Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [259]
The man became silent, the woman did not speak, the girl did not seem to breathe. Marius could hear the pen scratching over the paper.
The man muttered out, without ceasing to write:—“Rabble! rabble! all is rabble!”
This variation upon the ejaculation of Solomondt drew a sigh from the woman.
“My darling, be calm,” said she. “Do not hurt yourself, dear. You are too good to write to all those people, my man.”
In poverty bodies hug close to each other as in the cold, but hearts grow distant. This woman, according to all appearance, must have loved this man with as much love as was in her; but probably, in the repeated mutual reproaches which grew out of the frightful distress that weighed upon them all, this love had become extinguished. She now felt towards her husband nothing more than the ashes of affection. Still the words of endearment, as often happens, had survived. She said to him: Dear; my darling; my man, etc., with her lips, her heart was silent.
The man returned to his writing.
6 (7)
STRATEGY AND TACTICS
MARIUS, with a heavy heart, was about to get down from the sort of observatory which he had improvised, when a sound attracted his attention, and induced him to remain in his place.
The door of the garret was hastily opened. The eldest daughter appeared upon the threshold. On her feet she had coarse men’s shoes, covered with mud, which had been spattered as high as her red ankles, and she was wrapped in a ragged old gown which Marius had not seen upon her an hour before, but which she had probably left at his door that she might inspire the more pity, and which she must have put on upon going out. She came in, pushed the door to behind her, stopped to take breath, for she was quite breathless, then cried with an expression of joy and triumph:
“He is coming!”
The father turned his eyes, the woman turned her head, the younger sister did not stir.
“Who?” asked the father.
“The gentleman!”
“The philanthropist?”
“Yes.”
“Of the church of Saint Jacques?”
“Yes.”
“That old man?”
“Yes.”
“He is going to come?”
“He is behind me.”
“You are sure?”
“I am sure.”
“There, true, he is coming?”
“He is coming in a fiacre.”
“In a fiacre. It is Rothschild?”
The father arose.
“How are you sure? if he is coming in a fiacre, how is it that you get here before him? you gave him the address, at least? you told him the last door at the end of the hall on the right? provided he does not make a mistake ? you found him at the church then? did he read my letter? what did he say to you?”
“Tut, tut, tut!” said the girl, “how you run on, goodman! I’ll tell you: I went into the church, he was at his usual place, I made a curtsey to him, and I gave him the letter, he read it and said to me: Where do you live, my child? I said: Monsieur, I will show you. He said to me: No, give me your address; my daughter has some purchases to make, I am going to take a carriage and I will get to your house as soon as you do. I gave him the address. When I told him the house, he appeared surprised and hesitated an instant, then he said: It is all the same, I will go. When mass was over, I saw him leave the church with his daughter. I saw them get into a fiacre. And I told him plainly the last door at the end of the hall on the right.”
“And how do you know that he will come?”
“I just saw the fiacre coming into the Rue du Petit Banquier. That is what made me run.”
“How do you know it is the same fiacre?”
“Because I had noticed the number.”
“What is the number?”
“Four hundred and forty.”
“Good, you are a clever girl.”
The girl looked resolutely at her father, and showing the shoes which she had on, said:
“A clever girl that may be, but I tell you that I shall never put on these shoes again, and that I will not do it, for health first, and then for hygiene. I know nothing more irritating than soles that squeak