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flected that this was but just, and he remainedthere for some time, with his soul absorbed inwords addressed to God.He rose to his feet, shivering, chilled, foul-smell-ing, bowed beneath the dying man whom he wasdragging after him, all dripping with slime, andhis soul filled with a strange light.

Moreover, the pit seemed, for the first few steps,not to be very deep. But in proportion as he ad-vanced, his feet plunged deeper. Soon he had theslime up to his calves and water above his knees.He walked on, raising Marius in his arms, as farabove the water as he could. The mire nowreached to his knees, and the water to his waist.He could no longer retreat. This mud, denseenough for one man, could not, obviously, upholdtwo. Marius and Jean Valjean would have stood achance of extricating themselves singly. JeanValjean continued to advance, supporting the dy-ing man, who was, perhaps, a corpse.The water came up to his arm-pits; he felt that hewas sinking; it was only with difficulty that hecould move in the depth of ooze which he hadnow reached. The density, which was his support,was also an obstacle. He still held Marius on high,and with an unheard-of expenditure of force, headvanced still; but he was sinking. He had onlyhis head above the water now and his two armsholding up Marius. In the old paintings of the del-uge there is a mother holding her child thus.He sank still deeper, he turned his face to the rear,to escape the water, and in order that he might beable to breathe; anyone who had seen him in thatgloom would have thought that what he beheldwas a mask floating on the shadows; he caught afaint glimpse above him of the drooping head andlivid face of Marius; he made a desperate effortand launched his foot forward; his foot strucksomething solid; a point of support. It was hightime.He straightened himself up, and rooted himselfupon that point of support with a sort of fury. Thisproduced upon him the effect of the first step in astaircase leading back to life.The point of support, thus encountered in the mireat the supreme moment, was the beginning of theother water-shed of the pavement, which had bentbut had not given way, and which had curved un-der the water like a plank and in a single piece.Well built pavements form a vault and possessthis sort of firmness. This fragment of the vault-ing, partly submerged, but solid, was a veritableinclined plane, and, once on this plane, he wassafe. Jean Valjean mounted this inclined plane andreached the other side of the quagmire.As he emerged from the water, he came in con-tact with a stone and fell upon his knees. He re-

and forgot to weep, through sniffling at her salts.In such cases, there is no love which holds fast;the sewer extinguishes it. Hero refuses to washthe body of Leander. Thisbe stops her nose in thepresence of Pyramus and says: “Phew!”

●●●●● Victor Hugo

And to shout, to gnash one’s teeth, and to writhe,and to struggle, and to agonize, with that enor-mous city which knows nothing of it all, over one’shead!Inexpressible is the horror of dying thus! Deathsometimes redeems his atrocity by a certain ter-rible dignity. On the funeral pile, in shipwreck,one can be great; in the flames as in the foam, asuperb attitude is possible; one there becomestransfigured as one perishes. But not here. Deathis filthy. It is humiliating to expire. The supremefloating visions are abject. Mud is synonymouswith shame. It is petty, ugly, infamous. To die ina butt of Malvoisie, like Clarence, is permissible;in the ditch of a scavenger, like Escoubleau, ishorrible. To struggle therein is hideous; at the sametime that one is going through the death agony,one is floundering about. There are shadowsenough for hell, and mire enough to render it noth-ing but a slough, and the dying man knows notwhether he is on the point of becoming a spectreor a frog.Everywhere else the sepulchre is sinister; here itis deformed.The depth of the fontis varied, as well as theirlength and their density, according to the more orless bad quality of the sub-soil. Sometimes a fontiswas three or four feet deep, sometimes eight orten; sometimes the bottom was unfathomable.Here the mire was almost solid, there almost liq-uid. In the Luniere fontis, it would have taken aman a day to disappear, while he would have beendevoured in five minutes by the Philippeauxslough. The mire bears up more or less, accord-ing to its density. A child can escape where a manwill perish. The first law of safety is to get rid ofevery sort of load. Every sewerman who felt theground giving way beneath him began by flingingaway his sack of tools, or his back-basket, or hishod.The fontis were due to different causes: the fri-ability of the soil; some landslip at a depth be-yond the reach of man; the violent summer rains;the incessant flooding of winter; long, drizzlingshowers. Sometimes the weight of the surround-ing houses on a marly or sandy soil forced out thevaults of the subterranean galleries and causedthem to bend aside, or it chanced that a flooringvault burst and split under this crushing thrust. Inthis manner, the heaping up of the Parthenon, oblit-erated, a century ago, a portion of the vaults ofSaint–Genevieve hill. When a sewer was brokenin under the pressure of the houses, the mischiefwas sometimes betrayed in the street above by asort of space, like the teeth of a saw, between thepaving-stones; this crevice was developed in anundulating line throughout the entire length of thecracked vault, and then, the evil being visible, theremedy could be promptly applied. It also fre-quently happened, that the interior ravages werenot revealed by any external scar, and in that case,woe to the sewermen. When they entered with-out precaution into the sewer, they were liable tobe lost. Ancient registers make mention of sev-eral scavengers who were buried in fontis in thismanner. They give many names; among others,that of the sewerman who was swallowed up in aquagmire under the man-hole of the Rue Careme–Prenant, a certain Blaise Poutrain; this BlaisePoutrain was the brother of Nicholas Poutrain, whowas the last grave-digger of the cemetery calledthe Charnier des Innocents, in 1785, the epochwhen that cemetery expired.There was also that young and charming Vicomted’Escoubleau, of whom we have just spoken, oneof the heroes of the siege of Lerida, where theydelivered the assault in silk stockings, with vio-lins at their head. D’Escoubleau, surprised onenight at his cousin’s, the Duchess de Sourdis’, wasdrowned in a quagmire of the Beautreillis sewer,in which he had taken refuge in order to escapefrom the Duke. Madame de Sourdis, when in-formed of his death, demanded her smelling-bottle,

VOLUME V - JEAN VALJEANBOOK THIRD - MUD BUT THE SOUL

CHAPTER VIN THE CASE OF SAND AS IN THAT OF

WOMAN, THERE IS A FINENESS WHICHIS TREACHEROUS

Continued From Last Week

Continued on Page 20

CHAPTER VITHE FONTIS

Jean Valjean found himself in the presence of afontis.This sort of quagmire was common at that periodin the subsoil of the Champs–Elysees, difficult tohandle in the hydraulic works and a bad preser-vative of the subterranean constructions, on ac-count of its excessive fluidity. This fluidity ex-ceeds even the inconsistency of the sands of theQuartier Saint–Georges, which could only be con-quered by a stone construction on a concrete foun-dation, and the clayey strata, infected with gas,of the Quartier des Martyrs, which are so liquidthat the only way in which a passage was effectedunder the gallery des Martyrs was by means of acast-iron pipe. When, in 1836, the old stone sewerbeneath the Faubourg Saint–Honore, in which wenow see Jean Valjean, was demolished for thepurpose of reconstructing it, the quicksand, whichforms the subsoil of the Champs–Elysees as faras the Seine, presented such an obstacle, that theoperation lasted nearly six months, to the greatclamor of the dwellers on the riverside, particu-larly those who had hotels and carriages. The workwas more than unhealthy; it was dangerous. It istrue that they had four months and a half of rain,and three floods of the Seine.The fontis which Jean Valjean had encounteredwas caused by the downpour of the preceding day.The pavement, badly sustained by the subjacentsand, had given way and had produced a stoppageof the water. Infiltration had taken place, a sliphad followed. The dislocated bottom had sunk intothe ooze. To what extent? Impossible to say. Theobscurity was more dense there than elsewhere.It was a pit of mire in a cavern of night.Jean Valjean felt the pavement vanishing beneathhis feet. He entered this slime. There was wateron the surface, slime at the bottom. He must passit. To retrace his steps was impossible. Mariuswas dying, and Jean Valjean exhausted. Besides,where was he to go? Jean Valjean advanced.

