Editing Volume 1/Book 3/Chapter 7

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 1: Fantine, Book Third: In the Year 1817, Chapter 7: The Wisdom of Tholomyes<br />
(Tome 1: Fantine, Livre troisi&egrave;me: En l'ann&eacute;e 1817, Chapitre 7: Sagesse de Tholomy&egrave;s)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==


Cependant, tandis que quelques-uns chantaient, les autres causaient
tumultueusement, et tous ensemble; ce n'&eacute;tait plus que du bruit.
Tholomy&egrave;s intervint:

 
&mdash;Ne parlons point au hasard ni trop vite, s'&eacute;cria-t-il. M&eacute;ditons si
nous voulons &ecirc;tre &eacute;blouissants. Trop d'improvisation vide b&ecirc;tement
l'esprit. Bi&egrave;re qui coule n'amasse point de mousse. Messieurs, pas de
h&acirc;te. M&ecirc;lons la majest&eacute; &agrave; la ripaille; mangeons avec recueillement;
festinons lentement. Ne nous pressons pas. Voyez le printemps; s'il se
d&eacute;p&ecirc;che, il est flamb&eacute;, c'est-&agrave;-dire gel&eacute;. L'exc&egrave;s de z&egrave;le perd les
p&ecirc;chers et les abricotiers. L'exc&egrave;s de z&egrave;le tue la gr&acirc;ce et la joie des
bons d&icirc;ners. Pas de z&egrave;le, messieurs! Grimod de la Reyni&egrave;re est de l'avis
de Talleyrand.

 
Une sourde r&eacute;bellion gronda dans le groupe.

 
&mdash;Tholomy&egrave;s, laisse-nous tranquilles, dit Blachevelle.

 
&mdash;&Agrave; bas le tyran! dit Fameuil.

 
&mdash;Bombarda, Bombance et Bamboche! cria Listolier.

 
&mdash;Le dimanche existe, reprit Fameuil.

 
&mdash;Nous sommes sobres, ajouta Listolier.

 
&mdash;Tholomy&egrave;s, fit Blachevelle, contemple mon calme.

 
&mdash;Tu en es le marquis, r&eacute;pondit Tholomy&egrave;s.

 
Ce m&eacute;diocre jeu de mots fit l'effet d'une pierre dans une mare. Le
marquis de Montcalm &eacute;tait un royaliste alors c&eacute;l&egrave;bre. Toutes les
grenouilles se turent.

