Editing Volume 3/Book 4/Chapter 1

Les Mis&eacute;rables,  Volume 3: Marius, Book Fourth: The Friends of the ABC, Chapter 1: A Group which barely missed becoming Historic<br />
((Tome 3: Marius, Livre quatri&egrave;me: Les amis de l'ABC, Chapitre 1: Un groupe qui a failli devenir historique)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
&Agrave; cette &eacute;poque, indiff&eacute;rente en apparence, un certain frisson
r&eacute;volutionnaire courait vaguement. Des souffles, revenus des profondeurs
de 89 et de 92, &eacute;taient dans l'air. La jeunesse &eacute;tait, qu'on nous passe
le mot, en train de muer. On se transformait, presque sans s'en douter,
par le mouvement m&ecirc;me du temps. L'aiguille qui marche sur le cadran
marche aussi dans les &acirc;mes. Chacun faisait en avant le pas qu'il avait &agrave;
faire. Les royalistes devenaient lib&eacute;raux, les lib&eacute;raux devenaient
d&eacute;mocrates.

 
C'&eacute;tait comme une mar&eacute;e montante compliqu&eacute;e de mille reflux; le propre
des reflux, c'est de faire des m&eacute;langes; de l&agrave; des combinaisons d'id&eacute;es
tr&egrave;s singuli&egrave;res; on adorait &agrave; la fois Napol&eacute;on et la libert&eacute;. Nous
faisons ici de l'histoire. C'&eacute;taient les mirages de ce temps-l&agrave;. Les
opinions traversent des phases. Le royalisme voltairien, vari&eacute;t&eacute;
bizarre, a eu un pendant non moins &eacute;trange, le lib&eacute;ralisme bonapartiste.

 
D'autres groupes d'esprits &eacute;taient plus s&eacute;rieux. L&agrave; on sondait le
principe; l&agrave; on s'attachait au droit. On se passionnait pour l'absolu,
on entrevoyait les r&eacute;alisations infinies; l'absolu, par sa rigidit&eacute;
m&ecirc;me, pousse les esprits vers l'azur et les fait flotter dans
l'illimit&eacute;. Rien n'est tel que le dogme pour enfanter le r&ecirc;ve. Et rien
n'est tel que le r&ecirc;ve pour engendrer l'avenir. Utopie aujourd'hui, chair
et os demain.

 
Les opinions avanc&eacute;es avaient des doubles fonds. Un commencement de
myst&egrave;re mena&ccedil;ait &laquo;l'ordre &eacute;tabli&raquo;, lequel &eacute;tait suspect et sournois.
Signe au plus haut point r&eacute;volutionnaire. L'arri&egrave;re-pens&eacute;e du pouvoir
rencontre dans la sape l'arri&egrave;re-pens&eacute;e du peuple. L'incubation des
insurrections donne la r&eacute;plique &agrave; la pr&eacute;m&eacute;ditation des coups d'&Eacute;tat.

 
Il n'y avait pas encore en France alors de ces vastes organisations
sous-jacentes comme le tugendbund allemand et le carbonarisme italien:
mais &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave; des creusements obscurs, se ramifiant. La Cougourde
s'&eacute;bauchait &agrave; Aix; il y avait &agrave; Paris, entre autres affiliations de ce
genre, la soci&eacute;t&eacute; des Amis de l'A B C.

 
Qu'&eacute;tait-ce que les Amis de l'A B C? une soci&eacute;t&eacute; ayant pour but, en
apparence, l'&eacute;ducation des enfants, en r&eacute;alit&eacute; le redressement des
hommes.

 
On se d&eacute;clarait les amis de l'A B C.&mdash;''L'Abaiss&eacute;'', c'&eacute;tait le peuple. On
voulait le relever. Calembour dont on aurait tort de rire. Les
calembours sont quelquefois graves en politique; t&eacute;moin le ''Castratus ad
castra'' qui fit de Nars&egrave;s un g&eacute;n&eacute;ral d'arm&eacute;e; t&eacute;moin: ''Barbari et
Barberini''; t&eacute;moin: ''Fueros y Fuegos;'' t&eacute;moin: ''Tu es Petrus et super
hanc petram'', etc., etc.

 
Les amis de l'A B C &eacute;taient peu nombreux. C'&eacute;tait une soci&eacute;t&eacute; secr&egrave;te &agrave;
l'&eacute;tat d'embryon; nous dirions presque une coterie, si les coteries
aboutissaient &agrave; des h&eacute;ros. Ils se r&eacute;unissaient &agrave; Paris en deux endroits,
pr&egrave;s des halles, dans un cabaret appel&eacute; ''Corinthe'' dont il sera question
plus tard, et pr&egrave;s du Panth&eacute;on dans un petit caf&eacute; de la place
Saint-Michel appel&eacute; ''le caf&eacute; Musain'', aujourd'hui d&eacute;moli; le premier de
ces lieux de rendez-vous &eacute;tait contigu aux ouvriers, le deuxi&egrave;me, aux
&eacute;tudiants.

 
Les conciliabules habituels des Amis de l'A B C se tenaient dans une
arri&egrave;re-salle du caf&eacute; Musain.

 
Cette salle, assez &eacute;loign&eacute;e du caf&eacute;, auquel elle communiquait par un
tr&egrave;s long couloir, avait deux fen&ecirc;tres et une issue avec un escalier
d&eacute;rob&eacute; sur la petite rue des Gr&egrave;s. On y fumait, on y buvait, on y
jouait, on y riait. On y causait tr&egrave;s haut de tout, et &agrave; voix basse
d'autre chose. Au mur &eacute;tait clou&eacute;e, indice suffisant pour &eacute;veiller le
flair d'un agent de police, une vieille carte de la France sous la
R&eacute;publique.

 
La plupart des amis de l'A B C &eacute;taient des &eacute;tudiants, en entente
cordiale avec quelques ouvriers. Voici les noms des principaux. Ils
appartiennent dans une certaine mesure &agrave; l'histoire: Enjolras,
Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle ou
Laigle, Joly, Grantaire.

 
Ces jeunes gens faisaient entre eux une sorte de famille, &agrave; force
d'amiti&eacute;. Tous, Laigle except&eacute;, &eacute;taient du midi.

 
Ce groupe &eacute;tait remarquable. Il s'est &eacute;vanoui dans les profondeurs
invisibles qui sont derri&egrave;re nous. Au point de ce drame o&ugrave; nous sommes
parvenus, il n'est pas inutile peut-&ecirc;tre de diriger un rayon de clart&eacute;
sur ces jeunes t&ecirc;tes avant que le lecteur les voie s'enfoncer dans
l'ombre d'une aventure tragique.

 
Enjolras, que nous avons nomm&eacute; le premier, on verra plus tard pourquoi,
&eacute;tait fils unique et riche.

