Les Misérables by Victor HugoObserver Classic Books

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www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 17

The poor, who had trooped to the door, and whoshared their purses, blessed them. There wereflowers everywhere. The house was no less fra-grant than the church; after the incense, roses.They thought they heard voices carolling in theinfinite; they had God in their hearts; destiny ap-peared to them like a ceiling of stars; above theirheads they beheld the light of a rising sun. All atonce, the clock struck. Marius glanced at Cosette’scharming bare arm, and at the rosy things whichwere vaguely visible through the lace of her bod-ice, and Cosette, intercepting Marius’ glance,blushed to her very hair.Quite a number of old family friends of theGillenormand family had been invited; theypressed about Cosette. Each one vied with the restin saluting her as Madame la Baronne.The officer, Theodule Gillenormand, now a cap-tain, had come from Chartres, where he was sta-tioned in garrison, to be present at the wedding ofhis cousin Pontmercy. Cosette did not recognizehim.He, on his side, habituated as he was to havewomen consider him handsome, retained no morerecollection of Cosette than of any other woman.“How right I was not to believe in that story aboutthe lancer!” said Father Gillenormand, to him-self.Cosette had never been more tender with JeanValjean. She was in unison with FatherGillenormand; while he erected joy into aphorismsand maxims, she exhaled goodness like a perfume.Happiness desires that all the world should behappy.She regained, for the purpose of addressing JeanValjean, inflections of voice belonging to the timewhen she was a little girl. She caressed him withher smile.A banquet had been spread in the dining-room.Illumination as brilliant as the daylight is the nec-essary seasoning of a great joy. Mist and obscu-rity are not accepted by the happy. They do notconsent to be black. The night, yes; the shadows,no. If there is no sun, one must be made.The dining-room was full of gay things. In thecentre, above the white and glittering table, wasa Venetian lustre with flat plates, with all sorts ofcolored birds, blue, violet, red, and green, perchedamid the candles; around the chandelier,girandoles, on the walls, sconces with triple andquintuple branches; mirrors, silverware, glass-ware, plate, porcelain, faience, pottery, gold andsilversmith’s work, all was sparkling and gay. Theempty spaces between the candelabra were filledin with bouquets, so that where there was not alight, there was a flower.In the antechamber, three violins and a flute softlyplayed quartettes by Haydn.Jean Valjean had seated himself on a chair in thedrawing-room, behind the door, the leaf of whichfolded back upon him in such a manner as to nearlyconceal him. A few moments before they sat downto table, Cosette came, as though inspired by asudden whim, and made him a deep courtesy,spreading out her bridal toilet with both hands,and with a tenderly roguish glance, she asked him:“Father, are you satisfied?”“Yes,” said Jean Valjean, “I am content!”“Well, then, laugh.”Jean Valjean began to laugh.A few moments later, Basque announced that din-ner was served.The guests, preceded by M. Gillenormand withCosette on his arm, entered the dining-room, andarranged themselves in the proper order aroundthe table.Two large arm-chairs figured on the right and leftof the bride, the first for M. Gillenormand, theother for Jean Valjean. M. Gillenormand took hisseat. The other arm-chair remained empty.They looked about for M. Fauchelevent.He was no longer there.M. Gillenormand questioned Basque.“Do you know where M. Fauchelevent is?”“Sir,” replied Basque, “I do, precisely. M.Fauchelevent told me to say to you, sir, that hewas suffering, his injured hand was paining himsomewhat, and that he could not dine with Mon-sieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne. That hebegged to be excused, that he would come tomor-row. He has just taken his departure.”That empty arm-chair chilled the effusion of the

