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MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A PHENOMENON
One evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered
that he had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming
tiresome.
He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper. He strolled
out beyond the Salpetriere into deserted regions; that is where
windfalls are to be found; where there is no one, one always finds
something.
He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be the village
of Austerlitz.
In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old
garden haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that garden,
a passable apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house,
which was not securely fastened, and where one might contrive
to get an apple.
One apple is a supper; one apple is life.
That which was Adam's ruin might prove Gavroche's salvation.
The garden abutted on a solitary, unpaved lane, bordered with
brushwood while awaiting the arrival of houses; the garden was
separated from it by a hedge.
Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found
the lane, he recognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit-house,
he examined the hedge; a hedge means merely one stride.
The day was declining, there was not even a cat in the lane,
the hour was propitious. Gavroche began the operation of scaling
the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was talking in the garden.
Gavroche peeped through one of the breaks in the hedge.
A couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the
other side, exactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating
would have been made, there was a sort of recumbent stone which
formed a bench, and on this bench was seated the old man of the
garden, while the old woman was standing in front of him.
The old woman was grumbling.
Gavroche, who was not very discreet, listened.
"Monsieur Mabeuf!" said the old woman.
"Mabeuf!" thought Gavroche, "that name is a
perfect farce."
The old man who was thus addressed, did not stir.
The old woman repeated:--
"Monsieur Mabeuf!"
The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made
up his mind to answer:--
"What is it, Mother Plutarque?"
"Mother Plutarque!" thought Gavroche, "another
farcical name."
Mother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced to
accept the conversation:--
"The landlord is not pleased."
"Why?"
"We owe three quarters rent."
"In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters."
"He says that he will turn you out to sleep."
"I will go."
"The green-grocer insists on being paid.
She will no longer leave her fagots.
What will you warm yourself with this winter? We shall have
no wood."
"There is the sun."
"The butcher refuses to give credit; he will not let
us have any more meat."
"That is quite right.
I do not digest meat well.
It is too heavy."
"What shall we have for dinner?"
"Bread."
"The baker demands a settlement, and says, `no money,
no bread.'"
"That is well."
"What will you eat?"
"We have apples in the apple-room."
"But, Monsieur, we can't live like that without money."
"I have none."
The old woman went away, the old man remained alone.
He fell into thought.
Gavroche became thoughtful also.
It was almost dark.
The first result of Gavroche's meditation was, that instead
of scaling the hedge, he crouched down under it.
The branches stood apart a little at the foot of the thicket.
"Come," exclaimed Gavroche mentally, "here's
a nook!" and he curled up in it.
His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf's bench.
He could hear the octogenarian breathe.
Then, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep.
It was a cat-nap, with one eye open.
While he dozed, Gavroche kept on the watch.
The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the
lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes.
All at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their
appearance. One was in front, the other some distance in the rear.
"There come two creatures," muttered Gavroche.
The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, who was
bent and thoughtful, dressed more than plainly, and who was walking
slowly because of his age, and strolling about in the open evening
air.
The second was straight, firm, slender.
It regulated its pace by that of the first; but in the voluntary
slowness of its gait, suppleness and agility were discernible.
This figure had also something fierce and disquieting about
it, the whole shape was that of what was then called an elegant;
the hat was of good shape, the coat black, well cut, probably
of fine cloth, and well fitted in at the waist.
The head was held erect with a sort of robust grace, and beneath
the hat the pale profile of a young man could be made out in the
dim light.
The profile had a rose in its mouth. This second form was
well known to Gavroche; it was Montparnasse.
He could have told nothing about the other, except that he
was a respectable old man.
Gavroche immediately began to take observations.
One of these two pedestrians evidently had a project connected
with the other.
Gavroche was well placed to watch the course of events. The
bedroom had turned into a hiding-place at a very opportune moment.
Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place,
betokened something threatening.
Gavroche felt his gamin's heart moved with compassion for
the old man.
What was he to do?
Interfere?
One weakness coming to the aid of another!
It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse. Gavroche
did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man, in the first
place, and the child in the second, would make but two mouthfuls
for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age.
While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly
and hideously.
The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the
spider on the fly.
Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the
old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and
Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream.
