Les Misérables by Victor HugoObserver Classic Books

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www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, June 26, 2013 - Page 27

ing on Cosette.Moreover, from the mere inspection of Cosette’stoilet, a woman would have recognized the factthat she had no mother. Certain little proprieties,certain special conventionalities, were not ob-served by Cosette. A mother, for instance, wouldhave told her that a young girl does not dress indamask.The first day that Cosette went out in her blackdamask gown and mantle, and her white crapebonnet, she took Jean Valjean’s arm, gay, radiant,rosy, proud, dazzling. “Father,” she said, “howdo you like me in this guise?” Jean Valjean re-plied in a voice which resembled the bitter voiceof an envious man: “Charming!” He was the sameas usual during their walk. On their return home,he asked Cosette:—“Won’t you put on that other gown and bonnetagain,— you know the ones I mean?”This took place in Cosette’s chamber. Cosetteturned towards the wardrobe where her cast-offschoolgirl’s clothes were hanging.“That disguise!” said she. “Father, what do youwant me to do with it? Oh no, the idea! I shallnever put on those horrors again. With that ma-chine on my head, I have the air of Madame Mad-dog.”Jean Valjean heaved a deep sigh.From that moment forth, he noticed that Cosette,who had always heretofore asked to remain athome, saying: “Father, I enjoy myself more herewith you,” now was always asking to go out. Infact, what is the use of having a handsome faceand a delicious costume if one does not displaythem?He also noticed that Cosette had no longer thesame taste for the back garden. Now she preferredthe garden, and did not dislike to promenade backand forth in front of the railed fence. Jean Valjean,who was shy, never set foot in the garden. Hekept to his back yard, like a dog.Cosette, in gaining the knowledge that she wasbeautiful, lost the grace of ignoring it. An exquis-ite grace, for beauty enhanced by ingenuousnessis ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a daz-zling and innocent creature who walks along, hold-ing in her hand the key to paradise without beingconscious of it. But what she had lost in ingenu-ous grace, she gained in pensive and seriouscharm. Her whole person, permeated with the joyof youth, of innocence, and of beauty, breathedforth a splendid melancholy.It was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse ofsix months, saw her once more at the Luxem-bourg.

very distinctly himself what the beauty of a womanmeans; but he understood instinctively, that it wassomething terrible.He gazed with terror on this beauty, which wasblossoming out ever more triumphant and superbbeside him, beneath his very eyes, on the inno-cent and formidable brow of that child, from thedepths of her homeliness, of his old age, of hismisery, of his reprobation.He said to himself: “How beautiful she is! Whatis to become of me?”There, moreover, lay the difference between histenderness and the tenderness of a mother. Whathe beheld with anguish, a mother would havegazed upon with joy.The first symptoms were not long in making theirappearance.On the very morrow of the day on which she hadsaid to herself: “Decidedly I am beautiful!”Cosette began to pay attention to her toilet. Sherecalled the remark of that passer-by: “Pretty, butbadly dressed,” the breath of an oracle which hadpassed beside her and had vanished, after depos-iting in her heart one of the two germs which aredestined, later on, to fill the whole life of woman,coquetry. Love is the other.With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soulexpanded within her. She conceived a horror forher merinos, and shame for her plush hat. Herfather had never refused her anything. She at onceacquired the whole science of the bonnet, thegown, the mantle, the boot, the cuff, the stuffwhich is in fashion, the color which is becoming,that science which makes of the Parisian womansomething so charming, so deep, and so danger-ous. The words heady woman were invented forthe Parisienne.In less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaidof the Rue de Babylone, was not only one of theprettiest, but one of the “best dressed” women inParis, which means a great deal more.She would have liked to encounter her “passer-by,” to see what he would say, and to “teach hima lesson!” The truth is, that she was ravishing inevery respect, and that she distinguished the dif-ference between a bonnet from Gerard and onefrom Herbaut in the most marvellous way.Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxi-ety. He who felt that he could never do anythingbut crawl, walk at the most, beheld wings sprout-

of whom the passer-by had spoken, there couldno longer be any doubt of that; she descended tothe garden again, thinking herself a queen, imag-ining that she heard the birds singing, though itwas winter, seeing the sky gilded, the sun amongthe trees, flowers in the thickets, distracted, wild,in inexpressible delight.Jean Valjean, on his side, experienced a deep andundefinable oppression at heart.In fact, he had, for some time past, been con-templating with terror that beauty which seemedto grow more radiant every day on Cosette’ssweet face. The dawn that was smiling for allwas gloomy for him.Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably longtime before she became aware of it herself. But,from the very first day, that unexpected light whichwas rising slowly and enveloping the whole ofthe young girl’s person, wounded Jean Valjean’ssombre eye. He felt that it was a change in ahappy life, a life so happy that he did not dare tomove for fear of disarranging something. Thisman, who had passed through all manner of dis-tresses, who was still all bleeding from thebruises of fate, who had been almost wicked andwho had become almost a saint, who, after hav-ing dragged the chain of the galleys, was nowdragging the invisible but heavy chain of indefi-nite misery, this man whom the law had not re-leased from its grasp and who could be seized atany moment and brought back from the obscurityof his virtue to the broad daylight of public oppro-brium, this man accepted all, excused all, par-doned all, and merely asked of Providence, ofman, of the law, of society, of nature, of the world,one thing, that Cosette might love him!That Cosette might continue to love him! ThatGod would not prevent the heart of the child fromcoming to him, and from remaining with him!Beloved by Cosette, he felt that he was healed,rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recom-pensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was wellwith him! He asked nothing more! Had any onesaid to him: “Do you want anything better?” hewould have answered: “No.” God might have saidto him: “Do you desire heaven?” and he wouldhave replied: “I should lose by it.”Everything which could affect this situation, ifonly on the surface, made him shudder like thebeginning of something new. He had never known

●●●●● Victor Hugo

Hence the impossibility of uttering, even forCosette, that name of Fantine.One day Cosette said to him:—“Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night.She had two big wings. My mother must havebeen almost a saint during her life.”“Through martyrdom,” replied Jean Valjean.However, Jean Valjean was happy.When Cosette went out with him, she leaned onhis arm, proud and happy, in the plenitude of herheart. Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within himwith delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness soexclusive, so wholly satisfied with himself alone.The poor man trembled, inundated with angelicjoy; he declared to himself ecstatically that thiswould last all their lives; he told himself that hereally had not suffered sufficiently to merit soradiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the depthsof his soul, for having permitted him to be lovedthus, he, a wretch, by that innocent being.