CHAPTER VIIONE SOMETIMES RUNS AGROUNDWHEN ONE FANCIES THAT ONE IS

DISEMBARKING

He set out on his way once more.However, although he had not left his life in thefontis, he seemed to have left his strength behindhim there. That supreme effort had exhausted him.His lassitude was now such that he was obligedto pause for breath every three or four steps, andlean against the wall. Once he was forced to seathimself on the banquette in order to alter Marius’position, and he thought that he should have toremain there. But if his vigor was dead, his en-ergy was not. He rose again.He walked on desperately, almost fast, proceededthus for a hundred paces, almost without drawingbreath, and suddenly came in contact with thewall. He had reached an elbow of the sewer, and,arriving at the turn with head bent down, he hadstruck the wall. He raised his eyes, and at theextremity of the vault, far, very far away in frontof him, he perceived a light. This time it was notthat terrible light; it was good, white light. It wasdaylight. Jean Valjean saw the outlet.A damned soul, who, in the midst of the furnace,should suddenly perceive the outlet of Gehenna,would experience what Jean Valjean felt. It wouldfly wildly with the stumps of its burned wings to-wards that radiant portal. Jean Valjean was nolonger conscious of fatigue, he no longer feltMarius’ weight, he found his legs once more ofsteel, he ran rather than walked. As he approached,the outlet became more and more distinctly de-fined. It was a pointed arch, lower than the vault,which gradually narrowed, and narrower than thegallery, which closed in as the vault grew lower.The tunnel ended like the interior of a funnel; afaulty construction, imitated from the wickets ofpenitentiaries, logical in a prison, illogical in asewer, and which has since been corrected.Jean Valjean reached the outlet.There he halted.It certainly was the outlet, but he could not getout.The arch was closed by a heavy grating, and thegrating, which, to all appearance, rarely swungon its rusty hinges, was clamped to its stone jambby a thick lock, which, red with rust, seemed likean enormous brick. The keyhole could be seen,and the robust latch, deeply sunk in the iron staple.The door was plainly double-locked. It was oneof those prison locks which old Paris was so fondof lavishing.Beyond the grating was the open air, the river, thedaylight, the shore, very narrow but sufficient forescape. The distant quays, Paris, that gulf in whichone so easily hides oneself, the broad horizon, lib-erty. On the right, down stream, the bridge of Jenawas discernible, on the left, upstream, the bridgeof the Invalides; the place would have been a pro-pitious one in which to await the night and to es-cape. It was one of the most solitary points inParis; the shore which faces the Grand–Caillou.Flies were entering and emerging through the barsof the grating.It might have been half-past eight o’clock in theevening. The day was declining.Jean Valjean laid Marius down along the wall, onthe dry portion of the vaulting, then he went to thegrating and clenched both fists round the bars; theshock which he gave it was frenzied, but it didnot move. The grating did not stir. Jean Valjeanseized the bars one after the other, in the hopethat he might be able to tear away the least solid,and to make of it a lever wherewith to raise thedoor or to break the lock. Not a bar stirred. Theteeth of a tiger are not more firmly fixed in theirsockets. No lever; no prying possible. The obstaclewas invincible. There was no means of openingthe gate.Must he then stop there? What was he to do? What

Page 20 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 19 For several seconds, Jean Valjean was irresist-

ibly overcome by that august and caressing se-renity; such moments of oblivion do come to men;suffering refrains from harassing the unhappywretch; everything is eclipsed in the thoughts;peace broods over the dreamer like night; and,beneath the twilight which beams and in imita-tion of the sky which is illuminated, the soul be-comes studded with stars. Jean Valjean could notrefrain from contemplating that vast, clear shadowwhich rested over him; thoughtfully he bathed inthe sea of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic si-lence of the eternal heavens. Then he bent downswiftly to Marius, as though the sentiment of dutyhad returned to him, and, dipping up water in thehollow of his hand, he gently sprinkled a few dropson the latter’s face. Marius’ eyelids did not open;but his half-open mouth still breathed.Jean Valjean was on the point of dipping his handin the river once more, when, all at once, he ex-perienced an indescribable embarrassment, suchas a person feels when there is some one behindhim whom he does not see.We have already alluded to this impression, withwhich everyone is familiar.He turned round.Some one was, in fact, behind him, as there hadbeen a short while before.A man of lofty stature, enveloped in a long coat,with folded arms, and bearing in his right fist abludgeon of which the leaden head was visible,stood a few paces in the rear of the spot whereJean Valjean was crouching over Marius.With the aid of the darkness, it seemed a sort ofapparition. An ordinary man would have beenalarmed because of the twilight, a thoughtful manon account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjean recog-nized Javert.The reader has divined, no doubt, that Thenardier’spursuer was no other than Javert. Javert, after hisunlooked-for escape from the barricade, had be-taken himself to the prefecture of police, had ren-dered a verbal account to the Prefect in person ina brief audience, had then immediately gone onduty again, which implied — the note, the readerwill recollect, which had been captured on hisperson — a certain surveillance of the shore onthe right bank of the Seine near the Champs–Elysees, which had, for some time past, arousedthe attention of the police. There he had caughtsight of Thenardier and had followed him. Thereader knows the rest.Thus it will be easily understood that that grating,so obligingly opened to Jean Valjean, was a bit ofcleverness on Thenardier’s part. Thenardier intu-itively felt that Javert was still there; the manspied upon has a scent which never deceives him;it was necessary to fling a bone to that sleuth-hound. An assassin, what a godsend! Such an op-portunity must never be allowed to slip.Thenardier, by putting Jean Valjean outside in hisstead, provided a prey for the police, forced themto relinquish his scent, made them forget him in abigger adventure, repaid Javert for his waiting,which always flatters a spy, earned thirty francs,and counted with certainty, so far as he himselfwas concerned, on escaping with the aid of thisdiversion.Jean Valjean had fallen from one danger uponanother.These two encounters, this falling one after theother, from Thenardier upon Javert, was a rudeshock.Javert did not recognize Jean Valjean, who, aswe have stated, no longer looked like himself. Hedid not unfold his arms, he made sure of his blud-geon in his fist, by an imperceptible movement,and said in a curt, calm voice:“Who are you?”“I.”“Who is ‘I’?”“Jean Valjean.”Javert thrust his bludgeon between his teeth, benthis knees, inclined his body, laid his two power-ful hands on the shoulders of Jean Valjean, whichwere clamped within them as in a couple of vices,scrutinized him, and recognized him. Their facesalmost touched. Javert’s look was terrible.Jean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert’sgrasp, like a lion submitting to the claws of a lynx.“Inspector Javert,” said he, “you have me in yourpower. Moreover, I have regarded myself as yourprisoner ever since this morning. I did not giveyou my address with any intention of escapingfrom you. Take me. Only grant me one favor.”Javert did not appear to hear him. He kept hiseyes riveted on Jean Valjean. His chin being con-tracted, thrust his lips upwards towards his nose,a sign of savage revery. At length he released Jean

