Editing Volume 4/Book 6/Chapter 3

Les Mis&eacute;rables,  Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Sixth: Little Gavroche, Chapter 3: The Vicissitudes of Flight<br />
(L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre sixi&egrave;me: Le petit Gavroche, Chapitre 3: Les p&eacute;rip&eacute;ties de l'&eacute;vasion)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==


Voici ce qui avait eu lieu cette m&ecirc;me nuit &agrave; la Force:

 
Une &eacute;vasion avait &eacute;t&eacute; concert&eacute;e entre Babet, Brujon, Gueulemer et
Th&eacute;nardier, quoique Th&eacute;nardier f&ucirc;t au secret. Babet avait fait l'affaire
pour son compte, le jour m&ecirc;me, comme on a vu d'apr&egrave;s le r&eacute;cit de
Montparnasse &agrave; Gavroche. Montparnasse devait les aider du dehors.

 
Brujon, ayant pass&eacute; un mois dans une chambre de punition, avait eu le
temps, premi&egrave;rement, d'y tresser une corde, deuxi&egrave;mement, d'y m&ucirc;rir un
plan. Autrefois ces lieux s&eacute;v&egrave;res o&ugrave; la discipline de la prison livre le
condamn&eacute; &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me, se composaient de quatre murs de pierre, d'un
plafond de pierre, d'un pav&eacute; de dalles, d'un lit de camp, d'une lucarne
grill&eacute;e, d'une porte doubl&eacute;e de fer, et s'appelaient ''cachots;'' mais le
cachot a &eacute;t&eacute; jug&eacute; trop horrible; maintenant cela se compose d'une porte
de fer, d'une lucarne grill&eacute;e, d'un lit de camp, d'un pav&eacute; de dalles,
d'un plafond de pierre, de quatre murs de pierre, et cela s'appelle
''chambre de punition''. Il y fait un peu jour vers midi. L'inconv&eacute;nient
de ces chambres qui, comme on voit, ne sont pas des cachots, c'est de
laisser songer des &ecirc;tres qu'il faudrait faire travailler.

 
Brujon donc avait song&eacute;, et il &eacute;tait sorti de la chambre de punition
avec une corde. Comme on le r&eacute;putait fort dangereux dans la cour
Charlemagne, on le mit dans le B&acirc;timent-Neuf. La premi&egrave;re chose qu'il
trouva dans le B&acirc;timent-Neuf, ce fut Gueulemer, la seconde, ce fut un
clou; Gueulemer, c'est-&agrave;-dire le crime, un clou, c'est-&agrave;-dire la
libert&eacute;.

 
Brujon, dont il est temps de se faire une id&eacute;e compl&egrave;te, &eacute;tait, avec une
apparence de complexion d&eacute;licate et une langueur profond&eacute;ment
pr&eacute;m&eacute;dit&eacute;e, un gaillard poli, intelligent et voleur qui avait le regard
caressant et le sourire atroce. Son regard r&eacute;sultait de sa volont&eacute; et
son sourire r&eacute;sultait de sa nature. Ses premi&egrave;res &eacute;tudes dans son art
s'&eacute;taient dirig&eacute;es vers les toits; il avait fait faire de grands progr&egrave;s
&agrave; l'industrie des arracheurs de plomb qui d&eacute;pouillent les toitures et
d&eacute;piautent les goutti&egrave;res par le proc&eacute;d&eacute; dit ''au gras-double''.

 
Ce qui achevait de rendre l'instant favorable pour une tentative
d'&eacute;vasion, c'est que les couvreurs remaniaient et rejointoyaient, en ce
moment-l&agrave; m&ecirc;me, une partie des ardoises de la prison. La cour
Saint-Bernard n'&eacute;tait plus absolument isol&eacute;e de la cour Charlemagne et
de la cour Saint-Louis. Il y avait par l&agrave;-haut des &eacute;chafaudages et des
&eacute;chelles; en d'autres termes, des ponts et des escaliers du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de la
d&eacute;livrance.

 
Le B&acirc;timent-Neuf, qui &eacute;tait tout ce qu'on pouvait voir au monde de plus
l&eacute;zard&eacute; et de plus d&eacute;cr&eacute;pit, &eacute;tait le point faible de la prison. Les
murs en &eacute;taient &agrave; ce point rong&eacute;s par le salp&ecirc;tre qu'on avait &eacute;t&eacute; oblig&eacute;
de rev&ecirc;tir d'un parement de bois les vo&ucirc;tes des dortoirs, parce qu'il
s'en d&eacute;tachait des pierres qui tombaient sur les prisonniers dans leurs
lits. Malgr&eacute; cette v&eacute;tust&eacute;, on faisait la faute d'enfermer dans le
B&acirc;timent-Neuf les accus&eacute;s les plus inqui&eacute;tants, d'y mettre &laquo;les fortes
causes&raquo;, comme on dit en langage de prison.

 
Le B&acirc;timent-Neuf contenait quatre dortoirs superpos&eacute;s et un comble qu'on
appelait le Bel-Air. Un large tuyau de chemin&eacute;e, probablement de quelque
ancienne cuisine des ducs de La Force, partait du rez-de-chauss&eacute;e,
traversait les quatre &eacute;tages, coupait en deux tous les dortoirs o&ugrave; il
figurait une fa&ccedil;on de pilier aplati, et allait trouer le toit.

 
Gueulemer et Brujon &eacute;taient dans le m&ecirc;me dortoir. On les avait mis par
pr&eacute;caution dans l'&eacute;tage d'en bas. Le hasard faisait que la t&ecirc;te de leurs
lits s'appuyait au tuyau de la chemin&eacute;e.

 
Th&eacute;nardier se trouvait pr&eacute;cis&eacute;ment au-dessus de leur t&ecirc;te dans ce comble
qualifi&eacute; le Bel-Air.

 
Le passant qui s'arr&ecirc;te rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, apr&egrave;s la caserne
des pompiers, devant la porte coch&egrave;re de la maison des Bains, voit une
cour pleine de fleurs et d'arbustes en caisses, au fond de laquelle se
d&eacute;veloppe, avec deux ailes, une petite rotonde blanche &eacute;gay&eacute;e par des
contrevents verts, le r&ecirc;ve bucolique de Jean-Jacques. Il n'y a pas plus
de dix ans, au-dessus de cette rotonde s'&eacute;levait un mur noir, &eacute;norme,
affreux, nu, auquel elle &eacute;tait adoss&eacute;e. C'&eacute;tait le mur du chemin de
ronde de la Force.

 
Ce mur derri&egrave;re cette rotonde, c'&eacute;tait Milton entrevu derri&egrave;re Berquin.

 
Si haut qu'il f&ucirc;t, ce mur &eacute;tait d&eacute;pass&eacute; par un toit plus noir encore
qu'on apercevait au del&agrave;. C'&eacute;tait le toit du B&acirc;timent-Neuf. On y
remarquait quatre lucarnes-mansardes arm&eacute;es de barreaux, c'&eacute;taient les
fen&ecirc;tres du Bel-Air. Une chemin&eacute;e per&ccedil;ait ce toit; c'&eacute;tait la chemin&eacute;e
qui traversait les dortoirs.

