1.F.4.1. ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER
THERE was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first
quarter of this century, a sort of cook-shop which no longer
exists. This cook-shop was kept by some people named Thenardier,
husband and wife. It was situated in Boulanger
Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat against the
wall. Upon this board was painted something which resembled
a man carrying another man on his back, the latter
wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general, with large silver
stars; red spots represented blood; the rest of the picture consisted
of smoke, and probably represented a battle. Below
ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF SERGEANT OF WATERLOO
(Au Sargent de Waterloo).
Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the
door of a hostelry. Nevertheless, the vehicle, or, to speak more
accurately, the fragment of a vehicle, which encumbered the
street in front of the cook-shop of the Sergeant of Waterloo,
one evening in the spring of 1818, would certainly have attracted,
by its mass, the attention of any painter who had
passed that way.
It was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are
used in wooded tracts of country, and which serve to transport
thick planks and the trunks of trees. This fore-carriage
was composed of a massive iron axle-tree with a pivot, into
which was fitted a heavy shaft, and which was supported by
two huge wheels. The whole thing was compact, overwhelming,
and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carriage of an
enormous cannon. The ruts of the road had bestowed on the
wheels, the fellies, the hub, the axle, and the shaft, a layer of
mud, a hideous yellowish daubing hue, tolerably like that with
which people are fond of ornamenting cathedrals. The wood
was disappearing under mud, and the iron beneath rust.
Under the axle-tree hung, like drapery, a huge chain, worthy
of some Goliath of a convict. This chain suggested, not the
beams, which it was its office to transport, but the mastodons
and mammoths which it might have served to harness; it had
the air of the galleys, but of cyclopean and superhuman galleys,
and it seemed to have been detached from some monster.
Homer would have bound Polyphemus with it, and Shakespeare,
Caliban.
Why was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the
street? In the first place, to encumber the street; next, in
order that it might finish the process of rusting. There is a
throng of institutions in the old social order, which one comes
across in this fashion as one walks about outdoors, and which
have no other reasons for existence than the above.
The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the
middle, and in the loop, as in the rope of a swing, there were
seated and grouped, on that particular evening, in exquisite interlacement,
two little girls; one about two years and a half
old, the other, eighteen months; the younger in the arms of
the other. A handkerchief, cleverly knotted about them, prevented
their falling out. A mother had caught sight of that
frightful chain, and had said, "Come! there's a plaything for
my children."
The two children, who were dressed prettily and with some
elegance, were radiant with pleasure; one would have said that
they were two roses amid old iron; their eyes were a triumph;
their fresh cheeks were full of laughter. One had chestnut
hair; the other, brown. Their innocent faces were two delighted
surprises; a blossoming shrub which grew near wafted
to the passersby perfumes which seemed to emanate from
them; the child of eighteen months displayed her pretty little
bare stomach with the chaste indecency of childhood. Above
and around these two delicate heads, all made of happiness
and steeped in light, the gigantic fore-carriage, black with
rust, almost terrible, all entangled in curves and wild angles,
rose in a vault, like the entrance of a cavern. A few paces
apart, crouching down upon the threshold of the hostelry, the
mother, not a very prepossessing woman, by the way, though
touching at that moment, was swinging the two children by
means of a long cord, watching them carefully, for fear of
accidents, with that animal and celestial expression which is
peculiar to maternity. At every backward and forward swing
the hideous links emitted a strident sound, which resembled a
cry of rage; the little girls were in ecstasies; the setting sun
mingled in this joy, and nothing could be more charming than
this caprice of chance which had made of a chain of Titans
the swing of cherubim.
As she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in a discordant
voice a romance then celebrated: —
"It must be, said a warrior."
Her song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented
her hearing and seeing what was going on in the street.
In the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was
beginning the first couplet of the romance, and suddenly she
heard a voice saying very near her ear: —
"You have two beautiful children there, Madame."
"To the fair and tender Imogene — "
replied the mother, continuing her romance; then she turned
her head.
A woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This
woman also had a child, which she carried in her arms.
She was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, which
seemed very heavy.
This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures
that it is possible to behold. lt was a girl, two or three years
of age. She could have entered into competition with the two
other little ones, so far as the coquetry of her dress was concerned;
she wore a cap of fine linen, ribbons on her bodice,
and Valenciennes lace on her cap. The folds of her skirt were
raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, and dimpled
leg. She was admirably rosy and healthy. The little beauty
inspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks.
Of her eyes nothing could be known, except that they must be
very large, and that they had magnificent lashes. She was
asleep.
She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar
to her age. The arms of mothers are made of tenderness; in
them children sleep profoundly.
As for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty-stricken.
She was dressed like a working-woman who is inclined
to turn into a peasant again. She was young. Was she
handsome? Perhaps; but in that attire it was not apparent.