“Listen, comrade. You didn’t kill that man with-out looking to see what he had in his pockets. Giveme my half. I’ll open the door for you.”And half drawing from beneath his tattered blousea huge key, he added:“Do you want to see how a key to liberty is made?Look here.”Jean Valjean “remained stupid”— the expressionbelongs to the elder Corneille — to such a degreethat he doubted whether what he beheld was real.It was providence appearing in horrible guise, andhis good angel springing from the earth in the formof Thenardier.Thenardier thrust his fist into a large pocket con-cealed under his blouse, drew out a rope and of-fered it to Jean Valjean.“Hold on,” said he, “I’ll give you the rope to boot.”“What is the rope for?”“You will need a stone also, but you can find oneoutside. There’s a heap of rubbish.”“What am I to do with a stone?”“Idiot, you’ll want to sling that stiff into the river,you’ll need a stone and a rope, otherwise it wouldfloat on the water.”Jean Valjean took the rope. There is no one whodoes not occasionally accept in this mechanicalway.Thenardier snapped his fingers as though an ideahad suddenly occurred to him.“Ah, see here, comrade, how did you contrive toget out of that slough yonder? I haven’t dared torisk myself in it. Phew! you don’t smell good.”After a pause he added:“I’m asking you questions, but you’re perfectlyright not to answer. It’s an apprenticeship againstthat cursed quarter of an hour before the examin-ing magistrate. And then, when you don’t talk atall, you run no risk of talking too loud. That’s nomatter, as I can’t see your face and as I don’tknow your name, you are wrong in supposing thatI don’t know who you are and what you want. Itwig. You’ve broken up that gentleman a bit; nowyou want to tuck him away somewhere. The river,that great hider of folly, is what you want. I’ll getyou out of your scrape. Helping a good fellow in apinch is what suits me to a hair.”While expressing his approval of Jean Valjean’ssilence, he endeavored to force him to talk. Hejostled his shoulder in an attempt to catch a sightof his profile, and he exclaimed, without, how-ever, raising his tone:“Apropos of that quagmire, you’re a hearty ani-mal. Why didn’t you toss the man in there?”Jean Valjean preserved silence.Thenardier resumed, pushing the rag which servedhim as a cravat to the level of his Adam’s apple,a gesture which completes the capable air of aserious man:“After all, you acted wisely. The workmen, whenthey come tomorrow to stop up that hole, wouldcertainly have found the stiff abandoned there, andit might have been possible, thread by thread, strawby straw, to pick up the scent and reach you. Someone has passed through the sewer. Who? Wheredid he get out? Was he seen to come out? Thepolice are full of cleverness. The sewer is treach-erous and tells tales of you. Such a find is a rarity,it attracts attention, very few people make use ofthe sewers for their affairs, while the river be-longs to everybody. The river is the true grave. Atthe end of a month they fish up your man in thenets at Saint–Cloud. Well, what does one care forthat? It’s carrion! Who killed that man? Paris. Andjustice makes no inquiries. You have done well.”The more loquacious Thenardier became, themore mute was Jean Valjean.Again Thenardier shook him by the shoulder.“Now let’s settle this business. Let’s go shares.You have seen my key, show me your money.”Thenardier was haggard, fierce, suspicious, rathermenacing, yet amicable.There was one singular circumstance;Thenardier’s manners were not simple; he hadnot the air of being wholly at his ease; while af-fecting an air of mystery, he spoke low; from timeto time he laid his finger on his mouth, and mut-tered, “hush!” It was difficult to divine why. Therewas no one there except themselves. Jean Valjeanthought that other ruffians might possibly be con-cealed in some nook, not very far off, and thatThenardier did not care to share with them.Thenardier resumed:“Let’s settle up. How much did the stiff have inhis bags?”Jean Valjean searched his pockets.It was his habit, as the reader will remember, toalways have some money about him. The mourn-ful life of expedients to which he had been con-demned imposed this as a law upon him. On thisoccasion, however, he had been caught unpre-

pared. When donning his uniform of a NationalGuardsman on the preceding evening, he had for-gotten, dolefully absorbed as he was, to take hispocket-book. He had only some small change inhis fob. He turned out his pocket, all soaked withooze, and spread out on the banquette of the vaultone louis d’or, two five-franc pieces, and five orsix large sous.Thenardier thrust out his lower lip with a signifi-cant twist of the neck.“You knocked him over cheap,” said he.He set to feeling the pockets of Jean Valjean andMarius, with the greatest familiarity. Jean Valjean,who was chiefly concerned in keeping his back tothe light, let him have his way.While handling Marius’ coat, Thenardier, with theskill of a pickpocket, and without being noticedby Jean Valjean, tore off a strip which he con-cealed under his blouse, probably thinking that thismorsel of stuff might serve, later on, to identifythe assassinated man and the assassin. However,he found no more than the thirty francs.“That’s true,” said he, “both of you together haveno more than that.”And, forgetting his motto: “half shares,” he tookall.He hesitated a little over the large sous. After duereflection, he took them also, muttering:“Never mind! You cut folks’ throats too cheapaltogether.”That done, he once more drew the big key fromunder his blouse.“Now, my friend, you must leave. It’s like thefair here, you pay when you go out. You have paid,now clear out.”And he began to laugh.Had he, in lending to this stranger the aid of hiskey, and in making some other man than himselfemerge from that portal, the pure and disinter-ested intention of rescuing an assassin? We maybe permitted to doubt this.Thenardier helped Jean Valjean to replace Mariuson his shoulders, then he betook himself to thegrating on tiptoe, and barefooted, making JeanValjean a sign to follow him, looked out, laid hisfinger on his mouth, and remained for severalseconds, as though in suspense; his inspection fin-ished, he placed the key in the lock. The boltslipped back and the gate swung open. It neithergrated nor squeaked. It moved very softly.It was obvious that this gate and those hinges,carefully oiled, were in the habit of opening morefrequently than was supposed. This softness wassuspicious; it hinted at furtive goings and comings,silent entrances and exits of nocturnal men, andthe wolf-like tread of crime.The sewer was evidently an accomplice of somemysterious band. This taciturn grating was a re-ceiver of stolen goods.Thenardier opened the gate a little way, allowingjust sufficient space for Jean Valjean to pass out,closed the grating again, gave the key a doubleturn in the lock and plunged back into the dark-ness, without making any more noise than a breath.He seemed to walk with the velvet paws of a ti-ger.A moment later, that hideous providence had re-treated into the invisibility.Jean Valjean found himself in the open air.

was to become of him? He had not the strengthto retrace his steps, to recommence the journeywhich he had already taken. Besides, how washe to again traverse that quagmire whence he hadonly extricated himself as by a miracle? And af-ter the quagmire, was there not the police patrol,which assuredly could not be twice avoided? Andthen, whither was he to go? What direction shouldhe pursue? To follow the incline would not con-duct him to his goal. If he were to reach anotheroutlet, he would find it obstructed by a plug or agrating. Every outlet was, undoubtedly, closed inthat manner. Chance had unsealed the gratingthrough which he had entered, but it was evidentthat all the other sewer mouths were barred. Hehad only succeeded in escaping into a prison.All was over. Everything that Jean Valjean haddone was useless. Exhaustion had ended in fail-ure.They were both caught in the immense and gloomyweb of death, and Jean Valjean felt the terriblespider running along those black strands and quiv-ering in the shadows. He turned his back to thegrating, and fell upon the pavement, hurled to earthrather than seated, close to Marius, who still madeno movement, and with his head bent betweenhis knees. This was the last drop of anguish.Of what was he thinking during this profound de-pression? Neither of himself nor of Marius. Hewas thinking of Cosette.

