Editing Volume 4/Book 7/Chapter 2

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Seventh: Slang, Chapter 2: Roots<br />
((Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre septi&egrave;me:  L'argot, Chapitre 2: Racines)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
La pens&eacute;e est &eacute;mue dans ses plus sombres profondeurs, la philosophie
sociale est sollicit&eacute;e &agrave; ses m&eacute;ditations les plus poignantes, en
pr&eacute;sence de cet &eacute;nigmatique dialecte &agrave; la fois fl&eacute;tri et r&eacute;volt&eacute;. C'est
l&agrave; qu'il y a du ch&acirc;timent visible. Chaque syllabe y a l'air marqu&eacute;e. Les
mots de la langue vulgaire y apparaissent comme fronc&eacute;s et racornis sous
le fer rouge du bourreau. Quelques-uns semblent fumer encore. Telle
phrase vous fait l'effet de l'&eacute;paule fleurdelys&eacute;e d'un voleur
brusquement mise &agrave; nu. L'id&eacute;e refuse presque de se laisser exprimer par
ces substantifs repris de justice. La m&eacute;taphore y est parfois si
effront&eacute;e qu'on sent qu'elle a &eacute;t&eacute; au carcan.

 
Du reste, malgr&eacute; tout cela et &agrave; cause de tout cela, ce patois &eacute;trange a
de droit son compartiment dans ce grand casier impartial o&ugrave; il y a place
pour le liard oxyd&eacute; comme pour la m&eacute;daille d'or, et qu'on nomme la
litt&eacute;rature. L'argot, qu'on y consente ou non, a sa syntaxe et sa
po&eacute;sie. C'est une langue. Si, &agrave; la difformit&eacute; de certains vocables, on
reconna&icirc;t qu'elle a &eacute;t&eacute; m&acirc;ch&eacute;e par Mandrin, &agrave; la splendeur de certaines
m&eacute;tonymies, on sent que Villon l'a parl&eacute;e.

 
Ce vers si exquis et si c&eacute;l&egrave;bre:

 
''Mais o&ugrave; sont les neiges d'antan?''<br>

 
est un vers d'argot. Antan&mdash;''ante annum''&mdash;est un mot de l'argot de
Thunes qui signifiait l'''an pass&eacute;'' et par extension ''autrefois''. On
pouvait encore lire il y a trente-cinq ans, &agrave; l'&eacute;poque du d&eacute;part de la
grande cha&icirc;ne de 1827, dans un des cachots de Bic&ecirc;tre, cette maxime
grav&eacute;e au clou sur le mur par un roi de Thunes condamn&eacute; aux gal&egrave;res:
''Les dabs d'antan trimaient siempre pour la pierre du Co&euml;sre''. Ce qui
veut dire: ''Les rois d'autrefois allaient toujours se faire sacrer''.
Dans la pens&eacute;e de ce roi-l&agrave;, le sacre, c'&eacute;tait le bagne.

 
Le mot ''d&eacute;carade'', qui exprime le d&eacute;part d'une lourde voiture au galop,
est attribu&eacute; &agrave; Villon, et il en est digne. Ce mot, qui fait feu des
quatre pieds, r&eacute;sume dans une onomatop&eacute;e magistrale tout l'admirable
vers de La Fontaine:

 
''Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche.''

 
Au point de vue purement litt&eacute;raire, peu d'&eacute;tudes seraient plus
curieuses et plus f&eacute;condes que celle de l'argot. C'est toute une langue
dans la langue, une sorte d'excroissance maladive, une greffe malsaine
qui a produit une v&eacute;g&eacute;tation, un parasite qui a ses racines dans le
vieux tronc gaulois et dont le feuillage sinistre rampe sur tout un c&ocirc;t&eacute;
de la langue. Ceci est ce qu'on pourrait appeler le premier aspect,
l'aspect vulgaire de l'argot. Mais, pour ceux qui &eacute;tudient la langue
ainsi qu'il faut l'&eacute;tudier, c'est-&agrave;-dire comme les g&eacute;ologues &eacute;tudient la
terre, l'argot appara&icirc;t comme une v&eacute;ritable alluvion. Selon qu'on y
creuse plus ou moins avant, on trouve dans l'argot, au-dessous du vieux
fran&ccedil;ais populaire, le proven&ccedil;al, l'espagnol, de l'italien, du levantin,
cette langue des ports de la M&eacute;diterran&eacute;e, de l'anglais et de
l'allemand, du roman dans ses trois vari&eacute;t&eacute;s, roman fran&ccedil;ais, roman
italien, roman roman, du latin, enfin du basque et du celte. Formation
profonde et bizarre. &Eacute;difice souterrain b&acirc;ti en commun par tous les
mis&eacute;rables. Chaque race maudite a d&eacute;pos&eacute; sa couche, chaque souffrance a
laiss&eacute; tomber sa pierre, chaque c&oelig;ur a donn&eacute; son caillou. Une foule
d'&acirc;mes mauvaises, basses ou irrit&eacute;es, qui ont travers&eacute; la vie et sont
all&eacute;es s'&eacute;vanouir dans l'&eacute;ternit&eacute;, sont l&agrave; presque enti&egrave;res et en
quelque sorte visibles encore sous la forme d'un mot monstrueux.

