You Have Strength of a Different Kind

Not that this is work we’re going to put off till tomorrow. Revolutionaries should always feel a sense of urgency, progress has no time to lose. Let’s beware of the unexpected. Don’t let’s be taken by surprise. We need to review all the alliance-building we’ve done and see whether it’s holding up. That’s something that needs to be checked today.

I feel like this is the most I’ve heard this guy speak. It’s a little more rambly than I anticipated in vibe. It does not read like he’s taking a breath.

Courfeyrac, you’ll go and see the polytechnic students. It’s their day off. Today being Wednesday.

HAHA in case you forgot what day of the week it is, he’s got you. 

Feuilly, you’ll visit our friends at La Glacière, won’t you? 

Ah yes, the glacier… He’s going out to sea, boys (okay but genuinely I’m quite curious what all these places are)

Combeferre has promised to go over to Picpus. That’s quite a lively hotspot over there. Bahorel will pay a visit to Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are cooling. You report back to us from the Rue de Grenelle-St-Honoré lodge. Joly will go to Dupuytren’s clinical lecture and take the pulse of the medical school. Bossuet will take a little turn around the law courts and chat with the law students. I’ll deal with the Cougourde.’

HAHA PUNS oh that’s great. He really is one of the boys, those pun lovers. I dunno what most of these places are but just from Joly, a med student, being sent to the med school, and Bossuet, a law student, being sent to the law students, he’s clearly picking places that suit them best. 

You know, I was so hyped to see his name I forgot to think about the rest of the chapter title. But I can see why it's called that. He's doing great directing them.

Huh.

"The word lieutenant derives from French; the lieu meaning "place" as in a position (cf. in lieu of); and tenant meaning "holding" as in "holding a position"; thus a "lieutenant" is a placeholder for a superior, during their absence." - Wikipedia

‘That’s everything taken care of,’ said Courfeyrac. ‘No.’ ‘What else is there?’ ‘Something very important.’

So important he cannot just say what it is

Must build suspense

‘What’s that?’ asked Courfeyrac. ‘The Maine toll-gate,’ replied Enjolras. Enjolras remained for a moment as if deep in thought, then resumed, ‘There are marble-workers, painters and sculptors’ assistants at the Maine toll-gate. They’re an enthusiastic bunch but with a tendency to blow cold. I don’t know what’s come over them recently. They’ve something else on their mind. They’re losing their spark. They spend their time playing dominoes. It’s high time someone went and gave them a bit of a firm talking-to. Richefeu’s is where they meet. You’ll find them there between twelve and one o’clock. Those embers need blowing on. For that, I’d been counting on that dreamer Marius, who on the whole is sound, but he no longer comes. I need someone for the Maine toll-gate. I haven’t anyone else.’

COUNTING ON WHO NOW????

The guy who hasn't come in like? Months? Maybe even years???

"That dreamer Marius" is so real though lol

BUT THE LAST TIME HE WAS HERE HE DIDN'T EVEN LIKE AGREE WITH YOU GUYS???? Why would he be any good for this 

Like sure he can talk a passionate talk, but only if it's about the greatness of Napoleon

‘What about me?’ said Grantaire. ‘I’m here.’

ha ha ha ha yeah the cynic would be great at stirring those embers back up for the cause

Though. Honestly. Maybe better than Marius as Marius is right now.

‘You?’ ‘Yes, me.’ ‘You? Rally Republicans! You? In defence of principles, fire up hearts that have grown cold!’ ‘Why not?’

Yeah, why not?? You were gonna trust that one booby with it

‘Are you capable of being good for something?’ ‘I have the vague ambition to be,’ said Grantaire.

HAHAHA oh 10/10 response actually

‘You don’t believe in anything.’ ‘I believe in you.’

Daaaang

also 10/10 response actually

I mean, hey, if he does what needs done when there's no one else to fill the role, do his intentions really matter? I think an exception can be made 

‘Grantaire, will you do me a favour?’ ‘Anything. Polish your boots.’

This guy oh my word

‘Well, don’t meddle in our affairs. Go and sleep off the effects of your absinthe.’

SHOT DOWN IN ONE BLOW

‘You’re heartless, Enjolras.’

Wish I knew what face he was making saying this

Is he going 🥺 or 😤 or 😔 or just 😐. Is he being woefully dramatic. Is he saying it pretty plainly with no real expression beyond what he was already wearing, Hugo give me more dialogue tags.

‘As if you’d be the man to send to the Maine gate! As if you were capable of it!’ ‘I’m capable of going down Rue des Grès, crossing Place St-Michel, heading off along Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, taking Rue de Vaugirard, passing the Carmelite convent, turning into Rue d’Assas, proceeding to Rue du Cherche-Midi, leaving the Military Court behind me, wending my way along Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, striding across the boulevard, following Chaussée du Maine, walking through the toll-gate and going into Richefeu’s. I’m capable of that. My shoes are capable of that.’

IT’S THE THING IT’S THE JOKE

IT’S THE REFERENCE PEOPLE KEEP MAKING, NOW I KNOW WHAT IT IS

‘Do you know them at all, those comrades who meet at Richefeu’s?’ ‘Not very well. But we’re on friendly terms.’

That’s more than I bet Marius would be.

‘What will you say to them?’ ‘I’ll talk to them about Robespierre, of course! And about Danton. About principles.’ ‘You?’ ‘Yes, me. But I’m not being given the credit I deserve. When I put my mind to it, I’m terrific. I’ve read Prudhomme, I’m familiar with the Social Contract, I know by heart my constitution of the year II. “The liberty of the citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.” Do you take me for a brute beast? I have in my drawer an old promissory note from the time of the Revolution. The rights of man, the sovereignty of the people, for God’s sake! I’m even a bit of an Hébertist. I can keep coming out with some wonderful things, watch in hand, for a whole six hours by the clock.’

For quick context, footnote says that Prudhomme wrote a history of the Revolution and was also associated with a revolutionary newspaper, and that the Social Contract was Jean-Jacque Rousseau’s treatise. 

But what I really want to make note of is this footnote:

constitution of the year II: There is no constitution of year II, but there are constitutions of year I (24 June 1793) and year III (22 August 1795). The principle that Grantaire appears to be citing is not a direct quotation but a paraphrase of Article 4 of the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen (‘Liberty consists in being entitled to do whatever causes no injury to others’), Article 6 of the 1793 constitution (‘Liberty is the inherent right of man to do whatever causes no injury to the rights of others’), and Article 2 (under Rights) of the 1795 constitution (‘Liberty consists in being entitled to do that which causes no injury to the rights of others’).

I wonder if “Article 2” got mixed up in his brain and came out as “year 2”. Kinda funny either way. 

That aside,

Grantaire “I’m an ignoramus” now going “When I put my mind to it, I’m terrific.”

‘Be serious,’ said Enjolras. ‘I mean it,’ replied Grantaire.

Honestly I'm kind of rooting for him. He's got me rooting for him. Yeah try him out let him talk to these fellas

(Kicks possibilities under the bed) What could possibly go wrong

Enjolras thought for a few moments, and with the gesture of a man who had come to a decision, ‘Grantaire,’ he said gravely, ‘I agree to try you out. You’ll go to the Maine toll-gate.’ Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very close to Café Musain. He went out, and came back five minutes later. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre-style waistcoat. ‘Red,’ he said as he came in, gazing intently at Enjolras.

HAHAHAAHAHAHAHA oh man

oh man this is taking me out

ohhhh boy how long was he saving that waistcoat for just to have an opportunity to go throw it on

ENJOLRAS LOOK I’VE EVEN GOT THIS TO WEAR

What kinda pathetic eager to please dog behavior is happening here good grief

"Red." might just be the funniest thing he could have said upon return actually

Then, with an energetic pat of his hand, he pressed the two scarlet lapels of the waistcoat to his chest. And stepping close to Enjolras he said in his ear, ‘Don’t worry.’ He resolutely jammed on his hat, and off he went.

Do we think Enjolras was killed on the spot by Grantaire’s breath being that close to his face

A quarter of an hour later the back room of Café Musain was deserted. . . . Enjolras, who had saved the Cougourde for himself, was the last to leave.  . . . As Enjolras headed towards this meeting-place he reviewed the whole situation. The gravity of the circumstances was obvious. When events symptomatic of a kind of latent social disease move sluggishly, the slightest complication arrests and obstructs them. A phenomenon resulting in collapse and renewal. Enjolras discerned a revolutionary brightness beneath the overcast reaches of the future. Who knows? Perhaps the moment was at hand. The people reasserting their right – what a glorious spectacle! The Revolution was majestically taking hold of France once again and saying to the world, ‘The story continues!’ Enjolras was pleased.