 
Le Bel-Air, ce comble du B&acirc;timent-Neuf, &eacute;tait une esp&egrave;ce de grande halle
mansard&eacute;e, ferm&eacute;e de triples grilles et de portes doubl&eacute;es de t&ocirc;le que
constellaient des clous d&eacute;mesur&eacute;s. Quand on y entrait par l'extr&eacute;mit&eacute;
nord, on avait &agrave; sa gauche les quatre lucarnes, et &agrave; sa droite, faisant
face aux lucarnes, quatre cages carr&eacute;es assez vastes, espac&eacute;es, s&eacute;par&eacute;es
par des couloirs &eacute;troits, construites jusqu'&agrave; hauteur d'appui en
ma&ccedil;onnerie et le reste jusqu'au toit en barreaux de fer.

 
Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait au secret dans une de ces cages, depuis la nuit du 3
f&eacute;vrier. On n'a jamais pu d&eacute;couvrir comment, et par quelle connivence,
il avait r&eacute;ussi &agrave; s'y procurer et &agrave; y cacher une bouteille de ce vin
invent&eacute;, dit-on, par Desrues, auquel se m&ecirc;le un narcotique et que la
bande des ''Endormeurs'' a rendu c&eacute;l&egrave;bre.

 
Il y a dans beaucoup de prisons des employ&eacute;s tra&icirc;tres, mi-partis
ge&ocirc;liers et voleurs, qui aident aux &eacute;vasions, qui vendent &agrave; la police
une domesticit&eacute; infid&egrave;le, et qui font danser l'anse du panier &agrave; salade.

 
Dans cette m&ecirc;me nuit donc, o&ugrave; le petit Gavroche avait recueilli les deux
enfants errants, Brujon et Gueulemer, qui savaient que Babet, &eacute;vad&eacute; le
matin m&ecirc;me, les attendait dans la rue ainsi que Montparnasse, se
lev&egrave;rent doucement et se mirent &agrave; percer avec le clou que Brujon avait
trouv&eacute; le tuyau de chemin&eacute;e auquel leurs lits touchaient. Les gravois
tombaient sur le lit de Brujon, de sorte qu'on ne les entendait pas. Les
giboul&eacute;es m&ecirc;l&eacute;es de tonnerre &eacute;branlaient les portes sur leurs gonds et
faisaient dans la prison un vacarme affreux et utile. Ceux des
prisonniers qui se r&eacute;veill&egrave;rent firent semblant de se rendormir et
laiss&egrave;rent faire Gueulemer et Brujon. Brujon &eacute;tait adroit; Gueulemer
&eacute;tait vigoureux. Avant qu'aucun bruit f&ucirc;t parvenu au surveillant couch&eacute;
dans la cellule grill&eacute;e qui avait jour sur le dortoir, le mur &eacute;tait
perc&eacute;, la chemin&eacute;e escalad&eacute;e, le treillis de fer qui fermait l'orifice
sup&eacute;rieur du tuyau forc&eacute;, et les deux redoutables bandits sur le toit.
La pluie et le vent redoublaient, le toit glissait.

 
&mdash;Quelle bonne sorgue pour une crampe! dit Brujon.

 
Un ab&icirc;me de six pieds de large et de quatre-vingts pieds de profondeur
les s&eacute;parait du mur de ronde. Au fond de cet ab&icirc;me ils voyaient reluire
dans l'obscurit&eacute; le fusil d'un factionnaire. Ils attach&egrave;rent par un bout
aux tron&ccedil;ons des barreaux de la chemin&eacute;e qu'ils venaient de tordre la
corde que Brujon avait fil&eacute;e dans son cachot, lanc&egrave;rent l'autre bout
par-dessus le mur de ronde, franchirent d'un bond l'ab&icirc;me, se
cramponn&egrave;rent au chevron du mur, l'enjamb&egrave;rent, se laiss&egrave;rent glisser
l'un apr&egrave;s l'autre le long de la corde sur un petit toit qui touche &agrave; la
maison des Bains, ramen&egrave;rent leur corde &agrave; eux, saut&egrave;rent dans la cour
des Bains, la travers&egrave;rent, pouss&egrave;rent le vasistas du portier, aupr&egrave;s
duquel pendait son cordon, tir&egrave;rent le cordon, ouvrirent la porte
coch&egrave;re, et se trouv&egrave;rent dans la rue.

 
Il n'y avait pas trois quarts d'heure qu'ils s'&eacute;taient lev&eacute;s debout sur
leurs lits dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, leur clou &agrave; la main, leur projet dans la
t&ecirc;te.

 
Quelques instants apr&egrave;s, ils avaient rejoint Babet et Montparnasse qui
r&ocirc;daient dans les environs.

 
En tirant leur corde &agrave; eux, ils l'avaient cass&eacute;e, et il en &eacute;tait rest&eacute;
un morceau attach&eacute; &agrave; la chemin&eacute;e sur le toit. Ils n'avaient du reste
d'autre avarie que de s'&ecirc;tre &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s enti&egrave;rement enlev&eacute; la peau des
mains.

 
Cette nuit-l&agrave;, Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait pr&eacute;venu, sans qu'on ait pu &eacute;claircir de
quelle fa&ccedil;on, et ne dormait pas.

 
Vers une heure du matin, la nuit &eacute;tant tr&egrave;s noire, il vit passer sur le
toit, dans la pluie et dans la bourrasque, devant la lucarne qui &eacute;tait
vis-&agrave;-vis de sa cage, deux ombres. L'une s'arr&ecirc;ta &agrave; la lucarne le temps
d'un regard. C'&eacute;tait Brujon. Th&eacute;nardier le reconnut, et comprit. Cela
lui suffit.

 
Th&eacute;nardier, signal&eacute; comme escarpe et d&eacute;tenu sous pr&eacute;vention de
guet-apens nocturne &agrave; main arm&eacute;e, &eacute;tait gard&eacute; &agrave; vue. Un factionnaire,
qu'on relevait de deux heures en deux heures, se promenait le fusil
charg&eacute; devant sa cage. Le Bel-Air &eacute;tait &eacute;clair&eacute; par une applique. Le
prisonnier avait aux pieds une paire de fers du poids de cinquante
livres. Tous les jours &agrave; quatre heures de l'apr&egrave;s-midi, un gardien
escort&eacute; de deux dogues,&mdash;cela se faisait encore ainsi &agrave; cette
&eacute;poque,&mdash;entrait dans sa cage, d&eacute;posait pr&egrave;s de son lit un pain noir de
deux livres, une cruche d'eau et une &eacute;cuelle pleine d'un bouillon assez
maigre o&ugrave; nageaient quelques gourganes, visitait ses fers et frappait
sur les barreaux. Cet homme avec ses dogues revenait deux fois dans la
nuit.

 
Th&eacute;nardier avait obtenu la permission de conserver une esp&egrave;ce de
cheville en fer dont il se servait pour clouer son pain dans une fente
de la muraille, &laquo;afin, disait-il, de le pr&eacute;server des rats&raquo;. Comme on
gardait Th&eacute;nardier &agrave; vue, on n'avait point trouv&eacute; d'inconv&eacute;nient &agrave; cette
cheville. Cependant on se souvint plus tard qu'un gardien avait dit:&mdash;Il
vaudrait mieux ne lui laisser qu'une cheville en bois.