Her hair, a golden lock of which had escaped, seemed very
thick, but was severely concealed beneath an ugly, tight, close,
nun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile displays beautiful
teeth when one has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did
not seem to have been dry for a very long time. She was pale;
she had a very weary and rather sickly appearance. She gazed
upon her daughter asleep in her arms with the air peculiar
to a mother who has nursed her own child. A large blue
handkerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a
fichu, and concealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were
sunburnt and all dotted with freckles, her forefinger was hardened
and lacerated with the needle; she wore a cloak of coarse
brown woollen stuff, a linen gown, and coarse shoes. It was
Fantine.
It was Fantine, but difficult to recognize. Nevertheless,
on scrutinizing her attentively, it was evident that she still
retained her beauty. A melancholy fold, which resembled the
beginning of irony, wrinkled her right cheek. As for her
toilette, that aerial toilette of muslin and ribbons, which
seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music, full of bells,
and perfumed with lilacs had vanished like that beautiful and
dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken for diamonds in the
sunlight; it melts and leaves the branch quite black.
Ten months had elapsed since the "pretty farce."
What had taken place during those ten months? It can be
divined.
After abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine
had immediately lost sight of Favourite, Zephine and Dahlia;
the bond once broken on the side of the men, it was loosed
between the women; they would have been greatly astonished
had any one told them a fortnight later, that they had been
friends; there no longer existed any reason for such a thing.
Fantine had remained alone. The father of her child gone, —
alas! such ruptures are irrevocable, — she found herself absolutely
isolated, minus the habit of work and plus the taste for
pleasure. Drawn away by her liaison with Tholomyes to
disdain the pretty trade which she knew, she had neglected to
keep her market open; it was now closed to her. She had no
resource. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not know
how to write; in her childhood she had only been taught to
sign her name; she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle
to Tholomyes, then a second, then a third. Tholomyes replied
to none of them. Fantine heard the gossips say, as they looked
at her child: "Who takes those children seriously! One
only shrugs one's shoulders over such children!" Then she
thought of Tholomyes, who had shrugged his shoulders over
his child, and who did not take that innocent being seriously;
and her heart grew gloomy toward that man. But what was
she to do? She no longer knew to whom to apply. She had
committed a fault, but the foundation of her nature, as will be
remembered, was modesty and virtue. She was vaguely conscious
that she was on the verge of falling into distress, and of
gliding into a worse state. Courage was necessary; she possessed
it, and held herself firm. The idea of returning to her
native town of M. sur M. occurred to her. There, some one
might possibly know her and give her work; yes, but it would
be necessary to conceal her fault. In a confused way she perceived
the necessity of a separation which would be more painful
than the first one. Her heart contracted, but she took her
resolution. Fantine, as we shall see, had the fierce bravery of
life. She had already valiantly renounced finery, had dressed
herself in linen, and had put all her silks, all her ornaments,
all her ribbons, and all her laces on her daughter, the only
vanity which was left to her, and a holy one it was. She sold
all that she had, which produced for her two hundred francs;
her little debts paid, she had only about eighty francs left.
At the age of twenty-two, on a beautiful spring morning, she
quitted Paris, bearing her child on her back. Any one who
had seen these two pass would have had pity on them. This
woman had, in all the world, nothing but her child, and the
child had, in all the world, no one but this woman. Fantine
had nursed her child, and this had tired her chest, and she
coughed a little.
We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Felix
Tholomyes. Let us confine ourselves to saying, that, twenty
years later, under King Louis Philippe, he was a great provincial
lawyer, wealthy and influential, a wise elector, and a very
severe juryman; he was still a man of pleasure.
Towards the middle of the day, after having, from time to
time, for the sake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four
sous a league, in what was then known as the Petites Voitures
des Environs de Paris, the "little suburban coach service,"
Fantine found herself at Montfermeil, in the alley
Boulanger.
As she passed the Thenardier hostelry, the two little girls,
blissful in the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and
she had halted in front of that vision of joy.
Charms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this
mother.
She gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of
angels is an announcement of Paradise. She thought that,
above this inn, she beheld the mysterious HERE of Providence.
These two little creatures were evidently happy. She
gazed at them, she admired them, in such emotion that at the
moment when their mother was recovering her breath between
two couplets of her song, she could not refrain from addressing
to her the remark which we have just read: —
"You have two pretty children, Madame."
The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed
on their young.
The mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the
wayfarer sit down on the bench at the door, she herself being
seated on the threshold. The two women began to chat.
"My name is Madame Thenardier," said the mother of the
two little girls. "We keep this inn."
Then, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed
humming between her teeth: —
"It must be so; I am a knight,
And I am off to Palestine."
This Madame Thenardier was a sandy-complexioned
woman, thin and angular — the type of the soldier's wife in all
its unpleasantness; and what was odd, with a languishing air,
which she owed to her perusal of romances. She was a simpering,
but masculine creature. Old romances produce that effect
when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shop woman.