Haha this is kinda charming. He’s so excited. It’s fun to get a peek into his brain.

Things were hotting up. He had at that very moment a powder trail of friends scattered all over Paris. With Combeferre’s shrewd and philosophical eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s wit, Bahorel’s mirth, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s erudition, Bossuet’s sarcasm, he mentally orchestrated a kind of explosion of electric sparks that set alight almost everywhere at once. 

Wait that’s really cute what the heck

He’s not even thinking necessarily about traits or skills or knowledge that’s best for convincing people of their cause as much as just… their overall qualities? Their lovable qualities? It’s like he’s thinking, yeah, with people this great, there’s not a chance they won’t make sparks everywhere they go, and that’s incredibly sweet of him. 

Everyone doing his bit! The result would surely repay the effort. It was going well. This made him think of Grantaire.

HAHA

Ah yes, all going well 🙂‍↕️ … Oh wait there’s also Grantaire. 

‘Well now,’ said he to himself, ‘the Maine toll-gate doesn’t take me far out of my way. Why not go on to Richefeu’s? Just to see what Grantaire’s doing, and how he’s getting on.’

Oh boy

He pushed open the door, went inside, folded his arms, let the door close again behind him, bumping his shoulders, and viewed the room full of tables, men and smoke.

L O L ?

Why did he… Why did he just let the door hit him… That’s so dramatic, and for what…?

A voice rose out of this haze along with lively interjections from another voice. It was Grantaire engaged in dialogue with some opponent. Grantaire was sitting opposite another person at a table of St-Anne marble strewn with sawdust and arrayed with dominoes. He was banging his fist on the marble, and this is what Enjolras heard: ‘Double six.’ ‘Four.’ ‘You swine! I haven’t any left.’ ‘You’re doomed. Two.’

[More dominoes talk, of which I will include my favorites]

‘I’ve made a terrible mistake.’ ‘You’re doing fine.’ . . . ‘That makes twenty-two.’ (Pondering.) ‘Twenty-two!’ ‘You weren’t expecting that double six. If I’d put it down at the beginning it would have changed the whole game.’ . . . ‘One! Well now, five.’ ‘I haven’t any fives.’ ‘You’re the one that just played, I think?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘A blank.’ ‘If he doesn’t have all the luck! Ah! You’re a lucky one, you are!’ (Pondering at length.) . . .  ‘One! Well then, five.’ ‘No fives, no ones. That’s a problem for you.’ ‘Domino!’ ‘Well, I’ll be—!’

AND THEN THAT’S IT?? THAT’S THE END??? NO REACTION????

Also those pondering parentheses were not added by me, those were part of the text.

Anyway. I’m wondering if that’s what he had been doing the entire time he had been there or if he did attempt to talk to them about stuff before starting to play dominoes 🤔Maybe the dominoes was to warm them up before talking. Get em comfy. Or maybe he just chickened out (in which case, yeah, as my friend says, self-sabotaging extraordinaire). There’s quite a number of options here. Ma’am, I wish we could’ve seen how that interaction concluded… maybe Enjolras just left without a word and continued on to his original destination.

This is what had happened. Half-past midnight had just struck when Monsieur Madeleine left the court of assizes in Arras. . . . A little before six in the morning he had arrived at Montreuil-sur-Mer, and his first concern had been to drop his letter to Monsieur Laffitte in the post, then go to the infirmary and see Fantine.

Oh yeah do we know what’s in the letter. I can’t remember

However, he had hardly left the court room when the public prosecutor, recovering from his initial shock, had taken the floor to deplore the honourable mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s act of insanity, to declare that his own convictions were in no way altered by this bizarre incident that would later be elucidated, and to demand in the meantime the conviction of this Champmathieu, clearly the real Jean Valjean. The public prosecutor’s persistence was obviously at odds with everyone else’s feeling . . . and within a few minutes the jury had cleared Champmathieu of any wrong-doing. Nevertheless, the public prosecutor had to have a Jean Valjean, and not having Champmathieu any more, he took Madeleine. Immediately after Champmathieu had been released, the public prosecutor closeted himself with the presiding judge. They conferred ‘as to the necessity of the taking into custody of the person of monsieur le maire of Montreuil-sur-Mer’. This phrase, in which there were a great many ‘of’s, was monsieur l’avocat général’s, penned entirely by the public prosecutor in his report to the public prosecutor-in-chief. His initial sympathy having dissipated, the presiding judge raised few objections. After all, justice must take its course. And then, all things considered, although the judge was a decent and fairly intelligent man, he was at the same time a strong and almost ardent royalist and had been shocked to hear the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer refer to ‘the emperor’ and not ‘Bonaparte’ when speaking of the landing at Cannes.

🙄

I can accept “well, he DID admit to these wrongdoings, so we must pursue that”, but what a stupid additional reason

The arrest warrant was accordingly issued. The public prosecutor sent it by special messenger, riding as fast as he could go, to Montreuil-sur-Mer, instructing Police Inspector Javert to implement it. As we know, Javert had returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer immediately after having made his statement.

Happiest day of his life I bet

Anyone who did not know Javert and had seen him as he came through the entrance hall to the infirmary could have had no idea of what was going on and would have thought he was just his usual self. He was cold, calm, serious, his grey hair perfectly smooth over his temples, and he had just climbed the stairs with his usual deliberation. Anyone who knew him well and observed him closely would have quaked. Instead of being at the nape of his neck, the buckle on his leather collar was below his left ear. This betrayed unprecedented agitation. Javert was a consistent character, allowing no flaw in the execution of his duty or in his uniform, rigorous with villains, uncompromising with his coat buttons. For him to have buckled his collar awry there must have been one of those emotional upheavals inside him that might be called inner earthquakes.

Yeah you know what? You should take the day off, actually, give yourself time to absorb this information and calm down. We can wait B) 👍 no rush

He had come without any fuss, had requisitioned from the nearby guard-house a corporal and four soldiers, left the soldiers in the courtyard . . .

Right that thing he likes to do. Have men but like. Leave them behind at first. 

When he came to Fantine’s room Javert turned the handle, pushed the door open as softly as a sick-nurse or a police spy . . .

I almost want this to not be funny but this line is funny. Can’t deny it. GJ Hugo, you got me.

Strictly speaking, he did not enter. He stood in the half-open doorway . . .

And I think it should stay that way. He could back up even. All the way back to his residence.

HE WAS STANDING THERE FOR ALMOST A MINUTE? Hearing poor Fantine… not that he’ll care 🙄

The instant Madeleine’s eyes met Javert’s, Javert, without moving, without stirring, without stepping closer, became atrocious. No human sentiment can be quite as appalling as joy. It was the face of a demon on retrieving one of his damned.

Oh, horrifying, thanks

Javert: 🧍

Javert when eye-contact: 👹

Javert was in seventh heaven at that moment. Without being distinctly aware of it, yet with a vague intuition of his indispensability and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light and truth in their heavenly capacity for crushing evil. Behind and around him, reaching to infinite depths, he had authority, reason, a definitive verdict, legal integrity, the vindication of public morality, every star in his favour. He was protecting order, delivering the law’s thunderbolt, avenging society; he was the enforcer of the absolute. He rode on a cloud of glory. There was in his victory a trace of defiance and challenge. Standing proud and resplendent, he paraded in the azure heavens the superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel. The terrible shadow of the deed he was doing revealed the dim gleam of society’s sword in his clenched fist. Rejoicing and indignant, under his heel he crushed crime, vice, rebellion, damnation, hell. He blazed, he exterminated, he smiled, and there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous St Michael.

I hate this but it also goes pretty hard. But also I’ve seen an angel and his name was Myriel and he was better than Javert could ever hope to be. If heaven’s blinding light of justice and truth has zero sense of mercy, I don’t want it. Better be no Javert’s going on. What a paragraph though. We’ve seen angel imagery in this book, but never one poised to be terrifying and “monstrous” like this.

Also, the thunderbolt thing suddenly reminded me of, uh… well let's see if I can find it. 

‘. . . And you put the thunderbolt on trial.’ Without perhaps admitting it to himself, the bishop felt that something within him was extinguished. Nevertheless, he put on a brave face. He replied, ‘The judge speaks in the name of justice. The priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a higher form of justice. A thunderbolt must not be misplaced.’