 
&Agrave; deux heures du matin on vint changer le factionnaire qui &eacute;tait un
vieux soldat, et on le rempla&ccedil;a par un conscrit. Quelques instants
apr&egrave;s, l'homme aux chiens fit sa visite, et s'en alla sans avoir rien
remarqu&eacute;, si ce n'est la trop grande jeunesse et &laquo;l'air paysan&raquo; du
&laquo;tourlourou&raquo;. Deux heures apr&egrave;s, &agrave; quatre heures, quand on vint relever
le conscrit, on le trouva endormi et tomb&eacute; &agrave; terre comme un bloc pr&egrave;s de
la cage de Th&eacute;nardier. Quant &agrave; Th&eacute;nardier, il n'y &eacute;tait plus. Ses fers
bris&eacute;s &eacute;taient sur le carreau. Il y avait un trou au plafond de sa cage,
et, au-dessus, un autre trou dans le toit. Une planche de son lit avait
&eacute;t&eacute; arrach&eacute;e et sans doute emport&eacute;e, car on ne la retrouva point. On
saisit aussi dans la cellule une bouteille &agrave; moiti&eacute; vid&eacute;e qui contenait
le reste du vin stup&eacute;fiant avec lequel le soldat avait &eacute;t&eacute; endormi. La
bayonnette du soldat avait disparu.

 
Au moment o&ugrave; ceci fut d&eacute;couvert, on crut Th&eacute;nardier hors de toute
atteinte. La r&eacute;alit&eacute; est qu'il n'&eacute;tait plus dans le B&acirc;timent-Neuf, mais
qu'il &eacute;tait encore fort en danger. Son &eacute;vasion n'&eacute;tait point consomm&eacute;e.

 
Th&eacute;nardier, en arrivant sur le toit du B&acirc;timent-Neuf, avait trouv&eacute; le
reste de la corde de Brujon qui pendait aux barreaux de la trappe
sup&eacute;rieure de la chemin&eacute;e, mais ce bout cass&eacute; &eacute;tant beaucoup trop court,
il n'avait pu s'&eacute;vader par-dessus le chemin de ronde comme avaient fait
Brujon et Gueulemer.

 
Quand on d&eacute;tourne de la rue des Ballets dans la rue du Roi-de-Sicile, on
rencontre presque tout de suite &agrave; droite un enfoncement sordide. Il y
avait l&agrave; au si&egrave;cle dernier une maison dont il ne reste plus que le mur
de fond, v&eacute;ritable mur de masure qui s'&eacute;l&egrave;ve &agrave; la hauteur d'un troisi&egrave;me
&eacute;tage entre les b&acirc;timents voisins. Cette ruine est reconnaissable &agrave; deux
grandes fen&ecirc;tres carr&eacute;es qu'on y voit encore; celle du milieu, la plus
proche du pignon de droite, est barr&eacute;e d'une solive vermoulue ajust&eacute;e en
chevron d'&eacute;tai. &Agrave; travers ces fen&ecirc;tres on distinguait autrefois une
haute muraille lugubre qui &eacute;tait un morceau de l'enceinte du chemin de
ronde de la Force.

 
Le vide que la maison d&eacute;molie a laiss&eacute; sur la rue est &agrave; moiti&eacute; rempli
par une palissade en planches pourries contrebut&eacute;e de cinq bornes de
pierre. Dans cette cl&ocirc;ture se cache une petite baraque appuy&eacute;e &agrave; la
ruine rest&eacute;e debout. La palissade a une porte qui, il y a quelques
ann&eacute;es, n'&eacute;tait ferm&eacute;e que d'un loquet.

 
C'est sur la cr&ecirc;te de cette ruine que Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait parvenu un peu
apr&egrave;s trois heures du matin.

 
Comment &eacute;tait-il arriv&eacute; l&agrave;? C'est ce qu'on n'a jamais pu expliquer ni
comprendre. Les &eacute;clairs avaient d&ucirc; tout ensemble le g&ecirc;ner et l'aider.
S'&eacute;tait-il servi des &eacute;chelles et des &eacute;chafaudages des couvreurs pour
gagner de toit en toit, de cl&ocirc;ture en cl&ocirc;ture, de compartiment en
compartiment, les b&acirc;timents de la cour Charlemagne, puis les b&acirc;timents
de la cour Saint-Louis, le mur de ronde, et de l&agrave; la masure sur la rue
du Roi-de-Sicile? Mais il y avait dans ce trajet des solutions de
continuit&eacute; qui semblaient le rendre impossible. Avait-il pos&eacute; la planche
de son lit comme un pont du toit du Bel-Air au mur du chemin de ronde,
et s'&eacute;tait-il mis &agrave; ramper &agrave; plat ventre sur le chevron du mur de ronde
tout autour de la prison jusqu'&agrave; la masure? Mais le mur du chemin de
ronde de la Force dessinait une ligne cr&eacute;nel&eacute;e et in&eacute;gale, il montait et
descendait, il s'abaissait &agrave; la caserne des pompiers, il se relevait &agrave;
la maison des Bains, il &eacute;tait coup&eacute; par des constructions, il n'avait
pas la m&ecirc;me hauteur sur l'h&ocirc;tel Lamoignon que sur la rue Pav&eacute;e, il avait
partout des chutes et des angles droits; et puis les sentinelles
auraient d&ucirc; voir la sombre silhouette du fugitif; de cette fa&ccedil;on encore
le chemin fait par Th&eacute;nardier reste &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s inexplicable. Des deux
mani&egrave;res, fuite impossible. Th&eacute;nardier, illumin&eacute; par cette effrayante
soif de la libert&eacute; qui change les pr&eacute;cipices en foss&eacute;s, les grilles de
fer en claies d'osier, un cul-de-jatte en athl&egrave;te, un podagre en oiseau,
la stupidit&eacute; en instinct, l'instinct en intelligence et l'intelligence
en g&eacute;nie, Th&eacute;nardier avait-il invent&eacute; et improvis&eacute; une troisi&egrave;me
mani&egrave;re? On ne l'a jamais su.

 
On ne peut pas toujours se rendre compte des merveilles de l'&eacute;vasion.
L'homme qui s'&eacute;chappe, r&eacute;p&eacute;tons-le, est un inspir&eacute;; il y a de l'&eacute;toile
et de l'&eacute;clair dans la myst&eacute;rieuse lueur de la fuite; l'effort vers la
d&eacute;livrance n'est pas moins surprenant que le coup d'aile vers le
sublime; et l'on dit d'un voleur &eacute;vad&eacute;: Comment a-t-il fait pour
escalader ce toit? de m&ecirc;me qu'on dit de Corneille: O&ugrave; a-t-il trouv&eacute;
''Qu'il mour&ucirc;t?''

 
Quoi qu'il en soit, ruisselant de sueur, tremp&eacute; par la pluie, les
v&ecirc;tements en lambeaux, les mains &eacute;corch&eacute;es, les coudes en sang, les
genoux d&eacute;chir&eacute;s, Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait arriv&eacute; sur ce que les enfants, dans
leur langue figur&eacute;e, appellent ''le coupant'' du mur de la ruine, il s'y
&eacute;tait couch&eacute; tout de son long, et l&agrave;, la force lui avait manqu&eacute;. Un
escarpement &agrave; pic de la hauteur d'un troisi&egrave;me &eacute;tage le s&eacute;parait du pav&eacute;
de la rue.

 
La corde qu'il avait &eacute;tait trop courte.

 
Il attendait l&agrave;, p&acirc;le, &eacute;puis&eacute;, d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute; de tout l'espoir qu'il avait
eu, encore couvert par la nuit, mais se disant que le jour allait venir,
&eacute;pouvant&eacute; de l'id&eacute;e d'entendre avant quelques instants sonner &agrave;
l'horloge voisine de Saint-Paul quatre heures, heure o&ugrave; l'on viendrait
relever la sentinelle et o&ugrave; on la trouverait endormie sous le toit
perc&eacute;, regardant avec stupeur, &agrave; une profondeur terrible, &agrave; la lueur des
r&eacute;verb&egrave;res, le pav&eacute; mouill&eacute; et noir, ce pav&eacute; d&eacute;sir&eacute; et effroyable qui
&eacute;tait la mort et qui &eacute;tait la libert&eacute;.

