything, and I tipped him and talked to him and his wife, who is a fine-looking woman, and they know nothing about him.’

  Marius breathed again. So the girl at least was safe – Ursula or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her.

  While his infuriated wife was vociferating, Thénardier had seated himself on the table. He sat there in silence for some moments, swinging his right leg and gazing with a savage satisfaction at the brazier. Then he turned to the prisoner and said slowly, and in a tone of singular ferocity:

  ‘A false address. What did you expect to gain by that?’

  ‘Time!’ cried the prisoner in a ringing voice, and at the same moment he shook off the ropes that bound him. They had been cut. He was now only tied to the bed by one leg.

  Before the other men had had time to realize what was happening he had reached out a hand to the brazier and then again stood upright. Thénardier, the woman, and the party of ruffians, clustered in stupefaction at the other end of the room, saw him defiantly facing them, holding the red-hot chisel by its wooden handle above his head.

  It was revealed at the judicial inquiry into the affair at the Gorbeau tenement that the police, when they searched the garret, found a large coin which had been cut and worked in a particular fashion. It was one of those marvels of craftsmanship fashioned under cover of darkness, and for the purposes of darkness, with the patience engendered by imprisonment, and which are intended solely to serve as instruments of escape. These ugly and delicate products of immense skill are to the jeweller’s art what the argot of the underworld is to poetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the prisons, just as in our common slang there are Villons. The wretch determined to escape contrives, sometimes with no other tool than a worn knife-blade, to slice a copper coin in two thin sheets; he hollows them out without disturbing the design impressed on them, and then cuts a thread so that the two sheets can be screwed together, forming a box that he can open at will. Within the box a watchspring is concealed; and a watchspring, properly handled, will cut through a thick rope or an iron bar. The poor devil seems to possess nothing more than a penny piece, but he holds the key to liberty. The two halves of a coin of this kind were discovered under the bed by the window, and near them a tiny blue-steel saw which fitted inside. It is probable that the prisoner managed to conceal it in his hand while he was being searched and later unscrewed it when his hand was freed. He had used the saw to cut through the bonds, which would explain the slight sounds and furtive movements noticed by Marius; but he could not bend down for fear of giving himself away, and so had not been able to cut the rope binding his left leg.