(1.1.10)

Wow even better than I thought. Javert has no pity. His thunderbolt is misplaced.

Probity, sincerity, forthrightness, conviction, the concept of duty, are things that may grow hideous when misguided but, even hideous, remain grand. Intrinsic to the human conscience, their majesty persists even in horror. They are virtues that have one vice: delusion. The ruthless and true joy of a fanatic in perpetrating atrocity retains a certain bleakly venerable radiance. Unaware of it himself, Javert in his fearsome gladness, like every benighted individual who triumphs, was to be pitied. There was nothing so poignant and terrible as this face, displaying what might be called all the evil of goodness.

Not sure I necessarily agree with this entire paragraph but dang if Hugo isn’t penning fire

1.8.4

Fantine had not seen Javert since the day the mayor had rescued her from this man. Though nothing made sense to her sick brain, she had no doubt he had come back for her. She could not bear that terrible face, she felt she was dying, she hid her face in both hands and cried in anguish, ‘Monsieur Madeleine, save me!’

JAVERT YOU MIGHT KILL HER, SHE’S GOT A FOOT AND A HALF IN THE GRAVE, DON’T MAKE HER LOSE BALANCE

Jean Valjean – from now on we shall not refer to him otherwise – had stood up. He said to Fantine in his gentlest and calmest voice, ‘Don’t worry. It’s not you that he’s come for.’

weep

Javert replied, ‘Let’s get a move on!’ There was in the modulation of the voice that accompanied these words something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, ‘Let’s get a move on!’ He said, ‘Lessghehmwuhahn!’ No spelling can do justice to the way in which it was uttered: it was no longer human speech, it was an animal roar.

ADFHSFGDHJ HELP HAHAHAHA NO STOP THAT’S TOO FUNNY FOR THIS SITUATION

It feels like inappropriate timing to be laughing as hard as I am, and yet

He did not behave as usual, he did not explain the situation, he did not produce any arrest warrant. In his eyes Jean Valjean was a kind of mysterious and elusive combatant, a sinister opponent with whom he had been wrestling for the past five years without ever being able to fell him. This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He merely said, ‘Let’s get a move on!’ He remained exactly where he was as he said this. He cast a glance at Jean Valjean, that violently compelling glance, like a grappling-hook, by which he was accustomed to draw scoundrels to him. It was this glance by which Fantine had felt pierced to the core two months earlier.  At Javert’s cry Fantine opened her eyes again. But monsieur le maire was here. What could she possibly have to fear? Javert stepped into the middle of the room and shouted, ‘Now get moving!’ The poor woman looked around. There was no one other than the nun and the mayor. Who could be the object of this contemptuous familiarity? Only herself. She shuddered. Then she saw something unbelievable, so unbelievable that nothing to equal it had appeared to her even in the darkest of her feverish fits of delirium. She saw the police detective Javert seize monsieur le maire by the collar. She saw monsieur le maire bow his head. To her, it was as if the world had been turned upside-down.

Remembering how before she was certain the mayor was behind her problems and when she was released she felt certain Javert had done it until she realized she was mistaken… and how absolutely bewildered and shaken she was then, and-

OH SHE FAINTED RIGHT AFTER THAT TOO DIDN’T SHE OH NO

OH NO

‘Monsieur le maire!’ shrieked Fantine. Javert burst into laughter, that frightful laughter with all his teeth bared. ‘There’s no monsieur le maire here any more!’

YOU’RE GONNA KILL HER STOP

Jean Valjean made no attempt to remove the hand on his coat collar. He said, ‘Javert—’ Javert cut him short. ‘Call me monsieur l’inspecteur.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said Jean Valjean, ‘I should like to have a word with you in private.’ ‘Out loud! Speak out loud!’ replied Javert. ‘Anyone who has anything to say to me speaks out loud.’ Jean Valjean continued, keeping his voice low. ‘It’s a favour I have to ask of you—’ ‘Speak out loud, I tell you!’ ‘But it’s something only you should hear.’ ‘What do I care? I’m not listening.’

I’m feeling quite musical, and Javert is looking an awful lot like a tambourine right now

Jean Valjean turned to him and said rapidly in a very low voice, ‘Grant me three days’ grace! Three days in which to go and fetch this poor woman’s child. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary. You can accompany me if you wish.’ ‘You’re joking!’ cried Javert. ‘Honestly! I didn’t take you for a fool! You’re asking me to let you go away for three days! You say it’s to go and fetch this whore’s child! Hah-hah! That’s good! That’s really good!’

SHAKING AND SMACKING HIM

Fantine trembled. ‘My child!’ she cried. ‘Fetch my child! She’s not here, then! Sister, answer me, where’s Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le maire!’ Javert stamped his foot. ‘Now the other one! Shut up, you hussy! The degeneracy of this place, where convicted felons are magistrates and prostitutes are treated like duchesses! But all that’s going to change. And high time too!’ He gazed intently at Fantine, and once again grabbing hold of Jean Valjean’s cravat, shirt and collar he added, ‘I tell you there’s no Monsieur Madeleine and no monsieur le maire. There’s a thief, a ruffian, a convicted felon named Jean Valjean! And I have him here! That’s what there is!’

STOP I SAY, STOP

YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HER

Fantine sat bolt upright, her arms stiff and both hands supporting her. She stared at Jean Valjean, she stared at Javert, she stared at the nun. She opened her mouth as though to speak. A rattle issued from deep in her throat, her teeth chattered, she stretched out her arms in anguish, opening her hands convulsively and groping about her like someone drowning. Then she suddenly fell back on her pillow. Her head struck the bed frame and dropped forward on to her chest, her mouth gaping, her eyes open and dull. She was dead.

Jean Valjean laid his own hand on Javert’s restraining hand and prised it open as he would have prised open the hand of a baby. Then he said to Javert, ‘You killed that woman.’

You tell him 😭 you tell him, you,  you ttell him, you tell him and then and then leave him to me

I have a plan

‘Enough!’ shouted Javert in a fury. ‘I’m not here to argue with you. We haven’t time for all this. The guard’s downstairs. Now move, or I’ll have you in thumb-cuffs!’ In a corner of the room there was an old iron bed in quite a poor state that served the nuns as a camp-bed when they were keeping vigil. Jean Valjean went over to this bed, in a split second dismantled the already very dilapidated bedstead, no obstacle to muscles like his, seized the main strut in his clenched fist, and eyed Javert. Javert retreated towards the door. With the iron strut in his hand Jean Valjean walked slowly over to Fantine’s bed. When he reached it he turned and said to Javert in a barely audible voice, ‘I advise you not to disturb me just now.’

… Yeah Javert let’s take it outside. Let him uh. Let him be for now

One thing is certain: Javert was trembling. He thought of going to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might take advantage of that one moment to escape. So he stayed, grasped his cane by the thinner end, and backed up against the door frame without taking his eyes off Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob of the bedstead and his forehead on his hand, and fell to gazing at Fantine, lying there motionless. So he remained, absorbed, silent, and obviously no longer thinking of anything to do with this life. There was nothing but inexpressible pity now on his face and in his attitude. After a few moments of this meditating he bent down and spoke to Fantine in a whisper. What did he say to her? What could this man, social outcast that he was, possibly have to say to that woman who was dead? What were those words? Not a living soul heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions that may perhaps be sublime realities. What is beyond doubt is that Soeur Simplice, sole witness to what happened, often said that at the moment Jean Valjean whispered in Fantine’s ear she distinctly saw an ineffable smile appear on those pale lips and in those vacant eyes filled with the terror of death.  Jean Valjean took Fantine’s head in both hands and settled it straight on the pillow as a mother might have done to her child. He retied the fastening of her nightdress, and tidied her hair under her cap. Having done that, he closed her eyes. Fantine’s face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment. Death is the entrance to the supreme light. Fantine’s hand was hanging out of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt down before that hand, gently raised it, and kissed it.

(head in hands again)

Then he stood up again and turned to Javert. ‘Now, I’m at your disposal,’ he said.

NOOOO BUT COSETTE AGHHH HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HOW BAD SHE’S GOT IT AGHHHHH

Monsieur Madeleine stood before [Soeur Simplice]. He had just entered silently. ‘It’s you, monsieur le maire!’ she exclaimed. He responded quietly, ‘How is that poor woman?’ ‘Not so bad right now. But we have been very worried, believe me!’ She explained to him what had happened, that Fantine had been very poorly the day before, and that she was better now because she thought that monsieur le maire had gone to Montfermeil to fetch her child. The nun dared not question monsieur le maire, but from the way he looked she could see quite clearly that was not where he had come from. ‘That’s just as good,’ he said. ‘You were quite right not to disillusion her.’