 
Veut-on de l'espagnol? le vieil argot gothique en fourmille. Voici
''boffette'', soufflet, qui vient de ''bofeton; vantane'', fen&ecirc;tre (plus
tard vanterne), qui vient de ''vantana; gat'', chat, qui vient de ''gato;
acite'', huile, qui vient de ''aceyte''. Veut-on de l'italien? Voici
''spade'', &eacute;p&eacute;e, qui vient de ''spada; carvel'', bateau, qui vient de
''caravella''. Veut-on de l'anglais? Voici le ''bichot'', l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, qui
vient de ''bishop; raille'', espion, qui vient de ''rascal, rascalion'',
coquin; ''pilcker'', &eacute;tui, qui vient de ''pilcher'', fourreau. Veut-on de
l'allemand? Voici le ''caleur'', le gar&ccedil;on, ''kellner;'' le ''hers'', le
ma&icirc;tre, ''herzog'' (duc). Veut-on du latin? Voici ''frangir'', casser,
''frangere; affurer'', voler, ''fur; cad&egrave;ne'', cha&icirc;ne, ''catena''. Il y a un
mot qui repara&icirc;t dans toutes les langues du continent avec une sorte de
puissance et d'autorit&eacute; myst&eacute;rieuse, c'est le mot ''magnus''; l'&Eacute;cosse en
fait son ''mac'', qui d&eacute;signe le chef du clan, Mac-Farlane,
Mac-Callummore, le grand Farlane, le grand Callummore; l'argot en fait
le ''meck'', et plus tard, le ''meg'', c'est-&agrave;-dire Dieu. Veut-on du basque?
Voici ''gahisto'', le diable, qui vient de ''ga&iuml;ztoa'', mauvais; ''sorgabon'',
bonne nuit, qui vient de ''gabon'', bonsoir. Veut-on du celte? Voici
''blavin'', mouchoir, qui vient de ''blavet'', eau jaillissante; ''m&eacute;nesse'',
femme (en mauvaise part), qui vient de ''meinec'', plein de pierres;
''barant'', ruisseau, de ''baranton'', fontaine; ''goffeur'', serrurier, de
''goff'', forgeron; la ''gu&eacute;douze'', la mort, qui vient de ''guenn-du'',
blanche-noire. Veut-on de l'histoire enfin? L'argot appelle les &eacute;cus
''les malt&egrave;ses'', souvenir de la monnaie qui avait cours sur les gal&egrave;res
de Malte.

 
Outre les origines philologiques qui viennent d'&ecirc;tre indiqu&eacute;es, l'argot
a d'autres racines plus naturelles encore et qui sortent pour ainsi dire
de l'esprit m&ecirc;me de l'homme:

 
Premi&egrave;rement, la cr&eacute;ation directe des mots. L&agrave; est le myst&egrave;re des
langues. Peindre par des mots qui ont, on ne sait comment ni pourquoi,
des figures. Ceci est le fond primitif de tout langage humain, ce qu'on
en pourrait nommer le granit. L'argot pullule de mots de ce genre, mots
imm&eacute;diats, cr&eacute;&eacute;s de toute pi&egrave;ce on ne sait o&ugrave; ni par qui, sans
&eacute;tymologies, sans analogies, sans d&eacute;riv&eacute;s, mots solitaires, barbares,
quelquefois hideux, qui ont une singuli&egrave;re puissance d'expression et qui
vivent.&mdash;Le bourreau, ''le taule;''&mdash;la for&ecirc;t, ''le sabri;'' la peur, la
fuite, ''taf;''&mdash;le laquais, ''le larbin;''&mdash;le g&eacute;n&eacute;ral, le pr&eacute;fet, le
ministre, ''pharos;''&mdash;le diable, ''le rabouin''. Rien n'est plus &eacute;trange
que ces mots qui masquent et qui montrent. Quelques-uns, ''le rabouin'',
par exemple, sont en m&ecirc;me temps grotesques et terribles, et vous font
l'effet d'une grimace cyclop&eacute;enne.

 
Deuxi&egrave;mement, la m&eacute;taphore. Le propre d'une langue qui veut tout dire et
tout cacher, c'est d'abonder en figures. La m&eacute;taphore est une &eacute;nigme o&ugrave;
se r&eacute;fugie le voleur qui complote un coup, le prisonnier qui combine une
&eacute;vasion. Aucun idiome n'est plus m&eacute;taphorique que l'argot.&mdash;''D&eacute;visser le
coco'', tordre le cou,&mdash;''tortiller'', manger;&mdash;''&ecirc;tre gerb&eacute;'', &ecirc;tre
jug&eacute;;&mdash;''un rat'', un voleur de pain;&mdash;''il lansquine'', il pleut, vieille
figure frappante, qui porte en quelque sorte sa date avec elle, qui
assimile les longues lignes obliques de la pluie aux piques &eacute;paisses et
pench&eacute;es des lansquenets, et qui fait tenir dans un seul mot la
m&eacute;tonymie populaire: ''il pleut des hallebardes''. Quelquefois, &agrave; mesure
que l'argot va de la premi&egrave;re &eacute;poque &agrave; la seconde, des mots passent de
l'&eacute;tat sauvage et primitif au sens m&eacute;taphorique. Le diable cesse d'&ecirc;tre
''le rabouin'' et devient ''le boulanger'', celui qui enfourne. C'est plus
spirituel, mais moins grand; quelque chose comme Racine apr&egrave;s Corneille,
comme Euripide apr&egrave;s Eschyle. Certaines phrases d'argot, qui participent
des deux &eacute;poques et ont &agrave; la fois le caract&egrave;re barbare et le caract&egrave;re
m&eacute;taphorique, ressemblent &agrave; des fantasmagories.&mdash;''Les sorgueurs vont
sollicer des gails &agrave; la lune'' (les r&ocirc;deurs vont voler des chevaux la
nuit).&mdash;Cela passe devant l'esprit comme un groupe de spectres. On ne
sait ce qu'on voit.