 
Enjolras &eacute;tait un jeune homme charmant, capable d'&ecirc;tre terrible. Il
&eacute;tait ang&eacute;liquement beau. C'&eacute;tait Antino&uuml;s farouche. On e&ucirc;t dit, &agrave; voir
la r&eacute;verb&eacute;ration pensive de son regard, qu'il avait d&eacute;j&agrave;, dans quelque
existence pr&eacute;c&eacute;dente, travers&eacute; l'apocalypse r&eacute;volutionnaire. Il en avait
la tradition comme un t&eacute;moin. Il savait tous les petits d&eacute;tails de la
grande chose. Nature pontificale et guerri&egrave;re, &eacute;trange dans un
adolescent. Il &eacute;tait officiant et militant; au point de vue imm&eacute;diat,
soldat de la d&eacute;mocratie; au-dessus du mouvement contemporain, pr&ecirc;tre de
l'id&eacute;al. Il avait la prunelle profonde, la paupi&egrave;re un peu rouge, la
l&egrave;vre inf&eacute;rieure &eacute;paisse et facilement d&eacute;daigneuse, le front haut.
Beaucoup de front dans un visage, c'est comme beaucoup de ciel dans un
horizon. Ainsi que certains jeunes hommes du commencement de ce si&egrave;cle
et de la fin du si&egrave;cle dernier qui ont &eacute;t&eacute; illustres de bonne heure, il
avait une jeunesse excessive, fra&icirc;che comme chez les jeunes filles,
quoique avec des heures de p&acirc;leur. D&eacute;j&agrave; homme, il semblait encore
enfant. Ses vingt-deux ans en paraissaient dix-sept. Il &eacute;tait grave, il
ne semblait pas savoir qu'il y e&ucirc;t sur la terre un &ecirc;tre appel&eacute; la femme.
Il n'avait qu'une passion, le droit, qu'une pens&eacute;e, renverser
l'obstacle. Sur le mont Aventin, il e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; Gracchus; dans la
Convention, il e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; Saint-Just. Il voyait &agrave; peine les roses, il
ignorait le printemps, il n'entendait pas chanter les oiseaux; la gorge
nue d'&Eacute;vadn&eacute; ne l'e&ucirc;t pas plus &eacute;mu qu'Aristogiton; pour lui, comme pour
Harmodius, les fleurs n'&eacute;taient bonnes qu'&agrave; cacher l'&eacute;p&eacute;e. Il &eacute;tait
s&eacute;v&egrave;re dans les joies. Devant tout ce qui n'&eacute;tait pas la R&eacute;publique, il
baissait chastement les yeux. C'&eacute;tait l'amoureux de marbre de la
Libert&eacute;. Sa parole &eacute;tait &acirc;prement inspir&eacute;e et avait un fr&eacute;missement
d'hymne. Il avait des ouvertures d'ailes inattendues. Malheur &agrave;
l'amourette qui se f&ucirc;t risqu&eacute;e de son c&ocirc;t&eacute;! Si quelque grisette de la
place Cambrai ou de la rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais, voyant cette figure
d'&eacute;chapp&eacute; de coll&egrave;ge, cette encolure de page, ces longs cils blonds, ces
yeux bleus, cette chevelure tumultueuse au vent, ces joues roses, ces
l&egrave;vres neuves, ces dents exquises, e&ucirc;t eu app&eacute;tit de toute cette aurore,
et f&ucirc;t venue essayer sa beaut&eacute; sur Enjolras, un regard surprenant et
redoutable lui e&ucirc;t montr&eacute; brusquement l'ab&icirc;me, et lui e&ucirc;t appris &agrave; ne
pas confondre avec le ch&eacute;rubin galant de Baumarchais le formidable
ch&eacute;rubin d'&Eacute;z&eacute;chiel.

 
&Agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; d'Enjolras qui repr&eacute;sentait la logique de la r&eacute;volution,
Combeferre en repr&eacute;sentait la philosophie. Entre la logique de la
r&eacute;volution et sa philosophie, il y a cette diff&eacute;rence que sa logique
peut conclure &agrave; la guerre, tandis que sa philosophie ne peut aboutir
qu'&agrave; la paix. Combeferre compl&eacute;tait et rectifiait Enjolras. Il &eacute;tait
moins haut et plus large. Il voulait qu'on vers&acirc;t aux esprits les
principes &eacute;tendus d'id&eacute;es g&eacute;n&eacute;rales; il disait: R&eacute;volution, mais
civilisation; et autour de la montagne &agrave; pic il ouvrait le vaste horizon
bleu. De l&agrave;, dans toutes les vues de Combeferre, quelque chose
d'accessible et de praticable. La r&eacute;volution avec Combeferre &eacute;tait plus
respirable qu'avec Enjolras. Enjolras en exprimait le droit divin, et
Combeferre le droit naturel. Le premier se rattachait &agrave; Robespierre; le
second confinait &agrave; Condorcet. Combeferre vivait plus qu'Enjolras de la
vie de tout le monde. S'il e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; donn&eacute; &agrave; ces deux jeunes hommes
d'arriver jusqu'&agrave; l'histoire, l'un e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; le juste, l'autre e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; le
sage. Enjolras &eacute;tait plus viril, Combeferre &eacute;tait plus humain. ''Homo'' et
''Vir'', c'&eacute;tait bien l&agrave; en effet leur nuance. Combeferre &eacute;tait doux comme
Enjolras &eacute;tait s&eacute;v&egrave;re, par blancheur naturelle. Il aimait le mot
citoyen, mais il pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait le mot homme. Il e&ucirc;t volontiers dit:
''Hombre'', comme les espagnols. Il lisait tout, allait aux th&eacute;&acirc;tres,
suivait les cours publics, apprenait d'Arago la polarisation de la
lumi&egrave;re, se passionnait pour une le&ccedil;on o&ugrave; Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire avait
expliqu&eacute; la double fonction de l'art&egrave;re carotide externe et de l'art&egrave;re
carotide interne, l'une qui fait le visage, l'autre qui fait le cerveau;
il &eacute;tait au courant, suivait la science pas &agrave; pas, confrontait
Saint-Simon avec Fourier, d&eacute;chiffrait les hi&eacute;roglyphes, cassait les
cailloux qu'il trouvait et raisonnait g&eacute;ologie, dessinait de m&eacute;moire un
papillon bombyx, signalait les fautes de fran&ccedil;ais dans le Dictionnaire
de l'Acad&eacute;mie, &eacute;tudiait Puys&eacute;gur et Deleuze, n'affirmait rien, pas m&ecirc;me
les miracles, ne niait rien, pas m&ecirc;me les revenants, feuilletait la
collection du ''Moniteur'', songeait. Il d&eacute;clarait que l'avenir est dans
la main du ma&icirc;tre d'&eacute;cole, et se pr&eacute;occupait des questions d'&eacute;ducation.
Il voulait que la soci&eacute;t&eacute; travaill&acirc;t sans rel&acirc;che &agrave; l'&eacute;l&eacute;vation du
niveau intellectuel et moral, au monnayage de la science, &agrave; la mise en
circulation des id&eacute;es, &agrave; la croissance de l'esprit dans la jeunesse, et
il craignait que la pauvret&eacute; actuelle des m&eacute;thodes, la mis&egrave;re du point
de vue litt&eacute;raire born&eacute; &agrave; deux ou trois si&egrave;cles classiques, le
dogmatisme tyrannique des p&eacute;dants officiels, les pr&eacute;jug&eacute;s scolastiques
et les routines ne finissent par faire de nos coll&egrave;ges des hu&icirc;tri&egrave;res
artificielles. Il &eacute;tait savant, puriste, pr&eacute;cis, polytechnique,
piocheur, et en m&ecirc;me temps pensif &laquo;jusqu'&agrave; la chim&egrave;re&raquo;, disaient ses
amis. Il croyait &agrave; tous les r&ecirc;ves: les chemins de fer, la suppression de
la souffrance dans les op&eacute;rations chirurgicales, la fixation de l'image
de la chambre noire, le t&eacute;l&eacute;graphe &eacute;lectrique, la direction des ballons.
Du reste peu effray&eacute; des citadelles b&acirc;ties de toutes parts contre le
genre humain par les superstitions, les despotismes et les pr&eacute;jug&eacute;s. Il
&eacute;tait de ceux qui pensent que la science finira par tourner la position.
Enjolras &eacute;tait un chef, Combeferre &eacute;tait un guide. On e&ucirc;t voulu
combattre avec l'un et marcher avec l'autre. Ce n'est pas que Combeferre
ne f&ucirc;t capable de combattre, il ne refusait pas de prendre corps &agrave; corps
l'obstacle et de l'attaquer de vive force et par explosion; mais mettre
peu &agrave; peu, par l'enseignement des axiomes et la promulgation des lois
positives, le genre humain d'accord avec ses destin&eacute;es, cela lui
plaisait mieux; et, entre deux clart&eacute;s, sa pente &eacute;tait plut&ocirc;t pour
l'illumination que pour l'embrasement. Un incendie peut faire une aurore
sans doute, mais pourquoi ne pas attendre le lever du jour? Un volcan
&eacute;claire, mais l'aube &eacute;claire encore mieux. Combeferre pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait
peut-&ecirc;tre la blancheur du beau au flamboiement du sublime. Une clart&eacute;
troubl&eacute;e par de la fum&eacute;e, un progr&egrave;s achet&eacute; par de la violence, ne
satisfaisaient qu'&agrave; demi ce tendre et s&eacute;rieux esprit. Une pr&eacute;cipitation
&agrave; pic d'un peuple dans la v&eacute;rit&eacute;, un 93, l'effarait; cependant la
stagnation lui r&eacute;pugnait plus encore, il y sentait la putr&eacute;faction et la
mort; &agrave; tout prendre, il aimait mieux l'&eacute;cume que le miasme, et il
pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait au cloaque le torrent, et la chute du Niagara au lac de
Montfaucon. En somme il ne voulait ni halte, ni h&acirc;te. Tandis que ses
tumultueux amis, chevaleresquement &eacute;pris de l'absolu, adoraient et
appelaient les splendides aventures r&eacute;volutionnaires, Combeferre
inclinait &agrave; laisser faire le progr&egrave;s, le bon progr&egrave;s, froid peut-&ecirc;tre,
mais pur; m&eacute;thodique, mais irr&eacute;prochable; flegmatique, mais
imperturbable. Combeferre se f&ucirc;t agenouill&eacute; et e&ucirc;t joint les mains pour
que l'avenir arriv&acirc;t avec toute sa candeur, et pour que rien ne troubl&acirc;t
l'immense &eacute;volution vertueuse des peuples. ''Il faut que le bien soit
innocent'', r&eacute;p&eacute;tait-il sans cesse. Et en effet, si la grandeur de la
r&eacute;volution, c'est de regarder fixement l'&eacute;blouissant id&eacute;al et d'y voler
&agrave; travers les foudres, avec du sang et du feu &agrave; ses serres, la beaut&eacute; du
progr&egrave;s, c'est d'&ecirc;tre sans tache; et il y a entre Washington qui
repr&eacute;sente l'un et Danton qui incarne l'autre, la diff&eacute;rence qui s&eacute;pare
l'ange aux ailes de cygne de l'ange aux ailes d'aigle.

