Editing Volume 4/Book 12/Chapter 2

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Twelfth: Corinthe, Chapter 2: Preliminary Gayeties<br />
(Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre douzi&egrave;me: Corinthe, Chapitre 2: Ga&icirc;t&eacute;s pr&eacute;alables)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
Laigle de Meaux, on le sait, demeurait plut&ocirc;t chez Joly qu'ailleurs. Il
avait un logis comme l'oiseau a une branche. Les deux amis vivaient
ensemble, mangeaient ensemble, dormaient ensemble. Tout leur &eacute;tait
commun, m&ecirc;me un peu Musichetta. Ils &eacute;taient ce que, chez les fr&egrave;res
chapeaux, on appelle ''bini''. Le matin du 5 juin, ils s'en all&egrave;rent
d&eacute;jeuner &agrave; Corinthe. Joly, enchifren&eacute;, avait un fort coryza que Laigle
commen&ccedil;ait &agrave; partager. L'habit de Laigle &eacute;tait r&acirc;p&eacute;, mais Joly &eacute;tait
bien mis.

 
Il &eacute;tait environ neuf heures du matin quand ils pouss&egrave;rent la porte de
Corinthe.

 
Ils mont&egrave;rent au premier.

 
Matelote et Gibelotte les re&ccedil;urent.

 
&mdash;Hu&icirc;tres, fromage et jambon, dit Laigle.

 
Et ils s'attabl&egrave;rent.

 
Le cabaret &eacute;tait vide; il n'y avait qu'eux deux.

 
Gibelotte, reconnaissant Joly et Laigle, mit une bouteille de vin sur la
table.

 
Comme ils &eacute;taient aux premi&egrave;res hu&icirc;tres, une t&ecirc;te apparut &agrave; l'&eacute;coutille
de l'escalier, et une voix dit:

 
&mdash;Je passais. J'ai senti, de la rue, une d&eacute;licieuse odeur de fromage de
Brie. J'entre.

 
C'&eacute;tait Grantaire.

 
Grantaire prit un tabouret et s'attabla.

 
Gibelotte, voyant Grantaire, mit deux bouteilles de vin sur la table.

 
Cela fit trois.

 
&mdash;Est-ce que tu vas boire ces deux bouteilles? demanda Laigle &agrave;
Grantaire.

 
Grantaire r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Tous sont ing&eacute;nieux, toi seul es ing&eacute;nu. Deux bouteilles n'ont jamais
&eacute;tonn&eacute; un homme.

 
Les autres avaient commenc&eacute; par manger, Grantaire commen&ccedil;a par boire.
Une demi-bouteille fut vivement engloutie.

 
&mdash;Tu as donc un trou &agrave; l'estomac? reprit Laigle.

 
&mdash;Tu en as bien un au coude, dit Grantaire.

 
Et, apr&egrave;s avoir vid&eacute; son verre, il ajouta:

 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;a, Laigle des oraisons fun&egrave;bres, ton habit est vieux.

 
&mdash;Je l'esp&egrave;re, repartit Laigle. Cela fait que nous faisons bon m&eacute;nage,
mon habit et moi. Il a pris tous mes plis, il ne me g&ecirc;ne en rien, il
s'est moul&eacute; sur mes difformit&eacute;s, il est complaisant &agrave; tous mes
mouvements; je ne le sens que parce qu'il me tient chaud. Les vieux
habits, c'est la m&ecirc;me chose que les vieux amis.

 
&mdash;C'est vrai, s'&eacute;cria Joly entrant dans le dialogue, un vieil habit est
un vieil abi.

 
&mdash;Surtout, dit Grantaire, dans la bouche d'un homme enchifren&eacute;.

 
&mdash;Grantaire, demanda Laigle, viens-tu du boulevard?

 
&mdash;Non.

 
&mdash;Nous venons de voir passer la t&ecirc;te du cort&egrave;ge, Joly et moi.

 
&mdash;C'est un spectacle berveilleux, dit Joly.

 
&mdash;Comme cette rue est tranquille! s'&eacute;cria Laigle. Qui est-ce qui se
douterait que Paris est sens dessus dessous? Comme on voit que c'&eacute;tait
jadis tout couvents par ici! Du Breul et Sauval en donnent la liste, et
l'abb&eacute; Lebeuf. Il y en avait tout autour, &ccedil;a fourmillait, des chauss&eacute;s,
des d&eacute;chauss&eacute;s, des tondus, des barbus, des gris, des noirs, des blancs,
des franciscains, des minimes, des capucins, des carmes, des petits
augustins, des grands augustins, des vieux augustins...&mdash;&Ccedil;a pullulait.

 
&mdash;Ne parlons pas de moines, interrompit Grantaire, cela donne envie de
se gratter.