 
Troisi&egrave;mement, l'exp&eacute;dient. L'argot vit sur la langue. Il en use &agrave; sa
fantaisie, il y puise au hasard, et il se borne souvent, quand le besoin
surgit, &agrave; la d&eacute;naturer sommairement et grossi&egrave;rement. Parfois, avec les
mots usuels ainsi d&eacute;form&eacute;s, et compliqu&eacute;s de mots d'argot pur, il
compose des locutions pittoresques o&ugrave; l'on sent le m&eacute;lange des deux
&eacute;l&eacute;ments pr&eacute;c&eacute;dents, la cr&eacute;ation directe et la m&eacute;taphore:&mdash;''Le cab
jaspine, je marronne que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri''; le
chien aboie, je soup&ccedil;onne que la diligence de Paris passe dans le
bois.&mdash;''Le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussi&egrave;re, la f&eacute;e est
bative''; le bourgeois est b&ecirc;te, la bourgeoise est rus&eacute;e, la fille est
jolie.&mdash;Le plus souvent, afin de d&eacute;router les &eacute;couteurs, l'argot se
borne &agrave; ajouter indistinctement &agrave; tous les mots de la langue une sorte
de queue ignoble, une terminaison en aille, en orgue, en iergue, ou en
uche. Ainsi ''Vousiergue trouvaille bonorgue ce gigotmuche''? Trouvez-vous
ce gigot bon? Phrase adress&eacute;e par Cartouche &agrave; un guichetier, afin de
savoir si la somme offerte pour l'&eacute;vasion lui convenait.&mdash;La terminaison
en ''mar'' a &eacute;t&eacute; ajout&eacute;e assez r&eacute;cemment.

 
L'argot, &eacute;tant l'idiome de la corruption, se corrompt vite. En outre,
comme il cherche toujours &agrave; se d&eacute;rober, sit&ocirc;t qu'il se sent compris, il
se transforme. Au rebours de toute autre v&eacute;g&eacute;tation, tout rayon de jour
y tue ce qu'il touche. Aussi l'argot va-t-il se d&eacute;composant et se
recomposant sans cesse; travail obscur et rapide qui ne s'arr&ecirc;te jamais.
Il fait plus de chemin en dix ans que la langue en dix si&egrave;cles. Ainsi le
larton devient le lartif; le gail devient le gaye; la fertanche, la
fertille; le momignard, le momacque; les siques, les frusques; la
chique, l'&eacute;grugeoir; le colabre, le colas. Le diable est d'abord
gahisto, puis le rabouin, puis le boulanger; le pr&ecirc;tre est le ratichon,
puis le sanglier; le poignard est le vingt-deux, puis le surin, puis le
lingre; les gens de police sont des railles, puis des roussins, puis des
rousses, puis des marchands de lacets, puis des coqueurs, puis des
cognes; le bourreau est le taule, puis Charlot, puis l'atigeur, puis le
becquillard. Au dix-septi&egrave;me si&egrave;cle, se battre, c'&eacute;tait ''se donner du
tabac;'' au dix-neuvi&egrave;me, c'est ''se chiquer la gueule''. Vingt locutions
diff&eacute;rentes ont pass&eacute; entre ces deux extr&ecirc;mes. Cartouche parlerait
h&eacute;breu pour Lacenaire. Tous les mots de cette langue sont
perp&eacute;tuellement en fuite comme les hommes qui les prononcent.

 
Cependant, de temps en temps, et &agrave; cause de ce mouvement m&ecirc;me, l'ancien
argot repara&icirc;t et redevient nouveau. Il a ses chefs-lieux o&ugrave; il se
maintient. Le Temple conservait l'argot du dix-septi&egrave;me si&egrave;cle; Bic&ecirc;tre,
lorsqu'il &eacute;tait prison, conservait l'argot de Thunes. On y entendait la
terminaison en ''anche'' des vieux thuneurs. ''Boyanches-tu'' (bois-tu?)?
''il croyanche'' (il croit). Mais le mouvement perp&eacute;tuel n'en reste pas
moins la loi.

 
Si le philosophe parvient &agrave; fixer un moment, pour l'observer, cette
langue qui s'&eacute;vapore sans cesse, il tombe dans de douloureuses et utiles
m&eacute;ditations. Aucune &eacute;tude n'est plus efficace et plus f&eacute;conde en
enseignements. Pas une m&eacute;taphore, pas une &eacute;tymologie de l'argot qui ne
contienne une le&ccedil;on.&mdash;Parmi ces hommes, ''battre'' veut dire ''feindre;'' on
''bat'' une maladie; la ruse est leur force.

 
Pour eux l'id&eacute;e de l'homme ne se s&eacute;pare pas de l'id&eacute;e de l'ombre. La
nuit se dit la ''sorgue''; l'homme, ''l'orgue''. L'homme est un d&eacute;riv&eacute; de la
nuit.

 
Ils ont pris l'habitude de consid&eacute;rer la soci&eacute;t&eacute; comme une atmosph&egrave;re
qui les tue, comme une force fatale, et ils parlent de leur libert&eacute;
comme on parlerait de sa sant&eacute;. Un homme arr&ecirc;t&eacute; est un ''malade;'' un
homme condamn&eacute; est un ''mort''.