fumed; here and there, beneath the thick curls,pale lines — the scars of the barricade — werevisible.The grandfather, haughty, with head held high,amalgamating more than ever in his toilet and hismanners all the elegances of the epoch of Barras,escorted Cosette. He took the place of JeanValjean, who, on account of his arm being still ina sling, could not give his hand to the bride.Jean Valjean, dressed in black, followed them witha smile.“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” said the grandfather tohim, “this is a fine day. I vote for the end of af-flictions and sorrows. Henceforth, there must beno sadness anywhere. Pardieu, I decree joy! Evilhas no right to exist. That there should be any un-happy men is, in sooth, a disgrace to the azure ofthe sky. Evil does not come from man, who isgood at bottom. All human miseries have for theircapital and central government hell, otherwise,known as the Devil’s Tuileries. Good, here I amuttering demagogical words! As far as I am con-cerned, I have no longer any political opinions;let all me be rich, that is to say, mirthful, and Iconfine myself to that.”When, at the conclusion of all the ceremonies,after having pronounced before the mayor andbefore the priest all possible “yesses,” after hav-ing signed the registers at the municipality and atthe sacristy, after having exchanged their rings,after having knelt side by side under the pall ofwhite moire in the smoke of the censer, they ar-rived, hand in hand, admired and envied by all,Marius in black, she in white, preceded by thesuisse, with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping thepavement with his halberd, between two rows ofastonished spectators, at the portals of the church,both leaves of which were thrown wide open,ready to enter their carriage again, and all beingfinished, Cosette still could not believe that it wasreal. She looked at Marius, she looked at thecrowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as thoughshe feared that she should wake up from herdream. Her amazed and uneasy air added some-thing indescribably enchanting to her beauty. Theyentered the same carriage to return home, Mariusbeside Cosette; M. Gillenormand and Jean Valjeansat opposite them; Aunt Gillenormand had with-drawn one degree, and was in the second vehicle.“My children,” said the grandfather, “here youare, Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne,

To realize one’s dream. To whom is this ac-corded? There must be elections for this inheaven; we are all candidates, unknown to our-selves; the angels vote. Cosette and Marius hadbeen elected.Cosette, both at the mayor’s office and at church,was dazzling and touching. Toussaint, assistedby Nicolette, had dressed her.Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta,her robe of Binche guipure, a veil of English point,a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath of orange flow-ers; all this was white, and, from the midst ofthat whiteness she beamed forth. It was an ex-quisite candor expanding and becoming transfig-ured in the light. One would have pronounced hera virgin on the point of turning into a goddess.Marius’ handsome hair was lustrous and per-

●●●●● Victor Hugo

“Well, what?”“There’s one thing you ought to do.”“What’s that?”“Get off of our trap and spin that wedding.”“What for?”“To find out where it goes, and what it is. Hurryup and jump down, trot, my girl, your legs areyoung.”“I can’t quit the vehicle.”“Why not?”“I’m hired.”“Ah, the devil!”“I owe my fishwife day to the prefecture.”“That’s true.”“If I leave the cart, the first inspector who getshis eye on me will arrest me. You know that wellenough.”“Yes, I do.”“I’m bought by the government for today.”“All the same, that old fellow bothers me.”“Do the old fellows bother you? But you’re not ayoung girl.”“He’s in the first carriage.”“Well?”“In the bride’s trap.”“What then?”“So he is the father.”“What concern is that of mine?”“I tell you that he’s the father.”“As if he were the only father.”“Listen.”“What?”“I can’t go out otherwise than masked. Here I’mconcealed, no one knows that I’m here. But to-morrow, there will be no more maskers. It’s AshWednesday. I run the risk of being nabbed. I mustsneak back into my hole. But you are free.”“Not particularly.”“More than I am, at any rate.”“Well, what of that?”“You must try to find out where that wedding-party went to.”“Where it went?”“Yes.”“I know.”“Where is it going then?”“To the Cadran–Bleu.”“In the first place, it’s not in that direction.”“Well! to la Rapee.”“Or elsewhere.”“It’s free. Wedding-parties are at liberty.”“That’s not the point at all. I tell you that you musttry to learn for me what that wedding is, who thatold cove belongs to, and where that wedding pairlives.”“I like that! that would be queer. It’s so easy tofind out a wedding-party that passed through thestreet on a Shrove Tuesday, a week afterwards. Apin in a hay-mow! It ain’t possible!”“That don’t matter. You must try. You understandme, Azelma.”The two files resumed their movement on bothsides of the boulevard, in opposite directions, andthe carriage of the maskers lost sight of the “trap”of the bride.