 
Il se demandait si ses trois complices d'&eacute;vasion avaient r&eacute;ussi, s'ils
l'avaient attendu, et s'ils viendraient &agrave; son aide. Il &eacute;coutait. Except&eacute;
une patrouille, personne n'avait pass&eacute; dans la rue depuis qu'il &eacute;tait
l&agrave;. Presque toute la descente des mara&icirc;chers de Montreuil, de Charonne,
de Vincennes et de Bercy &agrave; la halle se fait par la rue Saint-Antoine.

 
Quatre heures sonn&egrave;rent. Th&eacute;nardier tressaillit, peu d'instants apr&egrave;s,
cette rumeur effar&eacute;e et confuse qui suit une &eacute;vasion d&eacute;couverte &eacute;clata
dans la prison. Le bruit des portes qu'on ouvre et qu'on ferme, le
grincement des grilles sur leurs gonds, le tumulte du corps de garde,
les appels rauques des guichetiers, le choc des crosses de fusil sur le
pav&eacute; des cours, arrivaient jusqu'&agrave; lui. Des lumi&egrave;res montaient et
descendaient aux fen&ecirc;tres grill&eacute;es des dortoirs, une torche courait sur
le comble du B&acirc;timent-Neuf, les pompiers de la caserne d'&agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; avaient
&eacute;t&eacute; appel&eacute;s. Leurs casques, que la torche &eacute;clairait dans la pluie,
allaient et venaient le long des toits. En m&ecirc;me temps Th&eacute;nardier voyait
du c&ocirc;t&eacute; de la Bastille une nuance blafarde blanchir lugubrement le bas
du ciel.

 
Lui &eacute;tait sur le haut d'un mur de dix pouces de large, &eacute;tendu sous
l'averse, avec deux gouffres &agrave; droite et &agrave; gauche, ne pouvant bouger, en
proie au vertige d'une chute possible et &agrave; l'horreur d'une arrestation
certaine, et sa pens&eacute;e, comme le battant d'une cloche, allait de l'une
de ces id&eacute;es &agrave; l'autre:&mdash;Mort si je tombe, pris si je reste.

 
Dans cette angoisse, il vit tout &agrave; coup, la rue &eacute;tant encore tout &agrave; fait
obscure, un homme qui se glissait le long des murailles et qui venait du
c&ocirc;t&eacute; de la rue Pav&eacute;e s'arr&ecirc;ter dans le renfoncement au-dessus duquel
Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait comme suspendu. Cet homme f&ucirc;t rejoint par un second qui
marchait avec la m&ecirc;me pr&eacute;caution, puis par un troisi&egrave;me, puis par un
quatri&egrave;me. Quand ces hommes furent r&eacute;unis, l'un d'eux souleva le loquet
de la porte de la palissade, et ils entr&egrave;rent tous quatre dans
l'enceinte o&ugrave; est la baraque. Ils se trouvaient pr&eacute;cis&eacute;ment au-dessous
de Th&eacute;nardier. Ces hommes avaient &eacute;videmment choisi ce renfoncement pour
pouvoir causer sans &ecirc;tre vus des passants ni de la sentinelle qui garde
le guichet de la Force &agrave; quelques pas de l&agrave;. Il faut dire aussi que la
pluie tenait cette sentinelle bloqu&eacute;e dans sa gu&eacute;rite. Th&eacute;nardier, ne
pouvant distinguer leurs visages, pr&ecirc;ta l'oreille &agrave; leurs paroles avec
l'attention d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute;e d'un mis&eacute;rable qui se sent perdu.

 
Th&eacute;nardier vit passer devant ses yeux quelque chose qui ressemblait &agrave;
l'esp&eacute;rance, ces hommes parlaient argot.

 
Le premier disait, bas, mais distinctement:

 
&mdash;D&eacute;carrons. Qu'est-ce que nous maquillons icigo?

 
Le second r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Allons nous en. Qu'est-ce que nous faisons ici?

 
&mdash;Il lansquine &agrave; &eacute;teindre le riffe du rabouin. Et puis les coqueurs vont
passer, il y a l&agrave; un grivier qui porte gaffe, nous allons nous faire
emballer icicaille.

 
Ces deux mots, ''icigo'' et ''icicaille'', qui tous deux veulent dire ici,
et qui appartiennent, le premier &agrave; l'argot des barri&egrave;res, le second &agrave;
l'argot du Temple, furent des traits de lumi&egrave;re pour Th&eacute;nardier. &Agrave; icigo
il reconnut Brujon, qui &eacute;tait r&ocirc;deur de barri&egrave;res, et &agrave; icicaille Babet,
qui, parmi tous ses m&eacute;tiers, avait &eacute;t&eacute; revendeur au Temple.

 
L'antique argot du grand si&egrave;cle ne se parle plus qu'au Temple, et Babet
&eacute;tait le seul m&ecirc;me qui le parl&acirc;t bien purement. Sans ''icicaille'',
Th&eacute;nardier ne l'aurait point reconnu, car il avait tout &agrave; fait d&eacute;natur&eacute;
sa voix.

 
Cependant le troisi&egrave;me &eacute;tait intervenu:

 
&mdash;Rien ne presse encore, attendons un peu. Qu'est-ce qui nous dit qu'il
n'a pas besoin de nous?

 
&Agrave; ceci, qui n'&eacute;tait que du fran&ccedil;ais, Th&eacute;nardier reconnut Montparnasse,
lequel mettait son &eacute;l&eacute;gance &agrave; entendre tous les argots et &agrave; n'en parler
aucun.

 
Quant au quatri&egrave;me, il se taisait, mais ses vastes &eacute;paules le
d&eacute;non&ccedil;aient. Th&eacute;nardier n'h&eacute;sita pas. C'&eacute;tait Gueulemer.

 
Brujon r&eacute;pliqua presque imp&eacute;tueusement, mais toujours &agrave; voix basse:

 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que tu nous bonis l&agrave;? Le tapissier n'aura pas pu tirer sa
crampe. Il ne sait pas le truc, quoi! Bouliner sa limace et faucher ses
empaffes pour maquiller une tortouse, caler des boulins aux lourdes,
braser des faffes, maquiller des caroubles, faucher les durs, balancer
sa tortouse dehors, se planquer, se camoufler, il faut &ecirc;tre mariol! Le
vieux n'aura pas pu, il ne sait pas goupiner!

 
Babet ajouta, toujours dans ce sage argot classique que parlaient
Poulailler et Cartouche, et qui est &agrave; l'argot hardi, nouveau, color&eacute; et
risqu&eacute; dont usait Brujon ce que la langue de Racine est &agrave; la langue
d'Andr&eacute; Ch&eacute;nier:

 
&mdash;Ton orgue tapissier aura &eacute;t&eacute; fait marron dans l'escalier. Il faut &ecirc;tre
arcasien. C'est un galifard. Il se sera laiss&eacute; jouer l'harnache par un
roussin, peut-&ecirc;tre m&ecirc;me par un roussi, qui lui aura battu comtois. Pr&ecirc;te
l'oche, Montparnasse, entends-tu ces criblements dans le coll&egrave;ge? Tu as
vu toutes ces camoufles. Il est tomb&eacute;, va! Il en sera quitte pour tirer
ses vingt longes. Je n'ai pas taf, je ne suis pas un taffeur, c'est
colomb&eacute;, mais il n'y a plus qu'&agrave; faire les l&eacute;zards, ou autrement on nous
la fera gambiller. Ne renaude pas, viens avec nousiergue, allons picter
une rouillarde encible.