 
&mdash;Amis, s'&eacute;cria Tholomy&egrave;s, de l'accent d'un homme qui ressaisit
l'empire, remettez-vous. Il ne faut pas que trop de stupeur accueille ce
calembour tomb&eacute; du ciel. Tout ce qui tombe de la sorte n'est pas
n&eacute;cessairement digne d'enthousiasme et de respect. Le calembour est la
fiente de l'esprit qui vole. Le lazzi tombe n'importe o&ugrave;; et l'esprit,
apr&egrave;s la ponte d'une b&ecirc;tise, s'enfonce dans l'azur. Une tache blanch&acirc;tre
qui s'aplatit sur le rocher n'emp&ecirc;che pas le condor de planer. Loin de
moi l'insulte au calembour! Je l'honore dans la proportion de ses
m&eacute;rites; rien de plus. Tout ce qu'il y a de plus auguste, de plus
sublime et de plus charmant dans l'humanit&eacute;, et peut-&ecirc;tre hors de
l'humanit&eacute;, a fait des jeux de mots. J&eacute;sus-Christ a fait un calembour
sur saint Pierre, Mo&iuml;se sur Isaac, Eschyle sur Polynice, Cl&eacute;op&acirc;tre sur
Octave. Et notez que ce calembour de Cl&eacute;op&acirc;tre a pr&eacute;c&eacute;d&eacute; la bataille
d'Actium, et que, sans lui, personne ne se souviendrait de la ville de
Toryne, nom grec qui signifie cuiller &agrave; pot. Cela conc&eacute;d&eacute;, je reviens &agrave;
mon exhortation. Mes fr&egrave;res, je le r&eacute;p&egrave;te, pas de z&egrave;le, pas de
tohu-bohu, pas d'exc&egrave;s, m&ecirc;me en pointes, ga&icirc;t&eacute;s, liesses et jeux de
mots. &Eacute;coutez-moi, j'ai la prudence d'Amphiara&uuml;s et la calvitie de
C&eacute;sar. Il faut une limite, m&ecirc;me aux r&eacute;bus. ''Est modus in rebus''. Il faut
une limite, m&ecirc;me aux d&icirc;ners. Vous aimez les chaussons aux pommes,
mesdames, n'en abusez pas. Il faut, m&ecirc;me en chaussons, du bon sens et de
l'art. La gloutonnerie ch&acirc;tie le glouton. Gula punit Gulax.
L'indigestion est charg&eacute;e par le bon Dieu de faire de la morale aux
estomacs. Et, retenez ceci: chacune de nos passions, m&ecirc;me l'amour, a un
estomac qu'il ne faut pas trop remplir. En toute chose il faut &eacute;crire &agrave;
temps le mot ''finis'', il faut se contenir, quand cela devient urgent,
tirer le verrou sur son app&eacute;tit, mettre au violon sa fantaisie et se
mener soi-m&ecirc;me au poste. Le sage est celui qui sait &agrave; un moment donn&eacute;
op&eacute;rer sa propre arrestation. Ayez quelque confiance en moi. Parce que
j'ai fait un peu mon droit, &agrave; ce que me disent mes examens, parce que je
sais la diff&eacute;rence qu'il y a entre la question mue et la question
pendante, parce que j'ai soutenu une th&egrave;se en latin sur la mani&egrave;re dont
on donnait la torture &agrave; Rome au temps o&ugrave; Munatius Demens &eacute;tait questeur
du Parricide, parce que je vais &ecirc;tre docteur, &agrave; ce qu'il para&icirc;t, il ne
s'ensuit pas de toute n&eacute;cessit&eacute; que je sois un imb&eacute;cile. Je vous
recommande la mod&eacute;ration dans vos d&eacute;sirs. Vrai comme je m'appelle F&eacute;lix
Tholomy&egrave;s, je parle bien. Heureux celui qui, lorsque l'heure a sonn&eacute;,
prend un parti h&eacute;ro&iuml;que, et abdique comme Sylla, ou Orig&egrave;ne!

 
Favourite &eacute;coutait avec une attention profonde.

 
&mdash;F&eacute;lix! dit-elle, quel joli mot! j'aime ce nom-l&agrave;. C'est en latin. &Ccedil;a
veut dire Prosper.

 
Tholomy&egrave;s poursuivit:

 
&mdash;Quirites, gentlemen, Caballeros, mes amis! voulez-vous ne sentir aucun
aiguillon et vous passer de lit nuptial et braver l'amour? Rien de plus
simple. Voici la recette: la limonade, l'exercice outr&eacute;, le travail
forc&eacute;, &eacute;reintez-vous, tra&icirc;nez des blocs, ne dormez pas, veillez,
gorgez-vous de boissons nitreuses et de tisanes de nymphaeas, savourez
des &eacute;mulsions de pavots et d'agnuscastus, assaisonnez-moi cela d'une
di&egrave;te s&eacute;v&egrave;re, crevez de faim, et joignez-y les bains froids, les
ceintures d'herbes, l'application d'une plaque de plomb, les lotions
avec la liqueur de Saturne et les fomentations avec l'oxycrat.

 
&mdash;J'aime mieux une femme, dit Listolier.

 
&mdash;La femme! reprit Tholomy&egrave;s, m&eacute;fiez-vous-en. Malheur &agrave; celui qui se
livre au c&oelig;ur changeant de la femme! La femme est perfide et tortueuse.
Elle d&eacute;teste le serpent par jalousie de m&eacute;tier. Le serpent, c'est la
boutique en face.

 
&mdash;Tholomy&egrave;s, cria Blachevelle, tu es ivre!

 
&mdash;Pardieu! dit Tholomy&egrave;s.

 
&mdash;Alors sois gai, reprit Blachevelle.

