Editing Volume 3/Book 4/Chapter 4

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 3: Marius, Book Fourth: The Friends of the ABC, Chapter 4: The Back Room of the Cafe Musain<br />
(Tome 3: Marius, Livre quatri&egrave;me:  Les amis de l'ABC, Chapitre 4: L'arri&egrave;re-salle du caf&eacute; Musain)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
Une des conversations entre ces jeunes gens, auxquelles Marius assistait
et dans lesquelles il intervenait quelquefois, fut une v&eacute;ritable
secousse pour son esprit.

 
Cela se passait dans l'arri&egrave;re-salle du caf&eacute; Musain. &Agrave; peu pr&egrave;s tous les
Amis de l'A B C &eacute;taient r&eacute;unis ce soir-l&agrave;. Le quinquet &eacute;tait
solennellement allum&eacute;. On parlait de choses et d'autres, sans passion et
avec bruit. Except&eacute; Enjolras et Marius, qui se taisaient, chacun
haranguait un peu au hasard. Les causeries entre camarades ont parfois
de ces tumultes paisibles. C'&eacute;tait un jeu et un p&ecirc;le-m&ecirc;le autant qu'une
conversation. On se jetait des mots qu'on rattrapait. On causait aux
quatre coins.

 
Aucune femme n'&eacute;tait admise dans cette arri&egrave;re-salle, except&eacute; Louison,
la laveuse de vaisselle du caf&eacute;, qui la traversait de temps en temps
pour aller de la laverie au &laquo;laboratoire&raquo;.

 
Grantaire, parfaitement gris, assourdissait le coin dont il s'&eacute;tait
empar&eacute;. Il raisonnait et d&eacute;raisonnait &agrave; tue-t&ecirc;te, il criait:

 
&mdash;J'ai soif. Mortels, je fais un r&ecirc;ve: que la tonne de Heidelberg ait
une attaque d'apoplexie, et &ecirc;tre de la douzaine de sangsues qu'on lui
appliquera. Je voudrais boire. Je d&eacute;sire oublier la vie. La vie est une
invention hideuse de je ne sais qui. Cela ne dure rien et cela ne vaut
rien. On se casse le cou &agrave; vivre. La vie est un d&eacute;cor o&ugrave; il y a peu de
praticables. Le bonheur est un vieux ch&acirc;ssis peint d'un seul c&ocirc;t&eacute;.
L'Eccl&eacute;siaste dit: tout est vanit&eacute;; je pense comme ce bonhomme qui n'a
peut-&ecirc;tre jamais exist&eacute;. Z&eacute;ro, ne voulant pas aller tout nu, s'est v&ecirc;tu
de vanit&eacute;. &Ocirc; vanit&eacute;! rhabillage de tout avec de grands mots! une cuisine
est un laboratoire, un danseur est un professeur, un saltimbanque est un
gymnaste, un boxeur est un pugiliste, un apothicaire est un chimiste, un
perruquier est un artiste, un g&acirc;cheux est un architecte, un jockey est
un sportsman, un cloporte est un pt&eacute;rygibranche. La vanit&eacute; a un envers
et un endroit; l'endroit est b&ecirc;te, c'est le n&egrave;gre avec ses verroteries;
l'envers est sot, c'est le philosophe avec ses guenilles. Je pleure sur
l'un et je ris de l'autre. Ce qu'on appelle honneurs et dignit&eacute;s, et
m&ecirc;me honneur et dignit&eacute;, est g&eacute;n&eacute;ralement en chrysocale. Les rois font
joujou avec l'orgueil humain. Caligula faisait consul un cheval; Charles
II faisait chevalier un aloyau. Drapez-vous donc maintenant entre le
consul Incitatus et le baronnet Roastbeef. Quant &agrave; la valeur intrins&egrave;que
des gens, elle n'est gu&egrave;re plus respectable. &Eacute;coutez le pan&eacute;gyrique que
le voisin fait du voisin. Blanc sur blanc est f&eacute;roce; si le lys parlait,
comme il arrangerait la colombe! une bigote qui jase d'une d&eacute;vote est
plus venimeuse que l'aspic et le bongare bleu. C'est dommage que je sois
un ignorant, car je vous citerais une foule de choses; mais je ne sais
rien. Par exemple, j'ai toujours eu de l'esprit; quand j'&eacute;tais &eacute;l&egrave;ve
chez Gros, au lieu de barbouiller des tableautins, je passais mon temps
&agrave; chiper des pommes; rapin est le m&acirc;le de rapine. Voil&agrave; pour moi; quant
&agrave; vous autres, vous me valez. Je me fiche de vos perfections,
excellences et qualit&eacute;s. Toute qualit&eacute; verse dans un d&eacute;faut; l'&eacute;conome
touche &agrave; l'avare, le g&eacute;n&eacute;reux confine au prodigue, le brave c&ocirc;toie le
bravache; qui dit tr&egrave;s pieux dit un peu cagot; il y a juste autant de
vices dans la vertu qu'il y a de trous au manteau de Diog&egrave;ne. Qui
admirez-vous, le tu&eacute; ou le tueur, C&eacute;sar ou Brutus? G&eacute;n&eacute;ralement on est
pour le tueur. Vive Brutus! il a tu&eacute;. C'est &ccedil;a qui est la vertu. Vertu,
soit, mais folie aussi. Il y a des taches bizarres &agrave; ces grands
hommes-l&agrave;. Le Brutus qui tua C&eacute;sar &eacute;tait amoureux d'une statue de petit
gar&ccedil;on. Cette statue &eacute;tait du statuaire grec Strongylion, lequel avait
aussi sculpt&eacute; cette figure d'amazone appel&eacute;e Belle-Jambe, Eucnemos, que
N&eacute;ron emportait avec lui dans ses voyages. Ce Strongylion n'a laiss&eacute; que
deux statues qui ont mis d'accord Brutus et N&eacute;ron; Brutus fut amoureux
de l'une et N&eacute;ron de l'autre. Toute l'histoire n'est qu'un long
rab&acirc;chage. Un si&egrave;cle est le plagiaire de l'autre. La bataille de Marengo
copie la bataille de Pydna; le Tolbiac de Clovis et l'Austerlitz de
Napol&eacute;on se ressemblent comme deux gouttes de sang. Je fais peu de cas
de la victoire. Rien n'est stupide comme vaincre; la vraie gloire est
convaincre. Mais t&acirc;chez donc de prouver quelque chose! Vous vous
contentez de r&eacute;ussir, quelle m&eacute;diocrit&eacute;! et de conqu&eacute;rir, quelle mis&egrave;re!
H&eacute;las, vanit&eacute; et l&acirc;chet&eacute; partout. Tout ob&eacute;it au succ&egrave;s, m&ecirc;me la
grammaire. ''Si volet usus'', dit Horace. Donc, je d&eacute;daigne le genre
humain. Descendrons-nous du tout &agrave; la partie? Voulez-vous que je me