 
&mdash;On ne laisse pas les amis dans l'embarras, grommela Montparnasse.

 
&mdash;Je te bonis qu'il est malade, reprit Brujon. &Agrave; l'heure qui toque, le
tapissier ne vaut pas une broque! Nous n'y pouvons rien. D&eacute;carrons. Je
crois &agrave; tout moment qu'un cogne me ceintre en pogne!

 
Montparnasse ne r&eacute;sistait plus que faiblement; le fait est que ces
quatre hommes, avec cette fid&eacute;lit&eacute; qu'ont les bandits de ne jamais
s'abandonner entre eux, avaient r&ocirc;d&eacute; toute la nuit autour de la Force,
quel que f&ucirc;t le p&eacute;ril, dans l'esp&eacute;rance de voir surgir au haut de
quelque muraille Th&eacute;nardier. Mais la nuit qui devenait vraiment trop
belle, c'&eacute;tait une averse &agrave; rendre toutes les rues d&eacute;sertes, le froid
qui les gagnait, leurs v&ecirc;tements tremp&eacute;s, leurs chaussures perc&eacute;es, le
bruit inqui&eacute;tant qui venait d'&eacute;clater dans la prison, les heures
&eacute;coul&eacute;es, les patrouilles rencontr&eacute;es, l'espoir qui s'en allait, la peur
qui revenait, tout cela les poussait &agrave; la retraite. Montparnasse
lui-m&ecirc;me, qui &eacute;tait peut-&ecirc;tre un peu le gendre de Th&eacute;nardier, c&eacute;dait. Un
moment de plus, ils &eacute;taient partis. Th&eacute;nardier haletait sur son mur
comme les naufrag&eacute;s de la ''M&eacute;duse'' sur leur radeau en voyant le navire
apparu s'&eacute;vanouir &agrave; l'horizon.

 
Il n'osait les appeler, un cri entendu pouvait tout perdre, il eut une
id&eacute;e, une derni&egrave;re, une lueur; il prit dans sa poche le bout de la corde
de Brujon qu'il avait d&eacute;tach&eacute; de la chemin&eacute;e du B&acirc;timent-Neuf, et le
jeta dans l'enceinte de la palissade.

 
Cette corde tomba &agrave; leurs pieds.

 
&mdash;Une veuve, dit Babet.

 
&mdash;Ma tortouse! dit Brujon.

 
&mdash;L'aubergiste est l&agrave;, dit Montparnasse.

 
Ils lev&egrave;rent les yeux. Th&eacute;nardier avan&ccedil;a un peu la t&ecirc;te.

 
&mdash;Vite! dit Montparnasse, as-tu l'autre bout de la corde, Brujon?

 
&mdash;Oui.

 
&mdash;Noue les deux bouts ensemble, nous lui jetterons la corde, il la
fixera au mur, il en aura assez pour descendre.

 
Th&eacute;nardier se risqua &agrave; &eacute;lever la voix.

 
&mdash;Je suis transi.

 
&mdash;On te r&eacute;chauffera.

 
&mdash;Je ne puis plus bouger.

 
&mdash;Tu te laisseras glisser, nous te recevrons.

 
&mdash;J'ai les mains gourdes.

 
&mdash;Noue seulement la corde au mur.

 
&mdash;Je ne pourrai pas.

 
&mdash;Il faut que l'un de nous monte, dit Montparnasse.

 
&mdash;Trois &eacute;tages! fit Brujon.

 
Un ancien conduit en pl&acirc;tre, lequel avait servi &agrave; un po&ecirc;le qu'on
allumait jadis dans la baraque, rampait le long du mur et montait
presque jusqu'&agrave; l'endroit o&ugrave; l'on apercevait Th&eacute;nardier. Ce tuyau, alors
fort l&eacute;zard&eacute; et tout crevass&eacute;, est tomb&eacute; depuis, mais on en voit encore
les traces. Il &eacute;tait fort &eacute;troit.

 
&mdash;On pourrait monter par l&agrave;, fit Montparnasse.

 
&mdash;Par ce tuyau? s'&eacute;cria Babet, un orgue! jamais! il faudrait un mion.

 
&mdash;Il faudrait un m&ocirc;me, reprit Brujon.

 
&mdash;O&ugrave; trouver un moucheron? dit Gueulemer.

 
&mdash;Attendez, dit Montparnasse. J'ai l'affaire.

 
Il entr'ouvrit doucement la porte de la palissade, s'assura qu'aucun
passant ne traversait la rue, sortit avec pr&eacute;caution, referma la porte
derri&egrave;re lui, et partit en courant dans la direction de la Bastille.

 
Sept ou huit minutes s'&eacute;coul&egrave;rent, huit mille si&egrave;cles pour Th&eacute;nardier;
Babet, Brujon et Gueulemer ne desserraient pas les dents; la porte se
rouvrit enfin, et Montparnasse parut, essouffl&eacute;, et amenant Gavroche. La
pluie continuait de faire la rue compl&egrave;tement d&eacute;serte.

 
Le petit Gavroche entra dans l'enceinte et regarda ces figures de
bandits d'un air tranquille. L'eau lui d&eacute;gouttait des cheveux. Gueulemer
lui adressa la parole:

 
&mdash;Mioche, es-tu un homme?

 
Gavroche haussa les &eacute;paules et r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Un m&ocirc;me comme m&eacute;zig est un orgue, et des orgues comme vousailles sont
des m&ocirc;mes.

 
&mdash;Comme le mion joue du crachoir! s'&eacute;cria Babet.

 
&mdash;Le m&ocirc;me pantinois n'est pas maquill&eacute; de fertille lansquin&eacute;e, ajouta
Brujon.

 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce qu'il vous faut? dit Gavroche.

 
Montparnasse r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Grimper par ce tuyau.

 
&mdash;Avec cette veuve, f&icirc;t Babet.

 
&mdash;Et ligoter la tortouse, continua Brujon.

 
&mdash;Au mont&eacute; du montant, reprit Babet.

 
&mdash;Au pieu de la vanterne, ajouta Brujon.

 
&mdash;Et puis? dit Gavroche.

 
&mdash;Voil&agrave;! dit Gueulemer.

 
Le gamin examina la corde, le tuyau, le mur, les fen&ecirc;tres, et fit cet
inexprimable et d&eacute;daigneux bruit des l&egrave;vres qui signifie:

 
&mdash;Que &ccedil;a!

 
&mdash;Il y a un homme l&agrave;-haut que tu sauveras, reprit Montparnasse.

 
&mdash;Veux-tu? reprit Brujon.

 
&mdash;Serin! r&eacute;pondit l'enfant comme si la question lui paraissait inou&iuml;e;
et il &ocirc;ta ses souliers.

 
Gueulemer saisit Gavroche d'un bras, le posa sur le toit de la baraque,
dont les planches vermoulues pliaient sous le poids de l'enfant, et lui
remit la corde que Brujon avait renou&eacute;e pendant l'absence de
Montparnasse. Le gamin se dirigea vers le tuyau o&ugrave; il &eacute;tait facile
d'entrer gr&acirc;ce &agrave; une large crevasse qui touchait au toit. Au moment o&ugrave;
il allait monter, Th&eacute;nardier, qui voyait le salut et la vie s'approcher,
se pencha au bord du mur; la premi&egrave;re lueur du jour blanchissait son
front inond&eacute; de sueur, ses pommettes livides, son nez effil&eacute; et sauvage,
sa barbe grise toute h&eacute;riss&eacute;e, et Gavroche le reconnut.