VOLUME IV - SAINT DENISBOOK THIRD.— THE HOUSE

IN THE RUE PLUMETCHAPTER IV

CHANGE OF GATEContinued From Last Week

Continued on Page 28

CHAPTER VTHE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS

AN ENGINE OF WAR

One day, Cosette chanced to look at herself in hermirror, and she said to herself: “Really!” Itseemed to her almost that she was pretty. Thisthrew her in a singularly troubled state of mind.Up to that moment she had never thought of herface. She saw herself in her mirror, but she didnot look at herself. And then, she had so oftenbeen told that she was homely; Jean Valjean alonesaid gently: “No indeed! no indeed!” At all events,Cosette had always thought herself homely, andhad grown up in that belief with the easy resigna-tion of childhood. And here, all at once, was hermirror saying to her, as Jean Valjean had said:“No indeed!” That night, she did not sleep. “Whatif I were pretty!” she thought. “How odd it wouldbe if I were pretty!” And she recalled those ofher companions whose beauty had produced asensation in the convent, and she said to herself:“What! Am I to be like Mademoiselle So-and-So?”The next morning she looked at herself again, notby accident this time, and she was assailed withdoubts: “Where did I get such an idea?” said she;“no, I am ugly.” She had not slept well, that wasall, her eyes were sunken and she was pale. Shehad not felt very joyous on the preceding eveningin the belief that she was beautiful, but it madeher very sad not to be able to believe in it anylonger. She did not look at herself again, and formore than a fortnight she tried to dress her hairwith her back turned to the mirror.In the evening, after dinner, she generally em-broidered in wool or did some convent needle-work in the drawing-room, and Jean Valjean readbeside her. Once she raised her eyes from herwork, and was rendered quite uneasy by the man-ner in which her father was gazing at her.On another occasion, she was passing along thestreet, and it seemed to her that some one behindher, whom she did not see, said: “A pretty woman!but badly dressed.” “Bah!” she thought, “he doesnot mean me. I am well dressed and ugly.” Shewas then wearing a plush hat and her merino gown.At last, one day when she was in the garden, sheheard poor old Toussaint saying: “Do you noticehow pretty Cosette is growing, sir?” Cosette didnot hear her father’s reply, but Toussaint’s wordscaused a sort of commotion within her. She fledfrom the garden, ran up to her room, flew to thelooking-glass,— it was three months since shehad looked at herself,— and gave vent to a cry.She had just dazzled herself.She was beautiful and lovely; she could not helpagreeing with Toussaint and her mirror. Her fig-ure was formed, her skin had grown white, herhair was lustrous, an unaccustomed splendor hadbeen lighted in her blue eyes. The consciousnessof her beauty burst upon her in an instant, like thesudden advent of daylight; other people noticed italso, Toussaint had said so, it was evidently she

CHAPTER VITHE BATTLE BEGUN

Cosette in her shadow, like Marius in his, was allready to take fire. Destiny, with its mysteriousand fatal patience, slowly drew together these twobeings, all charged and all languishing with thestormy electricity of passion, these two soulswhich were laden with love as two clouds areladen with lightning, and which were bound tooverflow and mingle in a look like the clouds in aflash of fire.The glance has been so much abused in love ro-mances that it has finally fallen into disrepute.One hardly dares to say, nowadays, that two be-ings fell in love because they looked at each other.That is the way people do fall in love, neverthe-less, and the only way. The rest is nothing, but therest comes afterwards. Nothing is more real thanthese great shocks which two souls convey to eachother by the exchange of that spark.At that particular hour when Cosette unconsciouslydarted that glance which troubled Marius, Mariushad no suspicion that he had also launched a lookwhich disturbed Cosette.He caused her the same good and the same evil.She had been in the habit of seeing him for a longtime, and she had scrutinized him as girls scruti-nize and see, while looking elsewhere. Mariusstill considered Cosette ugly, when she had al-ready begun to think Marius handsome. But as hepaid no attention to her, the young man was noth-ing to her.Still, she could not refrain from saying to herselfthat he had beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, hand-some teeth, a charming tone of voice when she

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Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 27 She replied, sadly and gently:—

“No.”Jean Valjean was hurt by this sadness, and heart-broken at this gentleness.What was going on in that mind which was soyoung and yet already so impenetrable? What wason its way there within? What was taking placein Cosette’s soul? Sometimes, instead of going tobed, Jean Valjean remained seated on his pallet,with his head in his hands, and he passed wholenights asking himself: “What has Cosette in hermind?” and in thinking of the things that she mightbe thinking about.Oh! at such moments, what mournful glances didhe cast towards that cloister, that chaste peak, thatabode of angels, that inaccessible glacier of vir-tue! How he contemplated, with despairing ec-stasy, that convent garden, full of ignored flowersand cloistered virgins, where all perfumes and allsouls mount straight to heaven! How he adoredthat Eden forever closed against him, whence hehad voluntarily and madly emerged! How he re-gretted his abnegation and his folly in havingbrought Cosette back into the world, poor hero ofsacrifice, seized and hurled to the earth by hisvery self-devotion! How he said to himself, “Whathave I done?”However, nothing of all this was perceptible toCosette. No ill-temper, no harshness. His face wasalways serene and kind. Jean Valjean’s mannerswere more tender and more paternal than ever. Ifanything could have betrayed his lack of joy, itwas his increased suavity.On her side, Cosette languished. She sufferedfrom the absence of Marius as she had rejoicedin his presence, peculiarly, without exactly beingconscious of it. When Jean Valjean ceased to takeher on their customary strolls, a feminine instinctmurmured confusedly, at the bottom of her heart,that she must not seem to set store on the Luxem-bourg garden, and that if this proved to be a mat-ter of indifference to her, her father would takeher thither once more. But days, weeks, months,elapsed. Jean Valjean had tacitly acceptedCosette’s tacit consent. She regretted it. It wastoo late. So Marius had disappeared; all was over.The day on which she returned to the Luxembourg,Marius was no longer there. What was to be done?Should she ever find him again? She felt an an-guish at her heart, which nothing relieved, andwhich augmented every day; she no longer knewwhether it was winter or summer, whether it wasraining or shining, whether the birds were sing-ing, whether it was the season for dahlias or dai-sies, whether the Luxembourg was more charm-ing than the Tuileries, whether the linen whichthe laundress brought home was starched too muchor not enough, whether Toussaint had done “hermarketing” well or ill; and she remained dejected,absorbed, attentive to but a single thought, her eyesvague and staring as when one gazes by night at ablack and fathomless spot where an apparition hasvanished.However, she did not allow Jean Valjean to per-ceive anything of this, except her pallor.She still wore her sweet face for him.This pallor sufficed but too thoroughly to troubleJean Valjean. Sometimes he asked her:—“What is the matter with you?”She replied: “There is nothing the matter withme.”And after a silence, when she divined that he wassad also, she would add:—“And you, father — is there anything wrong withyou?”“With me? Nothing,” said he.These two beings who had loved each other soexclusively, and with so touching an affection, andwho had lived so long for each other now suf-fered side by side, each on the other’s account;without acknowledging it to each other, withoutanger towards each other, and with a smile.