 
Jean Prouvaire &eacute;tait une nuance plus adoucie encore que Combeferre. Il
s'appelait Jehan, par cette petite fantaisie momentan&eacute;e qui se m&ecirc;lait au
puissant et profond mouvement d'o&ugrave; est sortie l'&eacute;tude si n&eacute;cessaire du
moyen-&acirc;ge. Jean Prouvaire &eacute;tait amoureux, cultivait un pot de fleurs,
jouait de la fl&ucirc;te, faisait des vers, aimait le peuple, plaignait la
femme, pleurait sur l'enfant, confondait dans la m&ecirc;me confiance l'avenir
et Dieu, et bl&acirc;mait la r&eacute;volution d'avoir fait tomber une t&ecirc;te royale,
celle d'Andr&eacute; Ch&eacute;nier. Il avait la voix habituellement d&eacute;licate et tout
&agrave; coup virile. Il &eacute;tait lettr&eacute; jusqu'&agrave; l'&eacute;rudition, et presque
orientaliste. Il &eacute;tait bon par-dessus tout; et, chose toute simple pour
qui sait combien la bont&eacute; confine &agrave; la grandeur, en fait de po&eacute;sie il
pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait l'immense. Il savait l'italien, le latin, le grec et l'h&eacute;breu;
et cela lui servait &agrave; ne lire que quatre po&egrave;tes: Dante, Juv&eacute;nal, Eschyle
et Isa&iuml;e. En fran&ccedil;ais, il pr&eacute;f&eacute;rait Corneille &agrave; Racine et Agrippa
d'Aubign&eacute; &agrave; Corneille. Il fl&acirc;nait volontiers dans les champs de folle
avoine et de bleuets, et s'occupait des nuages presque autant que des
&eacute;v&eacute;nements. Son esprit avait deux attitudes, l'une du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de l'homme,
l'autre du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de Dieu; il &eacute;tudiait, ou il contemplait. Toute la
journ&eacute;e il approfondissait les questions sociales; le salaire, le
capital, le cr&eacute;dit, le mariage, la religion, la libert&eacute; de penser, la
libert&eacute; d'aimer, l'&eacute;ducation, la p&eacute;nalit&eacute;, la mis&egrave;re, l'association, la
propri&eacute;t&eacute;, la production et la r&eacute;partition, l'&eacute;nigme d'en bas qui couvre
d'ombre la fourmili&egrave;re humaine; et le soir, il regardait les astres, ces
&ecirc;tres &eacute;normes. Comme Enjolras, il &eacute;tait riche et fils unique. Il parlait
doucement, penchait la t&ecirc;te, baissait les yeux, souriait avec embarras,
se mettait mal, avait l'air gauche, rougissait de rien, &eacute;tait fort
timide. Du reste, intr&eacute;pide.

 
Feuilly &eacute;tait un ouvrier &eacute;ventailliste, orphelin de p&egrave;re et de m&egrave;re, qui
gagnait p&eacute;niblement trois francs par jour, et qui n'avait qu'une pens&eacute;e,
d&eacute;livrer le monde. Il avait une autre pr&eacute;occupation encore: s'instruire;
ce qu'il appelait aussi se d&eacute;livrer. Il s'&eacute;tait enseign&eacute; &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me &agrave;
lire et &agrave; &eacute;crire; tout ce qu'il savait, il l'avait appris seul. Feuilly
&eacute;tait un g&eacute;n&eacute;reux c&oelig;ur. Il avait l'embrassement immense. Cet orphelin
avait adopt&eacute; les peuples. Sa m&egrave;re lui manquant, il avait m&eacute;dit&eacute; sur la
patrie. Il ne voulait pas qu'il y e&ucirc;t sur la terre un homme qui f&ucirc;t sans
patrie. Il couvait en lui-m&ecirc;me, avec la divination profonde de l'homme
du peuple, ce que nous appelons aujourd'hui ''l'id&eacute;e des nationalit&eacute;s''.
Il avait appris l'histoire expr&egrave;s pour s'indigner en connaissance de
cause. Dans ce jeune c&eacute;nacle d'utopistes, surtout occup&eacute;s de la France,
il repr&eacute;sentait le dehors. Il avait pour sp&eacute;cialit&eacute; la Gr&egrave;ce, la
Pologne, la Hongrie, la Roumanie, l'Italie. Il pronon&ccedil;ait ces noms-l&agrave;
sans cesse, &agrave; propos et hors de propos, avec la t&eacute;nacit&eacute; du droit. La
Turquie sur la Gr&egrave;ce et la Thessalie, la Russie sur Varsovie, l'Autriche
sur Venise, ces viols l'exasp&eacute;raient. Entre toutes, la grande voie de
fait de 1772 le soulevait. Le vrai dans l'indignation, il n'y a pas de
plus souveraine &eacute;loquence, il &eacute;tait &eacute;loquent de cette &eacute;loquence-l&agrave;. Il
ne tarissait pas sur cette date inf&acirc;me, 1772, sur ce noble et vaillant
peuple supprim&eacute; par trahison, sur ce Crime &agrave; trois, sur ce guet-apens
monstre, prototype et patron de toutes ces effrayantes suppressions
d'&eacute;tats qui, depuis, ont frapp&eacute; plusieurs nobles nations, et leur ont,
pour ainsi dire, ratur&eacute; leur acte de naissance. Tous les attentats
sociaux contemporains d&eacute;rivent du partage de la Pologne. Le partage de
la Pologne est un th&eacute;or&egrave;me dont tous les forfaits politiques actuels
sont les corollaires. Pas un despote, pas un tra&icirc;tre, depuis tout &agrave;
l'heure un si&egrave;cle, qui n'ait vis&eacute;, homologu&eacute;, contre-sign&eacute; et paraph&eacute;,
''ne varietur'', le partage de la Pologne. Quand on compulse le dossier
des trahisons modernes, celle-l&agrave; appara&icirc;t la premi&egrave;re. Le congr&egrave;s de
Vienne a consult&eacute; ce crime avant de consommer le sien. 1772 sonne
l'hallali, 1815 est la cur&eacute;e. Tel &eacute;tait le texte habituel de Feuilly. Ce
pauvre ouvrier s'&eacute;tait fait le tuteur de la justice, et elle le
r&eacute;compensait en le faisant grand. C'est qu'en effet il y a de l'&eacute;ternit&eacute;
dans le droit. Varsovie ne peut pas plus &ecirc;tre tartare que Venise ne peut
&ecirc;tre tudesque. Les rois y perdent leur peine, et leur honneur. T&ocirc;t ou
tard, la patrie submerg&eacute;e flotte &agrave; la surface et repara&icirc;t. La Gr&egrave;ce
redevient la Gr&egrave;ce; l'Italie redevient l'Italie. La protestation du
droit contre le fait persiste &agrave; jamais. Le vol d'un peuple ne se
prescrit pas. Ces hautes escroqueries n'ont point d'avenir. On ne
d&eacute;marque pas une nation comme un mouchoir.

 
Courfeyrac avait un p&egrave;re qu'on nommait M. de Courfeyrac. Une des id&eacute;es
fausses de la bourgeoisie de la Restauration en fait d'aristocratie et
de noblesse, c'&eacute;tait de croire &agrave; la particule. La particule, on le sait,
n'a aucune signification. Mais les bourgeois du temps de ''la Minerve''
estimaient si haut ce pauvre ''de'' qu'on se croyait oblig&eacute; de l'abdiquer.
M. de Chauvelin se faisait appeler M. Chauvelin, M. de Caumartin, M.
Caumartin, M. de Constant de Rebecque, Benjamin Constant, M. de
Lafayette, M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac n'avait pas voulu rester en arri&egrave;re,
et s'appelait Courfeyrac tout court.