mette &agrave; admirer les peuples? Quel peuple, s'il vous pla&icirc;t? Est-ce la
Gr&egrave;ce? Les Ath&eacute;niens, ces Parisiens de jadis, tuaient Phocion, comme qui
dirait Coligny, et flagornaient les tyrans au point qu'Anac&eacute;phore disait
de Pisistrate: Son urine attire les abeilles. L'homme le plus
consid&eacute;rable de la Gr&egrave;ce pendant cinquante ans a &eacute;t&eacute; ce grammairien
Philetas, lequel &eacute;tait si petit et si menu qu'il &eacute;tait oblig&eacute; de plomber
ses souliers pour n'&ecirc;tre pas emport&eacute; par le vent. Il y avait sur la plus
grande place de Corinthe une statue sculpt&eacute;e par Silanion et catalogu&eacute;e
par Pline; cette statue repr&eacute;sentait &Eacute;pisthate. Qu'a fait &Eacute;pisthate? il
a invent&eacute; le croc-en-jambe. Ceci r&eacute;sume la Gr&egrave;ce et la gloire. Passons &agrave;
d'autres. Admirerai-je l'Angleterre? Admirerai-je la France? La France?
pourquoi? &Agrave; cause de Paris? je viens de vous dire mon opinion sur
Ath&egrave;nes. L'Angleterre? pourquoi? &Agrave; cause de Londres? je hais Carthage.
Et puis, Londres, m&eacute;tropole du luxe, est le chef-lieu de la mis&egrave;re. Sur
la seule paroisse de Charing-Cross, il y a par an cent morts de faim.
Telle est Albion. J'ajoute, pour comble, que j'ai vu une Anglaise danser
avec une couronne de roses et des lunettes bleues. Donc un groing pour
l'Angleterre! Si je n'admire pas John Bull, j'admirerai donc fr&egrave;re
Jonathan? Je go&ucirc;te peu ce fr&egrave;re &agrave; esclaves. &Ocirc;tez ''time is money'', que
reste-t-il de l'Angleterre? &Ocirc;tez ''cotton is king'', que reste-t-il de
l'Am&eacute;rique? L'Allemagne, c'est la lymphe; l'Italie, c'est la bile. Nous
extasierons-nous sur la Russie? Voltaire l'admirait. Il admirait aussi
la Chine. Je conviens que la Russie a ses beaut&eacute;s, entre autres un fort
despotisme; mais je plains les despotes. Ils ont une sant&eacute; d&eacute;licate. Un
Alexis d&eacute;capit&eacute;, un Pierre poignard&eacute;, un Paul &eacute;trangl&eacute;, un autre Paul
aplati &agrave; coups de talon de botte, divers Ivans &eacute;gorg&eacute;s, plusieurs
Nicolas et Basiles empoisonn&eacute;s, tout cela indique que le palais des
empereurs de Russie est dans une condition flagrante d'insalubrit&eacute;. Tous
les peuples civilis&eacute;s offrent &agrave; l'admiration du penseur ce d&eacute;tail: la
guerre; or la guerre, la guerre civilis&eacute;e, &eacute;puise et totalise toutes les
formes du banditisme, depuis le brigandage des trabucaires aux gorges du
mont Jaxa jusqu'&agrave; la maraude des Indiens Comanches dans la
Passe-Douteuse. Bah! me direz-vous, l'Europe vaut pourtant mieux que
l'Asie? Je conviens que l'Asie est farce; mais je ne vois pas trop ce
que vous avez &agrave; rire du grand lama, vous peuples d'occident qui avez
m&ecirc;l&eacute; &agrave; vos modes et &agrave; vos &eacute;l&eacute;gances toutes les ordures compliqu&eacute;es de
majest&eacute;, depuis la chemise sale de la reine Isabelle jusqu'&agrave; la chaise
perc&eacute;e du dauphin. Messieurs les humains, je vous dis bernique! C'est &agrave;
Bruxelles que l'on consomme le plus de bi&egrave;re, &agrave; Stockholm le plus
d'eau-de-vie, &agrave; Madrid le plus de chocolat, &agrave; Amsterdam le plus de
geni&egrave;vre, &agrave; Londres le plus de vin, &agrave; Constantinople le plus de caf&eacute;, &agrave;
Paris le plus d'absinthe; voil&agrave; toutes les notions utiles. Paris
l'emporte, en somme. &Agrave; Paris, les chiffonniers m&ecirc;mes sont des sybarites;
Diog&egrave;ne e&ucirc;t autant aim&eacute; &ecirc;tre chiffonnier place Maubert que philosophe au
Pir&eacute;e. Apprenez encore ceci: les cabarets des chiffonniers s'appellent
bibines; les plus c&eacute;l&egrave;bres sont ''la Casserole'' et ''l'Abattoir''. Donc, &ocirc;
guinguettes, goguettes, bouchons, caboulots, bouibouis, mastroquets,
bastringues, manezingues, bibines des chiffonniers, caravans&eacute;rails des
califes, je vous atteste, je suis un voluptueux, je mange chez Richard &agrave;
quarante sous par t&ecirc;te, il me faut des tapis de Perse &agrave; y rouler
Cl&eacute;op&acirc;tre nue! O&ugrave; est Cl&eacute;op&acirc;tre? Ah! c'est toi, Louison. Bonjour.