son, and made everything tremble around her. Inthis situation he was not a lover, he was not evenan admirer, he was a vision. She set herself toadoring Marius as something charming, luminous,and impossible.As extreme innocence borders on extreme coque-try, she smiled at him with all frankness.Every day, she looked forward to the hour for theirwalk with impatience, she found Marius there,she felt herself unspeakably happy, and thought inall sincerity that she was expressing her wholethought when she said to Jean Valjean:—“What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is!”Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to oneanother. They did not address each other, they didnot salute each other, they did not know each other;they saw each other; and like stars of heaven whichare separated by millions of leagues, they livedby gazing at each other.It was thus that Cosette gradually became awoman and developed, beautiful and loving, witha consciousness of her beauty, and in ignoranceof her love. She was a coquette to boot throughher ignorance.

in her imperturbable tranquillity, so that JeanValjean arrived at the following conclusion: “Thatninny is madly in love with Cosette, but Cosettedoes not even know that he exists.”None the less did he bear in his heart a mournfultremor. The minute when Cosette would lovemight strike at any moment. Does not everythingbegin with indifference?Only once did Cosette make a mistake and alarmhim. He rose from his seat to depart, after a stayof three hours, and she said: “What, already?”Jean Valjean had not discontinued his trips to theLuxembourg, as he did not wish to do anythingout of the way, and as, above all things, he fearedto arouse Cosette; but during the hours which wereso sweet to the lovers, while Cosette was sendingher smile to the intoxicated Marius, who perceivednothing else now, and who now saw nothing in allthe world but an adored and radiant face, JeanValjean was fixing on Marius flashing and ter-rible eyes. He, who had finally come to believehimself incapable of a malevolent feeling, expe-rienced moments when Marius was present, inwhich he thought he was becoming savage andferocious once more, and he felt the old depths ofhis soul, which had formerly contained so muchwrath, opening once more and rising up againstthat young man. It almost seemed to him that un-known craters were forming in his bosom.What! he was there, that creature! What was hethere for? He came creeping about, smelling out,examining, trying! He came, saying: “Hey! Whynot?” He came to prowl about his, Jean Valjean’s,life! to prowl about his happiness, with the pur-pose of seizing it and bearing it away!Jean Valjean added: “Yes, that’s it! What is he insearch of? An adventure! What does he want? Alove affair! A love affair! And I? What! I havebeen first, the most wretched of men, and thenthe most unhappy, and I have traversed sixty yearsof life on my knees, I have suffered everythingthat man can suffer, I have grown old withouthaving been young, I have lived without a family,without relatives, without friends, without life,without children, I have left my blood on everystone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, alongevery wall, I have been gentle, though others havebeen hard to me, and kind, although others havebeen malicious, I have become an honest manonce more, in spite of everything, I have repentedof the evil that I have done and have forgiven theevil that has been done to me, and at the momentwhen I receive my recompense, at the momentwhen it is all over, at the moment when I am justtouching the goal, at the moment when I have whatI desire, it is well, it is good, I have paid, I haveearned it, all this is to take flight, all this willvanish, and I shall lose Cosette, and I shall losemy life, my joy, my soul, because it has pleased agreat booby to come and lounge at the Luxem-bourg.”Then his eyes were filled with a sad and extraor-dinary gleam.It was no longer a man gazing at a man; it was nolonger an enemy surveying an enemy. It was adog scanning a thief.The reader knows the rest. Marius pursued hissenseless course. One day he followed Cosette tothe Rue de l’Ouest. Another day he spoke to theporter. The porter, on his side, spoke, and said toJean Valjean: “Monsieur, who is that curious youngman who is asking for you?” On the morrow JeanValjean bestowed on Marius that glance whichMarius at last perceived. A week later, JeanValjean had taken his departure. He swore to him-self that he would never again set foot either inthe Luxembourg or in the Rue de l’Ouest. He re-turned to the Rue Plumet.Cosette did not complain, she said nothing, sheasked no questions, she did not seek to learn hisreasons; she had already reached the point whereshe was afraid of being divined, and of betrayingherself. Jean Valjean had no experience of thesemiseries, the only miseries which are charmingand the only ones with which he was not ac-quainted; the consequence was that he did notunderstand the grave significance of Cosette’s si-lence.He merely noticed that she had grown sad, andhe grew gloomy. On his side and on hers, inexpe-rience had joined issue.Once he made a trial. He asked Cosette:—“Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?”A ray illuminated Cosette’s pale face.“Yes,” said she.They went thither. Three months had elapsed.Marius no longer went there. Marius was not there.On the following day, Jean Valjean asked Cosetteagain:—“Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?”

heard him conversing with his comrades, that heheld himself badly when he walked, if you like,but with a grace that was all his own, that he didnot appear to be at all stupid, that his whole per-son was noble, gentle, simple, proud, and that, inshort, though he seemed to be poor, yet his airwas fine.On the day when their eyes met at last, and saidto each other those first, obscure, and ineffablethings which the glance lisps, Cosette did notimmediately understand. She returned thought-fully to the house in the Rue de l’Ouest, whereJean Valjean, according to his custom, had cometo spend six weeks. The next morning, on wak-ing, she thought of that strange young man, solong indifferent and icy, who now seemed to payattention to her, and it did not appear to her thatthis attention was the least in the world agree-able to her. She was, on the contrary, somewhatincensed at this handsome and disdainful indi-vidual. A substratum of war stirred within her. Itstruck her, and the idea caused her a wholly child-ish joy, that she was going to take her revenge atlast.Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thor-oughly conscious, though in an indistinct fashion,that she possessed a weapon. Women play withtheir beauty as children do with a knife. Theywound themselves.The reader will recall Marius’ hesitations, hispalpitations, his terrors. He remained on his benchand did not approach. This vexed Cosette. Oneday, she said to Jean Valjean: “Father, let us strollabout a little in that direction.” Seeing that Mariusdid not come to her, she went to him. In suchcases, all women resemble Mahomet. And then,strange to say, the first symptom of true love in ayoung man is timidity; in a young girl it is bold-ness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is moresimple. It is the two sexes tending to approacheach other and assuming, each the other’s quali-ties.That day, Cosette’s glance drove Marius besidehimself, and Marius’ glance set Cosette to trem-bling. Marius went away confident, and Cosetteuneasy. From that day forth, they adored eachother.The first thing that Cosette felt was a confusedand profound melancholy. It seemed to her thather soul had become black since the day before.She no longer recognized it. The whiteness ofsoul in young girls, which is composed of cold-ness and gayety, resembles snow. It melts in love,which is its sun.Cosette did not know what love was. She hadnever heard the word uttered in its terrestrialsense. On the books of profane music which en-tered the convent, amour (love) was replaced bytambour (drum) or pandour. This created enig-mas which exercised the imaginations of the biggirls, such as: Ah, how delightful is the drum! or,Pity is not a pandour. But Cosette had left theconvent too early to have occupied herself muchwith the “drum.” Therefore, she did not knowwhat name to give to what she now felt. Is anyone the less ill because one does not know thename of one’s malady?She loved with all the more passion because sheloved ignorantly. She did not know whether it wasa good thing or a bad thing, useful or dangerous,eternal or temporary, allowable or prohibited; sheloved. She would have been greatly astonished,had any one said to her: “You do not sleep? Butthat is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that isvery bad! You have oppressions and palpitationsof the heart? That must not be! You blush andturn pale, when a certain being clad in black ap-pears at the end of a certain green walk? But thatis abominable!” She would not have understood,and she would have replied: “What fault is thereof mine in a matter in which I have no power andof which I know nothing?”It turned out that the love which presented itselfwas exactly suited to the state of her soul. It wasa sort of admiration at a distance, a mute con-templation, the deification of a stranger. It wasthe apparition of youth to youth, the dream ofnights become a reality yet remaining a dream,the longed-for phantom realized and made fleshat last, but having as yet, neither name, nor fault,nor spot, nor exigence, nor defect; in a word, thedistant lover who lingered in the ideal, a chimaerawith a form. Any nearer and more palpable meet-ing would have alarmed Cosette at this first stage,when she was still half immersed in the exag-gerated mists of the cloister. She had all the fearsof children and all the fears of nuns combined.The spirit of the convent, with which she had beenpermeated for the space of five years, was stillin the process of slow evaporation from her per- Continued on Page 101