BOOK SIXTH.— THE SLEEPLESS NIGHTCHAPTER I

THE 10TH OF FEBRUARY, 1833Continued From Last Week

Continued on Page 18

CHAPTER IIJEAN VALJEAN STILL WEARS

HIS ARM IN A SLING

with an income of thirty thousand livres.”And Cosette, nestling close to Marius, caressedhis ear with an angelic whisper: “So it is true. Myname is Marius. I am Madame Thou.”These two creatures were resplendent. They hadreached that irrevocable and irrecoverable mo-ment, at the dazzling intersection of all youth andall joy. They realized the verses of Jean Prouvaire;they were forty years old taken together. It wasmarriage sublimated; these two children were twolilies. They did not see each other, they did notcontemplate each other. Cosette perceived Mariusin the midst of a glory; Marius perceived Cosetteon an altar. And on that altar, and in that glory, thetwo apotheoses mingling, in the background, oneknows not how, behind a cloud for Cosette, in aflash for Marius, there was the ideal thing, thereal thing, the meeting of the kiss and the dream,the nuptial pillow. All the torments through whichthey had passed came back to them in intoxica-tion. It seemed to them that their sorrows, theirsleepless nights, their tears, their anguish, theirterrors, their despair, converted into caresses andrays of light, rendered still more charming thecharming hour which was approaching; and thattheir griefs were but so many handmaidens whowere preparing the toilet of joy. How good it is tohave suffered! Their unhappiness formed a haloround their happiness. The long agony of their lovewas terminating in an ascension.It was the same enchantment in two souls, tingedwith voluptuousness in Marius, and with modestyin Cosette. They said to each other in low tones:“We will go back to take a look at our little gar-den in the Rue Plumet.” The folds of Cosette’sgown lay across Marius.Such a day is an ineffable mixture of dream andof reality. One possesses and one supposes. Onestill has time before one to divine. The emotionon that day, of being at mid-day and of dreamingof midnight is indescribable. The delights of thesetwo hearts overflowed upon the crowd, and in-spired the passers-by with cheerfulness.People halted in the Rue Saint–Antoine, in frontof Saint–Paul, to gaze through the windows of thecarriage at the orange-flowers quivering onCosette’s head.Then they returned home to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Marius, triumphant and radiant,mounted side by side with Cosette the staircaseup which he had been borne in a dying condition.

Page 18 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 17 Then he sought his own chamber once more, and

set his candle on a table.He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and heused his right hand as though it did not hurt him.He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, wasit by chance? was it intentionally? on the insepa-rable of which Cosette had been jealous, on thelittle portmanteau which never left him. On hisarrival in the Rue de l’Homme Arme, on the 4thof June, he had deposited it on a round table nearthe head of his bed. He went to this table with asort of vivacity, took a key from his pocket, andopened the valise.From it he slowly drew forth the garments inwhich, ten years before, Cosette had quittedMontfermeil; first the little gown, then the blackfichu, then the stout, coarse child’s shoes whichCosette might almost have worn still, so tiny wereher feet, then the fustian bodice, which was verythick, then the knitted petticoat, next the apronwith pockets, then the woollen stockings. Thesestockings, which still preserved the graceful formof a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean Valjean’shand. All this was black of hue. It was he whohad brought those garments to Montfermeil forher. As he removed them from the valise, he laidthem on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called upmemories. It was in winter, in a very cold monthof December, she was shivering, half-naked, inrags, her poor little feet were all red in theirwooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made herabandon those rags to clothe herself in thesemourning habiliments. The mother must have feltpleased in her grave, to see her daughter wearingmourning for her, and, above all, to see that shewas properly clothed, and that she was warm. Hethought of that forest of Montfermeil; they hadtraversed it together, Cosette and he; he thoughtof what the weather had been, of the leaflesstrees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunlesssky; it mattered not, it was charming. He arrangedthe tiny garments on the bed, the fichu next to thepetticoat, the stockings beside the shoes, and helooked at them, one after the other. She was notaller than that, she had her big doll in her arms,she had put her louis d’or in the pocket of thatapron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand,she had no one in the world but him.Then his venerable, white head fell forward onthe bed, that stoical old heart broke, his face wasengulfed, so to speak, in Cosette’s garments, andif any one had passed up the stairs at that mo-ment, he would have heard frightful sobs.