 
Et, remplissant son verre, il se leva:

 
&mdash;Gloire au vin! ''Nunc te, Bacche, canam''! Pardon, mesdemoiselles, c'est
de l'espagnol. Et la preuve, se&ntilde;oras, la voici: tel peuple, telle
futaille. L'arrobe de Castille contient seize litres, le cantaro
d'Alicante douze, l'almude des Canaries vingt-cinq, le cuartin des
Bal&eacute;ares vingt-six, la botte du czar Pierre trente. Vive ce czar qui
&eacute;tait grand, et vive sa botte qui &eacute;tait plus grande encore! Mesdames, un
conseil d'ami: trompez-vous de voisin, si bon vous semble. Le propre de
l'amour, c'est d'errer. L'amourette n'est pas faite pour s'accroupir et
s'abrutir comme une servante anglaise qui a le calus du scrobage aux
genoux. Elle n'est pas faite pour cela, elle erre ga&icirc;ment, la douce
amourette! On a dit: l'erreur est humaine; moi je dis: l'erreur est
amoureuse. Mesdames, je vous idol&acirc;tre toutes. &Ocirc; Z&eacute;phine, &ocirc; Jos&eacute;phine,
figure plus que chiffonn&eacute;e, vous seriez charmante, si vous n'&eacute;tiez de
travers. Vous avez l'air d'un joli visage sur lequel, par m&eacute;garde, on
s'est assis. Quant &agrave; Favourite, &ocirc; nymphes et muses! un jour que
Blachevelle passait le ruisseau de la rue Gu&eacute;rin-Boisseau, il vit une
belle fille aux bas blancs et bien tir&eacute;s qui montrait ses jambes. Ce
prologue lui plut, et Blachevelle aima. Celle qu'il aima &eacute;tait
Favourite. &Ocirc; Favourite, tu as des l&egrave;vres ioniennes. Il y avait un
peintre grec, appel&eacute; Euphorion, qu'on avait surnomm&eacute; le peintre des
l&egrave;vres. Ce Grec seul e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; digne de peindre ta bouche! &Eacute;coute! avant
toi, il n'y avait pas de cr&eacute;ature digne de ce nom. Tu es faite pour
recevoir la pomme comme V&eacute;nus ou pour la manger comme &Egrave;ve. La beaut&eacute;
commence &agrave; toi. Je viens de parler d'&Egrave;ve, c'est toi qui l'as cr&eacute;&eacute;e. Tu
m&eacute;rites le brevet d'invention de la jolie femme. &Ocirc; Favourite, je cesse
de vous tutoyer, parce que je passe de la po&eacute;sie &agrave; la prose. Vous
parliez de mon nom tout &agrave; l'heure. Cela m'a attendri; mais, qui que nous
soyons, m&eacute;fions-nous des noms. Ils peuvent se tromper. Je me nomme F&eacute;lix
et ne suis pas heureux. Les mots sont des menteurs. N'acceptons pas
aveugl&eacute;ment les indications qu'ils nous donnent. Ce serait une erreur
d'&eacute;crire &agrave; Li&egrave;ge pour avoir des bouchons et &agrave; Pau pour avoir des gants.
Miss Dahlia, &agrave; votre place, je m'appellerais Rosa. Il faut que la fleur
sente bon et que la femme ait de l'esprit. Je ne dis rien de Fantine,
c'est une songeuse, une r&ecirc;veuse, une pensive, une sensitive; c'est un
fant&ocirc;me ayant la forme d'une nymphe et la pudeur d'une nonne, qui se
fourvoie dans la vie de grisette, mais qui se r&eacute;fugie dans les
illusions, et qui chante, et qui prie, et qui regarde l'azur sans trop
savoir ce qu'elle voit ni ce qu'elle fait, et qui, les yeux au ciel,
erre dans un jardin o&ugrave; il y a plus d'oiseaux qu'il n'en existe! &Ocirc;
Fantine, sache ceci: moi Tholomy&egrave;s, je suis une illusion; mais elle ne
m'entend m&ecirc;me pas, la blonde fille des chim&egrave;res! Du reste, tout en elle
est fra&icirc;cheur, suavit&eacute;, jeunesse, douce clart&eacute; matinale. &Ocirc; Fantine,
fille digne de vous appeler marguerite ou perle, vous &ecirc;tes une femme du
plus bel orient. Mesdames, un deuxi&egrave;me conseil: ne vous mariez point; le
mariage est une greffe; cela prend bien ou mal; fuyez ce risque. Mais,
bah! qu'est-ce que je chante l&agrave;? Je perds mes paroles. Les filles sont
incurables sur l'&eacute;pousaille; et tout ce que nous pouvons dire, nous
autres sages, n'emp&ecirc;chera point les gileti&egrave;res et les piqueuses de
bottines de r&ecirc;ver des maris enrichis de diamants. Enfin, soit; mais,
belles, retenez ceci: vous mangez trop de sucre. Vous n'avez qu'un tort,
&ocirc; femmes, c'est de grignoter du sucre. &Ocirc; sexe rongeur, tes jolies
petites dents blanches adorent le sucre. Or, &eacute;coutez bien, le sucre est
un sel. Tout sel est dess&eacute;chant. Le sucre est le plus dess&eacute;chant de tous
les sels. Il pompe &agrave; travers les veines les liquides du sang; de l&agrave; la
coagulation, puis la solidification du sang; de l&agrave; les tubercules dans
le poumon; de l&agrave; la mort. Et c'est pourquoi le diab&egrave;te confine &agrave; la
phthisie. Donc ne croquez pas de sucre, et vous vivrez! Je me tourne
vers les hommes. Messieurs, faites des conqu&ecirc;tes. Pillez-vous les uns
aux autres sans remords vos bien-aim&eacute;es. Chassez-croisez. En amour, il
n'y a pas d'amis. Partout o&ugrave; il y a une jolie femme l'hostilit&eacute; est
ouverte. Pas de quartier, guerre &agrave; outrance! Une jolie femme est un
casus belli; une jolie femme est un flagrant d&eacute;lit. Toutes les invasions
de l'histoire sont d&eacute;termin&eacute;es par des cotillons. La femme est le droit
de l'homme. Romulus a enlev&eacute; les Sabines, Guillaume a enlev&eacute; les
Saxonnes, C&eacute;sar a enlev&eacute; les Romaines. L'homme qui n'est pas aim&eacute; plane
comme un vautour sur les amantes d'autrui; et quant &agrave; moi, &agrave; tous ces
infortun&eacute;s qui sont veufs, je jette la proclamation sublime de Bonaparte
&agrave; l'arm&eacute;e d'Italie: &laquo;Soldats, vous manquez de tout. L'ennemi en a.&raquo;