 
Puis il s'exclama:

 
&mdash;Bouh! je viens d'avaler une mauvaise hu&icirc;tre. Voil&agrave; l'hypocondrie qui
me reprend. Les hu&icirc;tres sont g&acirc;t&eacute;es, les servantes sont laides. Je hais
l'esp&egrave;ce humaine. J'ai pass&eacute; tout &agrave; l'heure rue Richelieu devant la
grosse librairie publique. Ce tas d'&eacute;cailles d'hu&icirc;tres qu'on appelle une
biblioth&egrave;que me d&eacute;go&ucirc;te de penser. Que de papier! que d'encre! que de
griffonnage! On a &eacute;crit tout &ccedil;a! quel maroufle a donc dit que l'homme
&eacute;tait un bip&egrave;de sans plume? Et puis, j'ai rencontr&eacute; une jolie fille que
je connais, belle comme le printemps, digne de s'appeler Flor&eacute;al, et
ravie, transport&eacute;e, heureuse, aux anges, la mis&eacute;rable, parce que hier un
&eacute;pouvantable banquier tigr&eacute; de petite v&eacute;role a daign&eacute; vouloir d'elle!
H&eacute;las! la femme guette le traitant non moins que le muguet; les chattes
chassent aux souris comme aux oiseaux. Cette donzelle, il n'y a pas deux
mois qu'elle &eacute;tait sage dans une mansarde, elle ajustait des petits
ronds de cuivre &agrave; des &oelig;illets de corset, comment appelez-vous &ccedil;a? elle
cousait, elle avait un lit de sangle; elle demeurait aupr&egrave;s d'un pot de
fleurs, elle &eacute;tait contente. La voil&agrave; banqui&egrave;re. Cette transformation
s'est faite cette nuit. J'ai rencontr&eacute; cette victime ce matin, toute
joyeuse. Ce qui est hideux, c'est que la dr&ocirc;lesse &eacute;tait tout aussi jolie
aujourd'hui qu'hier. Son financier ne paraissait pas sur sa figure. Les
roses ont ceci de plus ou de moins que les femmes, que les traces que
leur laissent les chenilles sont visibles. Ah! il n'y a pas de morale
sur la terre, j'en atteste le myrte, symbole de l'amour, le laurier,
symbole de la guerre, l'olivier, ce b&ecirc;ta, symbole de la paix, le
pommier, qui a failli &eacute;trangler Adam avec son p&eacute;pin, et le figuier,
grand-p&egrave;re des jupons. Quant au droit, voulez-vous savoir ce que c'est
que le droit? Les Gaulois convoitent Cluse, Rome prot&egrave;ge Cluse, et leur
demande quel tort Cluse leur a fait. Brennus r&eacute;pond:&mdash;Le tort que vous a
fait Albe, le tort que vous a fait Fid&egrave;rie, le tort que vous ont fait
les &Eacute;ques, les Volsques et les Sabins. Ils &eacute;taient vos voisins. Les
Clusiens sont les n&ocirc;tres. Nous entendons le voisinage comme vous. Vous
avez vol&eacute; Albe, nous prenons Cluse. Rome dit: Vous ne prendrez pas
Cluse. Brennus prit Rome. Puis il cria: ''Voe victis''! Voil&agrave; ce qu'est le
droit. Ah! dans ce monde, que de b&ecirc;tes de proie! que d'aigles! J'en ai
la chair de poule.

 
Il tendit son verre &agrave; Joly qui le remplit, puis il but, et poursuivit,
sans presque avoir &eacute;t&eacute; interrompu par ce verre de vin dont personne ne
s'aper&ccedil;ut, pas m&ecirc;me lui:

 
&mdash;Brennus, qui prend Rome, est un aigle; le banquier, qui prend la
grisette, est un aigle. Pas plus de pudeur ici que l&agrave;. Donc ne croyons &agrave;
rien. Il n'y a qu'une r&eacute;alit&eacute;: boire. Quelle que soit votre opinion,
soyez pour le coq maigre comme le canton d'Uri ou pour le coq gras comme
le canton de Glaris, peu importe, buvez. Vous me parlez du boulevard, du
cort&egrave;ge, et caetera. Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, il va donc encore y avoir une r&eacute;volution?
Cette indigence de moyens m'&eacute;tonne de la part du bon Dieu. Il faut qu'&agrave;
tout moment il se remette &agrave; suifer la rainure des &eacute;v&eacute;nements. &Ccedil;a
accroche, &ccedil;a ne marche pas. Vite une r&eacute;volution. Le bon Dieu a toujours
les mains noires de ce vilain cambouis-l&agrave;. &Agrave; sa place, je serais plus
simple, je ne remonterais pas &agrave; chaque instant ma m&eacute;canique, je m&egrave;nerais
le genre humain rondement, je tricoterais les faits maille &agrave; maille sans
casser le fil, je n'aurais point d'en-cas, je n'aurais pas de r&eacute;pertoire
extraordinaire. Ce que vous autres appelez le progr&egrave;s marche par deux
moteurs, les hommes et les &eacute;v&eacute;nements. Mais, chose triste, de temps en
temps, l'exceptionnel est n&eacute;cessaire. Pour les &eacute;v&eacute;nements comme pour les
hommes, la troupe ordinaire ne suffit pas; il faut parmi les hommes des
g&eacute;nies, et parmi les &eacute;v&eacute;nements des r&eacute;volutions. Les grands accidents
sont la loi; l'ordre des choses ne peut s'en passer; et, &agrave; voir les
apparitions de com&egrave;tes, on serait tent&eacute; de croire que le ciel lui-m&ecirc;me a
besoin d'acteurs en repr&eacute;sentation. Au moment o&ugrave; l'on s'y attend le
moins, Dieu placarde un m&eacute;t&eacute;ore sur la muraille du firmament. Quelque
&eacute;toile bizarre survient, soulign&eacute;e par une queue &eacute;norme. Et cela fait
mourir C&eacute;sar. Brutus lui donne un coup de couteau, et Dieu un coup de
com&egrave;te. Crac, voil&agrave; une aurore bor&eacute;ale, voil&agrave; une r&eacute;volution, voil&agrave; un
grand homme; 93 en grosses lettres, Napol&eacute;on en vedette, la com&egrave;te de
1811 au haut de l'affiche. Ah! la belle affiche bleue, toute constell&eacute;e
de flamboiements inattendus! Boum! boum! spectacle extraordinaire. Levez
les yeux, badauds. Tout est &eacute;chevel&eacute;, l'astre comme le drame. Bon Dieu,
c'est trop, et ce n'est pas assez. Ces ressources, prises dans
l'exception, semblent magnificence et sont pauvret&eacute;. Mes amis, la
providence en est aux exp&eacute;dients. Une r&eacute;volution, qu'est-ce que cela
prouve? Que Dieu est &agrave; court. Il fait un coup d'&Eacute;tat, parce qu'il y a
solution de continuit&eacute; entre le pr&eacute;sent et l'avenir, et parce que, lui
Dieu, il n'a pas pu joindre les deux bouts. Au fait, cela me confirme
dans mes conjectures sur la situation de fortune de J&eacute;hovah; et &agrave; voir
tant de malaise en haut et en bas, tant de mesquinerie et de pingrerie
et de ladrerie et de d&eacute;tresse au ciel et sur la terre, depuis l'oiseau
qui n'a pas un grain de mil jusqu'&agrave; moi qui n'ai pas cent mille livres
de rente, &agrave; voir la destin&eacute;e humaine, qui est fort us&eacute;e, et m&ecirc;me la
destin&eacute;e royale, qui montre la corde, t&eacute;moin le prince de Cond&eacute; pendu, &agrave;
voir l'hiver, qui n'est pas autre chose qu'une d&eacute;chirure au z&eacute;nith par
o&ugrave; le vent souffle, &agrave; voir tant de haillons dans la pourpre toute neuve
du matin au sommet des collines, &agrave; voir les gouttes de ros&eacute;e, ces perles
fausses, &agrave; voir le givre, ce strass, &agrave; voir l'humanit&eacute; d&eacute;cousue et les
&eacute;v&eacute;nements rapi&eacute;c&eacute;s, et tant de taches au soleil, et tant de trous &agrave; la
lune, &agrave; voir tant de mis&egrave;re partout, je soup&ccedil;onne que Dieu n'est pas
riche. Il a de l'apparence, c'est vrai, mais je sens la g&ecirc;ne. Il donne
une r&eacute;volution, comme un n&eacute;gociant dont la caisse est vide donne un bal.
Il ne faut pas juger des dieux sur l'apparence. Sous la dorure du ciel
j'entrevois un univers pauvre. Dans la cr&eacute;ation il y a de la faillite.
C'est pourquoi je suis m&eacute;content. Voyez, c'est le cinq juin, il fait
presque nuit; depuis ce matin j'attends que le jour vienne. Il n'est pas
venu, et je gage qu'il ne viendra pas de la journ&eacute;e. C'est une
inexactitude de commis mal pay&eacute;. Oui, tout est mal arrang&eacute;, rien ne
s'ajuste &agrave; rien, ce vieux monde est tout d&eacute;jet&eacute;, je me range dans
l'opposition. Tout va de guingois; l'univers est taquinant. C'est comme
les enfants, ceux qui en d&eacute;sirent n'en ont pas, ceux qui n'en d&eacute;sirent
pas en ont. Total: je bisque. En outre, Laigle de Meaux, ce chauve,
m'afflige &agrave; voir. Cela m'humilie de penser que je suis du m&ecirc;me &acirc;ge que
ce genou. Du reste, je critique, mais je n'insulte pas. L'univers est ce
qu'il est. Je parle ici sans m&eacute;chante intention et pour l'acquit de ma
conscience. Recevez, P&egrave;re &eacute;ternel, l'assurance de ma consid&eacute;ration
distingu&eacute;e. Ah! par tous les saints de l'Olympe et par tous les dieux du
paradis, je n'&eacute;tais pas fait pour &ecirc;tre Parisien, c'est-&agrave;-dire pour
ricocher &agrave; jamais, comme un volant entre deux raquettes, du groupe des
fl&acirc;neurs au groupe des tapageurs! J'&eacute;tais fait pour &ecirc;tre Turc, regardant
toute la journ&eacute;e des p&eacute;ronnelles orientales ex&eacute;cuter ces exquises danses
d'&Eacute;gypte lubriques comme les songes d'un homme chaste, ou paysan
beauceron, ou gentilhomme v&eacute;nitien entour&eacute; de gentilles-donnes, ou petit
prince allemand fournissant la moiti&eacute; d'un fantassin &agrave; la conf&eacute;d&eacute;ration
germanique, et occupant ses loisirs &agrave; faire s&eacute;cher ses chaussettes sur
sa haie, c'est-&agrave;-dire sur sa fronti&egrave;re! Voil&agrave; pour quels destins j'&eacute;tais
n&eacute;! Oui, j'ai dit Turc, et je ne m'en d&eacute;dis point. Je ne comprends pas
qu'on prenne habituellement les Turcs en mauvaise part; Mahom a du bon;
respect &agrave; l'inventeur des s&eacute;rails &agrave; houris et des paradis &agrave; odalisques!
N'insultons pas le mahom&eacute;tisme, la seule religion qui soit orn&eacute;e d'un
poulailler! Sur ce, j'insiste pour boire. La terre est une grosse
b&ecirc;tise. Et il para&icirc;t qu'ils vont se battre, tous ces imb&eacute;ciles, se faire
casser le profil, se massacrer, en plein &eacute;t&eacute;, au mois de juin, quand ils
pourraient s'en aller, avec une cr&eacute;ature sous le bras, respirer dans les
champs l'immense tasse de th&eacute; des foins coup&eacute;s! Vraiment, on fait trop
de sottises. Une vieille lanterne cass&eacute;e que j'ai vue tout &agrave; l'heure
chez un marchand de bric-&agrave;-brac me sugg&egrave;re une r&eacute;flexion: Il serait
temps d'&eacute;clairer le genre humain. Oui, me revoil&agrave; triste! Ce que c'est
que d'avaler une hu&icirc;tre et une r&eacute;volution de travers! Je redeviens
lugubre. Oh! l'affreux vieux monde! On s'y &eacute;vertue, on s'y destitue, on
s'y prostitue, on s'y tue, on s'y habitue!