Continued on Page 109

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CHAPTER VIIITHE TORN COAT-TAIL

In the midst of this prostration, a hand was laidon his shoulder, and a low voice said to him:“Half shares.”Some person in that gloom? Nothing so closelyresembles a dream as despair. Jean Valjeanthought that he was dreaming. He had heard nofootsteps. Was it possible? He raised his eyes.A man stood before him.This man was clad in a blouse; his feet were bare;he held his shoes in his left hand; he had evidentlyremoved them in order to reach Jean Valjean,without allowing his steps to be heard.Jean Valjean did not hesitate for an instant. Un-expected as was this encounter, this man wasknown to him. The man was Thenardier.Although awakened, so to speak, with a start, JeanValjean, accustomed to alarms, and steeled tounforeseen shocks that must be promptly parried,instantly regained possession of his presence ofmind. Moreover, the situation could not be madeworse, a certain degree of distress is no longercapable of a crescendo, and Thenardier himselfcould add nothing to this blackness of this night.A momentary pause ensued.Thenardier, raising his right hand to a level withhis forehead, formed with it a shade, then hebrought his eyelashes together, by screwing up hiseyes, a motion which, in connection with a slightcontraction of the mouth, characterizes the saga-cious attention of a man who is endeavoring torecognize another man. He did not succeed. JeanValjean, as we have just stated, had his backturned to the light, and he was, moreover, so dis-figured, so bemired, so bleeding that he wouldhave been unrecognizable in full noonday. On thecontrary, illuminated by the light from the grat-ing, a cellar light, it is true, livid, yet precise in itslividness, Thenardier, as the energetic popularmetaphor expresses it, immediately “leaped into”Jean Valjean’s eyes. This inequality of conditionssufficed to assure some advantage to Jean Valjeanin that mysterious duel which was on the point ofbeginning between the two situations and the twomen. The encounter took place between JeanValjean veiled and Thenardier unmasked.Jean Valjean immediately perceived thatThenardier did not recognize him.They surveyed each other for a moment in thathalf-gloom, as though taking each other’s mea-sure. Thenardier was the first to break the silence.“How are you going to manage to get out?”Jean Valjean made no reply. Thenardier contin-ued:“It’s impossible to pick the lock of that gate. Butstill you must get out of this.”“That is true,” said Jean Valjean.“Well, half shares then.”“What do you mean by that?”“You have killed that man; that’s all right. I havethe key.”Thenardier pointed to Marius. He went on:“I don’t know you, but I want to help you. Youmust be a friend.”Jean Valjean began to comprehend. Thenardiertook him for an assassin.Thenardier resumed:

CHAPTER IXMARIUS PRODUCES ON SOME ONEWHO IS A JUDGE OF THE MATTER,

THE EFFECT OF BEING DEAD

He allowed Marius to slide down upon the shore.They were in the open air!The miasmas, darkness, horror lay behind him.The pure, healthful, living, joyous air that was easyto breathe inundated him. Everywhere around himreigned silence, but that charming silence whenthe sun has set in an unclouded azure sky. Twi-light had descended; night was drawing on, thegreat deliverer, the friend of all those who need amantle of darkness that they may escape from ananguish. The sky presented itself in all directionslike an enormous calm. The river flowed to hisfeet with the sound of a kiss. The aerial dialogueof the nests bidding each other good night in theelms of the Champs–Elysees was audible. A fewstars, daintily piercing the pale blue of the zenith,and visible to revery alone, formed imperceptiblelittle splendors amid the immensity. Evening wasunfolding over the head of Jean Valjean all thesweetness of the infinite.It was that exquisite and undecided hour whichsays neither yes nor no. Night was already suffi-ciently advanced to render it possible to lose one-self at a little distance and yet there was suffi-cient daylight to permit of recognition at closequarters.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 - Page 21www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Hunting Feature

Page 22 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

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Hunting Feature

Oldest profession in life: hunting

●●●●● Barry MCVilly

●●●●● ‘Django’, hunting dog

■ The oldest profession in life is hunt-ing. The women are the best in theworld: “she goes to the supermarket tohunt for the best prices at the bestvalue, she puts food on the table andthe man hunts for the best job at thebest return to take home”.

The kids go with the females toshow them how to pick the best andhow to make the money go further.

Wild life is the same with the fe-males: they too are the best hunters.Birds are the same; the male sits onthe eggs, like most species.

Wild deer have a life span (males)in the wild of four to six years. But theyare usually killed by other challengers.The buck, the old deer, have a largerack. Small deer (uilings) have twosmall spikes called spikelets.

The old deer lock antlers where thesmall deer have the advantage over theolder males, they all finish to piercethe lungs, and break the ribs. They willdie a slow death.

You will notice all fighting animalslock heads to protect their rib cages.

From April-June, red deer and fal-low are in the rut (mating season) andare dangerous to humans. Be careful Ihave been caught out myself.

I have been hit in the stomach, inthe rear end, and in the arms and legs,and I have also had my finger bittenoff.

But all sports have their problems.You will not come out of your chosensport without having hurt or brokenlimbs.

Man has hunted all his life, but theyhave come a long way from rollingboulders.

Hunting is possibly the largest crowdsport today. Wild life today is out ofcontrol. The deer are destroying pineplantations by the hundreds, and thereare foxes killing off farming animals.

Many years ago I wrote an articleand quoted that in 1859 ThomasAusten imported and released 24 rab-bits for hunting at Winchelsea andWerribee. By 1926 there were 10 bil-lion rabbits in Australia.

I would have to say he is not a goodshot!

I am a firm believer in educatingyour feelings to hunt concretely. I havehunted by whole life, even in my schoolyears.

I had the best collection of birds’eggs. If a bird lay four eggs, I wouldtake one, but she would ideally lay an-other one.

The ultimate and the hardest was themopoke egg. To be a good hunter, youhave to become the animal you arehunting, and take your time.

In the past, Butch Reid and Ihunted for five years before we partedways.

Butch Reid was a friend of minesince we were kids. He was the besthunting mate I ever had. He was anironman.

Early one morning, we had to crossa river. The river was up to our waistsand got deeper. When we got to theother side Butch was laughing his headof.

He said: “Don’t you want to getwet?” In that, he stripped off, rappedhis boots, and all his clothes and hisrifle, and wandered on.

He said something like “now, who’sthe idiot?”

I could write a lovely book on thisman. He would ring up/turn up at allhours and say “what’s going on?”

Within a few minutes he had every-thing organised. He left the world abetter place.

By Barry MCVilly

It was a pleasure to know him.Above all, he played for the GeelongCats.

Here are some hints for those inter-ested in expanding their hunting skills;

Join a club, such as the SSA, orField and Game.

Good magazines to purchase areWild Deer (Daniel Burke, 0419 118810), or Wild Boer (Vic Attard, 0401014 592).

Both magazines will give you all theinfo that you need. Also check out thekids stories in the magazines. All theadults are helping the next generation.

You may be able to go on a dogteam. I had 28 hounds and hunted thehigh country weekly.

The kids that helped in those daysare the adults in the next generation.

As a momento of my invovementwith hunds, I pursued the hunts for theBarwon Hunt Club to keep mydream alive.

From a hunter’s point-of-view,there’s no greater sound that the bay-ing of the hounds when they are in pur-suit.

Take the kids and enjoyment in theexcitement.

- Good hunting, Barry MCVillyProfessional Hunter

High praiseon Safaris

■ Barry MCVilly won high praisefrom Johan Wolvardt of SandRiver Safaris, Musina, SouthAfrica.

Johan has been a professionalhunter for 31 years, specialising in biggame.

Originally with the special forcesof the Rhodesian Govermment,Johan penned his comments aboutBarry in 2010, after a 10 day hunt,“which was in trying circumstances,such as very uncomfortable roads andvery high temperatires.”

Excerpts of his comments aboutBarry MCVilly are reproduced atright.

“I found him that he was a veryaccommodating person, who fittedvery well into the close confines ofnew company and not one who was(as so frequently occurs with overswashunters), the type of person who com-plained at the unavoidable circum-stances we endured as a hunting sa-fari to Africa, where circumstancescan be trying.

“We experience large numbers ofoverseas clientele, and he stands wellclear of many in his accommodatingnature.

“We were amazed that after a par-ticularly difficult stalk, Mr MCVillystood aside to give another of the party,who had hitherto not had a clear shot,the trophy shot.

“This had never to his date and afterhappened on one of safaris before. Onthis tripm he shot 16 animals, of whichtwo were of the Big Five, a Lionessin South Africa, and a Buffalo inZimbabwe.

“He is well versed in the opera-tion of his rifle and not quick on thertigger. He rates as a well above av-erage shot.”

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 - Page 23www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Page 24 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Gone Fishing Historic Photo Collection

●●●●● Boys fishing at Sorrento Back Beach. 1909.●●●●● Fishing near Taggerty. Circa 1910-1930.

●●●●● Fishermen on the Yarra St wharf, Geelong. Circa 1940s.