 
Tholomy&egrave;s s'interrompit.

 
&mdash;Souffle, Tholomy&egrave;s, dit Blachevelle.

 
En m&ecirc;me temps, Blachevelle, appuy&eacute; de Listolier et de Fameuil, entonna
sur un air de complainte une de ces chansons d'atelier compos&eacute;es des
premiers mots venus, rim&eacute;es richement et pas du tout, vides de sens
comme le geste de l'arbre et le bruit du vent, qui naissent de la vapeur
des pipes et se dissipent et s'envolent avec elle. Voici par quel
couplet le groupe donna la r&eacute;plique &agrave; la harangue de Tholomy&egrave;s:

 
Les p&egrave;res dindons donn&egrave;rent de l'argent &agrave; un agent pour que mons
Clermont-Tonnerre f&ucirc;t fait pape &agrave; la Saint-Jean; Mais Clermont ne put
pas &ecirc;tre fait pape, n'&eacute;tant pas pr&ecirc;tre.

 
Alors leur agent rageant leur rapporta leur argent.

 
Ceci n'&eacute;tait pas fait pour calmer l'improvisation de Tholomy&egrave;s; il vida
son verre, le remplit, et recommen&ccedil;a.

 
&mdash;&Agrave; bas la sagesse! oubliez tout ce que j'ai dit. Ne soyons ni prudes,
ni prudents, ni prud'hommes. Je porte un toast &agrave; l'all&eacute;gresse; soyons
all&egrave;gres! Compl&eacute;tons notre cours de droit par la folie et la nourriture.
Indigestion et digeste. Que Justinien soit le m&acirc;le et que Ripaille soit
la femelle! Joie dans les profondeurs! Vis, &ocirc; cr&eacute;ation! Le monde est un
gros diamant! Je suis heureux. Les oiseaux sont &eacute;tonnants. Quelle f&ecirc;te
partout! Le rossignol est un Elleviou gratis. &Eacute;t&eacute;, je te salue. &Ocirc;
Luxembourg, &ocirc; G&eacute;orgiques de la rue Madame et de l'all&eacute;e de
l'Observatoire! &Ocirc; pioupious r&ecirc;veurs! &ocirc; toutes ces bonnes charmantes qui,
tout en gardant des enfants, s'amusent &agrave; en &eacute;baucher! Les pampas de
l'Am&eacute;rique me plairaient, si je n'avais les arcades de l'Od&eacute;on. Mon &acirc;me
s'envole dans les for&ecirc;ts vierges et dans les savanes. Tout est beau. Les
mouches bourdonnent dans les rayons. Le soleil a &eacute;ternu&eacute; le colibri.
Embrasse-moi, Fantine!