CHAPTER VIITO ONE SADNESS OPPOSEA SADNESS AND A HALF

All situations have their instincts. Old and eter-nal Mother Nature warned Jean Valjean in a dimway of the presence of Marius. Jean Valjean shud-dered to the very bottom of his soul. Jean Valjeansaw nothing, knew nothing, and yet he scannedwith obstinate attention, the darkness in which hewalked, as though he felt on one side of him some-thing in process of construction, and on the other,something which was crumbling away. Marius,also warned, and, in accordance with the deeplaw of God, by that same Mother Nature, did allhe could to keep out of sight of “the father.” Nev-ertheless, it came to pass that Jean Valjean some-times espied him. Marius’ manners were no longerin the least natural. He exhibited ambiguous pru-dence and awkward daring. He no longer camequite close to them as formerly. He seated him-self at a distance and pretended to be reading;why did he pretend that? Formerly he had comein his old coat, now he wore his new one everyday; Jean Valjean was not sure that he did nothave his hair curled, his eyes were very queer, hewore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially de-tested this young man.Cosette allowed nothing to be divined. Withoutknowing just what was the matter with her shewas convinced that there was something in it, andthat it must be concealed.There was a coincidence between the taste forthe toilet which had recently come to Cosette, andthe habit of new clothes developed by that strangerwhich was very repugnant to Jean Valjean. Itmight be accidental, no doubt, certainly, but it wasa menacing accident.He never opened his mouth to Cosette about thisstranger. One day, however, he could not refrainfrom so doing, and, with that vague despair whichsuddenly casts the lead into the depths of its de-spair, he said to her: “What a very pedantic airthat young man has!”Cosette, but a year before only an indifferent littlegirl, would have replied: “Why, no, he is charm-ing.” Ten years later, with the love of Marius inher heart, she would have answered: “A pedant,and insufferable to the sight! You are right!”— Atthe moment in life and the heart which she hadthen attained, she contented herself with reply-ing, with supreme calmness: “That young man!”As though she now beheld him for the first timein her life.“How stupid I am!” thought Jean Valjean. “Shehad not noticed him. It is I who have pointed himout to her.”Oh, simplicity of the old! oh, the depth of chil-dren!It is one of the laws of those fresh years of suf-fering and trouble, of those vivacious conflictsbetween a first love and the first obstacles, thatthe young girl does not allow herself to be caughtin any trap whatever, and that the young man fallsinto every one. Jean Valjean had instituted an un-declared war against Marius, which Marius, withthe sublime stupidity of his passion and his age,did not divine. Jean Valjean laid a host of am-bushes for him; he changed his hour, he changedhis bench, he forgot his handkerchief, he camealone to the Luxembourg; Marius dashed head-long into all these snares; and to all the interroga-tion marks planted by Jean Valjean in his path-way, he ingenuously answered “yes.” But Cosetteremained immured in her apparent unconcern and

CHAPTER VIIITHE CHAIN-GANG

Jean Valjean was the more unhappy of the two.Youth, even in its sorrows, always possesses itsown peculiar radiance.At times, Jean Valjean suffered so greatly that hebecame puerile. It is the property of grief to causethe childish side of man to reappear. He had anunconquerable conviction that Cosette was escap-ing from him. He would have liked to resist, toretain her, to arouse her enthusiasm by some ex-ternal and brilliant matter. These ideas, puerile,as we have just said, and at the same time senile,conveyed to him, by their very childishness, a tol-erably just notion of the influence of gold lace on

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Victoria Pictorial Historic Photo Collection

●●●●● Botanical Gardens, Geelong●●●●● Eastern Beach, Geelong. 1933.

●●●●● Moorabool Street, Geelong

●●●●● Peace Memorial Hall ●●●●● Geringhap St, Geelong

●●●●● Ryrie St, Geelong ●●●●● Malop St, Geelong

●●●●● Moorabool St, Geelong. 1939.

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Heat is of sceptics at Solar Springs

Howzat: pitching to cricket fans

ObserverMelbourne

Travellers’ Good Buys

ObserverMelbourne Wines & Liqueurs

withDavidEllis

withDavidEllis

■ When a mate John Rozentals, pub-lisher of OzBabyBoomers (an onlinemagazine for wrinklies like ourselves),was telling us about the delights of afirst-time encounter with a health re-sort, we couldn’t resist asking him toshare his tale with other possible scep-tics like ourselves.

So this week it’s over to John:For me it’s a first-time encounter.

But for another guest Carolyn, this isher 25th pilgrimage to Solar Springs, awonderful health retreat in NSW‘sbeautiful Southern Highlands.

As usual, Carolyn’s trip is the lastweek of an annual two-month post-Christmas detox that she says clearscobwebs and readies her for anotherassault on the precarious south face ofthe mountain called multi-nationalmarketing.

And, she says, the joy of SolarSprings is that it’s more easy-going,and doesn’t have “the touches of fas-cism” – as she so delightfully puts it –that can be found elsewhere.

“Here you can do as little or asmuch as you want,” Carolyn adds, “andno one is going to chip you if you’rerelaxing in the lounge with a coffee andreading the papers, or just wanderingthrough the gardens on your own.”

Like other regulars — and thereseem to be plenty of them — she tellsme the secret is to pace yourself be-tween relaxing and signing up for themany activities on offer.

■ When you buy an obsolete cricketground that’s heard the Thwack! of baton ball for a-near half-century and re-plant it with a vineyard – in deferenceto its founders and fans leaving the ac-tual cricket pitch untouched in the cen-tre of the vines – it’s probably only natu-ral that you’ll give one of your cricketground vineyard wines a cricketingmoniker.

And that’s just what Jim BarryWines did when they bought the oldPenola Cricket Ground in SouthAustralia’s Coonawarra in 1996, whenthe game ended there after some 46seasons.