●●●●● Surf fishing, Rye Back Beach. ●●●●● Fishing at Carrum Creek. Circa 1899.

●●●●● Fishing huts. Kororoit Creek. Williamstown. 1963. ●●●●● Soldiers fishing at Hethersett Private Repat. Hospital, Burwood. WWI.

●●●●● Fishing pool at Mount Buffalo. Probably early 1900s.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 - Page 25www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 - Page 105www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Spanish beauty captures terror

ObserverMelbourne

Wines & Liqueurswith

David

Ellis

■ When Swiss engineer EduardLocher revealed he’d got thegovernment’s OK to build a railwayfrom the shores of Lake Lucerne to thesummit of the 2200m high MountPilatus in the centre of the craggy SwissAlps, folks decided that either the gov-ernment was mad, Mr Locher was mad– or they both were mad.

It was the 1880s, and while rail wasthe newest craze in driving the equally-newest craze of mass tourism, steamtrains simply couldn’t climb gradientssteeper than six degrees … although inAmerica a new-fangled inventioncalled a cogwheel railway actuallyclimbed at an incredible 37-degrees upMount Washington.

But Mr Locher’s railway wouldneed to climb Mt Pilatus at an evensteeper rate than this: his would needrise at an extraordinary 48-degrees.

And to achieve it he would have tore-think what the Americans had donewith their cogwheel, which relied onthe driving cogs of the engine engaginga “rack” of teeth cut vertically into therails… and which Mr Locher feared at48-degrees could simply pop out withcalamitous runaway results.

After much experimentation, he ul-timately came up with a wheel-and-cogarrangement that had horizontal teethrather than vertical ones, engaging intoboth sides of a centre rail that made itimpossible for the driving cogs to dis-engage while either climbing up orbraking down Mt Pilatus.

■ Latest Aussie maker to come outwith a Tempranillo – that wonderful redwhose homeland is the Rioja region ofSpain and which is now one of the fast-est-growing “new” varietals in Austra-lia – is Logan at Mudgee in the NSWCentral Ranges.

Peter Logan’s exceptionally-reward-ing 2012 Tempranillo under his LoganWeemala label is one he says has beenan equally-rewarding journey in themaking.

“It’s a Tempranillo that I think cap-tures the Mudgee terroir to a ‘T,’ fromits savoury varietal characters toflavours of sarsaparilla and earthiness,and even the coal dust of Mudgee,” hesays.

“It’s a rustic beauty that fills a voidin our Weemala line-up for a red thatis both age-worthy – and steak-worthy.”

Well-priced at $19 this is a great dropto enjoy with a steak as Peter suggests,herb and garlic lamb loin chops off theBBQ, or with traditional Spanish curedham and roasted vegetables.

One to note

■ Yellowglen has enjoyed a well-earned reputation as a maker ofAustralian sparkling wines for someforty years now, and a re-launch ofits Vintage Perle is, well, a pearlerof an idea.

Chief Winemaker Trina Smithblended classic sparkling varietiesfrom across our leading sparklingregions to create this 2009Yellowglen Vintage Perle, a dropthat’s sure to impress on any occa-sion when a celebratory bubbly iscalled for.

Nicely priced at $24.99 it haslovely layers of complex flavours, adelicate bead and a fresh and linger-ing finish, red-berry fruit flavours re-flecting the high Pinot Noir compo-nent and its Chardonnay componentadding lightness and elegance.

Pictured

■ Herb and garlic lamb loin chopsoff the BBQ simply ideal with this.

■ Pearler of a come-back ideawhen partying is to the fore.

●●●●● There is a cable-car ride to the top of the mountain.

ObserverMelbourne

Travellers’ Good Buyswith

David

Ellis

Train yourself to climb this mountainBut although the government had

given him permission to build his rail-way, when he asked for a tax-payer-funded subsidiary to get his cogwheelrailway on track, so to speak, he got avery firm “No.”

Undaunted he went to private inves-tors who willingly gave him the money– again much to most peoples’ dismay– and in June 1889, three years afterstarting work with 800 constructionworkers, the Mount Pilatus CogwheelRailway carried its first passengers upinto the Swiss Alps.

To this day it is still privately oper-ated, has never suffered a financial lossand is still the world’s steepest cog-wheel railway.

The first Mt Pilatus trains weresteam powered, but this was changedto electric traction in 1937, and todayten little red railcars that each carriesforty passengers, take 30-minutes toascend the 4.6km long track fromAlpnachstad on Lake Lucerne, toPilatus’ summit… compared with 1hr20m for the original steam-drawn car-riages.

The view from here, 2132m abovesea-level, is breathtaking – if it’s notclouded-in or fogged-over – and ifyou’ve ever wanted to do a JulieAndrews and start hollering The HillsAre Alive, this is the place to do it.

Visitors gaze down from viewingplatforms and picnic tables, or from twohotels on this eagles’ eyrie, to LakeLucerne and its fringing postcard-prettyvillages below, fields of wild flowersin spring and summer, babbly moun-tain streams, the city of Lucerne itself,myriad crystal blue lakes… and in onedirection, no less than seventy-threemountain peaks in a row.

There’s a rope suspension-bridgeplayground, and the tens of thousandswho ascend the mountain each year bythe cogwheel train, Aerial Gondolasthat went into service in 1954 and anAerial Cableway that opened in 1956,can also rock-climb, cycle narrowtrails, marvel at the nimble-footed Ibexand wonder how these mountain goatsdon’t tumble off their lofty and oftenwet and icy perches, and ride sledgesor toboggans over lengthy mountainruns.

But most just sit and take in theviews, or dine in the hotels’ restaurantsand cafés … opting for traditionalSwiss cheese fondues and local spe-cialties such as roast pork stuffed withprunes, crème caramel with whippedcream… and to sip on local Swisswines before going back down to LakeLucerne.

The Hotel Pilatus-Kulm (PilatusSummit) opened with 28 rooms in 1890and the Hotel Bellevue with 27 roomsin 1960. Each boasts extraordinary sun-sets followed by the sight of Lucerneand its surrounds lighting up in theevening, and stunning sunrises fromguest rooms that truly will have youwanting to do that Julie Andrews im-personation…

The Mt Pilatus Cogwheel Railwayoperates from May to November, andthe Aerial Cableway and Gondola year-round, with both hotels on the summitopen year-round as well.

Getting There: See travel agentsabout getting to Lucerne and journey-ing up Mt Pilatus by cogwheel train,the Aerial Gondola or Cableway, orvisit www.pilatus.ch/en

Page 106 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 6, 2013 - Page 107www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

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Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 20 was fairly covered with cuts; what would be the