 
Ainsi se r&eacute;pandait en paroles, accrochant la laveuse de vaisselle au
passage, dans son coin de l'arri&egrave;re-salle Musain, Grantaire plus
qu'ivre.

 
Bossuet, &eacute;tendant la main vers lui, essayait de lui imposer silence, et
Grantaire repartait de plus belle:

 
&mdash;Aigle de Meaux, &agrave; bas les pattes. Tu ne me fais aucun effet avec ton
geste d'Hippocrate refusant le bric-&agrave;-brac d'Artaxerce. Je te dispense
de me calmer. D'ailleurs je suis triste. Que voulez-vous que je vous
dise? L'homme est mauvais, l'homme est difforme. Le papillon est r&eacute;ussi,
l'homme est rat&eacute;. Dieu a manqu&eacute; cet animal-l&agrave;. Une foule est un choix de
laideurs. Le premier venu est un mis&eacute;rable. Femme rime &agrave; inf&acirc;me. Oui,
j'ai le spleen, compliqu&eacute; de la m&eacute;lancolie, avec la nostalgie, plus
l'hypocondrie, et je bisque, et je rage, et je b&acirc;ille, et je m'ennuie,
et je m'assomme, et je m'emb&ecirc;te! Que Dieu aille au diable!

 
&mdash;Silence donc, R majuscule! reprit Bossuet qui discutait un point de
droit avec la cantonade, et qui &eacute;tait engag&eacute; plus qu'&agrave; mi-corps dans une
phrase d'argot judiciaire dont voici la fin:

 
&mdash;...Et quant &agrave; moi, quoique je sois &agrave; peine l&eacute;giste et tout au plus
procureur amateur, je soutiens ceci: qu'aux termes de la coutume de
Normandie, &agrave; la Saint-Michel, et pour chaque ann&eacute;e, un &Eacute;quivalent devait
&ecirc;tre pay&eacute; au profit du seigneur, sauf autrui droit, par tous et un
chacun, tant les propri&eacute;taires que les saisis d'h&eacute;ritage, et ce, pour
toutes emphyt&eacute;oses, baux, alleux, contrats domaniaires et domaniaux,
hypoth&eacute;caires et hypoth&eacute;caux....

 
&mdash;&Eacute;chos, nymphes plaintives, fredonna Grantaire.

 
Tout pr&egrave;s de Grantaire, sur une table presque silencieuse, une feuille
de papier, un encrier et une plume entre deux petits verres annon&ccedil;aient
qu'un vaudeville s'&eacute;bauchait. Cette grosse affaire se traitait &agrave; voix
basse, et les deux t&ecirc;tes en travail se touchaient:

 
&mdash;Commen&ccedil;ons par trouver les noms. Quand on a les noms, on trouve le
sujet.

 
&mdash;C'est juste. Dicte. J'&eacute;cris.

 
&mdash;Monsieur Dorimon?

 
&mdash;Rentier?

 
&mdash;Sans doute.

 
&mdash;Sa fille, C&eacute;lestine.

 
&mdash;... tine. Apr&egrave;s?

 
&mdash;Le colonel Sainval.

 
&mdash;Sainval est us&eacute;. Je dirais Valsin.

 
&Agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; des aspirants vaudevillistes, un autre groupe, qui, lui aussi,
profitait du brouhaha pour parler bas, discutait un duel. Un vieux,
trente ans, conseillait un jeune, dix-huit ans, et lui expliquait &agrave; quel
adversaire il avait affaire:

 
&mdash;Diable! m&eacute;fiez-vous. C'est une belle &eacute;p&eacute;e. Son jeu est net. Il a de
l'attaque, pas de feintes perdues, du poignet, du p&eacute;tillement, de
l'&eacute;clair, la parade juste, et des ripostes math&eacute;matiques, bigre! et il
est gaucher.

 
Dans l'angle oppos&eacute; &agrave; Grantaire, Joly et Bahorel jouaient aux dominos et
parlaient d'amour.

 
&mdash;Tu es heureux, toi, disait Joly. Tu as une ma&icirc;tresse qui rit toujours.

 
&mdash;C'est une faute qu'elle fait, r&eacute;pondait Bahorel. La ma&icirc;tresse qu'on a
tort de rire. &Ccedil;a encourage &agrave; la tromper. La voir gaie, cela vous &ocirc;te le
remords; si on la voit triste, on se fait conscience.

 
&mdash;Ingrat! c'est si bon une femme qui rit! Et jamais vous ne vous
querellez!

 
&mdash;Cela tient au trait&eacute; que nous avons fait. En faisant notre petite
sainte-alliance, nous nous sommes assign&eacute; &agrave; chacun notre fronti&egrave;re que
nous ne d&eacute;passons jamais. Ce qui est situ&eacute; du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de bise appartient &agrave;
Vaud, du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de vent &agrave; Gex. De l&agrave; la paix.

 
&mdash;La paix, c'est le bonheur dig&eacute;rant.

 
&mdash;Et toi, Jolllly, o&ugrave; en es-tu avec ta brouillerie avec mamselle... tu
sais qui je veux dire?