Except NOW WHAT

‘Yes,’ replied the nun, ‘but now, monsieur le maire, she’s going to see you and she won’t see her child. What shall we tell her?’ He remained pensive for a moment. ‘God will inspire us,’ he said.

He BETTER but I don’t feel like the god of this book whose surname starts with “Hu” and ends in “go” is going to be that merciful.

And Simplice won’t lie

‘Whatever has happened to you? Your hair’s completely white!’ ‘White!’ he said. Soeur Simplice had no looking-glass. She rummaged in a box and pulled out the little mirror the infirmary doctor used to check that a patient was dead and no longer breathing. Monsieur Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said, ‘Well now!’  He uttered this with indifference and as though he were thinking of something else.

Hopefully about how to fix this mess

‘Can I see her?’ he asked. ‘Will monsieur le maire not have her child fetched?’ said the nun, hardly daring to hazard a question. ‘Of course, but it will take two or three days at least.’ ‘If she were not to see monsieur le maire between now and then,’ the nun went on timidly, ‘she wouldn’t know that monsieur le maire had returned, it would be easy to urge her to have patience, and when the child arrived she would naturally think monsieur le maire came with the child. We wouldn’t have to tell any lies.’

Hey look, God's answer through Simplice. You should listen to her. 

They probably won't catch you if you travel that way and then all you have to do is… uh… drop off the kid and then… we hope Fantine gets better… because if she doesn't and you get arrested… the kid has no one…

Hm.

Okay I do see the problem but what if you used this short time you've got to send someone else. Someone good. And pay them tons so they'll care for Cosette if Fantine can't. And then hope for the best.

Ugh. 

Monsieur Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments, then with his calm gravity he said, ‘No, sister, I must see her. I may not have much time.’

Sighs

NOOO I DON’T LIKE THIS PARAGRAPH

She was asleep. Her breath issued from her chest with that tragic sound characteristic of these illnesses, one that breaks poor mothers’ hearts when they sit up at night with their doomed and sleeping child. But this laboured breathing hardly disturbed a kind of ineffable serenity that suffused her face, transfiguring her in her sleep. Her wanness had become a whiteness, her cheeks were crimson. Her long fair eyelashes, sole remnant of the beauty of her virginal youth, fluttered though remaining lowered and closed. Her whole being trembled with some suggested unfolding of wings about to spread and carry her away, wings whose quivering could be sensed though not seen. Seeing her like this, no one would ever have believed this was a sick person at death’s door. She looked more like something about to fly away than to die.

NO THE NEXT ONE IS WORSE

The branch thrills when a hand approaches it to pick a flower, and seems at once to draw back and to offer itself. The human body has something of this thrill at that moment when the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul.

If I’m gonna read this I need the comfiest sweatshirt I’ve got

She opened her eyes, saw him, and said calmly with a smile, ‘And Cosette?’

1.8.2

“Fantine Happy”

Hugo don’t do this to me

Stop. Stop it.

She gave no start of surprise or expression of joy. She was joy itself. That simple question ‘And Cosette?’ was put with such profound faith, such certainty, such a complete absence of anxiety and doubt, he was left speechless. She went on, ‘I knew you were here. I was asleep but I was watching you. I’ve been watching you for a long time. My eyes have been following you all night. You were in a halo of light and you had all kinds of heavenly figures around you.’ He looked up at the crucifix. ‘But tell me now,’ she said, ‘where’s Cosette? Why didn’t you put her on my bed to be there when I woke up?’

GOD AIN’T GONNA SAVE YOU NOW, VAL, LOOK AT THAT CRUCIFIX ALL YOU WANT BUT SHE SAW YOU AND WANTS HER KID AND WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO IN TO SEE HER YOU FOOL 

Fortunately, having been told of his arrival, the doctor had turned up. He came to Monsieur Madeleine’s aid. ‘My child,’ said the doctor, ‘calm yourself. Your child is here.’

WELL NO IT’S TOO LATE TO LIE TO HER NOW!!! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO BACK IT UP????

Fantine’s eyes lit up, brightening her whole face. She clasped her hands with an expression containing at once all the most violent and most tender feelings of which entreaty is capable. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘bring me my little baby!’ A mother’s pathetic delusion! For her Cosette was still a babe-in-arms. ‘Not yet,’ said the doctor, ‘not right now. You still have a lingering fever. Seeing your child would excite you and be bad for you. You must get better first.’ She interrupted him vehemently, ‘But I am better! I tell you I am better! Is he a fool, this doctor? Honestly! I want to see my child!’ ‘You see how worked up you’re getting,’ said the doctor. ‘So long as you’re like this I won’t allow you to have your child. It isn’t enough to see her, you have to live for her. When you behave sensibly I’ll bring her to you myself.’

…Okay… alright… that’s clever…

The poor mother bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry, doctor, I’m truly sorry. In the past I would never have spoken the way I did just now. I’ve suffered so many setbacks I don’t know what I’m saying sometimes. I understand, you’re afraid of it being too much for me. I’ll wait as long as you like but I swear to you it wouldn’t have done me any harm to see my daughter. I can see her, I’ve not taken my eyes off her since yesterday evening. You know, if she were brought to me now I’d just talk to her quietly. That’s all. Isn’t it perfectly natural I should want to see my child that someone’s gone specially to fetch from Montfermeil? I’m not angry. I know I’m going to be happy. All through the night I saw these white things and people smiling at me. The doctor will bring my Cosette to me when he wants to. I haven’t any fever because I’m better now. I feel sure there’s nothing at all the matter with me any more, but just to please these good women I’m going to behave as if I were ill and lie still. Once they see I’m quite calm, they’ll say, “She must be allowed to have her child.”’

I feel like I’m in a locked car, broken locks, and there is a brick on the acceleration, and I’m tied to the passenger seat, and the vehicle is headed straight for a cement wall.

Could I put the book down and walk away?

Yes.

Am I going to?

Well, clearly I have smashed the locks and set the brick on the acceleration and tied myself up to the passenger seat.

So. No.

Monsieur Madeleine sat on a chair beside the bed. She turned to him, visibly striving to appear calm and ‘well behaved’, as she put it, . . . so that, seeing she was so quiet, there would be no objection to having Cosette brought to her. However, even as she held herself in check, she could not help asking Monsieur Madeleine countless questions. ‘Did you have a good journey, monsieur le maire? Oh, how kind of you to go and fetch her for me! Just tell me how she is. Was the travelling not too much for her? Oh dear! she won’t recognize me. After all this time she’ll have forgotten me, poor little mite! Children don’t remember. They’re like birds. They see one thing today and another thing tomorrow, and they don’t remember anything. Did she have some clean clothes at least? Did those Thénardiers look after her properly? How did they feed her? Oh, if you only knew how much I’ve suffered wondering about all these things during the bad times I’ve had. That’s in the past now! I’m overjoyed! Oh, how I should like to see her! Monsieur le maire, did you find her pretty? Isn’t she beautiful, my daughter? You must have been very cold in that coach! Couldn’t she be brought to me just for a moment? They could take her away straight after. You tell them! Being the mayor, you could if you wanted to!’ He took her hand. ‘Cosette is beautiful,’ he said, ‘Cosette is in good health. You’ll see her soon. But calm down. You’re getting too excited, and besides you’re not keeping your arms covered and that’s making you cough.’

I'm aware I'm copy pasting like 90% of this chapter, but… I'm suffering and so everyone else gets to suffer with me. B) Stuffing you in the trunk. It's cracked open, you can leave if you want, but, well. Don't you want to see where this is going? (Cement wall)

But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed, ‘I can hear her! My God, I can hear her!’ She stretched out her arm to stop them talking, held her breath, and began to listen, enraptured. There was a child playing in the yard, the child of the doorkeeper or one of the women workers. It was one of those coincidences you keep coming across that seem to form part of the mysterious staging of woeful events. The child, a little girl, was running to and fro to keep warm, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Children’s games get mixed up with everything else, more’s the pity! It was this little girl that Fantine heard singing. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘It’s my Cosette! I recognize her voice.’

