Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [453]
“I don’t know,” said he, “either Madame Bagration or M. Dambray. I have never in my life set foot in the house of either the one or the other.”
The answer was testy. The person, gracious notwithstanding, persisted:
“Then it must be at Chateaubriand’s that I have seen monsieur? I know Chateaubriand well. He is very affable. He says to me sometimes: ‘Thénard, my friend, won’t you drink a glass of wine with me?’ ”
Marius’ brow grew more and more severe:
“I have never had the honour of being received at Monsieur de Chateaubriand’s. Come to the point. What is it you wish?”
The man, in view of the harsher voice, made a lower bow.
“Monsieur Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America, in a region which is near Panama, a village called La Joya. This village is composed of a single house. A large, square, three-story adobe house, each side of the square five hundred feet long, each story set back twelve feet from the story below, so as to leave in front a terrace which runs round the building, in the centre an interior court in which are provisions and ammunition, no windows, loopholes, no door, ladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace, and from the first to the second, and from the second to the third, ladders to descend into the interior court, no doors to the rooms, hatchways, no stairs to the rooms, ladders; at night the hatchways are closed, the ladders drawn in: swivels and carbines are aimed through the port-holes; no means of entering; a house by day, a citadel by night, eight hundred inhabitants, such is this village. Why so much precaution? because the country is dangerous; it is full of anthropophagi. Then why do people go there? because that country is wonderful; gold is found there.”
“What are you coming to?” Marius interrupted, who from disappointment was passing to impatience.
“To this, Monsieur Baron. I am an old weary diplomatist. The old civilisation has used me up. I wish to try the savages.”
“What then?”
“Monsieur Baron, selfishness is the law of the world. The proletarian country-woman who works by the day, turns round when the stagecoach passes, the proprietary country-woman who works in her own field, does not turn round. The poor man’s dog barks at the rich man, the rich man’s dog barks at the poor man. Every one for himself. Interest is the motive of men. Gold is the magnet.”
“What then? Conclude.”
“I would like to go and establish myself at La Joya. There are three of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a girl who is very beautiful. The voyage is long and dear. I must have a little money.”
“How does that concern me?” inquired Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a movement characteristic of the vulture, and replied, with redoubled smiles:
“Then Monsieur the Baron has not read my letter?”
That was not far from true. The fact is, that the contents of the epistle had glanced off from Marius. He had seen the handwriting rather than read the letter. He scarcely remembered it. Within a moment a new clue had been given him. He had noticed this remark: My spouse and my young lady. He fixed a searching eye upon the stranger. An examining judge could not have done better. He seemed to be lying in ambush for him. He answered:
“Explain.”
The stranger thrust his hands into his fobs, raised his head without straightening his backbone, but scrutinising Marius in his turn with the green gaze of his spectacles.
“Certainly, Monsieur the Baron. I will explain. I have a secret to sell you.”
“A secret?”
“A secret.”
“Which concerns me?”
“Somewhat.”
“What is this secret?”
Marius examined the man more and more closely, while listening to him.
“I commence gratis,” said the stranger. “You will see that I am interesting.”
“Go on.”
“Monsieur Baron, you have in your house a robber and an assassin.”
Marius shuddered.
“In my house? no,” said he.
The stranger, imperturbable, brushed his hat with his sleeve, and continued:
“Assassin and robber. Observe, Monsieur Baron, that I do not speak here of acts, old, by-gone, and withered,