 
&mdash;Elle me boude avec une patience cruelle.

 
&mdash;Tu es pourtant un amoureux attendrissant de maigreur.

 
&mdash;H&eacute;las!

 
&mdash;&Agrave; ta place, je la planterais l&agrave;.

 
&mdash;C'est facile &agrave; dire.

 
&mdash;Et &agrave; faire. N'est-ce pas Musichetta qu'elle s'appelle?

 
&mdash;Oui. Ah! mon pauvre Bahorel, c'est une fille superbe, tr&egrave;s litt&eacute;raire,
de petits pieds, de petites mains, se mettant bien, blanche, potel&eacute;e,
avec des yeux de tireuse de cartes. J'en suis fou.

 
&mdash;Mon cher, alors il faut lui plaire, &ecirc;tre &eacute;l&eacute;gant, et faire des effets
de rotule. Ach&egrave;te-moi chez Staub un bon pantalon de cuir de laine. Cela
pr&ecirc;te.

 
&mdash;&Agrave; combien? cria Grantaire.

 
Le troisi&egrave;me coin &eacute;tait en proie &agrave; une discussion po&eacute;tique. La
mythologie pa&iuml;enne se gourmait avec la mythologie chr&eacute;tienne. Il
s'agissait de l'Olympe dont Jean Prouvaire, par romantisme m&ecirc;me, prenait
le parti. Jean Prouvaire n'&eacute;tait timide qu'au repos. Une fois excit&eacute;, il
&eacute;clatait, une sorte de ga&icirc;t&eacute; accentuait son enthousiasme, et il &eacute;tait &agrave;
la fois riant et lyrique:

 
&mdash;N'insultons pas les dieux, disait-il. Les dieux ne s'en sont peut-&ecirc;tre
pas all&eacute;s. Jupiter ne me fait point l'effet d'un mort. Les dieux sont
des songes, dites-vous. Eh bien, m&ecirc;me dans la nature, telle qu'elle est
aujourd'hui, apr&egrave;s la fuite de ces songes, on retrouve tous les grands
vieux mythes pa&iuml;ens. Telle montagne &agrave; profil de citadelle, comme le
Vignemale, par exemple, est encore pour moi la coiffure de Cyb&egrave;le; il ne
m'est pas prouv&eacute; que Pan ne vienne pas la nuit souffler dans le tronc
creux des saules, en bouchant tour &agrave; tour les trous avec ses doigts; et
j'ai toujours cru qu'Io &eacute;tait pour quelque chose dans la cascade de
Pissevache.

 
Dans le dernier coin, on parlait politique. On malmenait la charte
octroy&eacute;e. Combeferre la soutenait mollement, Courfeyrac la battait en
br&egrave;che &eacute;nergiquement. Il y avait sur la table un malencontreux
exemplaire de la fameuse Charte-Touquet. Courfeyrac l'avait saisie et la
secouait, m&ecirc;lant &agrave; ses arguments le fr&eacute;missement de cette feuille de
papier.

 
&mdash;Premi&egrave;rement, je ne veux pas de rois. Ne f&ucirc;t-ce qu'au point de vue
&eacute;conomique, je n'en veux pas; un roi est un parasite. On n'a pas de roi
gratis. &Eacute;coutez ceci: Chert&eacute; des rois. À la mort de Fran&ccedil;ois Ier, la
dette publique en France &eacute;tait de trente mille livres de rente; &agrave; la
mort de Louis XIV, elle &eacute;tait de deux milliards six cents millions &agrave;
vingt-huit livres le marc, ce qui &eacute;quivalait en 1760, au dire de
Desmarets, &agrave; quatre milliards cinq cents millions, et ce qui
&eacute;quivaudrait aujourd'hui &agrave; douze milliards. Deuxi&egrave;mement, n'en d&eacute;plaise
&agrave; Combeferre, une charte octroy&eacute;e est un mauvais exp&eacute;dient de
civilisation. Sauver la transition, adoucir le passage, amortir la
secousse, faire passer insensiblement la nation de la monarchie &agrave; la
d&eacute;mocratie par la pratique des fictions constitutionnelles, d&eacute;testables
raisons que tout cela! Non! non! n'&eacute;clairons jamais le peuple &agrave; faux
jour. Les principes s'&eacute;tiolent et p&acirc;lissent dans votre cave
constitutionnelle. Pas d'ab&acirc;tardissement. Pas de compromis. Pas d'octroi
du roi au peuple. Dans tous ces octrois-l&agrave;, il y a un article 14. &Agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute;
de la main qui donne, il y a la griffe qui reprend. Je refuse net votre
charte. Une charte est un masque; le mensonge est dessous. Un peuple qui
accepte une charte abdique. Le droit n'est le droit qu'entier. Non! pas
de charte!