‘How happy we’re going to be! For a start, we’ll have a little garden. Monsieur Madeleine promised me. My daughter will play in the garden. She must have learned her letters by now. I’ll teach her to spell. She’ll run through the grass chasing butterflies. I’ll watch her. Then she’ll make her first communion. Now let’s see, when will she make her first communion?’ She began to count on her fingers. ‘One, two, three, four … she’s seven years old. In five years’ time. She’ll have a white veil and lace stockings. She’ll look like a little lady. Oh my dear sister, you don’t know how foolish I am, I was just thinking of my daughter’s first communion!’ And she started laughing. He had let go of Fantine’s hand. He listened to these words as if listening to the wind blowing, with his eyes on the ground, his mind deep in fathomless thoughts. All at once she stopped talking and this automatically made him raise his head. Fantine now looked ghastly.

Stopstopstopstop

She did not speak, she did not breathe. She was half sitting up. Her thin shoulder emerged from her nightdress. Her face, radiant the moment before, was deathly pale, and with eyes widened in terror she seemed to be staring at something appalling in front of her on the other side of the room.

STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP I DON’T LIKE THIS

‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fantine, what’s wrong?’ She did not reply. She did not take her eyes off whatever it was she thought she saw. She touched his arm with one hand and with the other pointed behind him. He turned and saw Javert.

Oh what the heck 

I THOUGHT SHE WAS LIKE HAVING HALLUCINATIONS OF DEATH OR SOMETHING

Which. Well. I guess this is close.

That was such a weird jumpscare somehow though. Javert jumpscare. Javertscare. Javejumpscare. I should have expected him to show up soon but that was so fast and silent like bruh walk with noise, clear your throat, something. Don’t show up like a phantom.

Faubourg St-Antoine, having slowly heated up, was coming to the boil. . . .  Here, the government was purely and simply being called into question. There was open discussion of whether to fight or to keep the peace. There were back rooms of shops where working men were made to swear that ‘they would be on the street at the first cry of alarm’, and ‘they would fight regardless of how many the enemy numbered’. Once the oath had been taken, a man seated in the corner of the wine shop ‘spoke in a resonant voice’, saying, ‘Now, understand, you’re sworn to it!’ . . . The initiate was made to swear ‘to serve the cause and likewise fathers of families’. That was the formula.

There’s a song trying to pop into my head, and I can't remember what it is 🤔 something about a revolution happening or coming or whatever… hold on. 

Yeahhh. Revolution by The Score. That's what it was. "Can you hear the drumming? There's a revolution coming!"

‘Subversive’ pamphlets – ‘They were very critical of the government,’ says a secret report of that time – were read in the public rooms. Such comments as this were to be heard: ‘I don’t know the names of the leaders. The likes of us won’t know the day until two hours beforehand.’ One workman said, ‘There are three hundred of us, if we each contribute ten sous that’ll be one hundred and fifty francs for making powder and shot.’ Another said, ‘I’m not asking for six months, I’m not even asking for two. We’ll be a match for the government in less than a fortnight. With twenty-five thousand men we can take them on.’ 

Coming to a boil indeed. A small army, but with mighty determination.

Another said, ‘I don’t go to bed because I’m making cartridges all night.’ 

And not just talk either.

From time to time ‘well dressed’ men ‘in civilian clothes’, apparently ‘in charge’, came ‘swaggering’ along, and shook hands with ‘the ringleaders’, and then went away again. They never stayed more than ten minutes. 

Something about all of these acts being… well, not particularly discreet, and yet they “don’t know the names of the leaders”. Though this chapter is called “Facts behind History of Which History Is Unaware”. I guess they only figured out who was leading it all afterwards. This is a discussion of history, after all. Things get pieced together afterwards that may not have been known at the time. 

Meaningful remarks were exchanged in low voices: ‘The moment’s ripe, it’s about to happen.’ ‘Everyone there was buzzing with it’, to borrow the expression actually used by one of those present. The excitement was such that one day, in the middle of the wine shop, a worker exclaimed, ‘We have no weapons!’ In an unwitting travesty of Bonaparte’s proclamation to the army in Italy, one of his comrades replied, ‘The soldiers have!’ ‘Anything more secret’, adds one report, ‘they did not communicate to each other.’ It is hard to understand what else they could be hiding after having said what they said.

HAHAHA “so noisy about everything else in public, what the heck could they have been going on about in secret?”

These meetings were sometimes regular. Some were attended by never more than eight or ten individuals, and always the same ones. Other meetings, anyone who wanted to could attend, and the place was so full there was standing room only. Some came to them out of enthusiasm and passion, others because ‘it was on their way to work’. As during the Revolution, there were in these wine shops patriotic women who embraced newcomers.

Nice

In a wine shop opposite Rue de Charonne revolutionary representatives were appointed. Their names were drawn out of a hat.

Well that's one way to do it (do you suppose they used the hat of a policeman? ha ha)

Proclamations addressed to the National Guard in the départements were out there on the street for the public to read. One of these proclamations was signed: ‘Burtot, wine merchant’.

WOW

Straight up signed it, that's crazy

One day outside the door of a wine and spirits merchant in Lenoir market, a man with a fringe beard and an Italian accent climbed on to a stone post and read aloud a peculiar document . . . ‘We have to think in these terms: action or reaction, revolution or counter-revolution. For in these times no one believes in inertia or immobility any more. For the people, or against the people – that is the question. There is no other.’ ‘The day when we’re no good to you any more send us packing, but until that day help us to march on.’ And all this in broad daylight.

Impressive bravery

Other yet more audacious things that happened were by reason of their very audacity suspect to the people. On the fourth of April 1832, a man in the street climbed on to a cornerstone on Rue Ste-Marguerite and shouted, ‘I’m a Babeufist!’ But behind Babeuf the people thought they detected Gisquet. [Footnote: Gisquet . . . was prefect of police 1831–6.]  Among other things this man said, ‘Abolish private property! The left-wing opposition is cowardly and treacherous. It preaches revolution when it’s convenient. It’s democratic to avoid defeat and royalist to avoid a fight. The Republicans are fairweather friends. Distrust the Republicans, citizen workers.’  ‘Shut up, citizen spy!’ yelled one worker.  This cry put an end to his speech.

HAHA

The police, who were keeping their ears open, overheard some peculiar exchanges, not only in the wine shops but in the street. ‘Get yourself recruited as quick as you can,’ said a weaver to a cabinet-maker. ‘Why?’ ‘There’s some shooting to be done.’

Were people not being arrested left and right for this?

‘The chief leaders’, as they were referred to locally, remained in the background. It was believed they met for consultation in a wine shop near St-Eustache corner. A man by the name of Aug. ––, head of the Tailors’ Benevolent Society, Rue Mondétour, was supposed to be the chief intermediary between the leaders and Faubourg St-Antoine. All the same, these leaders always remained very much in the shadows and no firm evidence could dent the extraordinary pride inherent in this reply later made by a defendant before the Court of Lords: ‘Who was your leader?’ ‘I knew of none and I recognized none.’

I wonder how many were actually identified later on

. . . a carpenter found on the ground a piece of a torn-up letter on which the following lines were still legible: ‘The committee must take measures to prevent recruitment from the sections by different societies …’ And as a postscript: ‘We have learned of guns in Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, number 5B, totalling some five or six thousand, in a courtyard at a gunsmith’s. The section has no weapons.’ What excited the carpenter and made him show the thing to his neighbours was the fact that a few paces away he picked up another piece of paper, also torn, and even more significant. Because of the historical interest of these strange documents we reproduce below the way it was laid out:

It was only later that the people who at the time were let into the secret of this find learned what those four capital letters stood for: quinturions, centurions, decurions and scouts, and the meaning of those letters u og a1 fe, which represented a date and translated as the fifteenth of April 1832. Under each capital letter were inscribed names followed by very distinctive notes. Like this: Q: Bannerel. 8 guns, 83 cartridges. Trustworthy. C: Boubière. 1 pistol, 40 cartridges. D: Rollet. 1 foil, 1 pistol, 1 pound of explosive. S: Teissier. 1 sword, 1 cartridge box. Meticulous.    Terreur. 8 guns. Brave, etc.

Ohhh love that he included this detail. Very neat stuff. He then also included another list of words/names and adds:

It would seem the list was a complete roster of the Society of the Rights of Man sections in the fourth arrondissement, with the names and addresses of the section leaders. Now that all these shadowy details are no more than history, they can be published.

And then he writes of more little stories, found evidences, people spotted giving others guns, or making cartridges, and so on. All of these reports mentioned in the footnotes seem to come from 1834, so maybe that’s the year we’re building towards.