 
&mdash;Tiens! dit-il, c'est mon p&egrave;re!... Oh! cela n'emp&ecirc;che pas.

 
Et prenant la corde dans ses dents, il commen&ccedil;a r&eacute;sol&ucirc;ment l'escalade.

 
Il parvint au haut de la masure, enfourcha le vieux mur comme un cheval,
et noua solidement la corde &agrave; la traverse sup&eacute;rieure de la fen&ecirc;tre.

 
Un moment apr&egrave;s, Th&eacute;nardier &eacute;tait dans la rue.

 
D&egrave;s qu'il eut touch&eacute; le pav&eacute;, d&egrave;s qu'il se sentit hors de danger, il ne
fut plus ni fatigu&eacute;, ni transi, ni tremblant; les choses terribles dont
il sortait s'&eacute;vanouirent comme une fum&eacute;e, toute cette &eacute;trange et f&eacute;roce
intelligence se r&eacute;veilla, et se trouva debout et libre, pr&ecirc;te &agrave; marcher
devant elle. Voici quel fut le premier mot de cet homme:

 
&mdash;Maintenant, qui allons-nous manger?

 
Il est inutile d'expliquer le sens de ce mot affreusement transparent
qui signifie tout &agrave; la fois tuer, assassiner et d&eacute;valiser. ''Manger'',
sens vrai: ''d&eacute;vorer''.

 
&mdash;Rencognons-nous bien, dit Brujon. Finissons en trois mots, et nous
nous s&eacute;parerons tout de suite. Il y avait une affaire qui avait l'air
bonne rue Plumet, une rue d&eacute;serte, une maison isol&eacute;e, une vieille grille
pourrie sur un jardin, des femmes seules.

 
&mdash;Eh bien! pourquoi pas? demanda Th&eacute;nardier.

 
&mdash;Ta f&eacute;e, &Eacute;ponine, a &eacute;t&eacute; voir la chose, r&eacute;pondit Babet.

 
&mdash;Et elle a apport&eacute; un biscuit &agrave; Magnon, ajouta Gueulemer. Rien &agrave;
maquiller l&agrave;.

 
&mdash;La f&eacute;e n'est pas loffe, fit Th&eacute;nardier. Pourtant il faudra voir.

 
&mdash;Oui, oui, dit Brujon, il faudra voir.

 
Cependant aucun de ces hommes n'avait plus l'air de voir Gavroche qui,
pendant ce colloque, s'&eacute;tait assis sur une des bornes de la palissade;
il attendit quelques instants, peut-&ecirc;tre que son p&egrave;re se tourn&acirc;t vers
lui, puis il remit ses souliers, et dit:

 
&mdash;C'est fini? Vous n'avez plus besoin de moi, les hommes? vous voil&agrave;
tir&eacute;s d'affaire. Je m'en vas. Il faut que j'aille lever mes m&ocirc;mes.

 
Et il s'en alla.

 
Les cinq hommes sortirent l'un apr&egrave;s l'autre de la palissade.

 
Quand Gavroche eut disparu au tournant de la rue des Ballets, Babet prit
Th&eacute;nardier &agrave; part:

 
&mdash;As-tu regard&eacute; ce mion? lui demanda-t-il.

 
&mdash;Quel mion?

 
&mdash;Le mion qui a grimp&eacute; au mur et t'a port&eacute; la corde.

 
&mdash;Pas trop.

 
&mdash;Eh bien, je ne sais pas, mais il me semble que c'est ton fils.

 
&mdash;Bah! dit Th&eacute;nardier, crois-tu?

 
Et il s'en alla.

 
==English text==

This is what had taken place that same night at the La Force:&mdash;
     
An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and
Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close confinement. Babet had
arranged the matter for his own benefit, on the same day, as the reader
has seen from Montparnasse's account to Gavroche. Montparnasse was to help
them from outside.

 
Brujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell, had had time,
in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second, to mature a plan. In
former times, those severe places where the discipline of the prison
delivers the convict into his own hands, were composed of four stone
walls, a stone ceiling, a flagged pavement, a camp bed, a grated window,
and a door lined with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon was
judged to be too terrible; nowadays they are composed of an iron door, a
grated window, a camp bed, a flagged pavement, four stone walls, and a
stone ceiling, and are called chambers of punishment. A little light
penetrates towards mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers
which, as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that they allow the
persons who should be at work to think.

 
So Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber of punishment with a
rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in the Charlemagne
courtyard, he was placed in the New Building. The first thing he found in
the New Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail; Guelemer, that is to
say, crime; a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom it is high
time that the reader should have a complete idea, was, with an appearance
of delicate health and a profoundly premeditated languor, a polished,
intelligent sprig, and a thief, who had a caressing glance, and an
atrocious smile. His glance resulted from his will, and his smile from his
nature. His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had
made great progress in the industry of the men who tear off lead, who
plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the process called double
pickings.

 
The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment peculiarly
favorable for an attempt at escape, was that the roofers were re-laying
and re-jointing, at that very moment, a portion of the slates on the
prison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated from
the Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts. Up above there were
scaffoldings and ladders; in other words, bridges and stairs in the
direction of liberty.

 
The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing to be seen
anywhere in the world, was the weak point in the prison. The walls were
eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the authorities had been obliged
to line the vaults of the dormitories with a sheathing of wood, because
stones were in the habit of becoming detached and falling on the prisoners
in their beds. In spite of this antiquity, the authorities committed the
error of confining in the New Building the most troublesome prisoners, of
placing there "the hard cases," as they say in prison parlance.

 
The New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other, and a
top story which was called the Bel-Air (Fine Air). A large chimney-flue,
probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de la Force, started from
the groundfloor, traversed all four stories, cut the dormitories, where it
figured as a flattened pillar, into two portions, and finally pierced the
roof.

 
Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed, by
way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that the heads of
their beds should rest against the chimney.

 
Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story known as
Fine-Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,
after passing the barracks of the firemen, in front of the porte-cochère
of the bathing establishment, beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in
wooden boxes, at the extremity of which spreads out a little white rotunda
with two wings, brightened up with green shutters, the bucolic dream of
Jean Jacques.

 
Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda an enormous
black, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up.

 
This was the outer wall of La Force.

 
This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.

 
Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof, which
could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the New Building. There one
could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars; they were the windows
of the Fine-Air.

 
A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed the
dormitories.

 
The Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of large hall,
with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and double doors of
sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts. When one entered from
the north end, one had on one's left the four dormer-windows, on one's
right, facing the windows, at regular intervals, four square, tolerably
vast cages, separated by narrow passages, built of masonry to about the
height of the elbow, and the rest, up to the roof, of iron bars.

 
Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages since
the night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to discover how, and
by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring, and secreting a bottle of
wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues, with which a narcotic is mixed,
and which the band of the Endormeurs, or Sleep-compellers, rendered
famous.

 
There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers,
half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police an unfaithful
service, and who turn a penny whenever they can.

 
On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two lost
children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped that
morning, was waiting for them in the street as well as Montparnasse, rose
softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found, began to pierce the
chimney against which their beds stood. The rubbish fell on Brujon's bed,
so that they were not heard. Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors
on their hinges, and created in the prison a terrible and opportune
uproar. Those of the prisoners who woke, pretended to fall asleep again,
and left Guelemer and Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit;
Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher, who was
sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormitory, the wall had,
been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating which barred the upper
orifice of the flue forced, and the two redoubtable ruffians were on the
roof. The wind and rain redoubled, the roof was slippery.