result of these wounds on the head? Would theystop short at the hairy cuticle, or would they at-tack the brain? As yet, this could not be decided.A grave symptom was that they had caused aswoon, and that people do not always recover fromsuch swoons. Moreover, the wounded man hadbeen exhausted by hemorrhage. From the waistdown, the barricade had protected the lower partof the body from injury.Basque and Nicolette tore up linen and preparedbandages; Nicolette sewed them, Basque rolledthem. As lint was lacking, the doctor, for the timebeing, arrested the bleeding with layers of wad-ding. Beside the bed, three candles burned on atable where the case of surgical instruments layspread out. The doctor bathed Marius’ face andhair with cold water. A full pail was reddened inan instant. The porter, candle in hand, lighted them.The doctor seemed to be pondering sadly. Fromtime to time, he made a negative sign with hishead, as though replying to some question whichhe had inwardly addressed to himself.A bad sign for the sick man are these mysteriousdialogues of the doctor with himself.At the moment when the doctor was wipingMarius’ face, and lightly touching his still closedeyes with his finger, a door opened at the end ofthe drawing-room, and a long, pallid figure madeits appearance.This was the grandfather.The revolt had, for the past two days, deeply agi-tated, enraged and engrossed the mind of M.Gillenormand. He had not been able to sleep onthe previous night, and he had been in a fever allday long. In the evening, he had gone to bed veryearly, recommending that everything in the houseshould be well barred, and he had fallen into adoze through sheer fatigue.Old men sleep lightly; M. Gillenormand’s cham-ber adjoined the drawing-room, and in spite of allthe precautions that had been taken, the noise hadawakened him. Surprised at the rift of light whichhe saw under his door, he had risen from his bed,and had groped his way thither.He stood astonished on the threshold, one hand onthe handle of the half-open door, with his headbent a little forward and quivering, his bodywrapped in a white dressing-gown, which wasstraight and as destitute of folds as a winding-sheet; and he had the air of a phantom who isgazing into a tomb.He saw the bed, and on the mattress that youngman, bleeding, white with a waxen whiteness,with closed eyes and gaping mouth, and pallid lips,stripped to the waist, slashed all over with crim-son wounds, motionless and brilliantly lighted up.The grandfather trembled from head to foot aspowerfully as ossified limbs can tremble, his eyes,whose corneae were yellow on account of his greatage, were veiled in a sort of vitreous glitter, hiswhole face assumed in an instant the earthy anglesof a skull, his arms fell pendent, as though a springhad broken, and his amazement was betrayed bythe outspreading of the fingers of his two agedhands, which quivered all over, his knees formedan angle in front, allowing, through the opening inhis dressing-gown, a view of his poor bare legs,all bristling with white hairs, and he murmured:“Marius!”“Sir,” said Basque, “Monsieur has just beenbrought back. He went to the barricade, and . . . ”“He is dead!” cried the old man in a terrible voice.“Ah! The rascal!”Then a sort of sepulchral transformation straight-ened up this centenarian as erect as a young man.“Sir,” said he, “you are the doctor. Begin by tell-ing me one thing. He is dead, is he not?”The doctor, who was at the highest pitch of anxi-ety, remained silent.M. Gillenormand wrung his hands with an out-burst of terrible laughter.“He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has gothimself killed on the barricades! Out of hatred tome! He did that to spite me! Ah! You blood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me! Miseryof my life, he is dead!”He went to the window, threw it wide open asthough he were stifling, and, erect before the dark-ness, he began to talk into the street, to the night:“Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hackedin pieces! Just look at that, the villain! He knewwell that I was waiting for him, and that I hadhad his room arranged, and that I had placed atthe head of my bed his portrait taken when hewas a little child! He knew well that he had onlyto come back, and that I had been recalling himfor years, and that I remained by my fireside, withmy hands on my knees, not knowing what to do,

when there is a revolt. This good, old quarter, ter-rified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber,as children, when they hear the Bugaboo coming,hide their heads hastily under their coverlet.In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachmanhad taken Marius out of the carriage, Jean Valjeansupporting him under the armpits, and the coach-man under the knees.As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slippedhis hand under the latter’s clothes, which werebroadly rent, felt his breast, and assured himselfthat his heart was still beating. It was even beat-ing a little less feebly, as though the movement ofthe carriage had brought about a certain fresh ac-cess of life.Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting thegovernment, and the presence of the porter of afactious person.“Some person whose name is Gillenormand?”“Here. What do you want with him?”“His son is brought back.”“His son?” said the porter stupidly.“He is dead.”Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood be-hind Javert, and whom the porter was surveyingwith some horror, made a sign to him with hishead that this was not so.The porter did not appear to understand eitherJavert’s words or Jean Valjean’s sign.Javert continued:“He went to the barricade, and here he is.”“To the barricade?” ejaculated the porter.“He has got himself killed. Go waken his father.”The porter did not stir.“Go along with you!” repeated Javert.And he added:“There will be a funeral here tomorrow.”For Javert, the usual incidents of the public high-way were categorically classed, which is the be-ginning of foresight and surveillance, and eachcontingency had its own compartment; all pos-sible facts were arranged in drawers, as it were,whence they emerged on occasion, in variablequantities; in the street, uproar, revolt, carnival,and funeral.The porter contented himself with waking Basque.Basque woke Nicolette; Nicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.As for the grandfather, they let him sleep on, think-ing that he would hear about the matter earlyenough in any case.Marius was carried up to the first floor, withoutany one in the other parts of the house being awareof the fact, and deposited on an old sofa in M.Gillenormand’s antechamber; and while Basquewent in search of a physician, and while Nicoletteopened the linen-presses, Jean Valjean felt Javerttouch him on the shoulder. He understood anddescended the stairs, having behind him the stepof Javert who was following him.The porter watched them take their departure ashe had watched their arrival, in terrified somno-lence.They entered the carriage once more, and thecoachman mounted his box.“Inspector Javert,” said Jean, “grant me yet an-other favor.”“What is it?” demanded Javert roughly.“Let me go home for one instant. Then you shalldo whatever you like with me.”Javert remained silent for a few moments, withhis chin drawn back into the collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front:“Driver,” said he, “Rue de l’Homme Arme, No.7.”

the carriage halted, the way being too narrow toadmit of the entrance of vehicles. Javert and JeanValjean alighted.The coachman humbly represented to “monsieurl’Inspecteur,” that the Utrecht velvet of his car-riage was all spotted with the blood of the assas-sinated man, and with mire from the assassin.That is the way he understood it. He added thatan indemnity was due him. At the same time,drawing his certificate book from his pocket, hebegged the inspector to have the goodness to writehim “a bit of an attestation.”Javert thrust aside the book which the coachmanheld out to him, and said:“How much do you want, including your time ofwaiting and the drive?”“It comes to seven hours and a quarter,” repliedthe man, “and my velvet was perfectly new. Eightyfrancs, Mr. Inspector.”Javert drew four napoleons from his pocket anddismissed the carriage.Jean Valjean fancied that it was Javert’s inten-tion to conduct him on foot to the post of theBlancs–Manteaux or to the post of the Archives,both of which are close at hand.They entered the street. It was deserted as usual.Javert followed Jean Valjean. They reached No.7. Jean Valjean knocked. The door opened.“It is well,” said Javert. “Go up stairs.”He added with a strange expression, and as thoughhe were exerting an effort in speaking in thismanner:“I will wait for you here.”Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This mode of pro-cedure was but little in accord with Javert’s hab-its. However, he could not be greatly surprisedthat Javert should now have a sort of haughty con-fidence in him, the confidence of the cat whichgrants the mouse liberty to the length of its claws,seeing that Jean Valjean had made up his mind tosurrender himself and to make an end of it. Hepushed open the door, entered the house, called tothe porter who was in bed and who had pulled thecord from his couch: “It is I!” and ascended thestairs.On arriving at the first floor, he paused. All sor-rowful roads have their stations. The window onthe landing-place, which was a sash-window, wasopen. As in many ancient houses, the staircasegot its light from without and had a view on thestreet. The street-lantern, situated directly oppo-site, cast some light on the stairs, and thus ef-fected some economy in illumination.Jean Valjean, either for the sake of getting theair, or mechanically, thrust his head out of thiswindow. He leaned out over the street. It is short,and the lantern lighted it from end to end. JeanValjean was overwhelmed with amazement; therewas no longer any one there.Javert had taken his departure.