 
Ce qu'il y a de plus terrible pour le prisonnier dans les quatre murs de
pierre qui l'ensevelissent, c'est une sorte de chastet&eacute; glaciale; il
appelle le cachot, le ''castus''.&mdash;Dans ce lieu fun&egrave;bre, c'est toujours
sous son aspect le plus riant que la vie ext&eacute;rieure appara&icirc;t. Le
prisonnier a des fers aux pieds; vous croyez peut-&ecirc;tre qu'il songe que
c'est avec les pieds qu'on marche? non, il songe que c'est avec les
pieds qu'on danse; aussi, qu'il parvienne &agrave; scier ses fers, sa premi&egrave;re
id&eacute;e est que maintenant il peut danser, et il appelle la scie un
''bastringue''.&mdash;Un ''nom'' est un ''centre;'' profonde assimilation.&mdash;Le
bandit a deux t&ecirc;tes, l'une qui raisonne ses actions et le m&egrave;ne pendant
toute sa vie, l'autre qu'il a sur ses &eacute;paules, le jour de sa mort; il
appelle la t&ecirc;te qui lui conseille le crime, la ''sorbonne'', et la t&ecirc;te
qui l'expie, la ''tronche''.&mdash;Quand un homme n'a plus que des guenilles
sur le corps et des vices dans le c&oelig;ur, quand il est arriv&eacute; &agrave; cette
double d&eacute;gradation mat&eacute;rielle et morale que caract&eacute;rise dans ses deux
acceptions le mot ''gueux'', il est &agrave; point pour le crime, il est comme un
couteau bien affil&eacute;; il a deux tranchants, sa d&eacute;tresse et sa m&eacute;chancet&eacute;;
aussi l'argot ne dit pas &laquo;un gueux&raquo;; il dit un ''r&eacute;guis&eacute;''.&mdash;Qu'est-ce que
le bagne? un brasier de damnation, un enfer. Le for&ccedil;at s'appelle un
''fagot''.&mdash;Enfin, quel nom les malfaiteurs donnent-ils &agrave; la prison? ''le
coll&egrave;ge''. Tout un syst&egrave;me p&eacute;nitentiaire peut sortir de ce mot.

 
Le voleur a lui aussi sa chair &agrave; canon, la mati&egrave;re volable, vous, moi,
quiconque passe; le ''pantre''. (''Pan'', tout le monde.)

 
Veut-on savoir o&ugrave; sont &eacute;closes la plupart des chansons de bagne, ces
refrains appel&eacute;s dans le vocabulaire sp&eacute;cial les ''lirlonfa''? Qu'on
&eacute;coute ceci:

 
Il y avait au Ch&acirc;telet de Paris une grande cave longue. Cette cave &eacute;tait
&agrave; huit pieds en contre-bas au-dessous du niveau de la Seine. Elle
n'avait ni fen&ecirc;tres ni soupiraux, l'unique ouverture &eacute;tait la porte; les
hommes pouvaient y entrer, l'air non. Cette cave avait pour plafond une
vo&ucirc;te de pierre et pour plancher dix pouces de boue. Elle avait &eacute;t&eacute;
dall&eacute;e; mais sous le suintement des eaux, le dallage s'&eacute;tait pourri et
crevass&eacute;. &Agrave; huit pieds au-dessus du sol, une longue poutre massive
traversait ce souterrain de part en part; de cette poutre tombaient, de
distance en distance, des cha&icirc;nes de trois pieds de long, et &agrave;
l'extr&eacute;mit&eacute; de ces cha&icirc;nes il y avait des carcans. On mettait dans cette
cave les hommes condamn&eacute;s aux gal&egrave;res jusqu'au jour du d&eacute;part pour
Toulon. On les poussait sous cette poutre o&ugrave; chacun avait son serrement
oscillant dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres qui l'attendait. Les cha&icirc;nes, ces bras
pendants, et les carcans, ces mains ouvertes, prenaient ces mis&eacute;rables
par le cou. On les rivait et on les laissait l&agrave;. La cha&icirc;ne &eacute;tant trop
courte, ils ne pouvaient se coucher. Ils restaient immobiles dans cette
cave, dans cette nuit, sous cette poutre, presque pendus, oblig&eacute;s &agrave; des
efforts inou&iuml;s pour atteindre au pain ou &agrave; la cruche, la vo&ucirc;te sur la
t&ecirc;te, la boue jusqu'&agrave; mi-jambe, leurs excr&eacute;ments coulant sur leurs
jarrets, &eacute;cartel&eacute;s de fatigue, ployant aux hanches et aux genoux,
s'accrochant par les mains &agrave; la cha&icirc;ne pour se reposer, ne pouvant
dormir que debout, et r&eacute;veill&eacute;s &agrave; chaque instant par l'&eacute;tranglement du
carcan; quelques-uns ne se r&eacute;veillaient pas. Pour manger, ils faisaient
monter avec leur talon le long de leur tibia jusqu'&agrave; leur main leur pain
qu'on leur jetait dans la boue. Combien de temps demeuraient-ils ainsi?
Un mois, deux mois, six mois quelquefois; un resta une ann&eacute;e. C'&eacute;tait
l'antichambre des gal&egrave;res. On &eacute;tait mis l&agrave; pour un li&egrave;vre vol&eacute; au roi.
Dans ce s&eacute;pulcre enfer, que faisaient-ils? Ce qu'on peut faire dans un
s&eacute;pulcre, ils agonisaient, et ce qu'on peut faire dans un enfer, ils
chantaient. Car o&ugrave; il n'y a plus l'esp&eacute;rance, le chant reste. Dans les
eaux de Malte, quand une gal&egrave;re approchait, on entendait le chant avant
d'entendre les rames. Le pauvre braconnier Survincent qui avait travers&eacute;
la prison-cave du Ch&acirc;telet disait: ''Ce sont les rimes qui m'ont
soutenu''. Inutilit&eacute; de la po&eacute;sie. &Agrave; quoi bon la rime? C'est dans cette
cave que sont n&eacute;es presque toutes les chansons d'argot. C'est de ce
cachot du Grand-Ch&acirc;telet de Paris que vient le m&eacute;lancolique refrain de
la gal&egrave;re de Montgomery: ''Timaloumisaine'', ''timoulamison''. La plupart de
ces chansons sont lugubres; quelques-unes sont gaies; une est tendre:

 
''Icicaille est le th&eacute;&acirc;tre''<br> ''Du petit dardant.''<br>

 
Vous aurez beau faire, vous n'an&eacute;antirez pas cet &eacute;ternel reste du c&oelig;ur
de l'homme, l'amour.

 
Dans ce monde des actions sombres, on se garde le secret. Le secret,
c'est la chose de tous. Le secret, pour ces mis&eacute;rables, c'est l'unit&eacute;
qui sert de base &agrave; l'union. Rompre le secret, c'est arracher &agrave; chaque
membre de cette communaut&eacute; farouche quelque chose de lui-m&ecirc;me. D&eacute;noncer,
dans l'&eacute;nergique langue d'argot, cela se dit: ''manger le morceau''. Comme
si le d&eacute;nonciateur tirait &agrave; lui un peu de la substance de tous et se
nourrissait d'un morceau de la chair de chacun.

 
Qu'est-ce que recevoir un soufflet? La m&eacute;taphore banale r&eacute;pond: ''C'est
voir trente-six chandelles''. Ici l'argot intervient, et reprend:
''Chandelle, camoufle''. Sur ce, le langage usuel donne au soufflet pour
synonyme camouflet. Ainsi, par une sorte de p&eacute;n&eacute;tration de bas en haut,
la m&eacute;taphore, cette trajectoire incalculable, aidant, l'argot monte de
la caverne &agrave; l'acad&eacute;mie, et Poulailler disant: ''J'allume ma camoufle'',
fait &eacute;crire &agrave; Voltaire: ''Langleviel La Beaumelle m&eacute;rite cent
camouflets''.

 
Une fouille dans l'argot, c'est la d&eacute;couverte &agrave; chaque pas. L'&eacute;tude et
l'approfondissement de cet &eacute;trange idiome m&egrave;nent au myst&eacute;rieux point
d'intersection de la soci&eacute;t&eacute; r&eacute;guli&egrave;re avec la soci&eacute;t&eacute; maudite.

 
L'argot, c'est le verbe devenu for&ccedil;at.

 
Que le principe pensant de l'homme puisse &ecirc;tre refoul&eacute; si bas, qu'il
puisse &ecirc;tre tra&icirc;n&eacute; et garrott&eacute; l&agrave; par les obscures tyrannies de la
fatalit&eacute;, qu'il puisse &ecirc;tre li&eacute; &agrave; on ne sait quelles attaches dans ce
pr&eacute;cipice, cela consterne.

 
&Ocirc; pauvre pens&eacute;e des mis&eacute;rables!

 
H&eacute;las! personne ne viendra-t-il au secours de l'&acirc;me humaine dans cette
ombre? Sa destin&eacute;e est-elle d'y attendre &agrave; jamais l'esprit, le
lib&eacute;rateur, l'immense chevaucheur des p&eacute;gases et des hippogriffes, le
combattant couleur d'aurore qui descend de l'azur entre deux ailes, le
radieux chevalier de l'avenir? Appellera-t-elle toujours en vain &agrave; son
secours la lance de lumi&egrave;re de l'id&eacute;al? Est-elle condamn&eacute;e &agrave; entendre
venir &eacute;pouvantablement dans l'&eacute;paisseur du gouffre le Mal, et &agrave;
entrevoir, de plus en plus pr&egrave;s d'elle, sous l'eau hideuse, cette t&ecirc;te
draconienne, cette gueule m&acirc;chant l'&eacute;cume, et cette ondulation
serpentante de griffes, de gonflements et d'anneaux? Faut-il qu'elle
reste l&agrave;, sans une lueur, sans espoir, livr&eacute;e &agrave; cette approche
formidable, vaguement flair&eacute;e du monstre, frissonnante, &eacute;chevel&eacute;e, se
tordant les bras, &agrave; jamais encha&icirc;n&eacute;e au rocher de la nuit, sombre
Androm&egrave;de blanche et nue dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres!

 
==English text==

Slang is the tongue of those who sit in darkness.
     
Thought is moved in its most sombre depths, social philosophy is bidden to
its most poignant meditations, in the presence of that enigmatic dialect
at once so blighted and rebellious. Therein lies chastisement made
visible. Every syllable has an air of being marked. The words of the
vulgar tongue appear therein wrinkled and shrivelled, as it were, beneath
the hot iron of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking. Such and
such a phrase produces upon you the effect of the shoulder of a thief
branded with the fleur-de-lys, which has suddenly been laid bare. Ideas
almost refuse to be expressed in these substantives which are fugitives
from justice. Metaphor is sometimes so shameless, that one feels that it
has worn the iron neck-fetter.