They planted most of it, except forthe pitch and a small area around it, aswell as close to 12ha (30 acres) out-side the fence, with cabernet sauvignon,and labelled the resultant wine TheCover Drive.

Their now just-released The CoverDrive Cabernet Sauvignon 2011 is adrop to enjoy this time of year with ahearty winter’s Sunday roast, or to cel-lar away for three to five years; it’s noseexhibits a delightful blend of driedherbs, cedar, cassis and sandalwood,and the palate has rewarding velvetyfine tannins coupled with nuances ofbriary fruit and wood from 12 monthsin 50 per cent American and 50 per centFrench oak.

Pay $22.95 and you’ll realise whyJim Barry Wines wanted to get theirhands on this great 12ha sitting oversome of Coonawarra’s finest terra rossasoil.

One to note■ At the time Lindeman’slaunched their Early Harvest rangeof lighter alcohol and calories winesin 2007, they did so with just two la-bels: today they have eleven winesnow made to this growing-in-popu-larity lower alcohol/calories format.

The latest is the Early HarvestPinot Grigio that it says is the firstlighter alcohol/calories pinot grigioon the market, and well timed tocapitalise on the growing popularityof the variety whose sales under alllabels are increasing at an amazing22 per cent year-on-year.

And despite Early Harvest PinotGrigio’s just 8 per centalcohol, it’sgot refreshing crunchy apple andpear flavours and balanced acidity.At $14.99 a good drop to take alongto the party room if you’ve morethan just a couple of glasses in mind.

Pictured■ Rewarding drop with a winter’sSunday roast.

■ Capitalising on growing popular-ity of wines with lower alcohol andcalories.

We’re archived on http://v intnews.com

For the couple of days I’m here, mymust-do’s include guided bushwalks,short morning and evening walks,stretch and fitball classes, aquarobics,general gym exercises, pilates andpower bar.

Archery, naturopathy, meditationand yoga are also on the week’sagenda, and guests are welcome to usethe resort’s bicycles and tennis courts(equipment supplied) free of charge.

Solar Springs has occupied a ram-bling, superbly maintained 1920sBundanoon guest house for more than30 years, and the location is certainlyan idyllic one.

Just down the hill is the charmingBundanoon village centre, completewith delightful cafés and galleries.Once a year it becomes ‘Brigadoon’ —even the signs on the railway stationchange — and hosts an impressiveScottish Highlands Gathering, completewith caber tossing, stones lifting, haggishurling and massed pipe bands.

On the other side is a majestic out-look over Morton National Park, forspectacular bushwalking opportunitieswith Solar Springs staff.

In 1995 a fully fledged aquatic cen-tre was added — 25-metre heated pool,sauna, steam room and spa with a view— and the gymnasium offers theworks.

The resort’s ‘quiet room’ — don’teven think about using your mobilephone in here — has wall-to-wall glasson one side and provides a wonderfulvenue for contemplating the scene andsorting out your thoughts before head-ing to the dining room.

And healthy, delicious food is a majorpart of the Solar Springs experience,with three meals a day included in thetariff.

French-born Francois Razevet is incharge of the kitchen. He was a chefat 15 and worked in Provence, London,Corsica, Canada and Ireland beforemoving to Bundanoon in 2005, initiallyto work at Peppers Manor House.

His menus change daily and he rel-ishes working with — and “not mur-dering” — the vast range of top-qual-ity local fresh ingredients he has ac-cess to.

Lunch might include Provencalratatouille with pasta and salads of to-mato, basil, fetta pinenuts, red cabbage,apple, herbs and green leaves. On oneof my nights there, the three-coursedinner comprised entrée of goat cheese,watermelon and quinoa salad, maincourse of marinated chicken sous-vide(sealed in airtight plastic bag andcooked in a water bath,) baked polentachips and tomato jam, and dessert ofcarrot cake, lemon sour cream and can-died walnut. Absolutely deliciousflavours, but still light and so well bal-anced.

And, yes, there is a small, but wellselected list of wines available at rea-sonable prices for dinner. As Carolynsays, no sense of fascism here.

All-inclusive rates start at $450 perperson twin-share for two nights mid-week.

The only extras come in the form ofmassages and beauty treatments. Ratesfor those vary but look at $80 per houras the basis.

And certainly don’t miss the excel-lent remedial massage, or the pedicure.You’ll feel a million dollars better forboth.■ Solar Springs 1800 044 944 orvisit solarsprings.com.au;Bundanoon visit www.bundanoon.com.au; Morton National Parkwww.nationalparks.nsw.gov.au/Morton-National-Park■ John Rozentals was a guest fortwo days of Solar Springs.

●●●●● Pool classes just one of many activities on offer.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, June 26, 2013 - Page 101www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 28 were suffered by all in their extremest depths,

and ignorance, converted into dulness, was theequal of intelligence converted into despair. Therewas no choice possible between these men whoappeared to the eye as the flower of the mud. Itwas evident that the person who had had the or-dering of that unclean procession had not classi-fied them. These beings had been fettered andcoupled pell-mell, in alphabetical disorder, prob-ably, and loaded hap-hazard on those carts. Nev-ertheless, horrors, when grouped together, alwaysend by evolving a result; all additions of wretchedmen give a sum total, each chain exhaled a com-mon soul, and each dray-load had its own physi-ognomy. By the side of the one where they weresinging, there was one where they were howling;a third where they were begging; one could beseen in which they were gnashing their teeth; an-other load menaced the spectators, another blas-phemed God; the last was as silent as the tomb.Dante would have thought that he beheld his sevencircles of hell on the march. The march of thedamned to their tortures, performed in sinisterwise, not on the formidable and flaming chariotof the Apocalypse, but, what was more mournfulthan that, on the gibbet cart.One of the guards, who had a hook on the end ofhis cudgel, made a pretence from time to time, ofstirring up this mass of human filth. An old womanin the crowd pointed them out to her little boyfive years old, and said to him: “Rascal, let thatbe a warning to you!”As the songs and blasphemies increased, the manwho appeared to be the captain of the escortcracked his whip, and at that signal a fearful dulland blind flogging, which produced the sound ofhail, fell upon the seven dray-loads; many roaredand foamed at the mouth; which redoubled thedelight of the street urchins who had hastened up,a swarm of flies on these wounds.Jean Valjean’s eyes had assumed a frightful ex-pression. They were no longer eyes; they werethose deep and glassy objects which replace theglance in the case of certain wretched men, whichseem unconscious of reality, and in which flamesthe reflection of terrors and of catastrophes. Hewas not looking at a spectacle, he was seeing avision. He tried to rise, to flee, to make his es-cape; he could not move his feet. Sometimes, thethings that you see seize upon you and hold youfast. He remained nailed to the spot, petrified,stupid, asking himself, athwart confused and in-expressible anguish, what this sepulchral perse-cution signified, and whence had come that pan-demonium which was pursuing him. All at once,he raised his hand to his brow, a gesture habitualto those whose memory suddenly returns; he re-membered that this was, in fact, the usual itiner-ary, that it was customary to make this detour inorder to avoid all possibility of encountering roy-alty on the road to Fontainebleau, and that, fiveand thirty years before, he had himself passedthrough that barrier.Cosette was no less terrified, but in a differentway. She did not understand; what she beheld didnot seem to her to be possible; at length shecried:—“Father! What are those men in those carts?”Jean Valjean replied: “Convicts.”“Whither are they going?”“To the galleys.”At that moment, the cudgelling, multiplied by ahundred hands, became zealous, blows with theflat of the sword were mingled with it, it was aperfect storm of whips and clubs; the convicts bentbefore it, a hideous obedience was evoked by thetorture, and all held their peace, darting glanceslike chained wolves.Cosette trembled in every limb; she resumed:—“Father, are they still men?”“Sometimes,” answered the unhappy man.It was the chain-gang, in fact, which had set outbefore daybreak from Bicetre, and had taken theroad to Mans in order to avoid Fontainebleau,where the King then was. This caused the hor-rible journey to last three or four days longer; buttorture may surely be prolonged with the objectof sparing the royal personage a sight of it.Jean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed.Such encounters are shocks, and the memory thatthey leave behind them resembles a thoroughshaking up.Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not observe that,on his way back to the Rue de Babylone withCosette, the latter was plying him with other ques-tions on the subject of what they had just seen;perhaps he was too much absorbed in his owndejection to notice her words and reply to them.But when Cosette was leaving him in the evening,