 
Et Grantaire, apr&egrave;s cette quinte d'&eacute;loquence, eut une quinte de toux,
m&eacute;rit&eacute;e.

 
&mdash;&Agrave; propos de r&eacute;volution, dit Joly, il para&icirc;t que d&eacute;cid&eacute;bent Barius est
aboureux.

 
&mdash;Sait-on de qui? demanda Laigle.

 
&mdash;Don.

 
&mdash;Non?

 
&mdash;Don! je te dis!

 
&mdash;Les amours de Marius! s'&eacute;cria Grantaire. Je vois &ccedil;a d'ici. Marius est
un brouillard, et il aura trouv&eacute; une vapeur. Marius est de la race
po&egrave;te. Qui dit po&egrave;te dit fou. ''Tymbr&oelig;us Apollo''. Marius et sa Marie, ou
sa Maria, ou sa Mariette, ou sa Marion, cela doit faire de dr&ocirc;les
d'amants. Je me rends compte de ce que cela est. Des extases o&ugrave; l'on
oublie le baiser. Chastes sur la terre, mais s'accouplant dans l'infini.
Ce sont des &acirc;mes qui ont des sens. Ils couchent ensemble dans les
&eacute;toiles.

 
Grantaire entamait sa seconde bouteille, et peut-&ecirc;tre sa seconde
harangue quand un nouvel &ecirc;tre &eacute;mergea du trou carr&eacute; de l'escalier.
C'&eacute;tait un gar&ccedil;on de moins de dix ans, d&eacute;guenill&eacute;, tr&egrave;s petit, jaune, le
visage en museau, l'&oelig;il vif, &eacute;norm&eacute;ment chevelu, mouill&eacute; de pluie,
l'air content.

 
L'enfant, choisissant sans h&eacute;siter parmi les trois, quoiqu'il n'en
conn&ucirc;t &eacute;videmment aucun, s'adressa &agrave; Laigle de Meaux.

 
&mdash;Est-ce que vous &ecirc;tes monsieur Bossuet? demanda-t-il.

 
&mdash;C'est mon petit nom, r&eacute;pondit Laigle. Que me veux-tu?

 
&mdash;Voil&agrave;. Un grand blond sur le boulevard m'a dit: Connais-tu la m&egrave;re
Hucheloup? J'ai dit: Oui, rue Chanvrerie, la veuve au vieux. Il m'a dit:
Vas-y. Tu y trouveras monsieur Bossuet, et tu lui diras de ma part:
A-B-C. C'est une farce qu'on vous fait, n'est-ce pas? Il m'a donn&eacute; dix
sous.

 
&mdash;Joly, pr&ecirc;te-moi dix sous, dit Laigle; et se tournant vers Grantaire:
Grantaire, pr&ecirc;te-moi dix sous.

 
Cela fit vingt sous que Laigle donna &agrave; l'enfant.

 
&mdash;Merci, monsieur, dit le petit gar&ccedil;on.

 
&mdash;Comment t'appelles-tu? demanda Laigle.

 
&mdash;Navet, l'ami &agrave; Gavroche.

 
&mdash;Reste avec nous, dit Laigle.

 
&mdash;D&eacute;jeune avec nous, dit Grantaire.

 
L'enfant r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Je ne peux pas, je suis du cort&egrave;ge, c'est moi qui crie &agrave; bas Polignac.

 
Et tirant le pied longuement derri&egrave;re lui, ce qui est le plus
respectueux des saluts possibles, il s'en alla.

 
L'enfant parti, Grantaire prit la parole:

 
&mdash;Ceci est le gamin pur. Il y a beaucoup de vari&eacute;t&eacute;s dans le genre
gamin. Le gamin notaire s'appelle saute-ruisseau, le gamin cuisinier
s'appelle marmiton, le gamin boulanger s'appelle mitron, le gamin
laquais s'appelle groom, le gamin marin s'appelle mousse, le gamin
soldat s'appelle tapin, le gamin peintre s'appelle rapin, le gamin
n&eacute;gociant s'appelle trottin, le gamin courtisan s'appelle menin, le
gamin roi s'appelle dauphin, le gamin dieu s'appelle bambino.

 
Cependant Laigle m&eacute;ditait; il dit &agrave; demi-voix:

 
&mdash;A-B-C, c'est-&agrave;-dire: Enterrement de Lamarque.

 
&mdash;Le grand blond, observa Grantaire, c'est Enjolras qui te fait avertir.

 
&mdash;Irons-nous? fit Bossuet.

 
&mdash;Il pleut, dit Joly. J'ai jur&eacute; d'aller au feu, pas &agrave; l'eau. Je de veux
pas b'enrhuber.