A certain Gallais, later killed in Rue Beaubourg during the April disturbances, boasted of having in his house seven hundred cartridges and twenty-four flints. The government one day received a warning that there had just been an issue of weapons to the neighbourhood along with two hundred thousand cartridges. The next week, thirty thousand cartridges were distributed. Strangely enough, the police were unable to seize any of them. An intercepted letter read, ‘The day is not far off when eighty thousand patriots will be under arms within the space of four hours.’

Man they sure were preparing. That’s a lot of people with a lot of weapons.

All this unrest was overt, you might almost say peaceful. The impending insurrection was calmly readying for the storm, right there in front of the government. There was no lack of oddity about this still underground but already perceptible crisis. Bourgeois citizens were talking to workers about what was afoot. People said, ‘How’s the uprising?’ in the same tone of voice in which they might have said, ‘How’s your wife?’

LOL

Among a list of many societies, some more secret than others, that were popping up at the time, there’s this pretty clever one:

Then the Army of the Bastilles, a kind of militarily organized cohort – four men commanded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a sub-lieutenant, forty by a lieutenant; there were never more than five men who knew each other. A creation combining caution with audacity, and seemingly stamped with the genius of Venice.

Smart

In Paris, Faubourg St-Marceau was hardly any less febrile than Faubourg St-Antoine, and the schools were no less restless than the faubourgs. A café in Rue St-Hyacinthe and the Seven Billiards wine shop in Rue des Mathurins-St-Jacques served as meeting-places for students. The Society of the Friends of the ABC, affiliated with the Friendly Society of Angers and the Cougourde of Aix, met as we have seen in Café Musain.

🫵 THERE THEY ARE, THE BOYS

These meetings were secret.

(nodding) Because the Amis are smart about these things

I miss them

The wine shops of Faubourg St-Antoine, which have cropped up more than once in the brief description the reader has just encountered, have a historic notoriety. Here, in troubled times, people get more drunk on words than on wine.

Well-worded last sentence there

I mean, not the last sentence of the chapter. He actually goes on about savages and barbarians and whatnot so. Let’s just jump past that to the actually last bit of the chapter, which also has some neat wording:

The government of 1830 had a hard life from the outset. Born only yesterday, today it had to fight. No sooner was it installed than it already felt vague movements of traction in the July contrivance so recently established and still so insecure. Resistance was born the next day, perhaps it was even born the day before. Month by month the hostility increased, turning from latent to blatant.

And if he was in touch with the people, he’d have noticed and, you know, tried to do something to improve things, but, well, Hugo said it himself in the last chapter. For many things, he was kind of a man of inaction as far as making progress.

The old legitimist parties nonetheless attacked the 1830 Revolution with all the vehemence that springs from false reasoning. Fallacies make excellent projectiles. They struck shrewdly where it was vulnerable, finding its weak spot in its lack of logic: they attacked this revolution in its royalty. ‘Revolution,’ they cried, ‘why this king?’ Factions are blind, but their aim is true. The Republicans too voiced this cry. But coming from them, the cry was logical. What was blindness in the legitimists was clearsightedness in the democrats. 1830 failed to meet its obligations to the people. Outraged democracy censured it for this.

Yeahhh. We fought for No King and here we are With King. Not a very satisfactory conclusion.

Out of this muted hostility, always kept muzzled but always growling . . .

Just putting this here because I like it.

Meanwhile at home, poverty, the proletariat, wages, education, the penal system, prostitution, the condition of women, wealth, destitution, production, consumption, distribution, exchange, currency, credit, capital’s rights, labour’s rights – all these problems multiplied, looming grimly over society.

Hmmmmm almost like maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job then

Outside of the political parties properly speaking, another movement developed. In response to democratic ferment came philosophical ferment. The elite, like the masses, felt troubled – differently, but no less so. Thinkers meditated while the ground, that is to say the people, penetrated by revolutionary currents, shook beneath them with vague epileptic-like tremors. These dreamers . . . delved into social issues, peacefully but profoundly; impassive miners calmly extending their tunnels into the depths of a volcano, barely disturbed by the muffled shocks or by the glimpsed furnaces. This calmness was not the least edifying spectacle of this unsettled period. These men left to the political parties the question of rights; they occupied themselves with the question of happiness. The well-being of man, that was what they wanted to extract from society.

Back to the mining analogy. Once again, just a passage I really enjoy regarding how it was written.

They raised the importance of material issues – of agriculture, industry, commerce – almost to the status of religion. In the making of civilization, in a small way by God, largely by man, interests combine, amalgamate and compact to form really hard rock, according to a law of dynamics patiently studied by economists, those geologists of politics. These men who grouped together under various names but who may all be referred to by the generic term ‘socialists’ strove to pierce that rock and bring forth the living waters of human happiness.

Oh it just keeps being really good

To the rights of man, proclaimed by the French Revolution, they added the rights of woman and the rights of the child.

Heck yeah

Leaving aside cosmogonic visions, dreams and mysticism, all the problems the socialists considered can be reduced to two main problems. First problem: how to produce wealth. Second problem: how to share it out. The first problem contains the issue of work. The second contains the issue of wages. The first problem is about the use of resources. The second, about the distribution of benefits.Effective use of resources results in national strength. Fair distribution of benefits results in individual happiness. Fair distribution should be understood to mean not equal but equitable distribution. The fundamental equality is equity.

Gonna go find an old graphic I stumbled upon long ago if I can regarding the equality vs equity thing.

Found this one too while I was looking, which is nice:

England solves the first of these two problems. She creates wealth admirably, she shares it out badly. This solution, which is only partial, leads inevitably to these two extremes: monstrous wealth, monstrous penury. All the benefits going to a few, all the hardship to the rest, that is to say, the people. Privilege, distinction, monopoly, feudalism are actually the fruits of labour. A false and dangerous situation, which bases national strength on private misery, which roots the greatness of the state in the sufferings of the individual. A badly constituted grandeur consisting of all the material elements but no moral element.

(looks at camera) sounds familiar

The two problems need to be solved together if they are to be solved properly. The two solutions need to be combined to provide a single solution. Solve only the first of the two problems, and you will be Venice, or England. Like Venice, you will have artificial strength, or like England, material strength. You will be the villainous rich.

Okay honestly love the term “the villainous rich” HAHA so true so true

Solve the two problems, encourage the rich and protect the poor, eliminate destitution, put an end to the unjust exploitation of the weak by the strong; curb the iniquitous envy, in the one who is making his way up, of the one who has arrived; set the wages for a job fairly and in the spirit of fellowship, foster the development of childhood with free compulsory education and make knowledge the foundation of manliness, develop minds while keeping hands busy; be at once a powerful nation and a family of happy individuals; democratize property not by abolishing it but by making it universal, so that every citizen without exception may be a property owner, something easier to achieve than people think. In short, learn how to produce wealth and how to distribute it, and you will have both material greatness and moral greatness. And you will be worthy of calling yourself France.

The way I cracked up at the last sentence. Oh, Hugo, you Francophile you.

An accumulating darkness shrouded the horizon. A strange shadow, reaching nearer and nearer, gradually extended over men, things, ideas, a shadow arising out of anger and out of the way things were organized. Everything that had been hastily stifled was astir, in ferment.

Horizon, you say 👁️

Barely twenty months had passed since the July Revolution, the year 1832 had begun in an ominous atmosphere of impending doom.

And then he lists over a dozen things that happened in that time. Hardships and hunger, political turmoils in both France and elsewhere, the cholera issue, etc.

A good fellow and a good prince. . . . An admirable representative of the ‘middle class’, but surpassing it and in every way superior to it. . . . Long-winded in public, succinct in private. Alleged, but not proven, to be a miser. Basically, one of those thrifty types with a readiness to be unsparing when the fancy takes them or when it is expected of them. Well read, but with little feeling for literature. A gentleman but no cavalier. Unpretentious, calm, strong. Adored by his family and his household. An engaging conversationalist, a statesman with no illusions, inwardly cold, ruled by immediate priorities, governing always in the short term, incapable of resentment or of gratitude, ruthless in deploying superiority against mediocrity, clever at getting parliamentary majorities to condemn those mysterious unanimities grumbling darkly beneath thrones. . . . Eight times targeted by regicides, and always smiling. Brave as a grenadier, courageous as a thinker, anxious only at the prospect of European turmoil, and unsuited for great political adventures. Always ready to risk his life, never his work. Disguising his will as influence so as to be obeyed for what he thought rather than as king. With a gift for observation but not for anticipation. . . . Governing too much and not ruling enough. . . . Louis-Philippe will be classed among the eminent men of his age, and would be ranked among the most illustrious rulers in history if he had cared a little for glory, and if his sense of what was great had been equal to his sense of what was useful. . . . Not always winning the nation’s approval, but always the crowd’s. He was liked. He had that gift, charm. He lacked majesty. Although a king he wore no crown, and although elderly his hair was not white. He had the manners of the old regime and the habits of the new, a mixture of the aristocratic and the bourgeois that suited 1830. Louis-Philippe was the reign of transition.