 
Nous pourrions presque, en ce qui concerne Courfeyrac, nous en tenir l&agrave;,
et nous borner &agrave; dire quant au reste: Courfeyrac, voyez Tholomy&egrave;s.

 
Courfeyrac en effet avait cette verve de jeunesse qu'on pourrait
appeler la beaut&eacute; du diable de l'esprit. Plus tard, cela s'&eacute;teint comme
la gentillesse du petit chat, et toute cette gr&acirc;ce aboutit, sur deux
pieds, au bourgeois, et, sur quatre pattes, au matou.

 
Ce genre d'esprit, les g&eacute;n&eacute;rations qui traversent les &eacute;coles, les lev&eacute;es
successives de la jeunesse, se le transmettent, et se le passent de main
en main, ''quasi cursores'', &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s toujours le m&ecirc;me; de sorte que,
ainsi que nous venons de l'indiquer, le premier venu qui e&ucirc;t &eacute;cout&eacute;
Courfeyrac en 1828 e&ucirc;t cru entendre Tholomy&egrave;s en 1817. Seulement
Courfeyrac &eacute;tait un brave gar&ccedil;on. Sous les apparentes similitudes de
l'esprit ext&eacute;rieur, la diff&eacute;rence entre Tholomy&egrave;s et lui &eacute;tait grande.
L'homme latent qui existait en eux &eacute;tait chez le premier tout autre que
chez le second. Il y avait dans Tholomy&egrave;s un procureur et dans
Courfeyrac un paladin.

 
Enjolras &eacute;tait le chef. Combeferre &eacute;tait le guide, Courfeyrac &eacute;tait le
centre. Les autres donnaient plus de lumi&egrave;re, lui il donnait plus de
calorique; le fait est qu'il avait toutes les qualit&eacute;s d'un centre, la
rondeur et le rayonnement.

 
Bahorel avait figur&eacute; dans le tumulte sanglant de juin 1822, &agrave; l'occasion
de l'enterrement du jeune Lallemand.

 
Bahorel &eacute;tait un &ecirc;tre de bonne humeur et de mauvaise compagnie, brave,
panier perc&eacute;, prodigue et rencontrant la g&eacute;n&eacute;rosit&eacute;, bavard et
rencontrant l'&eacute;loquence, hardi et rencontrant l'effronterie; la
meilleure p&acirc;te de diable qui f&ucirc;t possible; ayant des gilets t&eacute;m&eacute;raires
et des opinions &eacute;carlates; tapageur en grand, c'est-&agrave;-dire n'aimant rien
tant qu'une querelle, si ce n'est une &eacute;meute, et rien tant qu'une
&eacute;meute, si ce n'est une r&eacute;volution; toujours pr&ecirc;t &agrave; casser un carreau,
puis &agrave; d&eacute;paver une rue, puis &agrave; d&eacute;molir un gouvernement, pour voir
l'effet; &eacute;tudiant de onzi&egrave;me ann&eacute;e. Il flairait le droit, mais il ne le
faisait pas. Il avait pris pour devise: ''avocat jamais'', et pour
armoiries une table de nuit dans laquelle on entrevoyait un bonnet
carr&eacute;. Chaque fois qu'il passait devant l'&eacute;cole de droit, ce qui lui
arrivait rarement, il boutonnait sa redingote, le paletot n'&eacute;tait pas
encore invent&eacute;, et il prenait des pr&eacute;cautions hygi&eacute;niques. Il disait du
portail de l'&eacute;cole: quel beau vieillard! et du doyen, M. Delvincourt:
quel monument! Il voyait dans ses cours des sujets de chansons et dans
ses professeurs des occasions de caricatures. Il mangeait &agrave; rien faire
une assez grosse pension, quelque chose comme trois mille francs. Il
avait des parents paysans auxquels il avait su inculquer le respect de
leur fils.

 
Il disait d'eux: Ce sont des paysans, et non des bourgeois; c'est pour
cela qu'ils ont de l'intelligence.

 
Bahorel, homme de caprice, &eacute;tait &eacute;pars sur plusieurs caf&eacute;s; les autres
avaient des habitudes, lui n'en avait pas. Il fl&acirc;nait. Errer est humain,
fl&acirc;ner est parisien. Au fond, esprit p&eacute;n&eacute;trant, et penseur plus qu'il ne
semblait.

 
Il servait de lien entre les Amis de l'A B C et d'autres groupes encore
informes, mais qui devaient se dessiner plus tard.

 
Il y avait dans ce conclave de jeunes t&ecirc;tes un membre chauve.

 
Le marquis d'Avaray, que Louis XVIII fit duc pour l'avoir aid&eacute; &agrave; monter
dans un cabriolet de place le jour o&ugrave; il &eacute;migra, racontait qu'en 1814, &agrave;
son retour en France, comme le roi d&eacute;barquait &agrave; Calais, un homme lui
pr&eacute;senta un placet.&mdash;Que demandez-vous? dit le roi.&mdash;Sire, un bureau de
poste.&mdash;Comment vous appelez-vous?&mdash;L'Aigle.

 
Le roi fron&ccedil;a le sourcil, regarda la signature du placet et vit le nom
&eacute;crit ainsi: ''Lesgle''. Cette orthographe peu bonapartiste toucha le roi
et il commen&ccedil;a &agrave; sourire. Sire, reprit l'homme au placet, j'ai pour
anc&ecirc;tre un valet de chiens, surnomm&eacute; Lesgueules. Ce surnom a fait mon
nom. Je m'appelle Lesgueules, par contraction Lesgle, et par corruption
L'Aigle.&mdash;Ceci fit que le roi acheva son sourire. Plus tard il donna &agrave;
l'homme le bureau de poste de Meaux, expr&egrave;s ou par m&eacute;garde.

 
Le membre chauve du groupe &eacute;tait fils de ce Lesgle, ou L&egrave;gle, et signait
L&egrave;gle (de Meaux). Ses camarades, pour abr&eacute;ger, l'appelaient Bossuet.

 
Bossuet &eacute;tait un gar&ccedil;on gai qui avait du malheur. Sa sp&eacute;cialit&eacute; &eacute;tait de
ne r&eacute;ussir &agrave; rien. Par contre, il riait de tout. &Agrave; vingt-cinq ans, il
&eacute;tait chauve. Son p&egrave;re avait fini par avoir une maison et un champ; mais
lui, le fils, n'avait rien eu de plus press&eacute; que de perdre dans une
fausse sp&eacute;culation ce champ et cette maison. Il ne lui &eacute;tait rien rest&eacute;.
Il avait de la science et de l'esprit, mais il avortait. Tout lui
manquait, tout le trompait; ce qu'il &eacute;chafaudait croulait sur lui. S'il
fendait du bois, il se coupait un doigt. S'il avait une ma&icirc;tresse, il
d&eacute;couvrait bient&ocirc;t qu'il avait aussi un ami. &Agrave; tout moment quelque
mis&egrave;re lui advenait; de l&agrave; sa jovialit&eacute;. Il disait: ''J'habite sous le
toit des tuiles qui tombent''. Peu &eacute;tonn&eacute;, car pour lui l'accident &eacute;tait
le pr&eacute;vu, il prenait la mauvaise chance en s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute; et souriait des
taquineries de la destin&eacute;e comme quelqu'un qui entend la plaisanterie.
Il &eacute;tait pauvre, mais son gousset de bonne humeur &eacute;tait in&eacute;puisable. Il
arrivait vite &agrave; son dernier sou, jamais &agrave; son dernier &eacute;clat de rire.
Quand l'adversit&eacute; entrait chez lui, il saluait cordialement cette
ancienne connaissance, il tapait sur le ventre aux catastrophes; il
&eacute;tait familier avec la Fatalit&eacute; au point de l'appeler par son petit
nom.&mdash;Bonjour, Guignon, lui disait-il.

 
Ces pers&eacute;cutions du sort l'avaient fait inventif. Il &eacute;tait plein de
ressources. Il n'avait point d'argent, mais il trouvait moyen de faire,
quand bon lui semblait, &laquo;des d&eacute;penses effr&eacute;n&eacute;es&raquo;. Une nuit, il alla
jusqu'&agrave; manger &laquo;cent francs&raquo; dans un souper avec une p&eacute;ronnelle, ce qui
lui inspira au milieu de l'orgie ce mot m&eacute;morable: ''Fille de cinq louis,
tire-moi mes bottes''.

