[Illustration: Excellence of Misfortune]
Life became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes and his
watch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is called _de
la vache enragé_; that is to say, he endured great hardships and
privations. A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread,
nights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a
fire, weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the
elbows, an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door
which one finds locked on one at night because one’s rent is not paid,
the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers of
neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever nature
accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Marius learned how all
this is eaten, and how such are often the only things which one has to
devour. At that moment of his existence when a man needs his pride,
because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he was
badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when
youth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more
than once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame and
the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and terrible trial from
which the feeble emerge base, from which the strong emerge sublime. A
crucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires a
scoundrel or a demi-god.
For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are
instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves
step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes.
Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited
with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life,
misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle
which have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander
than the heroes who win renown.
Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a
step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of
soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good
milk for the magnanimous.
There came a moment in Marius’ life, when he swept his own landing,
when he bought his sou’s worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer’s, when
he waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker’s and
purchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though
he had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the
butcher’s shop on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who
elbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm,
who had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a
brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the
butcher’s astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven
sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between
two books, and went away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he
cooked for himself, he lived for three days.
On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the
third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and
sent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on
every occasion, saying that he needed nothing.
He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we
have just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he
had not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him.
The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next.
What was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some
good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned
by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was
green. Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. This made
his coat black. As he wished always to appear in mourning, he clothed
himself with the night.
In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. He was
supposed to live in Courfeyrac’s room, which was decent, and where a
certain number of law-books backed up and completed by several
dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the
regulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac’s quarters.
When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of the fact in
a letter which was cold but full of submission and respect. M.
Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read it, tore it in four
pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three days later,
Mademoiselle Gillenormand heard her father, who was alone in his room,
talking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever he was greatly
agitated. She listened, and the old man was saying: “If you were not a
fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the
same time.”