Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [286]
“U. F. That is it. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign U. F.”
The prisoner signed.
“As it takes two hands to fold the letter, give it to me, I will fold it.”
This done, Thénardier resumed:
“Put on the address, Mademoiselle Fabre, at your house. I know that you live not very far from here, in the neighbourhood of Saint Jacques du Haut Pas, since you go there to mass every day, but I do not know in what street. I see that you understand your situation. As you have not lied about your name, you will not lie about your address. Put it on yourself.”
The prisoner remained thoughtful for a moment, then he took the pen and wrote:
“Mademoiselle Fabre, at Monsieur Urbain Fabre‘s, Rue Saint Dominique d’Enfer, No.17.”
Thénardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsive movement.
“Wife!” cried he.
The Thénardiess sprang forward.
“Here is the letter. You know what you have to do. There is a fiacre below. Go right away, and come back ditto.”
And addressing the man with the pole-axe:
“Here, since you have taken off your mask, go with the woman. You will ride behind the fiacre. You know where you left the maringotte?”
“Yes,” said the man.
And, laying down his pole-axe in a comer, he followed the Thénardiess.
As they were going away, Thénardier put his head through the half-open door and screamed into the hall:
“Above all things do not lose the letter! remember that you have two hundred thousand francs with you.”
The harsh voice of the Thénardiess answered:
“Rest assured, I have put it in my bosom.”
A minute had not passed when the snapping of a whip was heard, which grew fainter and rapidly died away.
“Good!” muttered Thénardier. “They are going good speed. At that speed the bourgeoise will be back in three quarters of an hour.”dz
He drew a chair near the fireplace and sat down, folding his arms and holding his muddy boots up to the furnace.
“My feet are cold,” said he.
There were now but five bandits left in the den with Thénardier and the prisoner. These men, through the masks or the black varnish which covered their faces and made of them, as fear might suggest, charcoal men, negroes, or demons, had a heavy and dismal appearance, and one felt that they would execute a crime as they would any drudgery, quietly, without anger and without mercy, with a sort of irksomeness. They were heaped together in a corner like brutes, and were silent. Thénardier was warming his feet. The prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A gloomy stillness had succeeded the savage tumult which filled the garret a few moments before.
The candle, on which a large mushroom had formed, hardly lighted up the enormous den, the fire had grown dull, and all these monstrous heads made huge shadows on the walls and on the ceiling.
No sound could be heard save the quiet breathing of the drunken old man, who was asleep.
Marius was waiting in an anxiety which everything increased. The riddle was more impenetrable than ever. Who was this “little girl,” whom Thénardier had also called the Lark? was it his “Ursula”? The prisoner had not seemed to be moved by this word, the Lark, and answered in the most natural way in the world: I do not know what you mean. On the other hand, the two letters U. F. were explained; it was Urbain Fabre, and Ursula’s name was no longer Ursula. This Marius saw most clearly. A sort of hideous fascination held him spellbound to the place from which he observed and commanded the whole scene. There he was, almost incapable of reflection and motion, as if annihilated by such horrible things in so close proximity. He was waiting, hoping for some movement, no matter what, unable to collect his ideas and not knowing what course to take.
“At all events,” said he, “if the Lark is she, I shall certainly see her, for the Thénardiess is going to bring her here. Then all will be plain. I will give my blood and my life if need be, but I will deliver her. Nothing shall stop me.”
Nearly half an hour passed thus. Thénardier appeared absorbed in a dark meditation,