Valjean, straightened himself stiffly up withoutbending, grasped his bludgeon again firmly, and,as though in a dream, he murmured rather thanuttered this question:“What are you doing here? And who is this man?”He still abstained from addressing Jean Valjeanas thou.Jean Valjean replied, and the sound of his voiceappeared to rouse Javert:“It is with regard to him that I desire to speak toyou. Dispose of me as you see fit; but first helpme to carry him home. That is all that I ask ofyou.”Javert’s face contracted as was always the casewhen any one seemed to think him capable ofmaking a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say“no.”Again he bent over, drew from his pocket a hand-kerchief which he moistened in the water and withwhich he then wiped Marius’ blood-stained brow.“This man was at the barricade,” said he in a lowvoice and as though speaking to himself. “He isthe one they called Marius.”A spy of the first quality, who had observed ev-erything, listened to everything, and taken in ev-erything, even when he thought that he was to die;who had played the spy even in his agony, andwho, with his elbows leaning on the first step ofthe sepulchre, had taken notes.He seized Marius’ hand and felt his pulse.“He is wounded,” said Jean Valjean.“He is a dead man,” said Javert.Jean Valjean replied:“No. Not yet.”“So you have brought him thither from the barri-cade?” remarked Javert.His preoccupation must indeed have been veryprofound for him not to insist on this alarming res-cue through the sewer, and for him not to evennotice Jean Valjean’s silence after his question.Jean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have but onethought. He resumed:“He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with his grandfather. I do not recollecthis name.”Jean Valjean fumbled in Marius’ coat, pulled outhis pocket-book, opened it at the page whichMarius had pencilled, and held it out to Javert.There was still sufficient light to admit of read-ing. Besides this, Javert possessed in his eye thefeline phosphorescence of night birds. He deci-phered the few lines written by Marius, and mut-tered: “Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-duCalvaire,No. 6.”Then he exclaimed: “Coachman!”The reader will remember that the hackney-coachwas waiting in case of need.Javert kept Marius’ pocket-book.A moment later, the carriage, which had de-scended by the inclined plane of the watering-place, was on the shore. Marius was laid uponthe back seat, and Javert seated himself on thefront seat beside Jean Valjean.The door slammed, and the carriage drove rap-idly away, ascending the quays in the direction ofthe Bastille.They quitted the quays and entered the streets.The coachman, a black form on his box, whippedup his thin horses. A glacial silence reigned in thecarriage. Marius, motionless, with his body rest-ing in the corner, and his head drooping on hisbreast, his arms hanging, his legs stiff, seemed tobe awaiting only a coffin; Jean Valjean seemedmade of shadow, and Javert of stone, and in thatvehicle full of night, whose interior, every timethat it passed in front of a street lantern, appearedto be turned lividly wan, as by an intermittent flashof lightning, chance had united and seemed to bebringing face to face the three forms of tragicimmobility, the corpse, the spectre, and the statue.

Continued on Page 110

CHAPTER XRETURN OF THE SON WHO

WAS PRODIGAL OF HIS LIFE

At every jolt over the pavement, a drop of bloodtrickled from Marius’ hair.Night had fully closed in when the carriage ar-rived at No. 6, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.Javert was the first to alight; he made sure withone glance of the number on the carriage gate,and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten iron,embellished in the old style, with a male goat anda satyr confronting each other, he gave a violentpeal. The gate opened a little way and Javert gaveit a push. The porter half made his appearanceyawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in hishand.Everyone in the house was asleep. People go tobed betimes in the Marais, especially on days

CHAPTER XICONCUSSION IN THE ABSOLUTE

They did not open their lips again during the wholespace of their ride.What did Jean Valjean want? To finish what hehad begun; to warn Cosette, to tell her whereMarius was, to give her, possibly, some other use-ful information, to take, if he could, certain finalmeasures. As for himself, so far as he was per-sonally concerned, all was over; he had beenseized by Javert and had not resisted; any otherman than himself in like situation would, perhaps,have had some vague thoughts connected with therope which Thenardier had given him, and of thebars of the first cell that he should enter; but, letus impress it upon the reader, after the Bishop,there had existed in Jean Valjean a profound hesi-tation in the presence of any violence, even whendirected against himself.Suicide, that mysterious act of violence againstthe unknown which may contain, in a measure,the death of the soul, was impossible to JeanValjean.At the entrance to the Rue de l’Homme Arme,

CHAPTER XIITHE GRANDFATHER

Basque and the porter had carried Marius into thedrawing-room, as he still lay stretched out, mo-tionless, on the sofa upon which he had beenplaced on his arrival. The doctor who had beensent for had hastened thither. Aunt Gillenormandhad risen.Aunt Gillenormand went and came, in affright,wringing her hands and incapable of doing any-thing but saying: “Heavens! is it possible?” Attimes she added: “Everything will be covered withblood.” When her first horror had passed off, acertain philosophy of the situation penetrated hermind, and took form in the exclamation: “It wasbound to end in this way!” She did not go so faras: “I told you so!” which is customary on thissort of occasion. At the physician’s orders, a campbed had been prepared beside the sofa. The doc-tor examined Marius, and after having found thathis pulse was still beating, that the wounded manhad no very deep wound on his breast, and thatthe blood on the corners of his lips proceeded fromhis nostrils, he had him placed flat on the bed,without a pillow, with his head on the same levelas his body, and even a trifle lower, and with hisbust bare in order to facilitate respiration. Made-moiselle Gillenormand, on perceiving that theywere undressing Marius, withdrew. She set her-self to telling her beads in her own chamber.The trunk had not suffered any internal injury; abullet, deadened by the pocket-book, had turnedaside and made the tour of his ribs with a hideouslaceration, which was of no great depth, and con-sequently, not dangerous. The long, undergroundjourney had completed the dislocation of the bro-ken collar-bone, and the disorder there was seri-ous. The arms had been slashed with sabre cuts.Not a single scar disfigured his face; but his head

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 109

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Observer Crossword Solution No 32

He plunged into the silent streets.Nevertheless, he followed one given direction.He took the shortest cut to the Seine, reached theQuai des Ormes, skirted the quay, passed theGreve, and halted at some distance from the postof the Place du Chatelet, at the angle of the PontNotre–Dame. There, between the Notre–Dameand the Pont au Change on the one hand, and theQuai de la Megisserie and the Quai aux Fleurs onthe other, the Seine forms a sort of square lake,traversed by a rapid.This point of the Seine is dreaded by mariners.Nothing is more dangerous than this rapid,hemmed in, at that epoch, and irritated by the pilesof the mill on the bridge, now demolished. Thetwo bridges, situated thus close together, augmentthe peril; the water hurries in formidable wisethrough the arches. It rolls in vast and terriblewaves; it accumulates and piles up there; the floodattacks the piles of the bridges as though in aneffort to pluck them up with great liquid ropes.Men who fall in there never re-appear; the best ofswimmers are drowned there.Javert leaned both elbows on the parapet, his chinresting in both hands, and, while his nails weremechanically twined in the abundance of his whis-kers, he meditated.A novelty, a revolution, a catastrophe had justtaken place in the depths of his being; and he hadsomething upon which to examine himself.Javert was undergoing horrible suffering.For several hours, Javert had ceased to be simple.He was troubled; that brain, so limpid in its blind-ness, had lost its transparency; that crystal wasclouded. Javert felt duty divided within his con-science, and he could not conceal the fact fromhimself. When he had so unexpectedly encoun-tered Jean Valjean on the banks of the Seine, therehad been in him something of the wolf which re-gains his grip on his prey, and of the dog who findshis master again.He beheld before him two paths, both equallystraight, but he beheld two; and that terrified him;him, who had never in all his life known morethan one straight line. And, the poignant anguishlay in this, that the two paths were contrary toeach other. One of these straight lines excludedthe other. Which of the two was the true one?His situation was indescribable.