 
&mdash;Je reste ici, dit Grantaire. Je pr&eacute;f&egrave;re un d&eacute;jeuner &agrave; un corbillard.

 
&mdash;Conclusion: nous restons, reprit Laigle. Eh bien, buvons alors.
D'ailleurs on peut manquer l'enterrement, sans manquer l'&eacute;meute.

 
&mdash;Ah! l'&eacute;beute, j'en suis, s'&eacute;cria Joly.

 
Laigle se frotta les mains:

 
&mdash;Voil&agrave; donc qu'on va retoucher &agrave; la r&eacute;volution de 1830. Au fait elle
g&ecirc;ne le peuple aux entournures.

 
&mdash;Cela m'est &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s &eacute;gal, votre r&eacute;volution, dit Grantaire. Je
n'ex&egrave;cre pas ce gouvernement-ci. C'est la couronne temp&eacute;r&eacute;e par le
bonnet de coton. C'est un sceptre termin&eacute; en parapluie. Au fait,
aujourd'hui, j'y songe, par le temps qu'il fait, Louis-Philippe pourra
utiliser sa royaut&eacute; &agrave; deux fins, &eacute;tendre le bout sceptre contre le
peuple et ouvrir le bout parapluie contre le ciel.

 
La salle &eacute;tait obscure, de grosses nu&eacute;es achevaient de supprimer le
jour. Il n'y avait personne dans le cabaret, ni dans la rue, tout le
monde &eacute;tant all&eacute; &laquo;voir les &eacute;v&eacute;nements&raquo;.

 
&mdash;Est-il midi ou minuit? cria Bossuet. On n'y voit goutte. Gibelotte, de
la lumi&egrave;re!

 
Grantaire, triste, buvait.

 
&mdash;Enjolras me d&eacute;daigne, murmura-t-il. Enjolras a dit: Joly est malade,
Grantaire est ivre. C'est &agrave; Bossuet qu'il a envoy&eacute; Navet. S'il &eacute;tait
venu me prendre, je l'aurais suivi. Tant pis pour Enjolras! je n'irai
pas &agrave; son enterrement.

 
Cette r&eacute;solution prise, Bossuet, Joly et Grantaire ne boug&egrave;rent plus du
cabaret. Vers deux heures de l'apr&egrave;s-midi, la table o&ugrave; ils s'accoudaient
&eacute;tait couverte de bouteilles vides. Deux chandelles y br&ucirc;laient, l'une
dans un bougeoir de cuivre parfaitement vert, l'autre dans le goulot
d'une carafe f&ecirc;l&eacute;e. Grantaire avait entra&icirc;n&eacute; Joly et Bossuet vers le
vin; Bossuet et Joly avaient ramen&eacute; Grantaire vers la joie.

 
Quant &agrave; Grantaire, depuis midi, il avait d&eacute;pass&eacute; le vin, m&eacute;diocre source
de r&ecirc;ves. Le vin, pr&egrave;s des ivrognes s&eacute;rieux, n'a qu'un succ&egrave;s d'estime.
Il y a, en fait d'&eacute;bri&eacute;t&eacute;, la magie noire et la magie blanche; le vin
n'est que la magie blanche. Grantaire &eacute;tait un aventureux buveur de
songes. La noirceur d'une ivresse redoutable entr'ouverte devant lui,
loin de l'arr&ecirc;ter l'attirait. Il avait laiss&eacute; l&agrave; les bouteilles et pris
la chope. La chope, c'est le gouffre. N'ayant sous la main ni opium, ni
haschisch, et voulant s'emplir le cerveau de cr&eacute;puscule, il avait eu
recours &agrave; cet effrayant m&eacute;lange d'eau-de-vie, de stout et d'absinthe,
qui produit des l&eacute;thargies si terribles. C'est de ces trois vapeurs,
bi&egrave;re, eau-de-vie, absinthe, qu'est fait le plomb de l'&acirc;me. Ce sont
trois t&eacute;n&egrave;bres; le papillon c&eacute;leste s'y noie; et il s'y forme, dans une
fum&eacute;e membraneuse vaguement condens&eacute;e en aile de chauve-souris, trois
furies muettes, le Cauchemar, la Nuit, la Mort, voletant au-dessus de
Psych&eacute; endormie.

 
Grantaire n'en &eacute;tait point encore &agrave; cette phase lugubre; loin de l&agrave;. Il
&eacute;tai prodigieusement gai, et Bossuet et Joly lui donnaient la r&eacute;plique.
Ils trinquaient. Grantaire ajoutait &agrave; l'accentuation excentrique des
mots et des id&eacute;es la divagation du geste, il appuyait avec dignit&eacute; son
poing gauche sur son genou, son bras faisant l'&eacute;querre, et, la cravate
d&eacute;faite, &agrave; cheval sur un tabouret, son verre plein dans sa main droite,
il jetait &agrave; la grosse servante Matelote ces paroles solennelles:

 
&mdash;Qu'on ouvre les portes du palais! que tout le monde soit de l'Acad&eacute;mie
fran&ccedil;aise, et ait le droit d'embrasser madame Hucheloup! Buvons.

 
Et se tournant vers mame Hucheloup, il ajoutait:

 
&mdash;Femme antique et consacr&eacute;e par l'usage, approche que je te contemple!