 
Bossuet se dirigeait lentement vers la profession d'avocat; il faisait
son droit, &agrave; la mani&egrave;re de Bahorel. Bossuet avait peu de domicile;
quelquefois pas du tout. Il logeait tant&ocirc;t chez l'un, tant&ocirc;t chez
l'autre, le plus souvent chez Joly. Joly &eacute;tudiait la m&eacute;decine. Il avait
deux ans de moins que Bossuet.

 
Joly &eacute;tait le malade imaginaire jeune. Ce qu'il avait gagn&eacute; &agrave; la
m&eacute;decine, c'&eacute;tait d'&ecirc;tre plus malade que m&eacute;decin. &Agrave; vingt-trois ans, il
se croyait val&eacute;tudinaire et passait sa vie &agrave; regarder sa langue dans son
miroir. Il affirmait que l'homme s'aimante comme une aiguille, et dans
sa chambre il mettait son lit au midi et les pieds au nord, afin que, la
nuit, la circulation de son sang ne f&ucirc;t pas contrari&eacute;e par le grand
courant magn&eacute;tique du globe. Dans les orages, il se t&acirc;tait le pouls. Du
reste, le plus gai de tous. Toutes ces incoh&eacute;rences, jeune, maniaque,
malingre, joyeux, faisaient bon m&eacute;nage ensemble, et il en r&eacute;sultait un
&ecirc;tre excentrique et agr&eacute;able que ses camarades, prodigues de consonnes
ail&eacute;es, appelaient Jolllly.&mdash;Tu peux t'envoler sur quatre L, lui disait
Jean Prouvaire.

 
Joly avait l'habitude de se toucher le nez avec le bout de sa canne, ce
qui est l'indice d'un esprit sagace.

 
Tous ces jeunes gens, si divers, et dont, en somme, il ne faut parler
que s&eacute;rieusement, avaient une m&ecirc;me religion: le Progr&egrave;s.

 
Tous &eacute;taient les fils directs de la r&eacute;volution fran&ccedil;aise. Les plus
l&eacute;gers devenaient solennels en pronon&ccedil;ant cette date: 89. Leurs p&egrave;res
selon la chair &eacute;taient ou avaient &eacute;t&eacute; feuillants, royalistes,
doctrinaires; peu importait; ce p&ecirc;le-m&ecirc;le ant&eacute;rieur &agrave; eux, qui &eacute;taient
jeunes, ne les regardait point; le pur sang des principes coulait dans
leurs veines. Ils se rattachaient sans nuance interm&eacute;diaire au droit
incorruptible et au devoir absolu.

 
Affili&eacute;s et initi&eacute;s, ils &eacute;bauchaient souterrainement l'id&eacute;al.

 
Parmi tous ces c&oelig;urs passionn&eacute;s et tous ces esprits convaincus, il y
avait un sceptique. Comment se trouvait-il l&agrave;? Par juxtaposition. Ce
sceptique s'appelait Grantaire, et signait habituellement de ce r&eacute;bus:
R. Grantaire &eacute;tait un homme qui se gardait bien de croire &agrave; quelque
chose. C'&eacute;tait du reste un des &eacute;tudiants qui avaient le plus appris
pendant leurs cours &agrave; Paris; il savait que le meilleur caf&eacute; &eacute;tait au
caf&eacute; Lemblin, et le meilleur billard au caf&eacute; Voltaire, qu'on trouvait de
bonnes galettes et de bonnes filles &agrave; l'Ermitage sur le boulevard du
Maine, des poulets &agrave; la crapaudine chez la m&egrave;re Saguet, d'excellentes
matelotes barri&egrave;re de la Cunette, et un certain petit vin blanc barri&egrave;re
du Combat. Pour tout, il savait les bons endroits; en outre la savate et
le chausson, quelques danses, et il &eacute;tait profond b&acirc;tonniste. Par-dessus
le march&eacute;, grand buveur. Il &eacute;tait laid d&eacute;mesur&eacute;ment; la plus jolie
piqueuse de bottines de ce temps-l&agrave;, Irma Boissy, indign&eacute;e de sa
laideur, avait rendu cette sentence: ''Grantaire est impossible;'' mais la
fatuit&eacute; de Grantaire ne se d&eacute;concertait pas. Il regardait tendrement et
fixement toutes les femmes, ayant l'air de dire de toutes: ''si je
voulais''! et cherchant &agrave; faire croire aux camarades qu'il &eacute;tait
g&eacute;n&eacute;ralement demand&eacute;.

 
Tous ces mots: droit du peuple, droits de l'homme, contrat social,
r&eacute;volution fran&ccedil;aise, R&eacute;publique, d&eacute;mocratie, humanit&eacute;, civilisation,
religion, progr&egrave;s, &eacute;taient, pour Grantaire, tr&egrave;s voisins de ne rien
signifier du tout. Il en souriait. Le scepticisme, cette carie de
l'intelligence, ne lui avait pas laiss&eacute; une id&eacute;e enti&egrave;re dans l'esprit.
Il vivait avec ironie. Ceci &eacute;tait son axiome: Il n'y a qu'une certitude,
mon verre plein. Il raillait tous les d&eacute;vouements dans tous les partis,
aussi bien le fr&egrave;re que le p&egrave;re, aussi bien Robespierre jeune que
Loizerolles.&mdash;Ils sont bien avanc&eacute;s d'&ecirc;tre morts, s'&eacute;criait-il. Il
disait du crucifix: Voil&agrave; une potence qui a r&eacute;ussi. Coureur, joueur,
libertin, souvent ivre, il faisait &agrave; ces jeunes songeurs le d&eacute;plaisir de
chantonner sans cesse: ''J'aimons les filles et j'aimons le bon vin''.
Air: Vive Henri IV.

 
Du reste ce sceptique avait un fanatisme. Ce fanatisme n'&eacute;tait ni une
id&eacute;e ni un dogme, ni un art, ni une science; c'&eacute;tait un homme: Enjolras.
Grantaire admirait, aimait et v&eacute;n&eacute;rait Enjolras. &Agrave; qui se ralliait ce
douteur anarchique dans cette phalange d'esprits absolus? Au plus
absolu. De quelle fa&ccedil;on Enjolras le subjuguait-il? Par les id&eacute;es? Non.
Par le caract&egrave;re. Ph&eacute;nom&egrave;ne souvent observ&eacute;. Un sceptique qui adh&egrave;re &agrave;
un croyant, cela est simple comme la loi des couleurs compl&eacute;mentaires.
Ce qui nous manque nous attire. Personne n'aime le jour comme l'aveugle.
La naine adore le tambour-major. Le crapaud a toujours les yeux au ciel;
pourquoi? pour voir voler l'oiseau. Grantaire, en qui rampait le doute,
aimait &agrave; voir dans Enjolras la foi planer. Il avait besoin d'Enjolras.
Sans qu'il s'en rend&icirc;t clairement compte et sans qu'il songe&acirc;t &agrave; se
l'expliquer &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me, cette nature chaste, saine, ferme, droite, dure,
candide, le charmait. Il admirait, d'instinct, son contraire. Ses id&eacute;es
molles, fl&eacute;chissantes, disloqu&eacute;es, malades, difformes, se rattachaient &agrave;
Enjolras comme &agrave; une &eacute;pine dorsale. Son rachis moral s'appuyait &agrave; cette
fermet&eacute;. Grantaire, pr&egrave;s d'Enjolras, redevenait quelqu'un. Il &eacute;tait
lui-m&ecirc;me d'ailleurs compos&eacute; de deux &eacute;l&eacute;ments en apparence incompatibles.
Il &eacute;tait ironique et cordial. Son indiff&eacute;rence aimait. Son esprit se
passait de croyance et son c&oelig;ur ne pouvait se passer d'amiti&eacute;.
Contradiction profonde; car une affection est une conviction. Sa nature
&eacute;tait ainsi. Il y a des hommes qui semblent n&eacute;s pour &ecirc;tre le verso,
l'envers, le revers. Ils sont Pollux, Patrocle, Nisus, Eudamidas,
&Eacute;phestion, Pechm&eacute;ja. Ils ne vivent qu'&agrave; la condition d'&ecirc;tre adoss&eacute;s &agrave; un
autre; leur nom est une suite, et ne s'&eacute;crit que pr&eacute;c&eacute;d&eacute; de la
conjonction ''et''; leur existence ne leur est pas propre; elle est
l'autre c&ocirc;t&eacute; d'une destin&eacute;e qui n'est pas la leur. Grantaire &eacute;tait un de
ces hommes. Il &eacute;tait l'envers d'Enjolras.