 
Moreover, in spite of all this, and because of all this, this strange
dialect has by rights, its own compartment in that great impartial case of
pigeon-holes where there is room for the rusty farthing as well as for the
gold medal, and which is called literature. Slang, whether the public
admit the fact or not has its syntax and its poetry. It is a language.
Yes, by the deformity of certain terms, we recognize the fact that it was
chewed by Mandrin, and by the splendor of certain metonymies, we feel that
Villon spoke it.

 
That exquisite and celebrated verse&mdash;

 
<pre>
          Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?
          But where are the snows of years gone by?

</pre>
 
is a verse of slang. Antam&mdash;ante annum&mdash;is a word of Thunes
slang, which signified the past year, and by extension, formerly.
Thirty-five years ago, at the epoch of the departure of the great
chain-gang, there could be read in one of the cells at Bicêtre, this maxim
engraved with a nail on the wall by a king of Thunes condemned to the
galleys: Les dabs d'antan trimaient siempre pour la pierre du Coesre. This
means Kings in days gone by always went and had themselves anointed. In
the opinion of that king, anointment meant the galleys.

 
The word decarade, which expresses the departure of heavy vehicles at a
gallop, is attributed to Villon, and it is worthy of him. This word, which
strikes fire with all four of its feet, sums up in a masterly onomatopoeia
the whole of La Fontaine's admirable verse:&mdash;

 
<pre>
          Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche.
          Six stout horses drew a coach.

</pre>
 
From a purely literary point of view, few studies would prove more curious
and fruitful than the study of slang. It is a whole language within a
language, a sort of sickly excrescence, an unhealthy graft which has
produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots in the old Gallic
trunk, and whose sinister foliage crawls all over one side of the
language. This is what may be called the first, the vulgar aspect of
slang. But, for those who study the tongue as it should be studied, that
is to say, as geologists study the earth, slang appears like a veritable
alluvial deposit. According as one digs a longer or shorter distance into
it, one finds in slang, below the old popular French, Provencal, Spanish,
Italian, Levantine, that language of the Mediterranean ports, English and
German, the Romance language in its three varieties, French, Italian, and
Romance Romance, Latin, and finally Basque and Celtic. A profound and
unique formation. A subterranean edifice erected in common by all the
miserable. Each accursed race has deposited its layer, each suffering has
dropped its stone there, each heart has contributed its pebble. A throng
of evil, base, or irritated souls, who have traversed life and have
vanished into eternity, linger there almost entirely visible still beneath
the form of some monstrous word.

 
Do you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang abounded in it. Here is boffete,
a box on the ear, which is derived from bofeton; vantane, window (later on
vanterne), which comes from vantana; gat, cat, which comes from gato;
acite, oil, which comes from aceyte. Do you want Italian? Here is spade,
sword, which comes from spada; carvel, boat, which comes from caravella.
Do you want English? Here is bichot, which comes from bishop; raille, spy,
which comes from rascal, rascalion; pilche, a case, which comes from
pilcher, a sheath. Do you want German? Here is the caleur, the waiter,
kellner; the hers, the master, herzog (duke). Do you want Latin? Here is
frangir, to break, frangere; affurer, to steal, fur; cadene, chain,
catena. There is one word which crops up in every language of the
continent, with a sort of mysterious power and authority. It is the word
magnus; the Scotchman makes of it his mac, which designates the chief of
the clan; Mac-Farlane, Mac-Callumore, the great Farlane, the great
Callumore;
slang turns it into meck and later le meg, that is to say, God. Would you
like Basque? Here is gahisto, the devil, which comes from gaiztoa, evil;
sorgabon, good night, which comes from gabon, good evening. Do you want
Celtic? Here is blavin, a handkerchief, which comes from blavet, gushing
water; menesse, a woman (in a bad sense), which comes from meinec, full of
stones; barant, brook, from baranton, fountain; goffeur, locksmith, from
goff, blacksmith; guedouze, death, which comes from guenn-du, black-white.
Finally, would you like history? Slang calls crowns les malteses, a
souvenir of the coin in circulation on the galleys of Malta.

 
In addition to the philological origins just indicated, slang possesses
other and still more natural roots, which spring, so to speak, from the
mind of man itself.

 
In the first place, the direct creation of words. Therein lies the mystery
of tongues. To paint with words, which contains figures one knows not how
or why, is the primitive foundation of all human languages, what may be
called their granite.

 
Slang abounds in words of this description, immediate words, words created
instantaneously no one knows either where or by whom, without etymology,
without analogies, without derivatives, solitary, barbarous, sometimes
hideous words, which at times possess a singular power of expression and
which live. The executioner, le taule; the forest, le sabri; fear, flight,
taf; the lackey, le larbin; the mineral, the prefect, the minister,
pharos; the devil, le rabouin. Nothing is stranger than these words which
both mask and reveal. Some, le rabouin, for example, are at the same time
grotesque and terrible, and produce on you the effect of a cyclopean
grimace.

