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POVERTY A GOOD NEIGHBOR FOR MISERY
Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually
falling into the clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment,
little by little, without, however, being made melancholy by it.
Marius met Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf.
Very rarely, however; twice a month at most.
Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the
outer boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented
alleys of the Luxembourg.
He often spent half a day in gazing at a market garden, the
beds of lettuce, the chickens on the dung-heap, the horse turning
the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and
some of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister.
He was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way.
It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the
Gorbeau house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness,
had taken up his abode there.
He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.
Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had invited
him to go and see them, when they learned about him.
Marius had not refused their invitations.
They afforded opportunities of talking about his father.
Thus he went from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General
Bellavesne, to General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music
and dancing there.
On such evenings, Marius put on his new coat.
But he never went to these evening parties or balls except
on days when it was freezing cold, because he could not afford
a carriage, and he did not wish to arrive with boots otherwise
than like mirrors.
He said sometimes, but without bitterness:
"Men are so made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled
everywhere except on your shoes. In order to insure a good reception
there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you; your conscience?
No, your boots."
All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by revery.
Marius' political fevers vanished thus.
The Revolution of 1830 assisted in the process, by satisfying
and calming him. He remained the same, setting aside his fits
of wrath. He still held the same opinions.
Only, they had been tempered. To speak accurately, he had
no longer any opinions, he had sympathies. To what party did he
belong?
To the party of humanity.
Out of humanity he chose France; out of the Nation he chose
the people; out of the people he chose the woman.
It was to that point above all, that his pity was directed.
Now he preferred an idea to a deed, a poet to a hero, and
he admired a book like Job more than an event like Marengo.
And then, when, after a day spent in meditation, he returned
in the evening through the boulevards, and caught a glimpse through
the branches of the trees of the fathomless space beyond, the
nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery, all that
which is only human seemed very pretty indeed to him.
He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived
at the truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended
by gazing at nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth can
perceive from the bottom of her well.
This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his combinations,
his scaffoldings, his projects for the future.
In this state of revery, an eye which could have cast a glance
into Marius' interior would have been dazzled with the purity
of that soul. In fact, had it been given to our eyes of the flesh
to gaze into the consciences of others, we should be able to judge
a man much more surely according to what he dreams, than according
to what he thinks.
There is will in thought, there is none in dreams. Revery,
which is utterly spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic
and the ideal, the form of our spirit.
Nothing proceeds more directly and more sincerely from the
very depth of our soul, than our unpremeditated and boundless
aspirations towards the splendors of destiny.
In these aspirations, much more than in deliberate, rational
coordinated ideas, is the real character of a man to be found.
Our chimeras are the things which the most resemble us. Each
one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossible in accordance
with his nature.
Towards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who waited
on Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette
family, had been turned out of doors.
Marius, who passed nearly the whole of his days out of the
house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors.
"Why are they turned out?" he asked.
"Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two
quarters."
"How much is it?"
"Twenty francs," said the old woman.
Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer.
"Here," he said to the old woman, "take these
twenty-five francs. Pay for the poor people and give them five
francs, and do not tell them that it was I."
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