 
"What a good night to leg it!" said Brujon.

 
An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from the
surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they could see the musket
of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom. They fastened one end of the
rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon to the stumps of the iron bars
which they had just wrenched off, flung the other over the outer wall,
crossed the abyss at one bound, clung to the coping of the wall, got
astride of it, let themselves slip, one after the other, along the rope,
upon a little roof which touches the bath-house, pulled their rope after
them, jumped down into the courtyard of the bath-house, traversed it,
pushed open the porter's wicket, beside which hung his rope, pulled this,
opened the porte-cochère, and found themselves in the street.

 
Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen in bed in
the dark, nail in hand, and their project in their heads.

 
A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse, who were
prowling about the neighborhood.

 
They had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and a bit of it
remained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had sustained no other
damage, however, than that of scratching nearly all the skin off their
hands.

 
That night, Thenardier was warned, without any one being able to explain
how, and was not asleep.

 
Towards one o'clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he saw two
shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and squalls, in front of the
dormer-window which was opposite his cage. One halted at the window, long
enough to dart in a glance. This was Brujon.

 
Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough.

 
Thenardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure of precaution
under the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambush, with armed force, was
kept in sight. The sentry, who was relieved every two hours, marched up
and down in front of his cage with loaded musket. The Fine-Air was lighted
by a skylight. The prisoner had on his feet fetters weighing fifty pounds.
Every day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a jailer, escorted by two
dogs,&mdash;this was still in vogue at that time,&mdash;entered his cage,
deposited beside his bed a loaf of black bread weighing two pounds, a jug
of water, a bowl filled with rather thin bouillon, in which swam a few
Mayagan beans, inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his
dogs made two visits during the night.

 
Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt which he
used to spike his bread into a crack in the wall, "in order to preserve it
from the rats," as he said. As Thenardier was kept in sight, no objection
had been made to this spike. Still, it was remembered afterwards, that one
of the jailers had said: "It would be better to let him have only a wooden
spike."

 
At two o'clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old soldier, was
relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few moments later, the man with
the dogs paid his visit, and went off without noticing anything, except,
possibly, the excessive youth and "the rustic air" of the "raw recruit."
Two hours afterwards, at four o'clock, when they came to relieve the
conscript, he was found asleep on the floor, lying like a log near
Thenardier's cage. As for Thenardier, he was no longer there. There was a
hole in the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, another hole in the roof.
One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched off, and probably carried
away with him, as it was not found. They also seized in his cell a
half-empty bottle which contained the remains of the stupefying wine with
which the soldier had been drugged. The soldier's bayonet had disappeared.

 
At the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that Thenardier
was out of reach. The truth is, that he was no longer in the New Building,
but that he was still in great danger.

 
Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had found the
remains of Brujon's rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap of the
chimney, but, as this broken fragment was much too short, he had not been
able to escape by the outer wall, as Brujon and Guelemer had done.

 
When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, one
almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin. There stood on that spot,
in the last century, a house of which only the back wall now remains, a
regular wall of masonry, which rises to the height of the third story
between the adjoining buildings. This ruin can be recognized by two large
square windows which are still to be seen there; the middle one, that
nearest the right gable, is barred with a worm-eaten beam adjusted like a
prop. Through these windows there was formerly visible a lofty and
lugubrious wall, which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force.

 
The empty space on the street left by the demolished house is half-filled
by a fence of rotten boards, shored up by five stone posts. In this recess
lies concealed a little shanty which leans against the portion of the ruin
which has remained standing. The fence has a gate, which, a few years ago,
was fastened only by a latch.

 
It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded in reaching, a
little after one o'clock in the morning.

 
How had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able to explain or
understand. The lightning must, at the same time, have hindered and helped
him. Had he made use of the ladders and scaffoldings of the slaters to get
from roof to roof, from enclosure to enclosure, from compartment to
compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then to the
buildings of the Saint-Louis court, to the outer wall, and thence to the
hut on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in that itinerary there existed
breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he placed the plank
from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Fine-Air to the outer
wall, and crawled flat, on his belly on the coping of the outer wall the
whole distance round the prison as far as the hut? But the outer wall of
La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line; it mounted and descended,
it dropped at the firemen's barracks, it rose towards the bath-house, it
was cut in twain by buildings, it was not even of the same height on the
Hotel Lamoignon as on the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls and right
angles; and then, the sentinels must have espied the dark form of the
fugitive; hence, the route taken by Thenardier still remains rather
inexplicable. In two manners, flight was impossible. Had Thenardier,
spurred on by that thirst for liberty which changes precipices into
ditches, iron bars into wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a
gouty man into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into
intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier invented a
third mode? No one has ever found out.

 
The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man who makes
his escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and of
the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight; the effort towards
deliverance is no less surprising than the flight towards the sublime, and
one says of the escaped thief: "How did he contrive to scale that wall?"
in the same way that one says of Corneille: "Where did he find the means
of dying?"

 
At all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with rain, with his
clothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his elbows bleeding, his
knees torn, Thenardier had reached what children, in their figurative
language, call the edge of the wall of the ruin, there he had stretched
himself out at full length, and there his strength had failed him. A steep
escarpment three stories high separated him from the pavement of the
street.

 
The rope which he had was too short.

 
There he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the despair which he
had undergone, still hidden by the night, but telling himself that the day
was on the point of dawning, alarmed at the idea of hearing the
neighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four within a few minutes, an hour
when the sentinel was relieved and when the latter would be found asleep
under the pierced roof, staring in horror at a terrible depth, at the
light of the street lanterns, the wet, black pavement, that pavement
longed for yet frightful, which meant death, and which meant liberty.

 
He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded, if
they had heard him, and if they would come to his assistance. He listened.
With the exception of the patrol, no one had passed through the street
since he had been there. Nearly the whole of the descent of the
market-gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne, from Vincennes, and from
Bercy to the markets was accomplished through the Rue Saint-Antoine.

 
Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments later, that
terrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery of an escape
broke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening and shutting, the
creaking of gratings on their hinges, a tumult in the guard-house, the
hoarse shouts of the turnkeys, the shock of musket-butts on the pavement
of the courts, reached his ears. Lights ascended and descended past the
grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along the ridge-pole of the
top story of the New Building, the firemen belonging in the barracks on
the right had been summoned. Their helmets, which the torch lighted up in
the rain, went and came along the roofs. At the same time, Thenardier
perceived in the direction of the Bastille a wan whiteness lighting up the
edge of the sky in doleful wise.

 
He was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out under the heavy
rains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable to stir, subject to the
giddiness of a possible fall, and to the horror of a certain arrest, and
his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, swung from one of these ideas
to the other: "Dead if I fall, caught if I stay." In the midst of this
anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still dark, a man who was
gliding along the walls and coming from the Rue Pavee, halt in the recess
above which Thenardier was, as it were, suspended. Here this man was
joined by a second, who walked with the same caution, then by a third,
then by a fourth. When these men were re-united, one of them lifted the
latch of the gate in the fence, and all four entered the enclosure in
which the shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier. These men
had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they might consult
without being seen by the passers-by or by the sentinel who guards the
wicket of La Force a few paces distant. It must be added, that the rain
kept this sentinel blocked in his box. Thenardier, not being able to
distinguish their visages, lent an ear to their words with the desperate
attention of a wretch who feels himself lost.