 
Il se trompa, et embrassa Favourite.

 
==English text==

 
In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously
all at once; it was no longer anything but noise. Tholomyes intervened.

 
"Let us not talk at random nor too fast," he exclaimed. "Let us reflect,
if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation empties the mind in a
stupid way. Running beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us
mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with meditation; let us make
haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the springtime; if it makes
haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal
ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and
the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen! Grimod de la Reynière
agrees with Talleyrand."

 
A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group.

 
"Leave us in peace, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle.

 
"Down with the tyrant!" said Fameuil.

 
"Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!" cried Listolier.

 
"Sunday exists," resumed Fameuil.

 
"We are sober," added Listolier.

 
"Tholomyes," remarked Blachevelle, "contemplate my calmness [mon calme]."

 
"You are the Marquis of that," retorted Tholomyes.

 
This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool.
The Marquis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the
frogs held their peace.

 
"Friends," cried Tholomyes, with the accent of a man who had recovered his
empire, "Come to yourselves. This pun which has fallen from the skies must
not be received with too much stupor. Everything which falls in that way
is not necessarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The pun is the dung
of the mind which soars. The jest falls, no matter where; and the mind
after producing a piece of stupidity plunges into the azure depths. A
whitish speck flattened against the rock does not prevent the condor from
soaring aloft. Far be it from me to insult the pun! I honor it in
proportion to its merits; nothing more. All the most august, the most
sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity,
have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on St. Peter, Moses on Isaac,
AEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observe that
Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Actium, and that had it not been
for it, no one would have remembered the city of Toryne, a Greek name
which signifies a ladle. That once conceded, I return to my exhortation. I
repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no hubbub, no excess; even in
witticisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on words. Listen to me. I have the
prudence of Amphiaraus and the baldness of Caesar. There must be a limit,
even to rebuses. Est modus in rebus.

 
"There must be a limit, even to dinners. You are fond of apple turnovers,
ladies; do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter of turnovers,
good sense and art are requisite. Gluttony chastises the glutton, Gula
punit Gulax. Indigestion is charged by the good God with preaching
morality to stomachs. And remember this: each one of our passions, even
love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full. In all things the
word finis must be written in good season; self-control must be exercised
when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt must be drawn on appetite; one
must set one's own fantasy to the violin, and carry one's self to the
post. The sage is the man who knows how, at a given moment, to effect his
own arrest. Have some confidence in me, for I have succeeded to some
extent in my study of the law, according to the verdict of my
examinations, for I know the difference between the question put and the
question pending, for I have sustained a thesis in Latin upon the manner
in which torture was administered at Rome at the epoch when Munatius
Demens was quaestor of the Parricide; because I am going to be a doctor,
apparently it does not follow that it is absolutely necessary that I
should be an imbecile. I recommend you to moderation in your desires. It
is true that my name is Felix Tholomyes; I speak well. Happy is he who,
when the hour strikes, takes a heroic resolve, and abdicates like Sylla or
Origenes."

 
Favourite listened with profound attention.

 
"Felix," said she, "what a pretty word! I love that name. It is Latin; it
means prosper."

 
Tholomyes went on:&mdash;

 
"Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel
the prick, to do without the nuptial bed, and to brave love? Nothing more
simple. Here is the receipt: lemonade, excessive exercise, hard labor;
work yourself to death, drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil, gorge yourself
with nitrous beverages, and potions of nymphaeas; drink emulsions of
poppies and agnus castus; season this with a strict diet, starve yourself,
and add thereto cold baths, girdles of herbs, the application of a plate
of lead, lotions made with the subacetate of lead, and fomentations of
oxycrat."

 
"I prefer a woman," said Listolier.

 
"Woman," resumed Tholomyes; "distrust her. Woe to him who yields himself
to the unstable heart of woman! Woman is perfidious and disingenuous. She
detests the serpent from professional jealousy. The serpent is the shop
over the way."

 
"Tholomyes!" cried Blachevelle, "you are drunk!"

 
"Pardieu," said Tholomyes.

 
"Then be gay," resumed Blachevelle.

 
"I agree to that," responded Tholomyes.

 
And, refilling his glass, he rose.