the ocean, rise in the infinite, calming all herebelow? The ocean is a rough Alcestis. Well,grumble as he will, when Venus appears he isforced to smile. That brute beast submits. We areall made so. Wrath, tempest, claps of thunder,foam to the very ceiling. A woman enters on thescene, a planet rises; flat on your face! Mariuswas fighting six months ago; today he is married.That is well. Yes, Marius, yes, Cosette, you arein the right. Exist boldly for each other, make usburst with rage that we cannot do the same, ide-alize each other, catch in your beaks all the tinyblades of felicity that exist on earth, and arrangeyourselves a nest for life. Pardi, to love, to beloved, what a fine miracle when one is young!Don’t imagine that you have invented that. I, too,have had my dream, I, too, have meditated, I,too, have sighed; I, too, have had a moonlight soul.Love is a child six thousand years old. Love hasthe right to a long white beard. Methusalem is astreet arab beside Cupid. For sixty centuries menand women have got out of their scrape by loving.The devil, who is cunning, took to hating man;man, who is still more cunning, took to lovingwoman. In this way he does more good than thedevil does him harm. This craft was discoveredin the days of the terrestrial paradise. The inven-tion is old, my friends, but it is perfectly new.Profit by it. Be Daphnis and Chloe, while waitingto become Philemon and Baucis. Manage so that,when you are with each other, nothing shall belacking to you, and that Cosette may be the sunfor Marius, and that Marius may be the universeto Cosette. Cosette, let your fine weather be thesmile of your husband; Marius, let your rain beyour wife’s tears. And let it never rain in yourhousehold. You have filched the winning numberin the lottery; you have gained the great prize,guard it well, keep it under lock and key, do notsquander it, adore each other and snap your fin-gers at all the rest. Believe what I say to you. It isgood sense. And good sense cannot lie. Be a reli-gion to each other. Each man has his own fashionof adoring God. Saperlotte! the best way to adoreGod is to love one’s wife. I love thee! that’s mycatechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath ofHenri IV. places sanctity somewhere betweenfeasting and drunkenness. Ventre-saint-gris! Idon’t belong to the religion of that oath. Womanis forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the partof Henri IV. My friends, long live women! I amold, they say; it’s astonishing how much I feel inthe mood to be young. I should like to go and lis-ten to the bagpipes in the woods. Children whocontrive to be beautiful and contented,— that in-toxicates me. I would like greatly to get married,if any one would have me. It is impossible to imag-ine that God could have made us for anything butthis: to idolize, to coo, to preen ourselves, to bedove-like, to be dainty, to bill and coo our lovesfrom morn to night, to gaze at one’s image inone’s little wife, to be proud, to be triumphant, toplume oneself; that is the aim of life. There, letnot that displease you which we used to think inour day, when we were young folks. Ah! vertu-bamboche! what charming women there were inthose days, and what pretty little faces and whatlovely lasses! I committed my ravages amongthem. Then love each other. If people did not loveeach other, I really do not see what use there wouldbe in having any springtime; and for my own part,I should pray the good God to shut up all the beau-tiful things that he shows us, and to take awayfrom us and put back in his box, the flowers, thebirds, and the pretty maidens. My children, re-ceive an old man’s blessing.”The evening was gay, lively and agreeable. Thegrandfather’s sovereign good humor gave the key-note to the whole feast, and each person regu-lated his conduct on that almost centenarian cor-diality. They danced a little, they laughed a greatdeal; it was an amiable wedding. Goodman Daysof Yore might have been invited to it. However,he was present in the person of FatherGillenormand.There was a tumult, then silence.The married pair disappeared.A little after midnight, the Gillenormand housebecame a temple.Here we pause. On the threshold of weddingnights stands a smiling angel with his finger onhis lips.The soul enters into contemplation before thatsanctuary where the celebration of love takesplace.There should be flashes of light athwart suchhouses. The joy which they contain ought to makeits escape through the stones of the walls in bril-liancy, and vaguely illuminate the gloom. It isimpossible that this sacred and fatal festival