 
In the second place, metaphor. The peculiarity of a language which is
desirous of saying all yet concealing all is that it is rich in figures.
Metaphor is an enigma, wherein the thief who is plotting a stroke, the
prisoner who is arranging an escape, take refuge. No idiom is more
metaphorical than slang: devisser le coco (to unscrew the nut), to twist
the neck; tortiller (to wriggle), to eat; etre gerbe, to be tried; a rat,
a bread thief; il lansquine, it rains, a striking, ancient figure which
partly bears its date about it, which assimilates long oblique lines of
rain, with the dense and slanting pikes of the lancers, and which
compresses into a single word the popular expression: it rains halberds.
Sometimes, in proportion as slang progresses from the first epoch to the
second, words pass from the primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical
sense. The devil ceases to be le rabouin, and becomes le boulanger (the
baker), who puts the bread into the oven. This is more witty, but less
grand, something like Racine after Corneille, like Euripides after
AEschylus. Certain slang phrases which participate in the two epochs and
have at once the barbaric character and the metaphorical character
resemble phantasmagories. Les sorgueuers vont solliciter des gails à la
lune&mdash;the prowlers are going to steal horses by night,&mdash;this
passes before the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not what one
sees.

 
In the third place, the expedient. Slang lives on the language. It uses it
in accordance with its fancy, it dips into it hap-hazard, and it often
confines itself, when occasion arises, to alter it in a gross and summary
fashion. Occasionally, with the ordinary words thus deformed and
complicated with words of pure slang, picturesque phrases are formed, in
which there can be felt the mixture of the two preceding elements, the
direct creation and the metaphor: le cab jaspine, je marronne que la
roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri, the dog is barking, I suspect that
the diligence for Paris is passing through the woods. Le dab est sinve, la
dabuge est merloussiere, la fée est bative, the bourgeois is stupid, the
bourgeoise is cunning, the daughter is pretty. Generally, to throw
listeners off the track, slang confines itself to adding to all the words
of the language without distinction, an ignoble tail, a termination in
aille, in orgue, in iergue, or in uche. Thus: Vousiergue trouvaille
bonorgue ce gigotmuche? Do you think that leg of mutton good? A phrase
addressed by Cartouche to a turnkey in order to find out whether the sum
offered for his escape suited him.

 
The termination in mar has been added recently.

 
Slang, being the dialect of corruption, quickly becomes corrupted itself.
Besides this, as it is always seeking concealment, as soon as it feels
that it is understood, it changes its form. Contrary to what happens with
every other vegetation, every ray of light which falls upon it kills
whatever it touches. Thus slang is in constant process of decomposition
and recomposition; an obscure and rapid work which never pauses. It passes
over more ground in ten years than a language in ten centuries. Thus le
larton (bread) becomes le lartif; le gail (horse) becomes le gaye; la
fertanche (straw) becomes la fertille; le momignard (brat), le momacque;
les fiques (duds), frusques; la chique (the church), l'egrugeoir; le
colabre (neck), le colas. The devil is at first, gahisto, then le rabouin,
then the baker; the priest is a ratichon, then the boar (le sanglier); the
dagger is le vingt-deux (twenty-two), then le surin, then le lingre; the
police are railles, then roussins, then rousses, then marchands de lacets
(dealers in stay-laces), then coquers, then cognes; the executioner is le
taule, then Charlot, l'atigeur, then le becquillard. In the seventeenth
century, to fight was "to give each other snuff"; in the nineteenth it is
"to chew each other's throats." There have been twenty different phrases
between these two extremes. Cartouche's talk would have been Hebrew to
Lacenaire. All the words of this language are perpetually engaged in
flight like the men who utter them.

 
Still, from time to time, and in consequence of this very movement, the
ancient slang crops up again and becomes new once more. It has its
headquarters where it maintains its sway. The Temple preserved the slang
of the seventeenth century; Bicêtre, when it was a prison, preserved the
slang of Thunes. There one could hear the termination in anche of the old
Thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (bois-tu), do you drink? But perpetual movement
remains its law, nevertheless.

 
If the philosopher succeeds in fixing, for a moment, for purposes of
observation, this language which is incessantly evaporating, he falls into
doleful and useful meditation. No study is more efficacious and more
fecund in instruction. There is not a metaphor, not an analogy, in slang,
which does not contain a lesson. Among these men, to beat means to feign;
one beats a malady; ruse is their strength.

 
For them, the idea of the man is not separated from the idea of darkness.
The night is called la sorgue; man, l'orgue. Man is a derivative of the
night.

 
They have taken up the practice of considering society in the light of an
atmosphere which kills them, of a fatal force, and they speak of their
liberty as one would speak of his health. A man under arrest is a sick
man; one who is condemned is a dead man.

 
The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four walls in which he
is buried, is a sort of glacial chastity, and he calls the dungeon the
castus. In that funereal place, life outside always presents itself under
its most smiling aspect. The prisoner has irons on his feet; you think,
perhaps, that his thought is that it is with the feet that one walks? No;
he is thinking that it is with the feet that one dances; so, when he has
succeeded in severing his fetters, his first idea is that now he can
dance, and he calls the saw the bastringue (public-house ball).&mdash;A
name is a centre; profound assimilation.&mdash;The ruffian has two heads,
one of which reasons out his actions and leads him all his life long, and
the other which he has upon his shoulders on the day of his death; he
calls the head which counsels him in crime la sorbonne, and the head which
expiates it la tronche.&mdash;When a man has no longer anything but rags
upon his body and vices in his heart, when he has arrived at that double
moral and material degradation which the word blackguard characterizes in
its two acceptations, he is ripe for crime; he is like a well-whetted
knife; he has two cutting edges, his distress and his malice; so slang
does not say a blackguard, it says un reguise.&mdash;What are the galleys?
A brazier of damnation, a hell. The convict calls himself a fagot.&mdash;And
finally, what name do malefactors give to their prison? The college. A
whole penitentiary system can be evolved from that word.