the ancient Barriere du Maine is a prolongation,as the reader knows, of the Rue de Sevres, and iscut at right angles by the inner boulevard. At theelbow of the causeway and the boulevard, at thespot where it branches, they heard a noise whichit was difficult to account for at that hour, and asort of confused pile made its appearance. Someshapeless thing which was coming from the bou-levard was turning into the road.It grew larger, it seemed to move in an orderlymanner, though it was bristling and quivering; itseemed to be a vehicle, but its load could not bedistinctly made out. There were horses, wheels,shouts; whips were cracking. By degrees the out-lines became fixed, although bathed in shadows.It was a vehicle, in fact, which had just turnedfrom the boulevard into the highway, and whichwas directing its course towards the barrier nearwhich sat Jean Valjean; a second, of the sameaspect, followed, then a third, then a fourth; sevenchariots made their appearance in succession, theheads of the horses touching the rear of the wagonin front. Figures were moving on these vehicles,flashes were visible through the dusk as thoughthere were naked swords there, a clanking be-came audible which resembled the rattling ofchains, and as this something advanced, the soundof voices waxed louder, and it turned into a ter-rible thing such as emerges from the cave ofdreams.As it drew nearer, it assumed a form, and wasoutlined behind the trees with the pallid hue of anapparition; the mass grew white; the day, whichwas slowly dawning, cast a wan light on thisswarming heap which was at once both sepul-chral and living, the heads of the figures turnedinto the faces of corpses, and this is what it provedto be:—Seven wagons were driving in a file along theroad. The first six were singularly constructed.They resembled coopers’ drays; they consisted oflong ladders placed on two wheels and formingbarrows at their rear extremities. Each dray, orrather let us say, each ladder, was attached to fourhorses harnessed tandem. On these ladders strangeclusters of men were being drawn. In the faintlight, these men were to be divined rather thanseen. Twenty-four on each vehicle, twelve on aside, back to back, facing the passers-by, theirlegs dangling in the air,— this was the manner inwhich these men were travelling, and behind theirbacks they had something which clanked, andwhich was a chain, and on their necks somethingwhich shone, and which was an iron collar. Eachman had his collar, but the chain was for all; sothat if these four and twenty men had occasion toalight from the dray and walk, they were seizedwith a sort of inexorable unity, and were obligedto wind over the ground with the chain for a back-bone, somewhat after the fashion of millepeds.In the back and front of each vehicle, two menarmed with muskets stood erect, each holding oneend of the chain under his foot. The iron neckletswere square. The seventh vehicle, a huge rack-sided baggage wagon, without a hood, had fourwheels and six horses, and carried a sonorous pileof iron boilers, cast-iron pots, braziers, andchains, among which were mingled several menwho were pinioned and stretched at full length,and who seemed to be ill. This wagon, all lattice-work, was garnished with dilapidated hurdleswhich appeared to have served for former pun-ishments. These vehicles kept to the middle ofthe road. On each side marched a double hedgeof guards of infamous aspect, wearing three-cor-nered hats, like the soldiers under the Directory,shabby, covered with spots and holes, muffled inuniforms of veterans and the trousers of under-takers’ men, half gray, half blue, which were al-most hanging in rags, with red epaulets, yellowshoulder belts, short sabres, muskets, and cud-gels; they were a species of soldier-blackguards.These myrmidons seemed composed of the ab-jectness of the beggar and the authority of theexecutioner. The one who appeared to be theirchief held a postilion’s whip in his hand. All thesedetails, blurred by the dimness of dawn, becamemore and more clearly outlined as the light in-creased. At the head and in the rear of the convoyrode mounted gendarmes, serious and with swordin fist.This procession was so long that when the firstvehicle reached the barrier, the last was barelydebauching from the boulevard. A throng, sprung,it is impossible to say whence, and formed in atwinkling, as is frequently the case in Paris,pressed forward from both sides of the road andlooked on. In the neighboring lanes the shouts ofpeople calling to each other and the wooden shoesof market-gardeners hastening up to gaze wereaudible.