should not give off a celestial radiance to the in-finite. Love is the sublime crucible wherein thefusion of the man and the woman takes place; thebeing one, the being triple, the being final, thehuman trinity proceeds from it. This birth of twosouls into one, ought to be an emotion for thegloom. The lover is the priest; the ravished virginis terrified. Something of that joy ascends to God.Where true marriage is, that is to say, where thereis love, the ideal enters in. A nuptial bed makes anook of dawn amid the shadows. If it were givento the eye of the flesh to scan the formidable andcharming visions of the upper life, it is probablethat we should behold the forms of night, thewinged unknowns, the blue passers of the invis-ible, bend down, a throng of sombre heads, aroundthe luminous house, satisfied, showering benedic-tions, pointing out to each other the virgin wifegently alarmed, sweetly terrified, and bearing thereflection of human bliss upon their divine coun-tenances. If at that supreme hour, the wedded pair,dazzled with voluptuousness and believing them-selves alone, were to listen, they would hear intheir chamber a confused rustling of wings. Per-fect happiness implies a mutual understandingwith the angels. That dark little chamber has allheaven for its ceiling. When two mouths, renderedsacred by love, approach to create, it is impos-sible that there should not be, above that ineffablekiss, a quivering throughout the immense mys-tery of stars.These felicities are the true ones. There is no joyoutside of these joys. Love is the only ecstasy.All the rest weeps.To love, or to have loved,— this suffices. De-mand nothing more. There is no other pearl to befound in the shadowy folds of life. To love is afulfilment.

wedding feast for a moment. But, if M.Fauchelevent was absent, M. Gillenormand waspresent, and the grandfather beamed for two. Heaffirmed that M. Fauchelevent had done well toretire early, if he were suffering, but that it wasonly a slight ailment. This declaration sufficed.Moreover, what is an obscure corner in such asubmersion of joy? Cosette and Marius were pass-ing through one of those egotistical and blessedmoments when no other faculty is left to a personthan that of receiving happiness. And then, an ideaoccurred to M. Gillenormand.—“Pardieu, thisarmchair is empty. Come hither, Marius. Your auntwill permit it, although she has a right to you. Thisarmchair is for you. That is legal and delightful.Fortunatus beside Fortunata.”— Applause fromthe whole table. Marius took Jean Valjean’s placebeside Cosette, and things fell out so that Cosette,who had, at first, been saddened by Jean Valjean’sabsence, ended by being satisfied with it. Fromthe moment when Marius took his place, and wasthe substitute, Cosette would not have regrettedGod himself. She set her sweet little foot, shod inwhite satin, on Marius’ foot.The arm-chair being occupied, M. Faucheleventwas obliterated; and nothing was lacking.And, five minutes afterward, the whole table fromone end to the other, was laughing with all theanimation of forgetfulness.At dessert, M. Gillenormand, rising to his feet,with a glass of champagne in his hand — onlyhalf full so that the palsy of his eighty years mightnot cause an overflow,— proposed the health ofthe married pair.“You shall not escape two sermons,” he ex-claimed. “This morning you had one from the cure,this evening you shall have one from your grand-father. Listen to me; I will give you a bit of ad-vice: Adore each other. I do not make a pack ofgyrations, I go straight to the mark, be happy. Inall creation, only the turtle-doves are wise. Phi-losophers say: ‘Moderate your joys.’ I say: ‘Giverein to your joys.’ Be as much smitten with eachother as fiends. Be in a rage about it. The phi-losophers talk stuff and nonsense. I should like tostuff their philosophy down their gullets again. Canthere be too many perfumes, too many open rose-buds, too many nightingales singing, too manygreen leaves, too much aurora in life? can peoplelove each other too much? can people please eachother too much? Take care, Estelle, thou art toopretty! Have a care, Nemorin, thou art too hand-some! Fine stupidity, in sooth! Can people enchanteach other too much, cajole each other too much,charm each other too much? Can one be too muchalive, too happy? Moderate your joys. Ah, indeed!Down with the philosophers! Wisdom consists injubilation. Make merry, let us make merry. Arewe happy because we are good, or are we goodbecause we are happy? Is the Sancy diamondcalled the Sancy because it belonged to Harleyde Sancy, or because it weighs six hundred car-ats? I know nothing about it, life is full of suchproblems; the important point is to possess theSancy and happiness. Let us be happy withoutquibbling and quirking. Let us obey the sun blindly.What is the sun? It is love. He who says love,says woman. Ah! ah! behold omnipotence —women. Ask that demagogue of a Marius if he isnot the slave of that little tyrant of a Cosette. Andof his own free will, too, the coward! Woman!There is no Robespierre who keeps his place butwoman reigns. I am no longer Royalist excepttowards that royalty. What is Adam? The king-dom of Eve. No ‘89 for Eve. There has been theroyal sceptre surmounted by a fleur-delys, therehas been the imperial sceptre surmounted by aglobe, there has been the sceptre of Charlemagne,which was of iron, there has been the sceptre ofLouis the Great, which was of gold,— the revo-lution twisted them between its thumb and fore-finger, ha’penny straws; it is done with, it is bro-ken, it lies on the earth, there is no longer anysceptre, but make me a revolution against thatlittle embroidered handkerchief, which smells ofpatchouli! I should like to see you do it. Try. Whyis it so solid? Because it is a gewgaw. Ah! youare the nineteenth century? Well, what then? Andwe have been as foolish as you. Do not imaginethat you have effected much change in the uni-verse, because your trip-gallant is called the chol-era-morbus, and because your pourree is calledthe cachuca. In fact, the women must always beloved. I defy you to escape from that. Thesefriends are our angels. Yes, love, woman, the kissforms a circle from which I defy you to escape;and, for my own part, I should be only too happyto re-enter it. Which of you has seen the planetVenus, the coquette of the abyss, the Celimene of Continued on Page 111

