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A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING
That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening,
as Marius left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing
to his study, having a case to look over, Basque handed him a
letter saying:
"The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber."
Cosette had taken the grandfather's arm and was strolling
in the garden.
A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior.
Coarse paper, coarsely folded--the very sight of certain missives
is displeasing.
The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.
Marius took it.
It smelled of tobacco.
Nothing evokes a memory like an odor.
Marius recognized that tobacco.
He looked at the superscription:
"To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci.
At his hotel."
The recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the
writing as well.
It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just
revived a whole world within him.
This was certainly the paper, the fashion of folding, the
dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known handwriting,
especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which
he had so diligently sought, the one in connection with which
he had lately again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed
to be forever lost, had come and presented itself to him of its
own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
"Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given
me the talents, I might have been baron Thenard, member of the
Institute [academy of ciences], but I am not.
I only bear the same as him, happy if this memory recommends
me to the eccellence of your kindnesses.
The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle.
I am in possession of a secret concerning an individual.
This individual concerns you.
I hold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor
to be huseful to you.
I will furnish you with the simple means of driving from your
honorabel family that individual who has no right there, madame
la baronne being of lofty birth.
The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer with crime without
abdicating.
I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.
"With respect."
The letter was signed "Thenard."
This signature was not false.
It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the
revelation.
The certificate of origin was complete.
Marius' emotion was profound.
After a start of surprise, he underwent a feeling of happiness.
If he could now but find that other man of whom he was in
search, the man who had saved him, Marius, there would be nothing
left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes,
put them in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the
bell.
Basque half opened the door.
"Show the man in," said Marius.
Basque announced:
"Monsieur Thenard."
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius.
The man who entered was an utter stranger to him.
This man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin
swathed in a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of
green taffeta over his eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened
down on his brow on a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of
English coachmen in "high life."
His hair was gray.
He was dressed in black from head to foot, in garments that
were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals depending from
his fob suggested the idea of a watch.
He held in his hand an old hat!
He walked in a bent attitude, and the curve in his spine augmented
the profundity of his bow.
The first thing that struck the observer was, that this personage's
coat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned, had not
been made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging
in the Rue Beautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose
profession was to change villains into honest men.
Not for too long, which might have proved embarrassing for
the villain.
The change was on sight, for a day or two, at the rate of
thirty sous a day, by means of a costume which resembled the honesty
of the world in general as nearly as possible.
This costumer was called "the Changer"; the pickpockets
of Paris had given him this name and knew him by no other.
He had a tolerably complete wardrobe.
The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable.
He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop
hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a
magistrate, there the outfit of a Cure, beyond the outfit of a
banker, in one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere
the habiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress
of a statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which
knavery plays in Paris.
His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into
which roguery retreated.
A tattered knave arrived at this dressing-room, deposited
his thirty sous and selected, according to the part which he wished
to play, the costume which suited him, and on descending the stairs
once more, the knave was a somebody.
On the following day, the clothes were faithfully returned,
and the Changer, who trusted the thieves with everything, was
never robbed.
There was one inconvenience about these clothes, they "did
not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them, they
were too tight for one, too loose for another and did not adjust
themselves to any one.
Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average
was ill at his ease in the Changer's costumes.
It was necessary that one should not be either too fat or
too lean.
The changer had foreseen only ordinary men.
He had taken the measure of the species from the first rascal
who came to hand, who is neither stout nor thin, neither tall
nor short.
Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from
which the Changer's clients extricated themselves as best they
might.
So much the worse for the exceptions!
The suit of the statesman, for instance, black from head to
foot, and consequently proper, would have been too large for Pitt
and too small for Castelcicala.
The costume of a statesman was designated as follows in the
Changer's catalogue; we copy:
"A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk
waistcoat, boots and linen."
On the margin there stood:
ex-ambassador, and a note which we also copy:
"In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green glasses,
seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton."
All this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This
whole costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated;
the seams were white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the
elbows; moreover, one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast;
but this was only detail; as the hand of the statesman should
always be thrust into his coat and laid upon his heart, its function
was to conceal the absent button.
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of
Paris, he would instantly have recognized upon the back of the
visitor whom Basque had just shown in, the statesman's suit borrowed
from the pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one
whom he expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage.
He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made
exaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone:
"What do you want?"
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing
smile of a crocodile will furnish some idea:
"It seems to me impossible that I should not have already
had the honor of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society.
I think I actually did meet monsieur personally, several years
ago, at the house of Madame la Princesse Bagration and in the
drawing-rooms of his Lordship the Vicomte Dambray, peer of France."
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to
recognize some one whom one does not know.
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech.
He spied on his accent and gesture, but his disappointment
increased; the pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the
dry, shrill tone which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
"I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray,"
said he.
"I have never set foot in the house of either of them
in my life."
The reply was ungracious.
The personage, determined to be gracious at any cost, insisted.
"Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have
seen Monsieur!
I know Chateaubriand very well.
He is very affable.
He sometimes says to me:
`Thenard, my friend . . . won't you drink a glass of wine
with me?'"
Marius' brow grew more and more severe:
"I have never had the honor of being received by M. de
Chateaubriand.
Let us cut it short.
What do you want?"
The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.
"Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me.
There is in America, in a district near Panama, a village
called la Joya.