 
On &eacute;tait en hiver; deux b&ucirc;ches p&eacute;tillaient dans la chemin&eacute;e. Cela &eacute;tait
tentant, et Courfeyrac n'y r&eacute;sista pas. Il froissa dans son poing la
pauvre Charte-Touquet, et la jeta au feu. Le papier flamba. Combeferre
regarda philosophiquement br&ucirc;ler le chef-d'&oelig;uvre de Louis XVIII, et se
contenta de dire:

 
&mdash;La charte m&eacute;tamorphos&eacute;e en flamme.

 
Et les sarcasmes, les saillies, les quolibets, cette chose fran&ccedil;aise
qu'on appelle l'entrain, cette chose anglaise qu'on appelle l'humour, le
bon et le mauvais go&ucirc;t, les bonnes et les mauvaises raisons, toutes les
folles fus&eacute;es du dialogue, montant &agrave; la fois et se croisant de tous les
points de la salle, faisaient au-dessus des t&ecirc;tes une sorte de
bombardement joyeux.

 
==English text==

 
One of the conversations among the young men, at which Marius was present
and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his mind.

 
This took place in the back room of the Cafe Musain. Nearly all the
Friends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argand lamp was
solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion
and with noise. With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held their
peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. Conversations between
comrades sometimes are subject to these peaceable tumults. It was a game
and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words to each other
and caught them up in turn. They were chattering in all quarters.

 
No woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison, the dish-washer
of the cafe, who passed through it from time to time, to go to her washing
in the "lavatory."

 
Grantaire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner of which he had
taken possession, reasoning and contradicting at the top of his lungs, and
shouting:&mdash;