 
On pourrait presque dire que les affinit&eacute;s commencent aux lettres de
l'alphabet. Dans la s&eacute;rie, O et P sont ins&eacute;parables. Vous pouvez, &agrave;
votre gr&eacute;, prononcer O et P, ou Oreste et Pylade.

 
Grantaire, vrai satellite d'Enjolras, habitait ce cercle de jeunes gens;
il y vivait; il ne se plaisait que l&agrave;; il les suivait partout. Sa joie
&eacute;tait de voir aller et venir ces silhouettes dans les fum&eacute;es du vin. On
le tol&eacute;rait pour sa bonne humeur.

 
Enjolras, croyant, d&eacute;daignait ce sceptique, et, sobre, cet ivrogne. Il
lui accordait un peu de piti&eacute; hautaine. Grantaire &eacute;tait un Pylade point
accept&eacute;. Toujours rudoy&eacute; par Enjolras, repouss&eacute; durement, rejet&eacute; et
revenant, il disait d'Enjolras: Quel beau marbre!

 
==English text==

 
At that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a certain
revolutionary quiver was vaguely current. Breaths which had started forth
from the depths of '89 and '93 were in the air. Youth was on the point,
may the reader pardon us the word, of moulting. People were undergoing a
transformation, almost without being conscious of it, through the movement
of the age. The needle which moves round the compass also moves in souls.
Each person was taking that step in advance which he was bound to take.
The Royalists were becoming liberals, liberals were turning democrats. It
was a flood tide complicated with a thousand ebb movements; the
peculiarity of ebbs is to create intermixtures; hence the combination of
very singular ideas; people adored both Napoleon and liberty. We are
making history here. These were the mirages of that period. Opinions
traverse phases. Voltairian royalism, a quaint variety, had a no less
singular sequel, Bonapartist liberalism.

 
Other groups of minds were more serious. In that direction, they sounded
principles, they attached themselves to the right. They grew enthusiastic
for the absolute, they caught glimpses of infinite realizations; the
absolute, by its very rigidity, urges spirits towards the sky and causes
them to float in illimitable space. There is nothing like dogma for
bringing forth dreams. And there is nothing like dreams for engendering
the future. Utopia to-day, flesh and blood to-morrow.

 
These advanced opinions had a double foundation. A beginning of mystery
menaced "the established order of things," which was suspicious and
underhand. A sign which was revolutionary to the highest degree. The
second thoughts of power meet the second thoughts of the populace in the
mine. The incubation of insurrections gives the retort to the
premeditation of coups d'etat.

 
There did not, as yet, exist in France any of those vast underlying
organizations, like the German tugendbund and Italian Carbonarism; but
here and there there were dark underminings, which were in process of
throwing off shoots. The Cougourde was being outlined at Aix; there
existed at Paris, among other affiliations of that nature, the society of
the Friends of the A B C.

 
What were these Friends of the A B C? A society which had for its object
apparently the education of children, in reality the elevation of man.

 
They declared themselves the Friends of the A B C,&mdash;the Abaisse,&mdash;the
debased,&mdash;that is to say, the people. They wished to elevate the
people. It was a pun which we should do wrong to smile at. Puns are
sometimes serious factors in politics; witness the Castratus ad castra,
which made a general of the army of Narses; witness: Barbari et Barberini;
witness: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram, etc., etc.

 
The Friends of the A B C were not numerous, it was a secret society in the
state of embryo, we might almost say a coterie, if coteries ended in
heroes. They assembled in Paris in two localities, near the fish-market,
in a wine-shop called Corinthe, of which more will be heard later on, and
near the Pantheon in a little cafe in the Rue Saint-Michel called the Cafe
Musain, now torn down; the first of these meeting-places was close to the
workingman, the second to the students.

 
The assemblies of the Friends of the A B C were usually held in a back
room of the Cafe Musain.

 
This hall, which was tolerably remote from the cafe, with which it was
connected by an extremely long corridor, had two windows and an exit with
a private stairway on the little Rue des Gres. There they smoked and
drank, and gambled and laughed. There they conversed in very loud tones
about everything, and in whispers of other things. An old map of France
under the Republic was nailed to the wall,&mdash;a sign quite sufficient
to excite the suspicion of a police agent.

 
The greater part of the Friends of the A B C were students, who were on
cordial terms with the working classes. Here are the names of the
principal ones. They belong, in a certain measure, to history: Enjolras,
Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle or
Laigle, Joly, Grantaire.

 
These young men formed a sort of family, through the bond of friendship.
All, with the exception of Laigle, were from the South.

 
[[Enlarge]]

  [[Image:3b4-1-abc-friendsTH.jpg|Friends of the a B C  3b4-1-abc-friends ]]<br>  
This was a remarkable group. It vanished in the invisible depths which lie
behind us. At the point of this drama which we have now reached, it will
not perhaps be superfluous to throw a ray of light upon these youthful
heads, before the reader beholds them plunging into the shadow of a tragic
adventure.

 
Enjolras, whose name we have mentioned first of all,&mdash;the reader
shall see why later on,&mdash;was an only son and wealthy.

 
Enjolras was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible. He
was angelically handsome. He was a savage Antinous. One would have said,
to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in
some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse.
He possessed the tradition of it as though he had been a witness. He was
acquainted with all the minute details of the great affair. A pontifical
and warlike nature, a singular thing in a youth. He was an officiating
priest and a man of war; from the immediate point of view, a soldier of
the democracy; above the contemporary movement, the priest of the ideal.
His eyes were deep, his lids a little red, his lower lip was thick and
easily became disdainful, his brow was lofty. A great deal of brow in a
face is like a great deal of horizon in a view. Like certain young men at
the beginning of this century and the end of the last, who became
illustrious at an early age, he was endowed with excessive youth, and was
as rosy as a young girl, although subject to hours of pallor. Already a
man, he still seemed a child. His two and twenty years appeared to be but
seventeen; he was serious, it did not seem as though he were aware there
was on earth a thing called woman. He had but one passion&mdash;the right;
but one thought&mdash;to overthrow the obstacle. On Mount Aventine, he
would have been Gracchus; in the Convention, he would have been
Saint-Just. He hardly saw the roses, he ignored spring, he did not hear
the carolling of the birds; the bare throat of Evadne would have moved him
no more than it would have moved Aristogeiton; he, like Harmodius, thought
flowers good for nothing except to conceal the sword. He was severe in his
enjoyments. He chastely dropped his eyes before everything which was not
the Republic. He was the marble lover of liberty. His speech was harshly
inspired, and had the thrill of a hymn. He was subject to unexpected
outbursts of soul. Woe to the love-affair which should have risked itself
beside him! If any grisette of the Place Cambrai or the Rue
Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais, seeing that face of a youth escaped from college,
that page's mien, those long, golden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair
billowing in the wind, those rosy cheeks, those fresh lips, those
exquisite teeth, had conceived an appetite for that complete aurora, and
had tried her beauty on Enjolras, an astounding and terrible glance would
have promptly shown her the abyss, and would have taught her not to
confound the mighty cherub of Ezekiel with the gallant Cherubino of
Beaumarchais.

