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MARIUS INDIGENT
Life became hard for Marius.
It was nothing to eat his clothes and his watch.
He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is called
de la vache enrage; that is to say, he endured great hardships
and privations.
A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread, nights
without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a fire,
weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the elbows,
an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door which
one finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid,
the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers
of neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever
nature accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency.
Marius learned how all this is eaten, and how such are often
the only things which one has to devour.
At that moment of his existence when a man needs his pride,
because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he
was badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the
age when youth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped
his eyes more than once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew
the unjust shame and the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable
and terrible trial from which the feeble emerge base, from which
the strong emerge sublime.
A crucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires
a scoundrel or a demi-god.
For many great deeds are performed in petty combats.
There are instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which
defend themselves step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities
and turpitudes. Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds,
which are requited with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet
blast. Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are
the fields of battle which have their heroes; obscure heroes,
who are, sometimes, grander than the heroes who win renown.
Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always
a step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth
to might of soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness
is a good milk for the magnanimous.
There came a moment in Marius' life, when he swept his own
landing, when he bought his sou's worth of Brie cheese at the
fruiterer's, when he waited until twilight had fallen to slip
into the baker's and purchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively
to his attic as though he had stolen it.
Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the butcher's shop
on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed
him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm, who
had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from
a brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow
to the butcher's astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid
six or seven sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under
his arm, between two books, and went away. It was Marius.
On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he lived for
three days.
On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the
fat, on the third he gnawed the bone.
Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and sent him the
sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on every occasion,
saying that he needed nothing.
He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution
which we have just described was effected within him.
From that time forth, he had not put off his black garments.
But his garments were quitting him.
The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would
go next.
What was to be done?
Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some good turns,
gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned by
some porter or other, and it was a new coat.
But this coat was green.
Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall.
This made his coat black. As he wished always to appear in
mourning, he clothed himself with the night.
In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer.
He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's room, which was decent,
and where a certain number of law-books backed up and completed
by several dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library
required by the regulations.
He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac's quarters.
When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of
the fact in a letter which was cold but full of submission and
respect. M. Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read
it, tore it in four pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket.
Two or three days later, Mademoiselle Gillenormand heard her father,
who was alone in his room, talking aloud to himself.
He always did this whenever he was greatly agitated.
She listened, and the old man was saying: "If you were
not a fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer
at the same time."
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