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_ Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling
into the clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment,
little by little, without, however, being made melancholy by it.
Marius met Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however;
twice a month at most.
Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer
boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented alleys
of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market
garden, the beds of lettuce, the chickens on the dung-heap, the horse
turning the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise,
and some of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister.
He was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way.
It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the Gorbeau
house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness, had taken
up his abode there. He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.
Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had invited him
to go and see them, when they learned about him. Marius had not
refused their invitations. They afforded opportunities of talking
about his father. Thus he went from time to time, to Comte Pajol,
to General Bellavesne, to General Fririon, to the Invalides.
There was music and dancing there. On such evenings, Marius put
on his new coat. But he never went to these evening parties or
balls except on days when it was freezing cold, because he could
not afford a carriage, and he did not wish to arrive with boots
otherwise than like mirrors.
He said sometimes, but without bitterness: "Men are so made that in
a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes.
In order to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable
thing is asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots."
All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by revery.
Marius' political fevers vanished thus. The Revolution of 1830
assisted in the process, by satisfying and calming him.
He remained the same, setting aside his fits of wrath.
He still held the same opinions. Only, they had been tempered.
To speak accurately, he had no longer any opinions, he had sympathies.
To what party did he belong? To the party of humanity. Out of
humanity he chose France; out of the Nation he chose the people;
out of the people he chose the woman. It was to that point above all,
that his pity was directed. Now he preferred an idea to a deed,
a poet to a hero, and he admired a book like Job more than an event
like Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation,
he returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught
a glimpse through the branches of the trees of the fathomless
space beyond, the nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery,
all that which is only human seemed very pretty indeed to him.
He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived at
the truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended
by gazing at nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth
can perceive from the bottom of her well.
This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his combinations,
his scaffoldings, his projects for the future. In this state
of revery, an eye which could have cast a glance into Marius'
interior would have been dazzled with the purity of that soul.
In fact, had it been given to our eyes of the flesh to gaze into
the consciences of others, we should be able to judge a man much
more surely according to what he dreams, than according to what
he thinks. There is will in thought, there is none in dreams.
Revery, which is utterly spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the
gigantic and the ideal, the form of our spirit. Nothing proceeds
more directly and more sincerely from the very depth of our soul,
than our unpremeditated and boundless aspirations towards the splendors
of destiny. In these aspirations, much more than in deliberate,
rational coordinated ideas, is the real character of a man to
be found. Our chimeras are the things which the most resemble us.
Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossible in accordance
with his nature.
Towards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who waited on
Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette family,
had been turned out of doors. Marius, who passed nearly the whole
of his days out of the house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors.
"Why are they turned out?" he asked.
"Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters."
"How much is it?"
"Twenty francs," said the old woman.
Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer.
"Here," he said to the old woman, "take these twenty-five francs.
Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell
them that it was I." _
Read next: VOLUME III: BOOK FIFTH - THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE: CHAPTER VI. The Substitute
Read previous: VOLUME III: BOOK FIFTH - THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE: CHAPTER IV. M. Mabeuf
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