Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Les MisĂ©rables by Victor Hugo (top novels .txt) đ
- Author: Victor Hugo
Book online «Les MisĂ©rables by Victor Hugo (top novels .txt) đ». Author Victor Hugo
âThatâs right, old street,â ejaculated Gavroche, âput on your night-cap.â
And turning to Jean Valjean:â
âWhat do you call that gigantic monument that you have there at the end of the street? Itâs the Archives, isnât it? I must crumble up those big stupids of pillars a bit and make a nice barricade out of them.â
Jean Valjean stepped up to Gavroche.
âPoor creature,â he said in a low tone, and speaking to himself, âhe is hungry.â
And he laid the hundred-sou piece in his hand.
Gavroche raised his face, astonished at the size of this sou; he stared at it in the darkness, and the whiteness of the big sou dazzled him. He knew five-franc pieces by hearsay; their reputation was agreeable to him; he was delighted to see one close to. He said:â
âLet us contemplate the tiger.â
He gazed at it for several minutes in ecstasy; then, turning to Jean Valjean, he held out the coin to him, and said majestically to him:â
âBourgeois, I prefer to smash lanterns. Take back your ferocious beast. You canât bribe me. That has got five claws; but it doesnât scratch me.â
âHave you a mother?â asked Jean Valjean.
Gavroche replied:â
âMore than you have, perhaps.â
âWell,â returned Jean Valjean, âkeep the money for your mother!â
Gavroche was touched. Moreover, he had just noticed that the man who was addressing him had no hat, and this inspired him with confidence.
âTruly,â said he, âso it wasnât to keep me from breaking the lanterns?â
âBreak whatever you please.â
âYouâre a fine man,â said Gavroche.
And he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets.
His confidence having increased, he added:â
âDo you belong in this street?â
âYes, why?â
âCan you tell me where No. 7 is?â
âWhat do you want with No. 7?â
Here the child paused, he feared that he had said too much; he thrust his nails energetically into his hair and contented himself with replying:â
âAh! Here it is.â
An idea flashed through Jean Valjeanâs mind. Anguish does have these gleams. He said to the lad:â
âAre you the person who is bringing a letter that I am expecting?â
âYou?â said Gavroche. âYou are not a woman.â
âThe letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?â
âCosette,â muttered Gavroche. âYes, I believe that is the queer name.â
âWell,â resumed Jean Valjean, âI am the person to whom you are to deliver the letter. Give it here.â
âIn that case, you must know that I was sent from the barricade.â
âOf course,â said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and drew out a paper folded in four.
Then he made the military salute.
âRespect for despatches,â said he. âIt comes from the Provisional Government.â
âGive it to me,â said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche held the paper elevated above his head.
âDonât go and fancy itâs a love letter. It is for a woman, but itâs for the people. We men fight and we respect the fair sex. We are not as they are in fine society, where there are lions who send chickens55 to camels.â
âGive it to me.â
âAfter all,â continued Gavroche, âyou have the air of an honest man.â
âGive it to me quick.â
âCatch hold of it.â
And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean.
âAnd make haste, Monsieur Whatâs-your-name, for Mamselle Cosette is waiting.â
Gavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced this remark.
Jean Valjean began again:â
âIs it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent?â
âThere you are making some of those bits of pastry vulgarly called brioches [blunders]. This letter comes from the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and Iâm going back there. Good evening, citizen.â
That said, Gavroche took himself off, or, to describe it more exactly, fluttered away in the direction whence he had come with a flight like that of an escaped bird. He plunged back into the gloom as though he made a hole in it, with the rigid rapidity of a projectile; the alley of lâHomme ArmĂ© became silent and solitary once more; in a twinkling, that strange child, who had about him something of the shadow and of the dream, had buried himself in the mists of the rows of black houses, and was lost there, like smoke in the dark; and one might have thought that he had dissipated and vanished, had there not taken place, a few minutes after his disappearance, a startling shiver of glass, and had not the magnificent crash of a lantern rattling down on the pavement once more abruptly awakened the indignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche upon his way through the Rue du Chaume.
Jean Valjean went into the house with Mariusâ letter.
He groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the darkness as an owl who grips his prey, opened and shut his door softly, listened to see whether he could hear any noise,âmade sure that, to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were asleep, and plunged three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter before he could evoke a spark, so greatly did his hand tremble. What he had just done smacked of theft. At last the candle was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the table, unfolded the paper, and read.
In violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the earth, so to speak, the paper which one holds, one clutches it like a victim, one crushes it, one digs into it the nails of oneâs wrath, or of oneâs joy; one hastens to the end, one leaps to the beginning; attention is at fever heat; it takes up in the gross, as it were, the essential points; it seizes on one point, and the rest disappears. In Mariusâ note to Cosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words:â
âI die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee.â
In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled; he remained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the change of emotion which was taking place within him, he stared at Mariusâ note with a sort of intoxicated amazement, he had before his eyes that splendor, the death of a hated individual.
He uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over. The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope. The being who obstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man had taken himself off of his own accord, freely, willingly. This man was going to his death, and he, Jean Valjean, had had no hand in the matter, and it was through no fault of his. Perhaps, even, he is already dead. Here his fever entered into calculations. No, he is not dead yet. The letter had evidently been intended for Cosette to read on the following morning; after the two discharges that were heard between eleven oâclock and midnight, nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked seriously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from the moment when âthat manâ is concerned in this war, he is lost; he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered. So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette once more. The rivalry would cease; the future was beginning again. He had but to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know what had become of that man. All that there requires to be done is to let things take their own course. This man cannot escape. If he is not already dead, it is certain that he is about to die. What good fortune!
Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy.
Then he went downstairs and woke up the porter.
About an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the complete costume of a National Guard, and with his arms. The porter had easily found in the neighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment. He had a loaded gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.
He strode off in the direction of the markets.
In the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure.
Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue du Chaume, entered the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, and not seeing âeven a catâ there, he thought the opportunity a good one to strike up all the song of which he was capable. His march, far from being retarded by his singing, was accelerated by it. He began to sow along the sleeping or terrified houses these incendiary couplets:â
âLâoiseau mĂ©dit dans les charmilles,
Et prĂ©tend quâhier Atala
Avec un Russe sâen alla.
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âMon ami Pierrot, tu babilles,
Parce que lâautre jour Mila
Cogna sa vitre et mâappela,
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âLes drĂŽlesses sont fort gentilles,
Leur poison qui mâensorcela
Griserait Monsieur Orfila.
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âJâaime lâamour et les bisbilles,
Jâaime AgnĂšs, jâaime PamĂ©la,
Lise en mâallumant se brĂ»la.
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âJadis, quand je vis les mantilles
De Suzette et de ZĂ©ila,
Mon Ăąme Ă leurs plis se mĂȘla,
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âAmour, quand dans lâombre oĂč tu brilles,
Tu coiffes de roses Lola,
Je me damnerais pour cela.
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âJeanne Ă ton miroir tu tâhabilles!
Mon cĆur un beau jour sâenvola.
Je crois que câest Jeanne qui lâa.
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
âLe soir, en sortant des quadrilles,
Je montre aux Ă©toiles Stella,
Et je leur dis: âRegardez-la.â
OĂč vont les belles filles,
Lon la.â56
Gavroche, as he sang, was lavish of his pantomime. Gesture is the strong point of the refrain. His face, an inexhaustible repertory of masks, produced grimaces more convulsing and more fantastic than the rents of a cloth torn in a high gale. Unfortunately, as he was alone, and as it was night, this was neither seen nor even visible. Such wastes of riches do occur.
All at once, he stopped short.
âLet us interrupt the romance,â said he.
His feline eye had just descried, in the recess of a carriage door, what is called in painting, an ensemble, that is to say, a person and a thing; the thing was a hand-cart, the person was a man from Auvergene who was sleeping therein.
The shafts of the cart rested on the pavement, and the Auvergnatâs head was supported against the front of the cart. His body was coiled up on this inclined plane and his feet touched the ground.
Gavroche, with his experience of the things of this world, recognized a drunken man. He was some corner errand-man who had drunk too much and was sleeping too much.
âThere now,â thought Gavroche, âthatâs what the summer nights are good for. Weâll take the cart for the Republic, and leave the Auvergnat for the Monarchy.â
His mind had just been illuminated by this flash of light:â
âHow bully that cart would look on our barricade!â
The Auvergnat was snoring.
Gavroche gently tugged at the cart from behind, and at the Auvergnat from the front, that is to say, by the feet, and at the expiration of another minute the imperturbable Auvergnat was reposing flat on the pavement.
The cart was free.
Gavroche, habituated to facing the unexpected in all quarters, had everything about him. He fumbled in one of his pockets, and pulled from it a scrap of paper and a bit of red pencil filched from some carpenter.
He wrote:â
âFrench Republic.â
âReceived thy cart.â
And he signed it: âGAVROCHE.â
That done, he put the paper in the pocket of the still snoring Auvergnatâs velvet vest, seized the cart shafts in both hands, and set off in the direction of the Halles, pushing the cart before him at a hard gallop with a glorious and triumphant uproar.
This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing Establishment. Gavroche did not think of this. This post was occupied by the National Guards of the suburbs. The squad began to wake up, and heads were raised from camp beds. Two street lanterns broken in succession, that ditty sung at the top of the lungs. This was a great deal for those cowardly streets, which desire to go to sleep at sunset, and which put the extinguisher on their candles at such an early hour. For the last hour, that boy had been creating an uproar in that peaceable arrondissement, the uproar of a fly in a bottle. The sergeant of the banlieue lent an ear. He waited. He was a prudent man.
The mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible measure of waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.
âThereâs a whole band of them there!â said he, âlet us proceed gently.â
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box and that it was stalking abroad through the quarter.
And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.
All at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him, and at the very moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des
Comments (0)