 
"I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of Heidelberg has an
attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which will be
applied to it. I want a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is a hideous
invention of I know not whom. It lasts no time at all, and is worth
nothing. One breaks one's neck in living. Life is a theatre set in which
there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an antique reliquary
painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says: 'All is vanity.' I agree with
that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero not wishing to go stark
naked, clothed himself in vanity. O vanity! The patching up of everything
with big words! a kitchen is a laboratory, a dancer is a professor, an
acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist, an apothecary is a chemist, a
wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an architect, a jockey is a sportsman,
a wood-louse is a pterigybranche. Vanity has a right and a wrong side; the
right side is stupid, it is the negro with his glass beads; the wrong side
is foolish, it is the philosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I
laugh over the other. What are called honors and dignities, and even
dignity and honor, are generally of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of
human pride. Caligula made a horse a consul; Charles II. made a knight of
a sirloin. Wrap yourself up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and
Baronet Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no longer
respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neighbor makes of
neighbor. White on white is ferocious; if the lily could speak, what a
setting down it would give the dove! A bigoted woman prating of a devout
woman is more venomous than the asp and the cobra. It is a shame that I am
ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know
nothing. For instance, I have always been witty; when I was a pupil of
Gros, instead of daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in
pilfering apples; rapin[[24]] is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as
for the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your
perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good quality tends towards
a defect; economy borders on avarice, the generous man is next door to the
prodigal, the brave man rubs elbows with the braggart; he who says very
pious says a trifle bigoted; there are just as many vices in virtue as
there are holes in Diogenes' cloak. Whom do you admire, the slain or the
slayer, Caesar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long
live Brutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but
madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who
killed Caesar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue was
from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved that
figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg, Eucnemos, which Nero
carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two statues
which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with the one,
Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome repetition. One
century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of Marengo copies the
battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are
as like each other as two drops of water. I don't attach much importance
to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to conquer; true glory lies in
convincing. But try to prove something! If you are content with success,
what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretchedness! Alas, vanity and
cowardice everywhere. Everything obeys success, even grammar. Si volet
usus, says Horace. Therefore I disdain the human race. Shall we descend to
the party at all? Do you wish me to begin admiring the peoples? What
people, if you please? Shall it be Greece? The Athenians, those Parisians
of days gone by, slew Phocion, as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon
tyrants to such an extent that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus: "His urine
attracts the bees." The most prominent man in Greece for fifty years was
that grammarian Philetas, who was so small and so thin that he was obliged
to load his shoes with lead in order not to be blown away by the wind.
There stood on the great square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion and
catalogued by Pliny; this statue represented Episthates. What did
Episthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece and glory. Let us
pass on to others. Shall I admire England? Shall I admire France? France?
Why? Because of Paris? I have just told you my opinion of Athens. England?
Why? Because of London? I hate Carthage. And then, London, the metropolis
of luxury, is the headquarters of wretchedness. There are a hundred deaths
a year of hunger in the parish of Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. I
add, as the climax, that I have seen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath
of roses and blue spectacles. A fig then for England! If I do not admire
John Bull, shall I admire Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for
that slave-holding brother. Take away Time is money, what remains of
England? Take away Cotton is king, what remains of America? Germany is the
lymph, Italy is the bile. Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire
admired it. He also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties,
among others, a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is
delicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, a strangled Paul,
another Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers Ivans strangled, with their
throats cut, numerous Nicholases and Basils poisoned, all this indicates
that the palace of the Emperors of Russia is in a condition of flagrant
insalubrity. All civilized peoples offer this detail to the admiration of
the thinker; war; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and sums up all the
forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the Trabuceros in the gorges
of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the Comanche Indians in the Doubtful
Pass. 'Bah!' you will say to me, 'but Europe is certainly better than
Asia?' I admit that Asia is a farce; but I do not precisely see what you
find to laugh at in the Grand Lama, you peoples of the west, who have
mingled with your fashions and your elegances all the complicated filth of
majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen Isabella to the chamber-chair of
the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human race, I tell you, not a bit of it! It
is at Brussels that the most beer is consumed, at Stockholm the most
brandy, at Madrid the most chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at London
the most wine, at Constantinople the most coffee, at Paris the most
absinthe; there are all the useful notions. Paris carries the day, in
short. In Paris, even the rag-pickers are sybarites; Diogenes would have
loved to be a rag-picker of the Place Maubert better than to be a
philosopher at the Piraeus. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the
ragpickers are called bibines; the most celebrated are the Saucepan and
The Slaughter-House. Hence, tea-gardens, goguettes, caboulots, bouibuis,
mastroquets, bastringues, manezingues, bibines of the rag-pickers,
caravanseries of the caliphs, I certify to you, I am a voluptuary, I eat
at Richard's at forty sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to roll
naked Cleopatra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it is you, Louison. Good
day."

 
Thus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into speech, catching at
the dish-washer in her passage, from his corner in the back room of the
Cafe Musain.

 
Bossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose silence on him,
and Grantaire began again worse than ever:&mdash;

 
"Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws. You produce on me no effect with
your gesture of Hippocrates refusing Artaxerxes' bric-a-brac. I excuse you
from the task of soothing me. Moreover, I am sad. What do you wish me to
say to you? Man is evil, man is deformed; the butterfly is a success, man
is a failure. God made a mistake with that animal. A crowd offers a choice
of ugliness. The first comer is a wretch, Femme&mdash;woman&mdash;rhymes
with infame,&mdash;infamous. Yes, I have the spleen, complicated with
melancholy, with homesickness, plus hypochondria, and I am vexed and I
rage, and I yawn, and I am bored, and I am tired to death, and I am
stupid! Let God go to the devil!"

 
"Silence then, capital R!" resumed Bossuet, who was discussing a point of
law behind the scenes, and who was plunged more than waist high in a
phrase of judicial slang, of which this is the conclusion:&mdash;

 
"&mdash;And as for me, although I am hardly a legist, and at the most, an
amateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in accordance with the terms of
the customs of Normandy, at Saint-Michel, and for each year, an equivalent
must be paid to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving the rights of
others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well as those seized
with inheritance, and that, for all emphyteuses, leases, freeholds,
contracts of domain, mortgages&mdash;"

 
"Echo, plaintive nymph," hummed Grantaire.

 
Near Grantaire, an almost silent table, a sheet of paper, an inkstand and
a pen between two glasses of brandy, announced that a vaudeville was being
sketched out.