 
Does the reader wish to know where the majority of the songs of the
galleys, those refrains called in the special vocabulary lirlonfa, have
had their birth?

 
Let him listen to what follows:&mdash;

 
There existed at the Chatelet in Paris a large and long cellar. This
cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had neither windows
nor air-holes, its only aperture was the door; men could enter there, air
could not. This vault had for ceiling a vault of stone, and for floor ten
inches of mud. It was flagged; but the pavement had rotted and cracked
under the oozing of the water. Eight feet above the floor, a long and
massive beam traversed this subterranean excavation from side to side;
from this beam hung, at short distances apart, chains three feet long, and
at the end of these chains there were rings for the neck. In this vault,
men who had been condemned to the galleys were incarcerated until the day
of their departure for Toulon. They were thrust under this beam, where
each one found his fetters swinging in the darkness and waiting for him.

 
The chains, those pendant arms, and the necklets, those open hands, caught
the unhappy wretches by the throat. They were rivetted and left there. As
the chain was too short, they could not lie down. They remained motionless
in that cavern, in that night, beneath that beam, almost hanging, forced
to unheard-of efforts to reach their bread, jug, or their vault overhead,
mud even to mid-leg, filth flowing to their very calves, broken asunder
with fatigue, with thighs and knees giving way, clinging fast to the chain
with their hands in order to obtain some rest, unable to sleep except when
standing erect, and awakened every moment by the strangling of the collar;
some woke no more. In order to eat, they pushed the bread, which was flung
to them in the mud, along their leg with their heel until it reached their
hand.

 
How long did they remain thus? One month, two months, six months
sometimes; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys. Men
were put there for stealing a hare from the king. In this sepulchre-hell,
what did they do? What man can do in a sepulchre, they went through the
agonies of death, and what can man do in hell, they sang; for song lingers
where there is no longer any hope. In the waters of Malta, when a galley
was approaching, the song could be heard before the sound of the oars.
Poor Survincent, the poacher, who had gone through the prison-cellar of
the Chatelet, said: "It was the rhymes that kept me up." Uselessness of
poetry. What is the good of rhyme?

 
It is in this cellar that nearly all the slang songs had their birth. It
is from the dungeon of the Grand-Chatelet of Paris that comes the
melancholy refrain of the Montgomery galley: "Timaloumisaine,
timaloumison." The majority of these

 
<pre>
       Icicaille est la theatre        Here is the theatre
       Du petit dardant.               Of the little archer (Cupid).

</pre>
 
Do what you will, you cannot annihilate that eternal relic in the heart of
man, love.

 
In this world of dismal deeds, people keep their secrets. The secret is
the thing above all others. The secret, in the eyes of these wretches, is
unity which serves as a base of union. To betray a secret is to tear from
each member of this fierce community something of his own personality. To
inform against, in the energetic slang dialect, is called: "to eat the
bit." As though the informer drew to himself a little of the substance of
all and nourished himself on a bit of each one's flesh.

 
What does it signify to receive a box on the ear? Commonplace metaphor
replies: "It is to see thirty-six candles."

 
Here slang intervenes and takes it up: Candle, camoufle. Thereupon, the
ordinary tongue gives camouflet as the synonym for soufflet. Thus, by a sort of
infiltration from below upwards, with the aid of metaphor, that
incalculable, trajectory slang mounts from the cavern to the Academy; and
Poulailler saying: "I light my camoufle," causes Voltaire to write:
"Langleviel La Beaumelle deserves a hundred camouflets."

 
Researches in slang mean discoveries at every step. Study and
investigation of this strange idiom lead to the mysterious point of
intersection of regular society with society which is accursed.

 
The thief also has his food for cannon, stealable matter, you, I, whoever
passes by; le pantre. (Pan, everybody.)

 
Slang is language turned convict.

 
That the thinking principle of man be thrust down ever so low, that it can
be dragged and pinioned there by obscure tyrannies of fatality, that it
can be bound by no one knows what fetters in that abyss, is sufficient to
create consternation.

 
Oh, poor thought of miserable wretches!

 
Alas! will no one come to the succor of the human soul in that darkness?
Is it her destiny there to await forever the mind, the liberator, the
immense rider of Pegasi and hippo-griffs, the combatant of heroes of the
dawn who shall descend from the azure between two wings, the radiant
knight of the future? Will she forever summon in vain to her assistance
the lance of light of the ideal? Is she condemned to hear the fearful
approach of Evil through the density of the gulf, and to catch glimpses,
nearer and nearer at hand, beneath the hideous water of that dragon's
head, that maw streaked with foam, and that writhing undulation of claws,
swellings, and rings? Must it remain there, without a gleam of light,
without hope, given over to that terrible approach, vaguely scented out by
the monster, shuddering, dishevelled, wringing its arms, forever chained
to the rock of night, a sombre Andromeda white and naked amid the shadows!


==Translation notes==

==="camouflet"===
Smoke puffed in the face of a person asleep. <ref name="hapgood">Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables. Complete in Five Volumes.'' Trans. Isabel F Hapgood. Project Gutenberg eBook, 2008.</ref>

==Textual notes==

==="the Scotchman makes of it his mac, which designates the chief of
the clan"===
It must be observed, however, that mac in Celtic means son. <ref name="hapgood"></ref>

==Citations==
<references />