That village is composed of a single house, a large, square
house of three stories, built of bricks dried in the sun, each
side of the square five hundred feet in length, each story retreating
twelve feet back of the story below, in such a manner as to leave
in front a terrace which makes the circuit of the edifice, in
the centre an inner court where the provisions and munitions are
kept; no windows, loopholes, no doors, ladders, ladders to mount
from the ground to the first terrace, and from the first to the
second, and from the second to the third, ladders to descend into
the inner court, no doors to the chambers, trap-doors, no staircases
to the chambers, ladders; in the evening the traps are closed,
the ladders are withdrawn carbines and blunderbusses trained from
the loopholes; no means of entering, a house by day, a citadel
by night, eight hundred inhabitants,-- that is the village.
Why so many precautions? because the country is dangerous;
it is full of cannibals.
Then why do people go there? because the country is marvellous;
gold is found there."
"What are you driving at?" interrupted Marius, who
had passed from disappointment to impatience.
"At this, Monsieur le Baron.
I am an old and weary diplomat.
Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices.
I want to try savages."
"Well?"
"Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world.
The proletarian peasant woman, who toils by the day, turns
round when the diligence passes by, the peasant proprietress,
who toils in her field, does not turn round.
The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man, the dog of
the rich man barks at the poor man.
Each one for himself.
Self-interest--that's the object of men.
Gold, that's the loadstone."
"What then?
Finish."
"I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya.
There are three of us.
I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl.
The journey is long and costly.
I need a little money."
"What concern is that of mine?" demanded Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a gesture
characteristic of the vulture, and replied with an augmented smile.
"Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?"
There was some truth in this.
The fact is, that the contents of the epistle had slipped
Marius' mind.
He had seen the writing rather than read the letter.
He could hardly recall it.
But a moment ago a fresh start had been given him.
He had noted that detail:
"my spouse and my young lady."
He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger.
An examining judge could not have done the look better.
He almost lay in wait for him.
He confined himself to replying:
"State the case precisely."
The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs, drew
himself up without straightening his dorsal column, but scrutinizing
Marius in his turn, with the green gaze of his spectacles.
"So be it, Monsieur le Baron.
I will be precise.
I have a secret to sell to you."
"A secret?"
"A secret."
"Which concerns me?"
"Somewhat."
"What is the secret?"
Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to
him.
"I commence gratis," said the stranger.
"You will see that I am interesting."
"Speak."
"Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and
an assassin."
Marius shuddered.
"In my house? no," said he.
The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow
and went on:
"An assassin and a thief.
Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not here speak of ancient
deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed, which can be effaced
by limitation before the law and by repentance before God.
I speak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still unknown
to justice at this hour.
I continue.
This man has insinuated himself into your confidence, and
almost into your family under a false name.
I am about to tell you his real name.
And to tell it to you for nothing."
"I am listening."
"His name is Jean Valjean."
"I know it."
"I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he
is."
"Say on."
"He is an ex-convict."
"I know it."
"You know it since I have had the honor of telling you."
"No. I knew it before."
Marius' cold tone, that double reply of "I know it,"
his laconicism, which was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up
some smouldering wrath in the stranger.
He launched a furious glance on the sly at Marius, which was
instantly extinguished.
Rapid as it was, this glance was of the kind which a man recognizes
when he has once beheld it; it did not escape Marius.
Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls; the eye,
that vent-hole of the thought, glows with it; spectacles hide
nothing; try putting a pane of glass over hell!
The stranger resumed with a smile:
"I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron.
In any case, you ought to perceive that I am well informed.
Now what I have to tell you is known to myself alone.
This concerns the fortune of Madame la Baronne.
It is an extraordinary secret.
It is for sale-- I make you the first offer of it.
Cheap.
Twenty thousand francs."
"I know that secret as well as the others," said
Marius.
The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.
"Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will
speak."
"I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can
tell me.
I know what you wish to say to me."
A fresh flash gleamed in the man's eye.
He exclaimed:
"But I must dine to-day, nevertheless.
It is an extraordinary secret, I tell you.
Monsieur le Baron, I will speak.
I speak.
Give me twenty francs."
Marius gazed intently at him:
"I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean
Valjean's name, just as I know your name."
"My name?"
"Yes."
"That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron.
I had the honor to write to you and to tell it to you.
Thenard."
"--Dier."
"Hey?"
"Thenardier."
"Who's that?"
In danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death,
the old guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.
Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat
with a fillip.
Marius continued:
"You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian,
Genflot the poet, Don Alvares the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard."
"Mistress what?"
"And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil."
"A pot-house! Never."
"And I tell you that your name is Thenardier."
"I deny it."
"And that you are a rascal.
Here."
And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in
his face.
"Thanks!
Pardon me! five hundred francs!
Monsieur le Baron!"
And the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined
it.
"Five hundred francs!" he began again, taken aback.
And he stammered in a low voice:
"An honest rustler."[69]
[69] Un fafiot serieux.
Fafiot is the slang term for a bank-bill, derived from its
rustling noise.
Then brusquely:
"Well, so be it!" he exclaimed.
"Let us put ourselves at our ease."
And with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair,
tearing off his spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by sleight
of hand the two quills of which mention was recently made, and
which the reader has also met with on another page of this book,
he took off his face as the man takes off his hat.
His eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some
places and bumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was
laid bare, his nose had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce
and sagacious profile of the man of prey reappeared.
"Monsieur le Baron is infallible," he said in a
clear voice whence all nasal twang had disappeared, "I am
Thenardier."
And he straightened up his crooked back.
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