 
By the side of Enjolras, who represented the logic of the Revolution,
Combeferre represented its philosophy. Between the logic of the Revolution
and its philosophy there exists this difference&mdash;that its logic may
end in war, whereas its philosophy can end only in peace. Combeferre
complemented and rectified Enjolras. He was less lofty, but broader. He
desired to pour into all minds the extensive principles of general ideas:
he said: "Revolution, but civilization"; and around the mountain peak he
opened out a vast view of the blue sky. The Revolution was more adapted
for breathing with Combeferre than with Enjolras. Enjolras expressed its
divine right, and Combeferre its natural right. The first attached himself
to Robespierre; the second confined himself to Condorcet. Combeferre lived
the life of all the rest of the world more than did Enjolras. If it had
been granted to these two young men to attain to history, the one would
have been the just, the other the wise man. Enjolras was the more virile,
Combeferre the more humane. Homo and vir, that was the exact effect of
their different shades. Combeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe,
through natural whiteness. He loved the word citizen, but he preferred the
word man. He would gladly have said: Hombre, like the Spanish. He read
everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public
lecturers, learned the polarization of light from Arago, grew enthusiastic
over a lesson in which Geoffrey Sainte-Hilaire explained the double
function of the external carotid artery, and the internal, the one which
makes the face, and the one which makes the brain; he kept up with what
was going on, followed science step by step, compared Saint-Simon with
Fourier, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble which he found and
reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silkworm moth, pointed out the
faulty French in the Dictionary of the Academy, studied Puysegur and
Deleuze, affirmed nothing, not even miracles; denied nothing, not even
ghosts; turned over the files of the Moniteur, reflected. He declared that
the future lies in the hand of the schoolmaster, and busied himself with
educational questions. He desired that society should labor without
relaxation at the elevation of the moral and intellectual level, at
coining science, at putting ideas into circulation, at increasing the mind
in youthful persons, and he feared lest the present poverty of method, the
paltriness from a literary point of view confined to two or three
centuries called classic, the tyrannical dogmatism of official pedants,
scholastic prejudices and routines should end by converting our colleges
into artificial oyster beds. He was learned, a purist, exact, a graduate
of the Polytechnic, a close student, and at the same time, thoughtful
"even to chimaeras," so his friends said. He believed in all dreams,
railroads, the suppression of suffering in chirurgical operations, the
fixing of images in the dark chamber, the electric telegraph, the steering
of balloons. Moreover, he was not much alarmed by the citadels erected
against the human mind in every direction, by superstition, despotism, and
prejudice. He was one of those who think that science will eventually turn
the position. Enjolras was a chief, Combeferre was a guide. One would have
liked to fight under the one and to march behind the other. It is not that
Combeferre was not capable of fighting, he did not refuse a hand-to-hand
combat with the obstacle, and to attack it by main force and explosively;
but it suited him better to bring the human race into accord with its
destiny gradually, by means of education, the inculcation of axioms, the
promulgation of positive laws; and, between two lights, his preference was
rather for illumination than for conflagration. A conflagration can create
an aurora, no doubt, but why not await the dawn? A volcano illuminates,
but daybreak furnishes a still better illumination. Possibly, Combeferre
preferred the whiteness of the beautiful to the blaze of the sublime. A
light troubled by smoke, progress purchased at the expense of violence,
only half satisfied this tender and serious spirit. The headlong
precipitation of a people into the truth, a '93, terrified him;
nevertheless, stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he
detected putrefaction and death; on the whole, he preferred scum to
miasma, and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, and the falls of
Niagara to the lake of Montfaucon. In short, he desired neither halt nor
haste. While his tumultuous friends, captivated by the absolute, adored
and invoked splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was inclined to
let progress, good progress, take its own course; he may have been cold,
but he was pure; methodical, but irreproachable; phlegmatic, but
imperturbable. Combeferre would have knelt and clasped his hands to enable
the future to arrive in all its candor, and that nothing might disturb the
immense and virtuous evolution of the races. The good must be innocent, he
repeated incessantly. And in fact, if the grandeur of the Revolution
consists in keeping the dazzling ideal fixedly in view, and of soaring
thither athwart the lightnings, with fire and blood in its talons, the
beauty of progress lies in being spotless; and there exists between
Washington, who represents the one, and Danton, who incarnates the other,
that difference which separates the swan from the angel with the wings of
an eagle.

 
Jean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. His name was
Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled with the powerful
and profound movement whence sprang the very essential study of the Middle
Ages. Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of flowers, played
on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied woman, wept over the
child, confounded God and the future in the same confidence, and blamed
the Revolution for having caused the fall of a royal head, that of Andre
Chenier. His voice was ordinarily delicate, but suddenly grew manly. He
was learned even to erudition, and almost an Orientalist. Above all, he
was good; and, a very simple thing to those who know how nearly goodness
borders on grandeur, in the matter of poetry, he preferred the immense. He
knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and these served him only for the
perusal of four poets: Dante, Juvenal, AEschylus, and Isaiah. In French,
he preferred Corneille to Racine, and Agrippa d'Aubigne to Corneille. He
loved to saunter through fields of wild oats and corn-flowers, and busied
himself with clouds nearly as much as with events. His mind had two
attitudes, one on the side towards man, the other on that towards God; he
studied or he contemplated. All day long, he buried himself in social
questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of
thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, property,
production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the
human ant-hill with darkness; and at night, he gazed upon the planets,
those enormous beings. Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son. He
spoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment,
dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing, and was very
timid. Yet he was intrepid.

 
Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother,
who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to
deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to educate himself; he
called this also, delivering himself. He had taught himself to read and
write; everything that he knew, he had learned by himself. Feuilly had a
generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had
adopted the peoples. As his mother had failed him, he meditated on his
country. He brooded with the profound divination of the man of the people,
over what we now call the idea of the nationality, had learned history
with the express object of raging with full knowledge of the case. In this
club of young Utopians, occupied chiefly with France, he represented the
outside world. He had for his specialty Greece, Poland, Hungary, Roumania,
Italy. He uttered these names incessantly, appropriately and
inappropriately, with the tenacity of right. The violations of Turkey on
Greece and Thessaly, of Russia on Warsaw, of Austria on Venice, enraged
him. Above all things, the great violence of 1772 aroused him. There is no
more sovereign eloquence than the true in indignation; he was eloquent
with that eloquence. He was inexhaustible on that infamous date of 1772,
on the subject of that noble and valiant race suppressed by treason, and
that three-sided crime, on that monstrous ambush, the prototype and
pattern of all those horrible suppressions of states, which, since that
time, have struck many a noble nation, and have annulled their certificate
of birth, so to speak. All contemporary social crimes have their origin in
the partition of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which all
present political outrages are the corollaries. There has not been a
despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed,
approved, counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of
Poland. When the record of modern treasons was examined, that was the
first thing which made its appearance. The congress of Vienna consulted
that crime before consummating its own. 1772 sounded the onset; 1815 was
the death of the game. Such was Feuilly's habitual text. This poor
workingman had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she
recompensed him by rendering him great. The fact is, that there is
eternity in right. Warsaw can no more be Tartar than Venice can be Teuton.
Kings lose their pains and their honor in the attempt to make them so.
Sooner or later, the submerged part floats to the surface and reappears.
Greece becomes Greece again, Italy is once more Italy. The protest of
right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a nation cannot be
allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future. A
nation cannot have its mark extracted like a pocket handkerchief.

 
Courfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. One of the false
ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration as regards aristocracy and
the nobility was to believe in the particle. The particle, as every one
knows, possesses no significance. But the bourgeois of the epoch of la
Minerve estimated so highly that poor de, that they thought themselves
bound to abdicate it. M. de Chauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin; M.
de Caumartin, M. Caumartin; M. de Constant de Robecque, Benjamin Constant;
M. de Lafayette, M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind
the rest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac.

 
We might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop here, and confine
ourselves to saying with regard to what remains: "For Courfeyrac, see
Tholomyes."

 
Courfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youth which may be called the
beaute du diable of the mind. Later on, this disappears like the
playfulness of the kitten, and all this grace ends, with the bourgeois, on
two legs, and with the tomcat, on four paws.

 
This sort of wit is transmitted from generation to generation of the
successive levies of youth who traverse the schools, who pass it from hand
to hand, quasi cursores, and is almost always exactly the same; so that,
as we have just pointed out, any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in
1828 would have thought he heard Tholomyes in 1817. Only, Courfeyrac was
an honorable fellow. Beneath the apparent similarities of the exterior
mind, the difference between him and Tholomyes was very great. The latent
man which existed in the two was totally different in the first from what
it was in the second. There was in Tholomyes a district attorney, and in
Courfeyrac a paladin.

 
Enjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the
centre. The others gave more light, he shed more warmth; the truth is,
that he possessed all the qualities of a centre, roundness and radiance.

 
Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on the occasion of
the burial of young Lallemand.

 
Bahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, brave, a
spendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, talkative, and at
times eloquent, bold to the verge of effrontery; the best fellow possible;
he had daring waistcoats, and scarlet opinions; a wholesale blusterer,
that is to say, loving nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an
uprising; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution;
always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the pavement, then to
demolish a government, just to see the effect of it; a student in his
eleventh year. He had nosed about the law, but did not practise it. He had
taken for his device: "Never a lawyer," and for his armorial bearings a
nightstand in which was visible a square cap. Every time that he passed
the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his frock-coat,&mdash;the
paletot had not yet been invented,&mdash;and took hygienic precautions. Of
the school porter he said: "What a fine old man!" and of the dean, M.
Delvincourt: "What a monument!" In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads,
and in his professors occasions for caricature. He wasted a tolerably
large allowance, something like three thousand francs a year, in doing
nothing.

 
He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for
their son.

 
He said of them: "They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the reason
they are intelligent."

 
Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous cafes; the others
had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To stray is human. To saunter is
Parisian. In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker
than appeared to view.