A moment later one of these men was underneath the other,
groaning, struggling, with a knee of marble upon his breast.
Only, it was not just what Gavroche had expected. The one
who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who was on top
was the old man.
All this took place a few paces distant from Gavroche.
The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that
in such a terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant
and the assailed had exchanged roles.
"Here's a hearty veteran!" thought Gavroche.
He could not refrain from clapping his hands.
But it was applause wasted.
It did not reach the combatants, absorbed and deafened as
they were, each by the other, as their breath mingled in the struggle.
Silence ensued.
Montparnasse ceased his struggles.
Gavroche indulged in this aside:
"Can he be dead!"
The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry.
He rose to his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse:--
"Get up."
Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. Montparnasse's
attitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of the wolf who
has been caught by a sheep.
Gavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to reinforce
his eyes with his ears.
He was enjoying himself immensely.
He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character
of a spectator.
He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue which borrowed
from the darkness an indescribably tragic accent. The goodman
questioned, Montparnasse replied.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"You are strong and healthy.
Why do you not work?"
"It bores me."
"What is your trade?"
"An idler."
"Speak seriously.
Can anything be done for you?
What would you like to be?"
"A thief."
A pause ensued.
The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought. He stood
motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse.
Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged
in the twitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare.
He gave a jerk, tried a crook of the knee, twisted his limbs
desperately, and made efforts to escape.
The old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his
arms with one hand, with the sovereign indifference of absolute
force.
The old man's revery lasted for some time, then, looking steadily
at Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the
midst of the darkness where they stood, a solemn harangue, of
which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable:--
"My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one
of the most laborious of lives.
Ah!
You declare yourself to be an idler! prepare to toil.
There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it? It
is the rolling-mill. You must be on your guard against it, it
is crafty and ferocious; if it catches hold of the skirt of your
coat, you will be drawn in bodily.
That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet time, and
save yourself!
Otherwise, it is all over with you; in a short time you will
be among the gearing. Once entangled, hope for nothing more.
Toil, lazybones! there is no more repose for you!
The iron hand of implacable toil has seized you. You do not
wish to earn your living, to have a task, to fulfil a duty! It
bores you to be like other men?
Well!
You will be different. Labor is the law; he who rejects it
will find ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman,
you will be a slave. Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp
you again on the other.
You do not desire to be its friend, you shall be its negro
slave.
Ah!
You would have none of the honest weariness of men, you shall
have the sweat of the damned.
Where others sing, you will rattle in your throat.
You will see afar off, from below, other men at work; it will
seem to you that they are resting. The laborer, the harvester,
the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in glory like the
blessed spirits in paradise.
What radiance surrounds the forge!
To guide the plough, to bind the sheaves, is joy.
The bark at liberty in the wind, what delight!
Do you, lazy idler, delve, drag on, roll, march!
Drag your halter. You are a beast of burden in the team of
hell!
Ah!
To do nothing is your object.
Well, not a week, not a day, not an hour shall you have free
from oppression.
You will be able to lift nothing without anguish.
Every minute that passes will make your muscles crack. What
is a feather to others will be a rock to you.
The simplest things will become steep acclivities.
Life will become monstrous all about you.
To go, to come, to breathe, will be just so many terrible
labors.
Your lungs will produce on you the effect of weighing a hundred
pounds.
Whether you shall walk here rather than there, will become
a problem that must be solved.
Any one who wants to go out simply gives his door a push,
and there he is in the open air. If you wish to go out, you will
be obliged to pierce your wall. What does every one who wants
to step into the street do?
He goes down stairs; you will tear up your sheets, little
by little you will make of them a rope, then you will climb out
of your window, and you will suspend yourself by that thread over
an abyss, and it will be night, amid storm, rain, and the hurricane,
and if the rope is too short, but one way of descending will remain
to you, to fall.
To drop hap-hazard into the gulf, from an unknown height,
on what?
On what is beneath, on the unknown.
Or you will crawl up a chimney-flue, at the risk of burning;
or you will creep through a sewer-pipe, at the risk of drowning;
I do not speak of the holes that you will be obliged to mask,
of the stones which you will have to take up and replace twenty
times a day, of the plaster that you will have to hide in your
straw pallet.