The men massed upon the drays allowed them-selves to be jolted along in silence. They werelivid with the chill of morning. They all wore linentrousers, and their bare feet were thrust intowooden shoes. The rest of their costume was afantasy of wretchedness. Their accoutrementswere horribly incongruous; nothing is more fune-real than the harlequin in rags. Battered felt hats,tarpaulin caps, hideous woollen nightcaps, and,side by side with a short blouse, a black coat bro-ken at the elbow; many wore women’s headgear,others had baskets on their heads; hairy breastswere visible, and through the rent in their gar-ments tattooed designs could be descried; templesof Love, flaming hearts, Cupids; eruptions andunhealthy red blotches could also be seen. Two orthree had a straw rope attached to the cross-barof the dray, and suspended under them like a stir-rup, which supported their feet. One of them heldin his hand and raised to his mouth somethingwhich had the appearance of a black stone andwhich he seemed to be gnawing; it was breadwhich he was eating. There were no eyes therewhich were not either dry, dulled, or flaming withan evil light. The escort troop cursed, the men inchains did not utter a syllable; from time to timethe sound of a blow became audible as the cud-gels descended on shoulder-blades or skulls; someof these men were yawning; their rags were ter-rible; their feet hung down, their shoulders oscil-lated, their heads clashed together, their fettersclanked, their eyes glared ferociously, their fistsclenched or fell open inertly like the hands ofcorpses; in the rear of the convoy ran a band ofchildren screaming with laughter.This file of vehicles, whatever its nature was, wasmournful. It was evident that tomorrow, that anhour hence, a pouring rain might descend, that itmight be followed by another and another, andthat their dilapidated garments would be drenched,that once soaked, these men would not get dryagain, that once chilled, they would not again getwarm, that their linen trousers would be glued totheir bones by the downpour, that the water wouldfill their shoes, that no lashes from the whipswould be able to prevent their jaws from chatter-ing, that the chain would continue to bind them bythe neck, that their legs would continue to dangle,and it was impossible not to shudder at the sightof these human beings thus bound and passivebeneath the cold clouds of autumn, and deliveredover to the rain, to the blast, to all the furies of theair, like trees and stones.Blows from the cudgel were not omitted even inthe case of the sick men, who lay there knottedwith ropes and motionless on the seventh wagon,and who appeared to have been tossed there likesacks filled with misery.Suddenly, the sun made its appearance; the im-mense light of the Orient burst forth, and onewould have said that it had set fire to all thoseferocious heads. Their tongues were unloosed; aconflagration of grins, oaths, and songs explodedThe broad horizontal sheet of light severed thefile in two parts, illuminating heads and bodies,leaving feet and wheels in the obscurity. Thoughtsmade their appearance on these faces; it was aterrible moment; visible demons with their masksremoved, fierce souls laid bare. Though lightedup, this wild throng remained in gloom. Some,who were gay, had in their mouths quills throughwhich they blew vermin over the crowd, pickingout the women; the dawn accentuated these la-mentable profiles with the blackness of its shad-ows; there was not one of these creatures whowas not deformed by reason of wretchedness; andthe whole was so monstrous that one would havesaid that the sun’s brilliancy had been changedinto the glare of the lightning. The wagon-loadwhich headed the line had struck up a song, andwere shouting at the top of their voices with ahaggard joviality, a potpourri by Desaugiers, thenfamous, called The Vestal; the trees shiveredmournfully; in the cross-lanes, countenances ofbourgeois listened in an idiotic delight to thesecoarse strains droned by spectres.All sorts of distress met in this procession as inchaos; here were to be found the facial angles ofevery sort of beast, old men, youths, bald heads,gray beards, cynical monstrosities, sour resigna-tion, savage grins, senseless attitudes, snouts sur-mounted by caps, heads like those of young girlswith corkscrew curls on the temples, infantile vis-ages, and by reason of that, horrible thin skeletonfaces, to which death alone was lacking. On thefirst cart was a negro, who had been a slave, inall probability, and who could make a compari-son of his chains. The frightful leveller from be-low, shame, had passed over these brows; at thatdegree of abasement, the last transformations

the imaginations of young girls. He once chancedto see a general on horseback, in full uniform,pass along the street, Comte Coutard, the com-mandant of Paris. He envied that gilded man;what happiness it would be, he said to himself, ifhe could put on that suit which was an incontest-able thing; and if Cosette could behold him thus,she would be dazzled, and when he had Cosetteon his arm and passed the gates of the Tuileries,the guard would present arms to him, and thatwould suffice for Cosette, and would dispel heridea of looking at young men.An unforeseen shock was added to these sad re-flections.In the isolated life which they led, and since theyhad come to dwell in the Rue Plumet, they hadcontracted one habit. They sometimes took a plea-sure trip to see the sun rise, a mild species ofenjoyment which befits those who are enteringlife and those who are quitting it.For those who love solitude, a walk in the earlymorning is equivalent to a stroll by night, with thecheerfulness of nature added. The streets are de-serted and the birds are singing. Cosette, a birdherself, liked to rise early. These matutinal ex-cursions were planned on the preceding evening.He proposed, and she agreed. It was arranged likea plot, they set out before daybreak, and thesetrips were so many small delights for Cosette.These innocent eccentricities please youngpeople.Jean Valjean’s inclination led him, as we haveseen, to the least frequented spots, to solitarynooks, to forgotten places. There then existed, inthe vicinity of the barriers of Paris, a sort of poormeadows, which were almost confounded withthe city, where grew in summer sickly grain, andwhich, in autumn, after the harvest had been gath-ered, presented the appearance, not of having beenreaped, but peeled. Jean Valjean loved to hauntthese fields. Cosette was not bored there. It meantsolitude to him and liberty to her. There, she be-came a little girl once more, she could run andalmost play; she took off her hat, laid it on JeanValjean’s knees, and gathered bunches of flow-ers. She gazed at the butterflies on the flowers,but did not catch them; gentleness and tendernessare born with love, and the young girl who cher-ishes within her breast a trembling and fragileideal has mercy on the wing of a butterfly. Shewove garlands of poppies, which she placed onher head, and which, crossed and penetrated withsunlight, glowing until they flamed, formed forher rosy face a crown of burning embers.Even after their life had grown sad, they kept uptheir custom of early strolls.One morning in October, therefore, tempted bythe serene perfection of the autumn of 1831, theyset out, and found themselves at break of day nearthe Barriere du Maine. It was not dawn, it wasdaybreak; a delightful and stern moment. A fewconstellations here and there in the deep, paleazure, the earth all black, the heavens all white,a quiver amid the blades of grass, everywherethe mysterious chill of twilight. A lark, whichseemed mingled with the stars, was carolling at aprodigious height, and one would have declaredthat that hymn of pettiness calmed immensity. Inthe East, the Valde–Grace projected its dark masson the clear horizon with the sharpness of steel;Venus dazzlingly brilliant was rising behind thatdome and had the air of a soul making its escapefrom a gloomy edifice.All was peace and silence; there was no one onthe road; a few stray laborers, of whom theycaught barely a glimpse, were on their way totheir work along the side-paths.Jean Valjean was sitting in a cross-walk on someplanks deposited at the gate of a timber-yard. Hisface was turned towards the highway, his backtowards the light; he had forgotten the sun whichwas on the point of rising; he had sunk into one ofthose profound absorptions in which the mind be-comes concentrated, which imprison even the eye,and which are equivalent to four walls. There aremeditations which may be called vertical; whenone is at the bottom of them, time is required toreturn to earth. Jean Valjean had plunged into oneof these reveries. He was thinking of Cosette, ofthe happiness that was possible if nothing camebetween him and her, of the light with which shefilled his life, a light which was but the emana-tion of her soul. He was almost happy in his rev-ery. Cosette, who was standing beside him, wasgazing at the clouds as they turned rosy.All at once Cosette exclaimed: “Father, I shouldthink some one was coming yonder.” Jean Valjeanraised his eyes.Cosette was right. The causeway which leads to Continued on Page 102

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 101

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Observer Crossword Solution No 35