 
Et Joly s'&eacute;criait:

 
&mdash;Batelote et Gibelotte, de doddez plus &agrave; boire &agrave; Grantaire. Il bange
des argents fous. Il a d&eacute;j&agrave; d&eacute;vor&eacute; depuis ce batin en prodigalit&eacute;s
&eacute;perdues deux francs quatre-vingt-quinze centibes.

 
Et Grantaire reprenait:

 
&mdash;Qui donc a d&eacute;croch&eacute; les &eacute;toiles sans ma permission pour les mettre sur
la table en guise de chandelles?

 
Bossuet, fort ivre, avait conserv&eacute; son calme.

 
Il s'&eacute;tait assis sur l'appui de la fen&ecirc;tre ouverte, mouillant son dos &agrave;
la pluie qui tombait, et il contemplait ses deux amis.

 
Tout &agrave; coup il entendit derri&egrave;re lui un tumulte, des pas pr&eacute;cipit&eacute;s, des
cris ''aux armes''! Il se retourna, et aper&ccedil;ut, rue Saint-Denis, au bout
de la rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras qui passait, la carabine &agrave; la main,
et Gavroche avec son pistolet, Feuilly avec son sabre, Courfeyrac avec
son &eacute;p&eacute;e, Jean Prouvaire avec son mousqueton, Combeferre avec son fusil,
Bahorel avec son fusil, et tout le rassemblement arm&eacute; et orageux qui les
suivait.

 
La rue de la Chanvrerie n'&eacute;tait gu&egrave;re longue que d'une port&eacute;e de
carabine. Bossuet improvisa avec ses deux mains un porte-voix autour de
sa bouche, et cria:

 
&mdash;Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! hoh&eacute;e!

 
Courfeyrac entendit l'appel, aper&ccedil;ut Bossuet, et fit quelques pas dans
la rue de la Chanvrerie, en criant un: que veux-tu? qui se croisa avec
un: o&ugrave; vas-tu?

 
&mdash;Faire une barricade, r&eacute;pondit Courfeyrac.

 
&mdash;Eh bien, ici! la place est bonne! fais-la ici!

 
&mdash;C'est vrai, Aigle, dit Courfeyrac.

 
Et sur un signe de Courfeyrac, l'attroupement se pr&eacute;cipita rue de la
Chanvrerie.

 
==English text==

 
Laigle de Meaux, as the reader knows, lived more with Joly than elsewhere.
He had a lodging, as a bird has one on a branch. The two friends lived
together, ate together, slept together. They had everything in common,
even Musichetta, to some extent. They were, what the subordinate monks who
accompany monks are called, bini. On the morning of the 5th of June, they
went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly, who was all stuffed up, had a catarrh
which Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but
Joly was well dressed.

 
It was about nine o'clock in the morning, when they opened the door of
Corinthe.

 
They ascended to the first floor.

 
Matelote and Gibelotte received them.

 
"Oysters, cheese, and ham," said Laigle.

 
And they seated themselves at a table.

 
The wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.

 
Gibelotte, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on the table.

 
While they were busy with their first oysters, a head appeared at the
hatchway of the staircase, and a voice said:&mdash;

 
"I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor of Brie cheese.
I enter." It was Grantaire.

 
Grantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.

 
At the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottles of wine on the
table.

 
That made three.

 
"Are you going to drink those two bottles?" Laigle inquired of Grantaire.

 
Grantaire replied:&mdash;

 
"All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never yet
astonished a man."

 
The others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a bottle
was rapidly gulped down.

 
"So you have a hole in your stomach?" began Laigle again.

 
"You have one in your elbow," said Grantaire.

 
And after having emptied his glass, he added:&mdash;

 
"Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old."

 
"I should hope so," retorted Laigle. "That's why we get on well together,
my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, it does not bind me anywhere,
it is moulded on my deformities, it falls in with all my movements, I am
only conscious of it because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old
friends."

 
"That's true," ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue, "an old goat
is an old abi" (ami, friend).

 
"Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up," said
Grantaire.

 
"Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from the boulevard?"

 
"No."

 
"We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I."

 
"It's a marvellous sight," said Joly.

 
"How quiet this street is!" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect that
Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen that in former
days there were nothing but convents here! In this neighborhood! Du Breul
and Sauval give a list of them, and so does the Abbé Lebeuf. They were all
round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, shaven, bearded,
gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins, Carmelites, Little
Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines&mdash;there was no end of
them."

 
"Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes one want to
scratch one's self."

 
Then he exclaimed:&mdash;

 
"Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking
possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I
hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in front of
the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is called a
library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink! What
scrawling! And all that has been written! What rascal was it who said that
man was a featherless biped?[[51]] And then, I met a pretty girl of my acquaintance,
who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be called Floreal, and who is
delighted, enraptured, as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday,
a frightful banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to
her! Alas! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a
lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman
was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the
eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp
bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is
a bankeress. This transformation took place last night. I met the victim
this morning in high spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade
is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in
her face. Roses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the
traces left upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no
morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the
laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the
apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the
fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what
right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what
wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: 'The wrong that Alba did
to you, the wrong that Fidenae did to you, the wrong that the Eques, the
Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your neighbors. The
Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have
stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.' Rome said: 'You shall not take
Clusium.' Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: 'Vae victis!' That is what
right is. Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles! It
makes my flesh creep."