So a decent enough person, with flaws, of course, as all humans are flawed. Maybe not the most kingly king, but a decent transitional type person for the period.

Louis-Philippe cannot be held responsible for all the charges history lays against him. For some of these charges royalty is to blame, for some, the reign, and for some, the king. . . . His great failing was this: he was modest in the name of France. What was the reason for this failing? We can explain it.

Hold on lemme get a snack.

Okay go for it.

Louis-Philippe was a king who let fatherhood get the better of him. This incubation of a family intended to develop into a dynasty is fearful of everything and has no wish to be disturbed. Hence the inordinate want of courage, offensive to a people who have the fourteenth of July in their civilian history and Austerlitz in their military history. Leaving aside those public duties that claim priority, it has to be said that his family deserved the deep affection Louis-Philippe had for them. They were an admirable bunch, the members of that family. Their virtues matched their talents.

Makes sense. Certainly not the worst reason.

To be Prince Equality, to carry within himself the contradiction between the Restoration and the Revolution, to have that disquieting revolutionary side that becomes reassuring in the man in power – this was Louis-Philippe’s good fortune in 1830. Never was there a man better suited to an event. One was instilled in the other, and the incarnation came about: Louis-Philippe is 1830 made man. Moreover, he had in his favour that great recommendation for the throne, exile. He was banished, homeless, poor. He had worked for his living.

So a man of the people, in some ways. With the right bloodline for the throne, but with the sorts of experiences a lot of people would appreciate their ruler having. Again, a "decent" transitional ruler (depending on your definition of decent).

And, having witnessed the French Revolution and all that took place during it, and being very affected by all that went on, well… I like how Hugo words it:

And lingering in his soul, a respectful dread of these immense dispensations of justice by the people, almost as impersonal as the justice of God.

Nice.

Louis-Philippe was a king of total transparency. While he reigned there was press freedom, parliamentary freedom, freedom of conscience and freedom of speech. The September laws are an open book. Although aware of the corrosive power of the light on privileges, he left his throne exposed to the light. History will recognize him for this honesty. Like all historical figures who have left the stage, Louis-Philippe now faces judgement before the human conscience. The trial is still in progress. For him, the hour has not yet struck when history speaks in its venerable and impartial voice. The moment has not yet come to deliver the final verdict on this king.

I wonder what the people of France think of him these days. How did the trial conclude? What is the general view of him now?

And in any case, from the vantage point that philosophy must occupy, our judgement of him now, as indicated above, would have to be subject to certain reservations in respect of the absolute democratic principle. In the eyes of the absolute, everything in disregard of these two rights – firstly the right of man, secondly the right of the people – is usurpation. But with these reservations, what we can say right now is that all in all, whichever way you look at him, Louis-Philippe, as a person and from the viewpoint of human kindness, will remain, to use the old language of an earlier history, one of the best princes who ever sat on a throne.

I really appreciate the relatively balanced view taken up here (at least it reads that way to me, someone who doesn't know much about the guy). Hugo is covering the goods and bads, pros and cons. (Though there could be bias in his words. I don't know the guy myself, so I'm not sure what others who knew him well might think of Hugo's take. They might be going "bro you are leaving out SO many cons").

It’s very “credit where credit is due”. Like this:

What has he against him? That throne. Take away Louis-Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good. Sometimes good to the extent of being admirable. Often in the midst of the most serious difficulties, after a day of diplomatic conflict with the entire continent, he would return at night to his apartments and there, drained by exhaustion, shattered for want of sleep, what did he do? He picked up a file and spent the night reviewing a criminal case, believing it was one thing to stand up to Europe but a greater thing yet to save a man from the executioner. He would defy his minister of justice, dispute with the chief prosecutors – ‘those legal windbags’, as he called them – every inch of ground to which the guillotine laid claim. Sometimes heaps of files covered his table. He went through all of them.

Hugo apparently had strong feelings against the death penalty. I can see why he really liked this trait in him. Probably DID made him a bit more biased in a favorable way towards him haha, I'm sure that colors this chapter.

Louis-Philippe has been judged severely by some, perhaps harshly by others, and it is quite natural that a man, himself a phantom at present, who knew that king, should come and testify in his favour before history. This testimony, such as it is, is obviously and above all else completely disinterested. An epitaph written by a dead man is sincere. One shade may console another. Sharing the same darkness gives one sharer the right to praise his fellow sharer. And there is little fear it will ever be said of two tombs in exile: ‘This one flattered the other.’

The Revolution of 1830 quickly came to a halt. As soon as a revolution runs aground the astute break up the beached vessel. The astute in our century have conferred on themselves the title of statesmen, with the result that this word ‘statesmen’ has ended up becoming something of a slang word. After all, let us not forget that where there is only astuteness there is inevitably pettiness. To say ‘the astute’ is another way of saying ‘the mediocre’. Similarly, to say ‘statesmen’ is sometimes tantamount to saying ‘traitors’.

Ah

According to the astute, then, revolutions like the July Revolution are severed arteries. Prompt ligature is needed. Too grandly proclaimed, right destabilizes. So, once right has been asserted, the state must be strengthened. After freedom is secured, thoughts must turn to authority.

Ah

At this point the wise have not as yet parted company with the astute, but they are beginning to be wary. Authority, agreed. But firstly, what is authority? Secondly, where does it come from? The astute do not seem to hear this murmured objection, and press on with their scheme.

They said 🙉

According to those politicians expert at putting the mask of necessity on advantageous fictions, the first requirement of a nation after a revolution, when that nation belongs to a monarchic continent, is to acquire a dynasty. That way, they say, it can have peace after its revolution, in other words time to dress its wounds and rebuild its house. A dynasty hides the scaffolding and shields the ambulance.

I am just amazed at how well he writes on a topic that could easily feel boring and dull. This has all the potential to be stuffy, but he's dressed it up in words enjoyable to read without it being too complex.

If you put yourself – with all due reservations, of course – in the position of ‘statesmen’

HAHA

So the great art is this: to give success the ring of catastrophe so that those who profit by it may tremble also, to season with fear every step forward, to prolong the transition curve, thereby delaying progress, to dull the brightness of that dawn, to denounce and suppress the asperities of enthusiasm, to cut corners and trim claws, to stifle triumph and muffle right, to wrap the giant nation in flannel and very quickly put it to bed, to impose a diet on that exuberant health, to put Hercules on a convalescence regime, to dilute the event with expediency, to offer to spirits thirsting for the ideal that nectar diluted with tisane, to take precautions against undue success, to furnish the revolution with a sun-blind.

Sometimes Hugo lists a million different ways to say one thing in a single paragraph and it works so well. Concerns of redundancy fears this man.

1830 is a revolution stopped in mid-course. Semi-progress. Quasi-right. Well, logic takes absolutely no account of the more-or-less, as the sun takes no account of the candle. Who stops revolutions in mid-course? The bourgeoisie. Why? Because the bourgeoisie is satisfied self-interest. Yesterday it represented appetite, today it represents repletion, tomorrow it will represent surfeit.

Just like it has a surfeit of vowels

Some people have wanted wrongly to identify the bourgeoisie as a class. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented section of the people. The bourgeois is the man who now has time to sit down. A chair is not a caste.

🔥🔥🔥✍️

But the very progress of the human race may be halted because of a desire to sit down too soon. This has often been the failing of the bourgeoisie. A class is not made up of those with a failing. Selfishness is not one of the divisions of the social order.

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥✍️

Can you imagine being bourgeois in the 19th century and reading this. Hugo just shoots you point blank.

Besides, we must be fair, even to selfishness: the state to which that part of the nation, the bourgeoisie, aspired after the upheaval of 1830 was not inertia, which involves indifference and laziness and includes a little shame. It was not sleep, which implies a momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams. It was a state of pause – a halt. A halt is the restoration of strength. It is armed rest in a state of alert. It is the new reality that posts sentinels and remains on guard. A halt implies fighting yesterday and fighting tomorrow. It is the interval between 1830 and 1848. What we here call fighting may also be called progress.