Jean Valjean’s wound had created a diversion.When Cosette saw that her father was sufferingless, that he was convalescing, and that he ap-peared to be happy, she experienced a content-ment which she did not even perceive, so gentlyand naturally had it come. Then, it was in themonth of March, the days were growing longer,the winter was departing, the winter always bearsaway with it a portion of our sadness; then cameApril, that daybreak of summer, fresh as dawnalways is, gay like every childhood; a little in-clined to weep at times like the new-born beingthat it is. In that month, nature has charminggleams which pass from the sky, from the trees,from the meadows and the flowers into the heartof man.Cosette was still too young to escape the penetrat-ing influence of that April joy which bore so stronga resemblance to herself. Insensibly, and withouther suspecting the fact, the blackness departedfrom her spirit. In spring, sad souls grow light, aslight falls into cellars at midday. Cosette was nolonger sad. However, though this was so, she didnot account for it to herself. In the morning, aboutten o’clock, after breakfast, when she had suc-ceeded in enticing her father into the garden for aquarter of an hour, and when she was pacing upand down in the sunlight in front of the steps, sup-porting his left arm for him, she did not perceivethat she laughed every moment and that she washappy.Jean Valjean, intoxicated, beheld her growingfresh and rosy once more.“Oh! What a good wound!” he repeated in a whis-per.And he felt grateful to the Thenardiers.His wound once healed, he resumed his solitarytwilight strolls.It is a mistake to suppose that a person can strollalone in that fashion in the uninhabited regions ofParis without meeting with some adven-ture.

To Be Continued Next Week

smiling Grace called Melancholy, she would haveworn the air of that Grace. Jean Valjean was fas-cinated by the contemplation of those tiny fingerson that flower, and forgetful of everything in theradiance emitted by that child. A red-breast waswarbling in the thicket, on one side. Whitecloudlets floated across the sky, so gayly, that onewould have said that they had just been set at lib-erty. Cosette went on attentively tearing the leavesfrom her flower; she seemed to be thinking aboutsomething; but whatever it was, it must be some-thing charming; all at once she turned her headover her shoulder with the delicate languor of aswan, and said to Jean Valjean: “Father, what arethe galleys like?”.

Cosette on perceiving that her father was ill, haddeserted the pavilion and again taken a fancy tothe little lodging and the back courtyard. Shepassed nearly all her days beside Jean Valjeanand read to him the books which he desired. Gen-erally they were books of travel. Jean Valjean wasundergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviv-ing in these ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, theprowling young stranger, Cosette’s coldness,— allthese clouds upon his soul were growing dim. Hehad reached the point where he said to himself:“I imagined all that. I am an old fool.”His happiness was so great that the horrible dis-covery of the Thenardiers made in the Jondrettehovel, unexpected as it was, had, after a fashion,glided over him unnoticed. He had succeeded inmaking his escape; all trace of him was lost —what more did he care for! he only thought of thosewretched beings to pity them. “Here they are inprison, and henceforth they will be incapacitatedfor doing any harm,” he thought, “but what a la-mentable family in distress!”As for the hideous vision of the Barriere du Maine,Cosette had not referred to it again.Sister Sainte–Mechtilde had taught Cosette mu-sic in the convent; Cosette had the voice of a lin-net with a soul, and sometimes, in the evening, inthe wounded man’s humble abode, she warbledmelancholy songs which delighted Jean Valjean.Spring came; the garden was so delightful at thatseason of the year, that Jean Valjean said toCosette:—“You never go there; I want you to stroll in it.”“As you like, father,” said Cosette.And for the sake of obeying her father, she re-sumed her walks in the garden, generally alone,for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who wasprobably afraid of being seen through the fence,hardly ever went there.

to betake herself to bed, he heard her say in a lowvoice, and as though talking to herself: “It seemsto me, that if I were to find one of those men inmy pathway, oh, my God, I should die merelyfrom the sight of him close at hand.”Fortunately, chance ordained that on the morrowof that tragic day, there was some official solem-nity apropos of I know not what,— fetes in Paris,a review in the Champ de Mars, jousts on theSeine, theatrical performances in the Champs–Elysees, fireworks at the Arc de l’Etoile, illumi-nations everywhere. Jean Valjean did violence tohis habits, and took Cosette to see these rejoic-ings, for the purpose of diverting her from thememory of the day before, and of effacing, be-neath the smiling tumult of all Paris, the abomi-nable thing which had passed before her. The re-view with which the festival was spiced madethe presence of uniforms perfectly natural; JeanValjean donned his uniform of a national guardwith the vague inward feeling of a man who isbetaking himself to shelter. However, this tripseemed to attain its object. Cosette, who made ither law to please her father, and to whom, more-over, all spectacles were a novelty, accepted thisdiversion with the light and easy good grace ofyouth, and did not pout too disdainfully at that flutterof enjoyment called a public fete; so that JeanValjean was able to believe that he had suc-ceeded, and that no trace of that hideous visionremained.Some days later, one morning, when the sun wasshining brightly, and they were both on the stepsleading to the garden, another infraction of therules which Jean Valjean seemed to have imposedupon himself, and to the custom of remaining inher chamber which melancholy had causedCosette to adopt, Cosette, in a wrapper, was stand-ing erect in that negligent attire of early morningwhich envelops young girls in an adorable wayand which produces the effect of a cloud drawnover a star; and, with her head bathed in light,rosy after a good sleep, submitting to the gentleglances of the tender old man, she was picking adaisy to pieces. Cosette did not know the delightful legend, I love a little, passionately, etc.— whowas there who could have taught her? She washandling the flower instinctively, innocently, with-out a suspicion that to pluck a daisy apart is to dothe same by a heart. If there were a fourth, and

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MELBOURNE OBSERVERMEGA 035S- ( X grid)MEGA.eps.© Lovatts Crosswords 21/12/06 - Artist - JT

BOOK IV - BOOK FOURTH.— SUCCORFROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT TO BE

SUCCOR FROM ON HIGHCHAPTER I

A WOUND WITHOUT, HEALING WITHIN

Thus their life clouded over by degrees.But one diversion, which had formerly been ahappiness, remained to them, which was to carrybread to those who were hungry, and clothing tothose who were cold. Cosette often accompaniedJean Valjean on these visits to the poor, on whichthey recovered some remnants of their former freeintercourse; and sometimes, when the day hadbeen a good one, and they had assisted many indistress, and cheered and warmed many littlechildren, Cosette was rather merry in the evening.It was at this epoch that they paid their visit to theJondrette den.On the day following that visit, Jean Valjean madehis appearance in the pavilion in the morning, calmas was his wont, but with a large wound on hisleft arm which was much inflamed, and very an-gry, which resembled a burn, and which he ex-plained in some way or other. This wound resultedin his being detained in the house for a month withfever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosetteurged him, “Call the dog-doctor,” said he.Cosette dressed the wound morning and eveningwith so divine an air and such angelic happinessat being of use to him, that Jean Valjean felt allhis former joy returning, his fears and anxietiesdissipating, and he gazed at Cosette, saying: “Oh!what a kindly wound! Oh! what a good misfor-tune!”