 
He held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank and went on,
having hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine, of which no one, not
even himself, had taken any notice:&mdash;

 
"Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the grisette
is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in the other.
So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your
opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in
favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little,
drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that procession, et caetera, et
caetera. Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty
of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing
the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won't work. Quick,
a revolution! The good God has his hands perpetually black with that
cart-grease. If I were in his place, I'd be perfectly simple about it, I
would not wind up my mechanism every minute, I'd lead the human race in a
straightforward way, I'd weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the
thread, I would have no provisional arrangements, I would have no
extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by
means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time,
the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither
for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events
revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do
without them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be
tempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its
performance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards a
meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined
by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of Caesar. Brutus deals him
a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold an
aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man; '93 in big
letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head of the poster.
Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes!
Boum! Boum! extraordinary show! Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in
disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not
enough. These resources, gathered from exception, seem magnificence and
poverty. My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does a
revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup d'etat
because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this
confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah's fortune; and when I see so
much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of
millet to myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see
human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is
threadbare, witness the Prince de Conde hung, when I see winter, which is
nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when I see
so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests
of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the
frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up,
and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so
much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance
exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution
as a tradesman whose money-box is empty gives a ball. God must not be
judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a
poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am
discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since
this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come,
and I bet that it won't come all day. This is the inexactness of an
ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything
else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on the opposition,
everything goes awry; the universe is a tease. It's like children, those
who want them have none, and those who don't want them have them. Total:
I'm vexed. Besides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald-head, offends my sight. It
humiliates me to think that I am of the same age as that baldy. However, I
criticise, but I do not insult. The universe is what it is. I speak here
without evil intent and to ease my conscience. Receive, Eternal Father,
the assurance of my distinguished consideration. Ah! by all the saints of
Olympus and by all the gods of paradise, I was not intended to be a
Parisian, that is to say, to rebound forever, like a shuttlecock between
two battledores, from the group of the loungers to the group of the
roysterers. I was made to be a Turk, watching oriental houris all day
long, executing those exquisite Egyptian dances, as sensuous as the dream
of a chaste man, or a Beauceron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman
surrounded by gentlewoman, or a petty German prince, furnishing the half
of a foot-soldier to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure
with drying his breeches on his hedge, that is to say, his frontier. Those
are the positions for which I was born! Yes, I have said a Turk, and I
will not retract. I do not understand how people can habitually take Turks
in bad part; Mohammed had his good points; respect for the inventor of
seraglios with houris and paradises with odalisques! Let us not insult
Mohammedanism, the only religion which is ornamented with a hen-roost!
Now, I insist on a drink. The earth is a great piece of stupidity. And it
appears that they are going to fight, all those imbeciles, and to break
each other's profiles and to massacre each other in the heart of summer,
in the month of June, when they might go off with a creature on their arm,
to breathe the immense heaps of new-mown hay in the meadows! Really,
people do commit altogether too many follies. An old broken lantern which
I have just seen at a bric-a-brac merchant's suggests a reflection to my
mind; it is time to enlighten the human race. Yes, behold me sad again.
That's what comes of swallowing an oyster and a revolution the wrong way!
I am growing melancholy once more. Oh! frightful old world. People strive,
turn each other out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, and get used
to it!"

 
And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of coughing, which
was well earned.

 
"A propos of revolution," said Joly, "it is decidedly abberent that Barius
is in lub."

 
"Does any one know with whom?" demanded Laigle.

 
"Do."

 
"No?"

 
"Do! I tell you."

 
"Marius' love affairs!" exclaimed Grantaire. "I can imagine it. Marius is
a fog, and he must have found a vapor. Marius is of the race of poets. He
who says poet, says fool, madman, Tymbraeus Apollo. Marius and his Marie,
or his Marion, or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must make a queer pair
of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies in which they forget to
kiss. Pure on earth, but joined in heaven. They are souls possessed of
senses. They lie among the stars."

 
Grantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly, his second
harangue, when a new personage emerged from the square aperture of the
stairs. It was a boy less than ten years of age, ragged, very small,
yellow, with an odd phiz, a vivacious eye, an enormous amount of hair
drenched with rain, and wearing a contented air.

 
The child unhesitatingly making his choice among the three, addressed
himself to Laigle de Meaux.

 
"Are you Monsieur Bossuet?"

 
"That is my nickname," replied Laigle. "What do you want with me?"

 
"This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me: 'Do you know
Mother Hucheloup?' I said: 'Yes, Rue Chanvrerie, the old man's widow;' he
said to me: 'Go there. There you will find M. Bossuet. Tell him from me:
"A B C".' It's a joke that they're playing on you, isn't it. He gave me
ten sous."

 
"Joly, lend me ten sous," said Laigle; and, turning to Grantaire:
"Grantaire, lend me ten sous."

 
This made twenty sous, which Laigle handed to the lad.

 
"Thank you, sir," said the urchin.

 
"What is your name?" inquired Laigle.

 
"Navet, Gavroche's friend."

 
"Stay with us," said Laigle.

 
"Breakfast with us," said Grantaire.

 
The child replied:&mdash;

 
"I can't, I belong in the procession, I'm the one to shout 'Down with
Polignac!'"

 
And executing a prolonged scrape of his foot behind him, which is the most
respectful of all possible salutes, he took his departure.

 
The child gone, Grantaire took the word:&mdash;

 
"That is the pure-bred gamin. There are a great many varieties of the
gamin species. The notary's gamin is called Skip-the-Gutter, the cook's
gamin is called a scullion, the baker's gamin is called a mitron, the
lackey's gamin is called a groom, the marine gamin is called the
cabin-boy, the soldier's gamin is called the drummer-boy, the painter's
gamin is called paint-grinder, the tradesman's gamin is called an
errand-boy, the courtesan gamin is called the minion, the kingly gamin is
called the dauphin, the god gamin is called the bambino."