And then he hands you a bandage and goes well, could have done worse. Could have done better, but also could have done worse.

So the bourgeoisie as well as the statesmen needed a man who would represent that word ‘halt’. An ‘although–because’. A composite individual, signifying both revolution and stability, in other words, consolidating the present through the obvious compatibility of the past with the future.

Footnote says: "although–because : For the left, Louis-Philippe, although a Bourbon, was an acceptable replacement as head of state; and because he was a Bourbon, he was also acceptable to the right."

The two hundred and twenty-one made Louis-Philippe king. Lafayette was responsible for the consecration. He called it ‘the best of republics’. Paris’s Hôtel de Ville replaced Reims cathedral. This substitution of a half-throne for the whole throne was ‘the achievement of 1830’.

Another interesting footnote here: "Lafayette : Gilbert de Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (1757–1834), made his name under George Washington fighting for the American Revolution, and successfully lobbied the French government to recognize the independence of the United States. In Revolutionary France he was a reformist in the National Constituent Assembly, but as an upholder of order he lost the support of the people and had to flee the country. Elected to the Chamber of Deputies during the Hundred Days in 1815, he presented the motion requiring Napoleon to abdicate after the defeat at Waterloo. Again as a deputy, he was a key player in the July Revolution: effectively head of the provisional government, the preferred candidate of some permanently to replace Charles X, he gave his public support at the Hôtel de Ville to Louis-Philippe, wrapping him in a tricolour flag and embracing him. In the words of Chateaubriand, ‘Le baiser républicain de La Fayette fit un roi’ (‘Lafayette’s Republican kiss created a king’; Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe , bk 32, ch. 15). Although Lafayette denied having said that Louis-Philippe was ‘la meilleure des républiques’ (‘the best of republics’), he was popularly believed by his contemporaries to have done so, as recorded for instance by the anarchist sociologist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (1809–65) in his Du Principe Fédératif (1863; published in English as The Principle of Federation ), pt I, ch. 4."

I guess his approval of Louis-Philippe made a big difference.

When the astute were done, the great iniquity of their solution became apparent. Absolute right was left out of the whole thing. Absolute right cried, ‘I protest!’ Then, ominously, it fell back into the shadows.

The two years immediately following the July Revolution – 1831 and 1832 – stand out as one of history’s most distinctive and striking moments. . . . The social masses, the very foundations of civilization, the solid grouping of overlapping and tenacious interests . . . keep appearing and disappearing through storm clouds of systems, passions and theories. These continual appearances and disappearances have been named ‘resistance’ and ‘movement’.

And the footnote says: "‘resistance’ and ‘movement’ : The terms used to refer to the two main political tendencies, the Resistance being the more conservative and right-wing, the Movement the more liberal. Louis-Philippe first entrusted his government to the banker Jacques Laffitte, leader of the Movement, but replaced him in February 1831 with Casimir Périer, leader of the Resistance. Périer died in the outbreak of cholera that swept through Paris in 1832."

History class has begun

The Restoration had been one of those transitional periods hard to define, when exhaustion . . . dormancy and tumult prevail, periods that are nothing other than a great nation coming to the end of one stage in its progress before embarking on the next. . . . At first the nation wants nothing but rest. Its only thirst is for peace, its only ambition, to be small. Which is a translation of ‘to keep quiet’. Of great events, great dangers, great adventures, great men, people have had enough, thank you very much, they have had more than enough.

I mean yeah I'd want some peace after all of that too, honestly. A breather from it all.

They have marched since daybreak, it is now evening after what has been for them a long, hard day; the first part of the way they went with Mirabeau, the second with Robespierre, the third with Bonaparte. They are worn out. Everybody is asking for a bed.

I like that analogy

Peace, tranquillity, leisure, are theirs. And they are happy. Yet at the same time certain realities surface, they present their credentials, and they too come knocking at the door. These realities are the result of revolutions and wars, they are, they exist, they are entitled to take their place in society, and they do. And most of the time these realities are just the quarter-masters and foragers sent in advance to make ready the accommodation of principles. . . . As weary men demand rest, new realities demand guarantees. Guarantees are to new realities what rest is to men. . . . These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be provided. Princes ‘grant’ them but in fact it is force of circumstance that supplies them. . . . The predestined family that returned to France when Napoleon fell had the fatal naivety to believe it was the family that was giving, and that what it had given it could take back again. That the House of Bourbon had divine right, France had nothing. And that the political right conceded in Louis XVIII’s Charter was no more than a branch of that divine right lopped off by the House of Bourbon and graciously bestowed on the people until the day when it might please the king to have his gift back again. Still, from the offence caused by the gift, the Bourbons should have sensed it was not theirs to give.

I'm thinking of the charter that Courfeyrac threw in the fire. To give the people a false satisfaction, to settle them down, to get them to settle for something less. To appease.

It thought it had power because the Empire had been swept away before it, like a stage set. It did not notice that it had itself been established in the same way. It did not see that it was the work of the same hand that had removed Napoleon. It thought it had roots because it identified itself with the past. It was wrong. It was part of the past, but the whole past was France. The roots of French society lay not in the Bourbons, but in the nation. These strong and hidden roots constituted not the right of a family but the history of a people. They were everywhere except beneath the throne. . . . People could do without the Bourbons. They had done without them for twenty-two years. There had been a break in continuity. Of this the Bourbons were oblivious.

I thought this would feel like a trudge but I quite like the way he's writing this actually

A great mistake, which led this family to withdraw the guarantees ‘granted’ in 1814, the ‘concessions’, as it called them. Deplorably, what it called its concessions were our conquests. What it called our infringements were our rights.

(The Charter of 1814, that is. I had to double check when everything was happening haha so if anyone out there is like me...)

When it thought the time was ripe, the Restoration, imagining itself to be victorious over Bonaparte and well rooted in the country – that is to say, believing itself to be strong and deeply entrenched – took a gamble and abruptly declared itself. One morning it confronted France and, raising its voice, contested the collective right of the nation to sovereignty and the individual right of the citizen to liberty. In other words, it denied to the nation what made it a nation and to the citizen what made him a citizen. This is the foundation of those famous decrees called the July Ordinances. The Restoration fell.

From Wikipedia:

The ordinances of 26 July: - Suspended the liberty of the press - Appointed new, reactionary Councillors of State - Dissolved the newly elected Chamber of Deputies of France - Reduced the number of deputies in future Chambers - Summoned new electoral colleges for September of that year - Withdrew the Deputies' right of amendment - Excluded the commercial middle-class from future elections They were intended to restore the previous political order. However, the ordinances had the opposite effect of angering the French citizens. Journalists gathered to protest at the headquarters of the National daily, founded in January 1830 by Adolphe Thiers, Armand Carrel, and others. The final result was the July Revolution and Charles X's abdication and exile.

Kinda crazy he just skipped over all that in the book. Where's the chapters of the Amis being part of all of that. Surely they would have been. Where are those chapters.

It deserved to fall. Yet, to tell the truth, it had not been totally hostile to all forms of progress. Great things had been accomplished with the Restoration standing by. Under the Restoration the nation had grown used to calm discussion, in which the Republic had been wanting, and to greatness in peace, in which the Empire had been wanting. A free and strong France had been an encouraging sight to the other peoples of Europe. The Revolution had spoken under Robespierre. The cannon had spoken under Bonaparte. Under Louis XVIII and Charles X came the turn of intelligence to speak. . . . For fifteen years these great principles . . . could be seen at work in full peacetime, in full public view: equality before the law, freedom of conscience, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, the accessibility of every office to all who had the capacity to hold it.

Let the people experience good stuff and then take it away lol yeah how did he expect anything but a revolution in the face of that 💀

The July Revolution is the triumph of right in the overthrow of reality. A splendid thing. Right overthrowing reality. Hence the magnitude of the 1830 Revolution, hence also its mildness. Right that triumphs has no need to be violent. Right is that which is just and true. Characteristic of what is right is to remain eternally beautiful and pure.

Fini rubbing off on me, now I'm thinking of Combeferre.

Reality, even the most apparently inexorable, even the best-accepted by its contemporaries, if it exists only as reality and contains but too little right or none at all, is surely destined to become in the course of time distorted, squalid, perhaps even monstrous. . . . This conflict between right and reality has been going on ever since societies came into being. To end this duel, to marry purity of concept with human actuality, to instil right in reality and reality in right, that is the work of the wise.

I'm still thinking of Combeferre haha