 
He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C and other
still unorganized groups, which were destined to take form later on.

 
In this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member.

 
The Marquis d'Avaray, whom Louis XVIII. made a duke for having assisted
him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated, was wont to
relate, that in 1814, on his return to France, as the King was
disembarking at Calais, a man handed him a petition.

 
"What is your request?" said the King.

 
"Sire, a post-office."

 
"What is your name?"

 
"L'Aigle."

 
The King frowned, glanced at the signature of the petition and beheld the
name written thus: LESGLE. This non-Bonoparte orthography touched the King
and he began to smile. "Sire," resumed the man with the petition, "I had
for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules. This surname
furnished my name. I am called Lesgueules, by contraction Lesgle, and by
corruption l'Aigle." This caused the King to smile broadly. Later on he
gave the man the posting office of Meaux, either intentionally or
accidentally.

 
The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, or Legle, and he
signed himself, Legle [de Meaux]. As an abbreviation, his companions
called him Bossuet.

 
Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow. His specialty was not to succeed in
anything. As an offset, he laughed at everything. At five and twenty he
was bald. His father had ended by owning a house and a field; but he, the
son, had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad speculation. He
had nothing left. He possessed knowledge and wit, but all he did
miscarried. Everything failed him and everybody deceived him; what he was
building tumbled down on top of him. If he were splitting wood, he cut off
a finger. If he had a mistress, he speedily discovered that he had a
friend also. Some misfortune happened to him every moment, hence his
joviality. He said: "I live under falling tiles." He was not easily
astonished, because, for him, an accident was what he had foreseen, he
took his bad luck serenely, and smiled at the teasing of fate, like a
person who is listening to pleasantries. He was poor, but his fund of good
humor was inexhaustible. He soon reached his last sou, never his last
burst of laughter. When adversity entered his doors, he saluted this old
acquaintance cordially, he tapped all catastrophes on the stomach; he was
familiar with fatality to the point of calling it by its nickname: "Good
day, Guignon," he said to it.

 
These persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive. He was full of
resources. He had no money, but he found means, when it seemed good to
him, to indulge in "unbridled extravagance." One night, he went so far as
to eat a "hundred francs" in a supper with a wench, which inspired him to
make this memorable remark in the midst of the orgy: "Pull off my boots,
you five-louis jade."

 
Bossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession of a lawyer;
he was pursuing his law studies after the manner of Bahorel. Bossuet had
not much domicile, sometimes none at all. He lodged now with one, now with
another, most often with Joly. Joly was studying medicine. He was two
years younger than Bossuet.

 
Joly was the "malade imaginaire" junior. What he had won in medicine was
to be more of an invalid than a doctor. At three and twenty he thought
himself a valetudinarian, and passed his life in inspecting his tongue in
the mirror. He affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a needle, and in
his chamber he placed his bed with its head to the south, and the foot to
the north, so that, at night, the circulation of his blood might not be
interfered with by the great electric current of the globe. During thunder
storms, he felt his pulse. Otherwise, he was the gayest of them all. All
these young, maniacal, puny, merry incoherences lived in harmony together,
and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being whom his comrades, who
were prodigal of winged consonants, called Jolllly. "You may fly away on
the four L's," Jean Prouvaire said to him.[[23]]

 
Joly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane, which is
an indication of a sagacious mind.

 
All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole, can
only be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress.

 
All were the direct sons of the French Revolution. The most giddy of them
became solemn when they pronounced that date: '89. Their fathers in the
flesh had been, either royalists, doctrinaires, it matters not what; this
confusion anterior to themselves, who were young, did not concern them at
all; the pure blood of principle ran in their veins. They attached
themselves, without intermediate shades, to incorruptible right and
absolute duty.

 
Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground.

 
Among all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced minds, there was
one sceptic. How came he there? By juxtaposition. This sceptic's name was
Grantaire, and he was in the habit of signing himself with this rebus: R.
Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in anything.
Moreover, he was one of the students who had learned the most during their
course at Paris; he knew that the best coffee was to be had at the Cafe
Lemblin, and the best billiards at the Cafe Voltaire, that good cakes and
lasses were to be found at the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine,
spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget's, excellent matelotes at the
Barriere de la Cunette, and a certain thin white wine at the Barriere du
Com pat. He knew the best place for everything; in addition, boxing and
foot-fencing and some dances; and he was a thorough single-stick player.
He was a tremendous drinker to boot. He was inordinately homely: the
prettiest boot-stitcher of that day, Irma Boissy, enraged with his
homeliness, pronounced sentence on him as follows: "Grantaire is
impossible"; but Grantaire's fatuity was not to be disconcerted. He stared
tenderly and fixedly at all women, with the air of saying to them all: "If
I only chose!" and of trying to make his comrades believe that he was in
general demand.

 
All those words: rights of the people, rights of man, the social contract,
the French Revolution, the Republic, democracy, humanity, civilization,
religion, progress, came very near to signifying nothing whatever to
Grantaire. He smiled at them. Scepticism, that caries of the intelligence,
had not left him a single whole idea. He lived with irony. This was his
axiom: "There is but one certainty, my full glass." He sneered at all
devotion in all parties, the father as well as the brother, Robespierre
junior as well as Loizerolles. "They are greatly in advance to be dead,"
he exclaimed. He said of the crucifix: "There is a gibbet which has been a
success." A rover, a gambler, a libertine, often drunk, he displeased
these young dreamers by humming incessantly: "J'aimons les filles, et
j'aimons le bon vin." Air: Vive Henri IV.

 
However, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a
dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras.
Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. To whom did this
anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To the
most absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him? By his ideas?
No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic
who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors.
That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man.
The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes fixed on
heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom
writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of
Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed
him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the idea of
explaining it to himself having occurred to him. He admired his opposite
by instinct. His soft, yielding, dislocated, sickly, shapeless ideas
attached themselves to Enjolras as to a spinal column. His moral backbone
leaned on that firmness. Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some
one once more. He was, himself, moreover, composed of two elements, which
were, to all appearance, incompatible. He was ironical and cordial. His
indifference loved. His mind could get along without belief, but his heart
could not get along without friendship. A profound contradiction; for an
affection is a conviction. His nature was thus constituted. There are men
who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the wrong side. They
are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They only
exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is
a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their
existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is
not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of
Enjolras.

 
One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of the
alphabet. In the series O and P are inseparable. You can, at will,
pronounce O and P or Orestes and Pylades.

 
Grantaire, Enjolras' true satellite, inhabited this circle of young men;
he lived there, he took no pleasure anywhere but there; he followed them
everywhere. His joy was to see these forms go and come through the fumes
of wine. They tolerated him on account of his good humor.

 
Enjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic; and, a sober man himself,
scorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little lofty pity. Grantaire was
an unaccepted Pylades. Always harshly treated by Enjolras, roughly
repulsed, rejected yet ever returning to the charge, he said of Enjolras:
"What fine marble!"


==Translation notes==

=== Castratus ad castra===

Castrated to the camp

=== Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram. ===

You are Peter and on this rock...

==Textual notes==

===Aristogeiton and Harmodius===

Two Athenian men who famously killed the tyrant Hipparchus.  They were popularly referred to as "the Tyrannicides" and were an enduring and prominent symbol of Athenian democracy for years to come.  Thucydides and Herodotus also spoke about them as lovers in the Athenian tradition.

===Barbari et Barberini===

The Barberini were a family of the Italian nobility that rose to prominence in 17th century Rome. A saying goes: Quod non fecerunt barbari, fecerunt Barberini, or "What the barbarians did not do, the Barberini did.", which was a criticsm for removing ancient bronze beams from the portico of the Pantheon to procure bronze for the baldachin of St. Peter's Basilica and for the papal cannon foundry.

===Bossuet===

Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, bishop and theologian. He has been considered by many to be one of the most brilliant orators of all time. He was the Bishop of Meaux from 1681. to 1704.

===(H)ephaestion===

Hephaestion was the close friend and advisor of Alexander the Great.  They were referred to as one soul in two bodies by Aristotle, and Hephaestion was compared to Patroclus by Alexander.  After he died, Alexander had an expensive funeral for him and only lived another few months.

===Nisus===

Nisus was a character in Vergil's Aeneid who was famously defensive of his lover Euryalus, and skeptical about if gods had any impact on his life.  He died with Euryalus in book 9.

===Patroclus===

Patroclus was the devoted companion of Achilles in the Iliad.  He died before Achilles, and spurred Achilles to kill Hector and die himself.

==Citations==
<references />