 
In the meantime, Laigle was engaged in reflection; he said half aloud:&mdash;

 
"A B C, that is to say: the burial of Lamarque."

 
"The tall blonde," remarked Grantaire, "is Enjolras, who is sending you a
warning."

 
"Shall we go?" ejaculated Bossuet.

 
"It's raiding," said Joly. "I have sworn to go through fire, but not
through water. I don't wand to ged a gold."

 
"I shall stay here," said Grantaire. "I prefer a breakfast to a hearse."

 
"Conclusion: we remain," said Laigle. "Well, then, let us drink. Besides,
we might miss the funeral without missing the riot."

 
"Ah! the riot, I am with you!" cried Joly.

 
Laigle rubbed his hands.

 
"Now we're going to touch up the revolution of 1830. As a matter of fact,
it does hurt the people along the seams."

 
"I don't think much of your revolution," said Grantaire. "I don't execrate
this Government. It is the crown tempèred by the cotton night-cap. It is a
sceptre ending in an umbrella. In fact, I think that to-day, with the
present weather, Louis Philippe might utilize his royalty in two
directions, he might extend the tip of the sceptre end against the people,
and open the umbrella end against heaven."

 
The room was dark, large clouds had just finished the extinction of
daylight. There was no one in the wine-shop, or in the street, every one
having gone off "to watch events."

 
"Is it mid-day or midnight?" cried Bossuet. "You can't see your hand
before your face. Gibelotte, fetch a light."

 
Grantaire was drinking in a melancholy way.

 
"Enjolras disdains me," he muttered. "Enjolras said: 'Joly is ill,
Grantaire is drunk.' It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had come
for me, I would have followed him. So much the worse for Enjolras! I won't
go to his funeral."

 
This resolution once arrived at, Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire did not stir
from the wine-shop. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the table at which
they sat was covered with empty bottles. Two candles were burning on it,
one in a flat copper candlestick which was perfectly green, the other in
the neck of a cracked carafe. Grantaire had seduced Joly and Bossuet to
wine; Bossuet and Joly had conducted Grantaire back towards cheerfulness.

 
As for Grantaire, he had got beyond wine, that merely moderate inspirer of
dreams, ever since mid-day. Wine enjoys only a conventional popularity
with serious drinkers. There is, in fact, in the matter of inebriety,
white magic and black magic; wine is only white magic. Grantaire was a
daring drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible fit of drunkenness
yawning before him, far from arresting him, attracted him. He had
abandoned the bottle and taken to the beerglass. The beer-glass is the
abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish on hand, and being desirous of
filling his brain with twilight, he had had recourse to that fearful
mixture of brandy, stout, absinthe, which produces the most terrible of
lethargies. It is of these three vapors, beer, brandy, and absinthe, that
the lead of the soul is composed. They are three grooms; the celestial
butterfly is drowned in them; and there are formed there in a membranous
smoke, vaguely condensed into the wing of the bat, three mute furies,
Nightmare, Night, and Death, which hover about the slumbering Psyche.

 
Grantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far from it. He was
tremendously gay, and Bossuet and Joly retorted. They clinked glasses.
Grantaire added to the eccentric accentuation of words and ideas, a
peculiarity of gesture; he rested his left fist on his knee with dignity,
his arm forming a right angle, and, with cravat untied, seated astride a
stool, his full glass in his right hand, he hurled solemn words at the big
maid-servant Matelote:&mdash;

 
"Let the doors of the palace be thrown open! Let every one be a member of
the French Academy and have the right to embrace Madame Hucheloup. Let us
drink."

 
And turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added:&mdash;

 
"Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I may contemplate
thee!"

 
And Joly exclaimed:&mdash;

 
"Matelote and Gibelotte, dod't gib Grantaire anything more to drink. He
has already devoured, since this bording, in wild prodigality, two francs
and ninety-five centibes."

 
And Grantaire began again:&mdash;

 
"Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, and putting them
on the table in the guise of candles?"

 
Bossuet, though very drunk, preserved his equanimity.

 
He was seated on the sill of the open window, wetting his back in the
falling rain, and gazing at his two friends.

 
All at once, he heard a tumult behind him, hurried footsteps, cries of "To
arms!" He turned round and saw in the Rue Saint-Denis, at the end of the
Rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras passing, gun in hand, and Gavroche with his
pistol, Feuilly with his sword, Courfeyrac with his sword, and Jean
Prouvaire with his blunderbuss, Combeferre with his gun, Bahorel with his
gun, and the whole armed and stormy rabble which was following them.

 
The Rue de la Chanvrerie was not more than a gunshot long. Bossuet
improvised a speaking-trumpet from his two hands placed around his mouth,
and shouted:&mdash;

 
"Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hohee!"

 
Courfeyrac heard the shout, caught sight of Bossuet, and advanced a few
paces into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, shouting: "What do you want?" which
crossed a "Where are you going?"

 
"To make a barricade," replied Courfeyrac.

 
"Well, here! This is a good place! Make it here!"

 
"That's true, Aigle," said Courfeyrac.

 
And at a signal from Courfeyrac, the mob flung themselves into the Rue de
la Chanvrerie.


==Translation notes==

==="Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up,"===

Joly pronounced the word ami (friend), due to his cold, as abi, which is how habit is pronounced.

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
<references />