 
This great affair was being discussed in a low voice, and the two heads at
work touched each other: "Let us begin by finding names. When one has the
names, one finds the subject."

 
"That is true. Dictate. I will write."

 
"Monsieur Dorimon."

 
"An independent gentleman?"

 
"Of course."

 
"His daughter, Celestine."

 
"&mdash;tine. What next?"

 
"Colonel Sainval."

 
"Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin."

 
Beside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was also taking
advantage of the uproar to talk low, was discussing a duel. An old fellow
of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen, and explaining to him
what sort of an adversary he had to deal with.

 
"The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play is
neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a just
parade, mathematical parries, bigre! and he is left-handed."

 
In the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were playing dominoes,
and talking of love.

 
"You are in luck, that you are," Joly was saying. "You have a mistress who
is always laughing."

 
"That is a fault of hers," returned Bahorel. "One's mistress does wrong to
laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your
remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you."

 
"Ingrate! a woman who laughs is such a good thing! And you never quarrel!"

 
"That is because of the treaty which we have made. On forming our little
Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each our frontier, which we never
cross. What is situated on the side of winter belongs to Vaud, on the side
of the wind to Gex. Hence the peace."

 
"Peace is happiness digesting."

 
"And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with Mamselle&mdash;you
know whom I mean?"

 
"She sulks at me with cruel patience."

 
"Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness."

 
"Alas!"

 
"In your place, I would let her alone."

 
"That is easy enough to say."

 
"And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?"

 
"Yes. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very literary, with tiny
feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled, with the
eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her."

 
"My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be elegant, and
produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of
double-milled cloth at Staub's. That will assist."

 
"At what price?" shouted Grantaire.

 
The third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion. Pagan
mythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. The question was about
Olympus, whose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire, out of pure romanticism.

 
Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth, a
sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and he was at once both laughing
and lyric.

 
"Let us not insult the gods," said he. "The gods may not have taken their
departure. Jupiter does not impress me as dead. The gods are dreams, you
say. Well, even in nature, such as it is to-day, after the flight of these
dreams, we still find all the grand old pagan myths. Such and such a
mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the Vignemale, for example,
is still to me the headdress of Cybele; it has not been proved to me that
Pan does not come at night to breathe into the hollow trunks of the
willows, stopping up the holes in turn with his fingers, and I have always
believed that Io had something to do with the cascade of Pissevache."

 
In the last corner, they were talking politics. The Charter which had been
granted was getting roughly handled. Combeferre was upholding it weakly.
Courfeyrac was energetically making a breach in it. On the table lay an
unfortunate copy of the famous Touquet Charter. Courfeyrac had seized it,
and was brandishing it, mingling with his arguments the rattling of this
sheet of paper.

 
"In the first place, I won't have any kings; if it were only from an
economical point of view, I don't want any; a king is a parasite. One does
not have kings gratis. Listen to this: the dearness of kings. At the death
of Francois I., the national debt of France amounted to an income of
thirty thousand livres; at the death of Louis XIV. it was two milliards,
six hundred millions, at twenty-eight livres the mark, which was
equivalent in 1760, according to Desmarets, to four milliards, five
hundred millions, which would to-day be equivalent to twelve milliards. In
the second place, and no offence to Combeferre, a charter granted is but a
poor expedient of civilization. To save the transition, to soften the
passage, to deaden the shock, to cause the nation to pass insensibly from
the monarchy to democracy by the practice of constitutional fictions,&mdash;what
detestable reasons all those are! No! no! let us never enlighten the
people with false daylight. Principles dwindle and pale in your
constitutional cellar. No illegitimacy, no compromise, no grant from the
king to the people. In all such grants there is an Article 14. By the side
of the hand which gives there is the claw which snatches back. I refuse
your charter point-blank. A charter is a mask; the lie lurks beneath it. A
people which accepts a charter abdicates. The law is only the law when
entire. No! no charter!"

 
It was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fireplace. This
was tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled the poor
Touquet Charter in his fist, and flung it in the fire. The paper flashed
up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII. burn
philosophically, and contented himself with saying:&mdash;

 
"The charter metamorphosed into flame."

 
And sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is called entrain,
and that English thing which is called humor, good and bad taste, good and
bad reasons, all the wild pyrotechnics of dialogue, mounting together and
crossing from all points of the room, produced a sort of merry bombardment
over their heads.


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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