To Be Continued Next Week

and that I was mad over it! You knew well, thatyou had but to return and to say: ‘It is I,’ and youwould have been the master of the house, and thatI should have obeyed you, and that you could havedone whatever you pleased with your old num-skull of a grandfather! you knew that well, andyou said:“No, he is a Royalist, I will not go! And you wentto the barricades, and you got yourself killed outof malice! To revenge yourself for what I said toyou about Monsieur le Duc de Berry. It is infa-mous! Go to bed then and sleep tranquilly! he isdead, and this is my awakening.”The doctor, who was beginning to be uneasy inboth quarters, quitted Marius for a moment, wentto M. Gillenormand, and took his arm. The grand-father turned round, gazed at him with eyes whichseemed exaggerated in size and bloodshot, andsaid to him calmly:“I thank you, sir. I am composed, I am a man, Iwitnessed the death of Louis XVI., I know howto bear events. One thing is terrible and that is tothink that it is your newspapers which do all themischief. You will have scribblers, chatterers,lawyers, orators, tribunes, discussions, progress,enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty ofthe press, and this is the way that your childrenwill be brought home to you. Ah! Marius! It isabominable! Killed! Dead before me! A barri-cade! Ah, the scamp! Doctor, you live in this quar-ter, I believe? Oh! I know you well. I see yourcabriolet pass my window. I am going to tell you.You are wrong to think that I am angry. One doesnot fly into a rage against a dead man. That wouldbe stupid. This is a child whom I have reared. Iwas already old while he was very young. Heplayed in the Tuileries garden with his little shoveland his little chair, and in order that the inspec-tors might not grumble, I stopped up the holes thathe made in the earth with his shovel, with mycane. One day he exclaimed: Down with LouisXVIII.! and off he went. It was no fault of mine.He was all rosy and blond. His mother is dead.Have you ever noticed that all little children areblond? Why is it so? He is the son of one of thosebrigands of the Loire, but children are innocent oftheir fathers’ crimes. I remember when he wasno higher than that. He could not manage to pro-nounce his Ds. He had a way of talking that wasso sweet and indistinct that you would have thought

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it was a bird chirping. I remember that once, infront of the Hercules Farnese, people formed acircle to admire him and marvel at him, he wasso handsome, was that child! He had a head suchas you see in pictures. I talked in a deep voice,and I frightened him with my cane, but he knewvery well that it was only to make him laugh. Inthe morning, when he entered my room, Igrumbled, but he was like the sunlight to me, allthe same. One cannot defend oneself against thosebrats. They take hold of you, they hold you fast,they never let you go again. The truth is, that therenever was a cupid like that child. Now, what canyou say for your Lafayettes, your Benjamin Con-stants, and your Tirecuir de Corcelles who havekilled him? This cannot be allowed to pass in thisfashion.”He approached Marius, who still lay livid andmotionless, and to whom the physician had re-turned, and began once more to wring his hands.The old man’s pallid lips moved as though me-chanically, and permitted the passage of wordsthat were barely audible, like breaths in the deathagony:“Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah!Septembrist!”Reproaches in the low voice of an agonizing man,addressed to a corpse.Little by little, as it is always indispensable thatinternal eruptions should come to the light, thesequence of words returned, but the grandfatherappeared no longer to have the strength to utterthem, his voice was so weak, and extinct, that itseemed to come from the other side of an abyss:“It is all the same to me, I am going to die too,that I am. And to think that there is not a hussy inParis who would not have been delighted to makethis wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of amus-ing himself and enjoying life, went off to fightand get himself shot down like a brute! And forwhom? Why? For the Republic! Instead of goingto dance at the Chaumiere, as it is the duty ofyoung folks to do! What’s the use of being twentyyears old? The Republic, a cursed pretty folly!Poor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he isdead. That will make two funerals under the samecarriage gate. So you have got yourself arrangedlike this for the sake of General Lamarque’s hand-some eyes! What had that General Lamarquedone to you? A slasher! A chatter-box! To get one-self killed for a dead man! If that isn’t enough to

drive any one mad! Just think of it! At twenty!And without so much as turning his head to seewhether he was not leaving something behind him!That’s the way poor, good old fellows are forcedto die alone, now-adays. Perish in your corner,owl! Well, after all, so much the better, that iswhat I was hoping for, this will kill me on thespot. I am too old, I am a hundred years old, I ama hundred thousand years old, I ought, by rights,to have been dead long ago. This blow puts anend to it. So all is over, what happiness! What isthe good of making him inhale ammonia and allthat parcel of drugs? You are wasting your trouble,you fool of a doctor! Come, he’s dead, completelydead. I know all about it, I am dead myself too.He hasn’t done things by half. Yes, this age isinfamous, infamous and that’s what I think of you,of your ideas, of your systems, of your masters,of your oracles, of your doctors, of your scape-graces of writers, of your rascally philosophers,and of all the revolutions which, for the last sixtyyears, have been frightening the flocks of crowsin the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in gettingyourself killed like this, I shall not even grieveover your death, do you understand, you assas-sin?”At that moment, Marius slowly opened his eyes,and his glance, still dimmed by lethargic wonder,rested on M. Gillenormand.“Marius!” cried the old man. “Marius! My littleMarius! my child! my well-beloved son! You openyour eyes, you gaze upon me, you are alive,thanks!”And he fell fainting.

S M A N A G E R I A L C A L L S I N R E G U L A T I O N C

S P A R O R D L I E A I O L E A L N O V A L

O H E A D A C H E A L W G E A D E C L I N E D R

T Y H V N M E L A N C H O L I C G I S U A

V O I D M I L I T I A W R T E E N A G E L I F E

I N T E R N E T I S A T A N M A R E S T A W A K E N E D

B E U L A Y O F F R R A B A T S B R O N T E E E U

R O M P E D T P Y R A M I D S R E S P R A Y S O M Y O P I C

A I O E T U Y S T E A D Y B L R U T A

T O S S M I S U S A G E S I U E S O L O I S T S K N O T

I I M E N N A S P R E A D I N G O C Y E A E O

O W N E R N I C K E L S A S E T U N C L E A R M I S E R

N A G S O L N E C A T A R R H L R A A Y S A S

T F C A T E P E E N U N C L E X N A S

C L A V E N D E R I M I R A G E S E M E E K N E S S T

T H R O W N A Y E A Y E G E A R N E D I A S I A N

F R E S C U E R M U N D E R P A S S U E P I S T L E F

F U S E D E S L I P U P E A I U N D O N E E E M I R S

L N P T P F A M E D N E N B I

B L O C H A I R S T Y L I S T S S I D E S T R E E T S L A C K

L Y R E S L I R E P T E R T W P E C A N

O D M E A N T E A S T R O N O M E R S O R E A R S H I

O B E S E B D W A R F O L W M A R O M A D A L I V E

M R L E A V E S T A N T A L I S I N G P T I D A L E V

E L E C T M C O L R T E E I L M O V I E

D O D O M A D O N N A L I L Y C U N W A R R A N T E D B E L L

N M R C A O D O U R P I G S L

A G R E E C P H O T O S B N S O R D E A L D M E D I C

W D E L O U S E E E A S Y C H A I R E B Y L I N E S T

C I V I L M M O D E S T L S T A R V E S I S L E S

N E S C A P I S M X R E B U I L T L A L C A P O N E R

D S N N I D A H O D A V A I L A E S A

M E T A C M T L C A M E R O N R I M N E P T O

I D O L S H E A D S E T I A U B M A D N E S S M I L E R

S U H O E T V S T I C K S O U T T O E A U A C

N I C E A S B E S T O S Y A T L M O U R N E R S U T A H

O H R U I K M F R A I L A N E X I I E

M O I N E S S P E E K A B O O E A G L E E Y E P S A U T E S

E E R M I S S U S X R O A S T M D A F T E R G U T

R E S T R A I N R M I L A N T E X A S S D O G O O D E R

S I T E R E P R O V E G S I N H E R I T L E N A

G M G S P N E C E S S I T A T E M T V D W

H P R E S S U R E T U A D C S A B D I C A T E R

S T Y E E E A H U B G E M A T K O N S L A V

Y R E S I S T A N C E S E A L A N E A S S I G N M E N T P

BOOK FOURTH.— JAVERT DERAILEDCHAPTER I

JAVERT PASSED SLOWLY DOWN THE RUEDE L’HOMME ARME.

He walked with drooping head for the first timein his life, and likewise, for the first time in hislife, with his hands behind his back.Up to that day, Javert had borrowed fromNapoleon’s attitudes, only that which is expres-sive of resolution, with arms folded across thechest; that which is expressive of uncertainty —with the hands behind the back — had been un-known to him. Now, a change had taken place;his whole person, slow and sombre, was stampedwith anxiety.