 
"Glory to wine! Nunc te, Bacche, canam! Pardon me ladies; that is Spanish.
And the proof of it, senoras, is this: like people, like cask. The arrobe
of Castile contains sixteen litres; the cantaro of Alicante, twelve; the
almude of the Canaries, twenty-five; the cuartin of the Balearic Isles,
twenty-six; the boot of Tzar Peter, thirty. Long live that Tzar who was
great, and long live his boot, which was still greater! Ladies, take the
advice of a friend; make a mistake in your neighbor if you see fit. The
property of love is to err. A love affair is not made to crouch down and
brutalize itself like an English serving-maid who has callouses on her
knees from scrubbing. It is not made for that; it errs gayly, our gentle
love. It has been said, error is human; I say, error is love. Ladies, I
idolize you all. O Zephine, O Josephine, face more than irregular, you
would be charming were you not all askew. You have the air of a pretty
face upon which some one has sat down by mistake. As for Favourite, O
nymphs and muses! one day when Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the
Rue Guerin-Boisseau, he espied a beautiful girl with white stockings well
drawn up, which displayed her legs. This prologue pleased him, and
Blachevelle fell in love. The one he loved was Favourite. O Favourite,
thou hast Ionian lips. There was a Greek painter named Euphorion, who was
surnamed the painter of the lips. That Greek alone would have been worthy
to paint thy mouth. Listen! before thee, there was never a creature worthy
of the name. Thou wert made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it
like Eve; beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve; it is thou
who hast created her. Thou deservest the letters-patent of the beautiful
woman. O Favourite, I cease to address you as 'thou,' because I pass from
poetry to prose. You were speaking of my name a little while ago. That
touched me; but let us, whoever we may be, distrust names. They may delude
us. I am called Felix, and I am not happy. Words are liars. Let us not
blindly accept the indications which they afford us. It would be a mistake
to write to Liege [[2]]
for corks, and to Pau for gloves. Miss Dahlia, were I in your place, I
would call myself Rosa. A flower should smell sweet, and woman should have
wit. I say nothing of Fantine; she is a dreamer, a musing, thoughtful,
pensive person; she is a phantom possessed of the form of a nymph and the
modesty of a nun, who has strayed into the life of a grisette, but who
takes refuge in illusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into the
azure without very well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and
who, with her eyes fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden where there are
more birds than are in existence. O Fantine, know this: I, Tholomyes, I am
all illusion; but she does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras!
as for the rest, everything about her is freshness, suavity, youth, sweet
morning light. O Fantine, maid worthy of being called Marguerite or Pearl,
you are a woman from the beauteous Orient. Ladies, a second piece of
advice: do not marry; marriage is a graft; it takes well or ill; avoid
that risk. But bah! what am I saying? I am wasting my words. Girls are
incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise men can say
will not prevent the waistcoat-makers and the shoe-stitchers from dreaming
of husbands studded with diamonds. Well, so be it; but, my beauties,
remember this, you eat too much sugar. You have but one fault, O woman,
and that is nibbling sugar. O nibbling sex, your pretty little white teeth
adore sugar. Now, heed me well, sugar is a salt. All salts are withering.
Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts; it sucks the liquids of the
blood through the veins; hence the coagulation, and then the
solidification of the blood; hence tubercles in the lungs, hence death.
That is why diabetes borders on consumption. Then, do not crunch sugar,
and you will live. I turn to the men: gentlemen, make conquest, rob each
other of your well-beloved without remorse. Chassez across. In love there
are no friends. Everywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is
open. No quarter, war to the death! a pretty woman is a casus belli; a
pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have
been determined by petticoats. Woman is man's right. Romulus carried off
the Sabines; William carried off the Saxon women; Caesar carried off the
Roman women. The man who is not loved soars like a vulture over the
mistresses of other men; and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men
who are widowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the
army of Italy: "Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has
it."

 
Tholomyes paused.

 
"Take breath, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle.

 
At the same moment Blachevelle, supported by Listolier and Fameuil, struck
up to a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the first
words which come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as destitute of
sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the wind, which have
their birth in the vapor of pipes, and are dissipated and take their
flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group replied to
Tholomyes' harangue:&mdash;

 
<pre>
           "The father turkey-cocks so grave
            Some money to an agent gave,
            That master good Clermont-Tonnerre
            Might be made pope on Saint Johns' day fair.
            But this good Clermont could not be
            Made pope, because no priest was he;
            And then their agent, whose wrath burned,
            With all their money back returned."