 
Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before his eyes,&mdash;these
men conversed in slang.

 
The first said in a low but distinct voice:&mdash;

 
"Let's cut. What are we up to here?"

 
The second replied: "It's raining hard enough to put out the very devil's
fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter. There's a soldier on guard
yonder. We shall get nabbed here."

 
These two words, icigo and icicaille, both of which mean ici, and which
belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second to the slang of
the Temple, were flashes of light for Thenardier. By the icigo he
recognized Brujon, who was a prowler of the barriers, by the icicaille he
knew Babet, who, among his other trades, had been an old-clothes broker at
the Temple.

 
The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except in the
Temple, and Babet was really the only person who spoke it in all its
purity. Had it not been for the icicaille, Thenardier would not have
recognized him, for he had entirely changed his voice.

 
In the meanwhile, the third man had intervened.

 
"There's no hurry yet, let's wait a bit. How do we know that he doesn't
stand in need of us?"

 
By this, which was nothing but French, Thenardier recognized Montparnasse,
who made it a point in his elegance to understand all slangs and to speak
none of them.

 
As for the fourth, he held his peace, but his huge shoulders betrayed him.
Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer.

 
Brujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone:&mdash;

 
"What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn't managed to cut his
stick. He don't tumble to the racket, that he don't! You have to be a
pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up your sheet to make a
rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers, make false keys, file
your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself, and disguise yourself! The
old fellow hasn't managed to play it, he doesn't understand how to work
the business."

 
Babet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken by Poulailler
and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, highly colored and risky
argot used by Brujon what the language of Racine is to the language of
Andre Chenier:&mdash;

 
"Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have to be
knowing. He's only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be taken in by a
bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as his pal. Listen,
Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison? You have seen all
those lights. He's recaptured, there! He'll get off with twenty years. I
ain't afraid, I ain't a coward, but there ain't anything more to do, or
otherwise they'd lead us a dance. Don't get mad, come with us, let's go
drink a bottle of old wine together."

 
"One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape," grumbled Montparnasse.

 
"I tell you he's nabbed!" retorted Brujon. "At the present moment, the
inn-keeper ain't worth a ha'penny. We can't do nothing for him. Let's be
off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist."

 
Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance; the fact is,
that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who never abandon each
other, had prowled all night long about La Force, great as was their
peril, in the hope of seeing Thenardier make his appearance on the top of
some wall. But the night, which was really growing too fine,&mdash;for the
downpour was such as to render all the streets deserted,&mdash;the cold
which was overpowering them, their soaked garments, their hole-ridden
shoes, the alarming noise which had just burst forth in the prison, the
hours which had elapsed, the patrol which they had encountered, the hope
which was vanishing, all urged them to beat a retreat. Montparnasse
himself, who was, perhaps, almost Thenardier's son-in-law, yielded. A
moment more, and they would be gone. Thenardier was panting on his wall
like the shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they
beheld the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon.

 
He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything. An
idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration; he drew from
his pocket the end of Brujon's rope, which he had detached from the
chimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space enclosed by the
fence.

 
This rope fell at their feet.

 
"A widow,"[[37]]
said Babet.

 
"My tortouse!"[[38]]
said Brujon.

 
"The tavern-keeper is there," said Montparnasse.

 
They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.

 
"Quick!" said Montparnasse, "have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?"

 
"Yes."

 
"Knot the two pieces together, we'll fling him the rope, he can fasten it
to the wall, and he'll have enough of it to get down with."

 
Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke:&mdash;

 
"I am paralyzed with cold."

 
"We'll warm you up."

 
"I can't budge."

 
"Let yourself slide, we'll catch you."

 
"My hands are benumbed."

 
"Only fasten the rope to the wall."

 
"I can't."

 
"Then one of us must climb up," said Montparnasse.

 
"Three stories!" ejaculated Brujon.

 
An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had been used
in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and mounted almost to
the very spot where they could see Thenardier. This flue, then much
damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen, but the marks of it are
still visible.

 
It was very narrow.

 
"One might get up by the help of that," said Montparnasse.

 
"By that flue?" exclaimed Babet, "a grown-up cove, never! it would take a
brat."

 
"A brat must be got," resumed Brujon.

 
"Where are we to find a young 'un?" said Guelemer.

 
"Wait," said Montparnasse. "I've got the very article."

 
He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was
passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind
him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.

 
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier;
Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate
opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed by
Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.

 
Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these
ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair.
Guelemer addressed him:&mdash;

 
"Are you a man, young 'un?"

 
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:&mdash;

 
"A young 'un like me's a man, and men like you are babes."

 
"The brat's tongue's well hung!" exclaimed Babet.

 
"The Paris brat ain't made of straw," added Brujon.

 
"What do you want?" asked Gavroche.

 
Montparnasse answered:&mdash;

 
"Climb up that flue."

 
"With this rope," said Babet.

 
"And fasten it," continued Brujon.

 
"To the top of the wall," went on Babet.

 
"To the cross-bar of the window," added Brujon.

 
"And then?" said Gavroche.

 
"There!" said Guelemer.

 
The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and made
that indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips which signifies:&mdash;

 
"Is that all!"

 
"There's a man up there whom you are to save," resumed Montparnasse.

 
"Will you?" began Brujon again.

 
"Greenhorn!" replied the lad, as though the question appeared a most
unprecedented one to him.

 
And he took off his shoes.

 
Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of the shanty,
whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin's weight, and handed him
the rope which Brujon had knotted together during Montparnasse's absence.
The gamin directed his steps towards the flue, which it was easy to enter,
thanks to a large crack which touched the roof. At the moment when he was
on the point of ascending, Thenardier, who saw life and safety
approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the first light of dawn
struck white upon his brow dripping with sweat, upon his livid
cheek-bones, his sharp and savage nose, his bristling gray beard, and
Gavroche recognized him.

 
"Hullo! it's my father! Oh, that won't hinder."

 
And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent.

 
He reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as though it had
been a horse, and knotted the rope firmly to the upper cross-bar of the
window.

 
A moment later, Thenardier was in the street.

 
As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found himself out of
danger, he was no longer either weary, or chilled or trembling; the
terrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke, all that
strange and ferocious mind awoke once more, and stood erect and free,
ready to march onward.

 
These were this man's first words:&mdash;

 
"Now, whom are we to eat?"

 
It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent remark,
which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder. To eat, true
sense: to devour.

 
"Let's get well into a corner," said Brujon. "Let's settle it in three
words, and part at once. There was an affair that promised well in the Rue
Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate on a
garden, and lone women."

 
"Well! why not?" demanded Thenardier.

 
"Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter," replied Babet.

 
"And she brought a biscuit to Magnon," added Guelemer. "Nothing to be made
there."

 
"The girl's no fool," said Thenardier. "Still, it must be seen to."

 
"Yes, yes," said Brujon, "it must be looked up."

 
In the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who, during this
colloquy, had seated himself on one of the fence-posts; he waited a few
moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him, then he
put on his shoes again, and said:&mdash;

 
"Is that all? You don't want any more, my men? Now you're out of your
scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my brats out of bed."

 
And off he went.

 
The five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.

 
When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet
took Thenardier aside.

 
"Did you take a good look at that young 'un?" he asked.

 
"What young 'un?"

 
"The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope."

 
"Not particularly."

 
"Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son."

 
"Bah!" said Thenardier, "do you think so?"


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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