She was still young; she was barely thirty. If this crouching
woman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame
of a perambulating colossus suitable for fairs, might have
frightened the traveller at the outset, troubled her confidence,
and disturbed what caused what we have to relate to vanish.
A person who is seated instead of standing erect — destinies
hang upon such a thing as that.
The traveller told her story, with slight modifications.
That she was a working-woman; that her husband was
dead; that her work in Paris had failed her, and that she was
on her way to seek it elsewhere, in her own native parts; that
she had left Paris that morning on foot; that, as she was
carrying her child, and felt fatigued, she had got into the
Villemomble coach when she met it; that from Villemomble
she had come to Montfermeil on foot; that the little one had
walked a little, but not much, because she was so young, and
that she had been obliged to take her up, and the jewel had
fallen asleep.
At this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate
kiss, which woke her. The child opened her eyes, great blue
eyes like her mother's, and looked at — what? Nothing; with
that serious and sometimes severe air of little children, which
is a mystery of their luminous innocence in the presence of
our twilight of virtue. One would say that they feel themselves
to be angels, and that they know us to be men. Then
the child began to laugh; and although the mother held fast
to her, she slipped to the ground with the unconquerable
energy of a little being which wished to run. All at once
she caught sight of the two others in the swing, stopped short,
and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration.
Mother Thenardier released her daughters, made them
descend from the swing, and said: —
"Now amuse yourselves, all three of you."
Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the
expiration of a minute the little Thenardiers were playing
with the new-comer at making holes in the ground, which was
an immense pleasure.
The new-comer was very gay; the goodness of the mother
is written in the gayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of
wood which served her for a shovel, and energetically dug a
cavity big enough for a fly. The grave-digger's business
becomes a subject for laughter when performed by a child.
The two women pursued their chat.
"What is your little one's name?"
"Cosette."
For Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child's name was
Euphrasie. But out of Euphrasie the mother had made
Cosette by that sweet and graceful instinct of mothers and of
the populace which changes Josepha into Pepita, and Francoise
into Sillette. It is a sort of derivative which disarranges
and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists. We have
known a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore
into Gnon.
"How old is she?"
"She is going on three."
"That is the age of my eldest."
In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an
attitude of profound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had
happened; a big worm had emerged from the ground, and
they were afraid; and they were in ecstasies over it.
Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have
said that there were three heads in one aureole.
"How easily children get acquainted at once!" exclaimed
Mother Thenardier; "one would swear that they were three
sisters!"
This remark was probably the spark which the other mother
had been waiting for. She seized the Thenardier's hand,
looked at her fixedly, and said: —
"Will you keep my child for me?"
The Thenardier made one of those movements of surprise
which signify neither assent nor refusal.
Cosette's mother continued: —
"You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My
work will not permit it. With a child one can find no situation.
People are ridiculous in the country. It was the good
God who caused me to pass your inn. When I caught sight
of your little ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed
me. I said: 'Here is a good mother. That is just
the thing; that will make three sisters.' And then, it will
not be long before I return. Will you keep my child for me?"
"I must see about it," replied the Thenardier.
"I will give you six francs a month."
Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:
—
"Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in
advance."
"Six times seven makes forty-two," said the Thenardier.
"I will give it," said the mother.
"And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses,"
added the man's voice.
"Total, fifty-seven francs," said Madame Thenardier. And
she hummed vaguely, with these figures: —
"It must be, said a warrior."
"I will pay it," said the mother. "I have eighty francs. T
shall have enough left to reach the country, by travelling on
foot. I shall earn money there, and as soon as I have a little
I will return for my darling."
The man's voice resumed: —
"The little one has an outfit?"
"That is my husband," said the Thenardier.
"Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure. — I understood
perfectly that it was your husband. — And a beautiful
outfit, too! a senseless outfit, everything by the dozen, and
silk gowns like a lady. It is here, in my carpet-bag."
"You must hand it over," struck in the man's voice again.
"Of course I shall give it to you," said the mother. "It
would
be very queer if I were to leave my daughter quite naked!"
The master's face appeared.
"That's good," said he.
The bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night
at the inn, gave up her money and left her child, fastened her
carpet-bag once more, now reduced in volume by the removal
of the outfit, and light henceforth and set out on the following
morning, intending to return soon. People arrange such
departures tranquilly; but they are despairs!
A neighbor of the Thenardiers met this mother as she was
setting out, and came back with the remark: —
"I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it
was enough to rend your heart."
When Cosette's mother had taken her departure, the man
said to the woman: —
"That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten
francs which falls due to-morrow; I lacked fifty francs. Do
you know that I should have had a bailiff and a protest after
me? You played the mouse-trap nicely with your young ones."
"Without suspecting it," said the woman.