A lock presents itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket a
key made by a locksmith.
If you wish to pass out, you will be condemned to execute
a terrible work of art; you will take a large sou, you will cut
it in two plates; with what tools?
You will have to invent them.
That is your business. Then you will hollow out the interior
of these plates, taking great care of the outside, and you will
make on the edges a thread, so that they can be adjusted one upon
the other like a box and its cover. The top and bottom thus screwed
together, nothing will be suspected. To the overseers it will
be only a sou; to you it will be a box. What will you put in this
box?
A small bit of steel.
A watch-spring, in which you will have cut teeth, and which
will form a saw. With this saw, as long as a pin, and concealed
in a sou, you will cut the bolt of the lock, you will sever bolts,
the padlock of your chain, and the bar at your window, and the
fetter on your leg. This masterpiece finished, this prodigy accomplished,
all these miracles of art, address, skill, and patience executed,
what will be your recompense if it becomes known that you are
the author?
The dungeon. There is your future.
What precipices are idleness and pleasure! Do you know that
to do nothing is a melancholy resolution? To live in idleness
on the property of society! to be useless, that is to say, pernicious!
This leads straight to the depth of wretchedness.
Woe to the man who desires to be a parasite! He will become
vermin!
Ah!
So it does not please you to work? Ah!
You have but one thought, to drink well, to eat well, to sleep
well.
You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep
on a plank with a fetter whose cold touch you will feel on your
flesh all night long, riveted to your limbs. You will break those
fetters, you will flee.
That is well. You will crawl on your belly through the brushwood,
and you will eat grass like the beasts of the forest.
And you will be recaptured. And then you will pass years in
a dungeon, riveted to a wall, groping for your jug that you may
drink, gnawing at a horrible loaf of darkness which dogs would
not touch, eating beans that the worms have eaten before you.
You will be a wood-louse in a cellar.
Ah!
Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child, who were
sucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who have, no
doubt, a mother still alive!
I conjure you, listen to me, I entreat you.
You desire fine black cloth, varnished shoes, to have your
hair curled and sweet-smelling oils on your locks, to please low
women, to be handsome.
You will be shaven clean, and you will wear a red blouse and
wooden shoes.
You want rings on your fingers, you will have an iron necklet
on your neck. If you glance at a woman, you will receive a blow.
And you will enter there at the age of twenty.
And you will come out at fifty! You will enter young, rosy,
fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all your white teeth, and your
handsome, youthful hair; you will come out broken, bent, wrinkled,
toothless, horrible, with white locks! Ah! my poor child, you
are on the wrong road; idleness is counselling you badly; the
hardest of all work is thieving. Believe me, do not undertake
that painful profession of an idle man. It is not comfortable
to become a rascal.
It is less disagreeable to be an honest man.
Now go, and ponder on what I have said to you.
By the way, what did you want of me?
My purse?
Here it is."
And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in
the latter's hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, after
which he allowed it to slide gently into the back pocket of his
coat, with the same mechanical precaution as though he had stolen
it.
All this having been said and done, the goodman turned his
back and tranquilly resumed his stroll.
"The blockhead!" muttered Montparnasse.
Who was this goodman?
The reader has, no doubt, already divined.
Montparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disappeared
in the dusk. This contemplation was fatal to him.
While the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near.
Gavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that
Father Mabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound asleep.
Then the gamin emerged from his thicket, and began to crawl after
Montparnasse in the dark, as the latter stood there motionless.
In this manner he came up to Montparnasse without being seen or
heard, gently insinuated his hand into the back pocket of that
frock-coat of fine black cloth, seized the purse, withdrew his
hand, and having recourse once more to his crawling, he slipped
away like an adder through the shadows.
Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who
was engaged in thought for the first time in his life, perceived
nothing.
When Gavroche had once more attained the point where Father
Mabeuf was, he flung the purse over the hedge, and fled as fast
as his legs would carry him.
The purse fell on Father Mabeuf's foot.
This commotion roused him.
He bent over and picked up the purse.
He did not understand in the least, and opened it.
The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some
small change; in the other lay six napoleons.
M. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper.
"That has fallen from heaven," said Mother Plutarque.
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