</pre>
 
This was not calculated to calm Tholomyes' improvisation; he emptied his
glass, filled, refilled it, and began again:&mdash;

 
"Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither prudes
nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be merry. Let
us complete our course of law by folly and eating! Indigestion and the
digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting, the female! Joy in the
depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great diamond. I am happy. The
birds are astonishing. What a festival everywhere! The nightingale is a
gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of
the Rue Madame, and of the Allee de l'Observatoire! O pensive infantry
soldiers! O all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children,
amuse themselves! The pampas of America would please me if I had not the
arcades of the Odeon. My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to
the savannas. All is beautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has
sneezed out the humming bird. Embrace me, Fantine!"

 
He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.


==Translation notes==

===Bombarda, Bombance, and Bamboche!===

Bombance 

# feast

Bamboche

# revelry

===Est modus in rebus.===

There is a sufficient measure in everything. (literally: There are measures in things.)
A pun on the word rebus and the Latin meaning of ''rebus'' (things).

===Nunc te, Bacche, canam!===

Now I will sing to your name, Bacchus.

===Ce serait une erreur d'écrire à Liège pour avoir des bouchons et à Pau pour avoir des gants.===
liège 

# cork
# a city in Belgium

Pau is a city in France, pronounced the same as peau, meaning skin or leather.   
Therefore: It would be a mistake to write to Liege for corks, and to Pau for gloves.

==Textual notes==
===The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou.===
Elleviou was a renowned and expensive opera singer<ref name="livre de poche">''Hugo, Victor. Les Misérables''. Annotation by Guy Rosa. Le Livre de Poche. 1998.</ref>

===les arcades de l'Odéon / the arcades of the Odeon=== 
Also known as ''les galeries de l’Odéon'' or ''the Odéon galleries'' and located on Rue Rotrou, books and newspapers were sold in the galleries under the Odéon arcades.  Anatole France's anecdote in "Sous les galeries de l'Odéon" (Under the Arcades of the Odéon) declares the arcade's bookstalls inaccessible to the French upper class; apparently the arcades were not known to them as a source of literary plenty, but were well known to the lower classes.<ref> France, Anatole, "Under the Arcades of the Odéon", in ''On Life and Letters'' from ''The Works of Anatole France in English Translation'', translated by D. B. Stewart, edited by J. Lewis May and Bernard Miall.  New York: John Layne Co., 1922, pp. 248-56.  Online at Google Books.    https://books.google.com/books?id=j20gSm5M1OwC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false </ref><ref>France, Anatole.  "Sous les galeries de l'Odéon", in  ''La Vie Littéraire:  Troisième Série''  Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1892.  Online at Project Gutenberg. http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19345/pg19345-images.html </ref>  Georges Cain's lavishly engraved ''Nooks and Corners of Old Paris'' (trans. Frederick Lawton), provides a similar amusing anecdote concerning frequenters of the bookstalls under the Odéon arcades.<ref> Cain, Georges.  ''Nooks and Corners of Old Paris''. Translated by Frederick Lawton.  London: E. Grant Richards, 1907.  Online at Project Gutenberg. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40306/40306-h/40306-h.htm </ref>  Cain's book includes a high-quality, but unattributed, illustration of the Odéon arcades.  Bibliothèque nationale de France online has a photo of the arcades, taken circa 1900.<ref> Atget, Eugène. ''Galeries de l'Odéon''. Photograph,17.4 x 22 cm. 1899-1900.  Bibliothèque nationale de France.  Identification: ark:/12148/btv1b105068881 at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b105068881 </ref> 

Les arcades de l'Odéon (the arcades of the Odéon) are mentioned in here, in Volume 1/Book 3/Chapter 7; as well as [[Volume 3/Book 5/Chapter 6]] and [[Volume 3/Book 6/Chapter 6]]; and [[Volume 4/Book 5/Chapter 6]].

===Les Pampas de l'Amérique... les arcades de l'Odéon / Pampas of America... the Odéon arcades=== 
Tholomyès may have read about the pampas of South America from a book or newspaper at one of the bookstalls under the Odéon arcades.  Perhaps the sellers in the Odéon galleries sold books of adventures and details of South America, such as ''Examen des Recherches Philosophiques sur L'Amerique et les Americains'', published in 1771, and ''Voyages dans l'Amérique méridionale, Volume 2'', published in 1809.  Hence, Tholomyès need not go to exotic places himself.<ref> Searching "pampas de l'Amérique" in Google Books returns several 18th and 19th century French-language books plausibly available in the Odéon arcades. </ref>

==Citations==
<references />