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CHAPTER IIITHE INSEPARABLE

What had become of Jean Valjean?Immediately after having laughed, at Cosette’sgraceful command, when no one was paying anyheed to him, Jean Valjean had risen and had gainedthe antechamber unperceived. This was the veryroom which, eight months before, he had enteredblack with mud, with blood and powder, bringingback the grandson to the grandfather. The oldwainscoting was garlanded with foliage and flow-ers; the musicians were seated on the sofa onwhich they had laid Marius down. Basque, in ablack coat, knee-breeches, white stockings andwhite gloves, was arranging roses round all of thedishes that were to be served. Jean Valjean pointedto his arm in its sling, charged Basque to explainhis absence, and went away.The long windows of the dining-room opened onthe street. Jean Valjean stood for several minutes,erect and motionless in the darkness, beneaththose radiant windows. He listened. The confusedsounds of the banquet reached his ear. He heardthe loud, commanding tones of the grandfather,the violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts oflaughter, and through all that merry uproar, he dis-tinguished Cosette’s sweet and joyous voice.He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, andreturned to the Rue de l’Homme Arme.In order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint–Louis, the Rue Culture–Sainte-Catherine, and theBlancs–Manteaux; it was a little longer, but it wasthe road through which, for the last three months,he had become accustomed to pass every day onhis way from the Rue de l’Homme Arme to theRue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in order to avoid theobstructions and the mud in the Rue Vielle-du-Temple.This road, through which Cosette had passed, ex-cluded for him all possibility of any other itiner-ary.Jean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted hiscandle and mounted the stairs. The apartment wasempty. Even Toussaint was no longer there. JeanValjean’s step made more noise than usual in thechambers. All the cupboards stood open. He pen-etrated to Cosette’s bedroom. There were nosheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with tick-ing, and without a case or lace, was laid on theblankets folded up on the foot of the mattress,whose covering was visible, and on which no onewas ever to sleep again. All the little feminineobjects which Cosette was attached to had beencarried away; nothing remained except the heavyfurniture and the four walls. Toussaint’s bed wasdespoiled in like manner. One bed only was madeup, and seemed to be waiting some one, and thiswas Jean Valjean’s bed.Jean Valjean looked at the walls, closed some ofthe cupboard doors, and went and came from oneroom to another.

CHAPTER IVTHE IMMORTAL LIVER

68 In allusion to the story of Prometheus.The old and formidable struggle, of which we havealready witnessed so many phases, began oncemore.Jacob struggled with the angel but one night. Alas!how many times have we beheld Jean Valjeanseized bodily by his conscience, in the darkness,and struggling desperately against it!Unheard-of conflict! At certain moments the footslips; at other moments the ground crumbles awayunderfoot. How many times had that conscience,mad for the good, clasped and overthrown him!How many times had the truth set her knee in-exorably upon his breast! How many times, hurledto earth by the light, had he begged for mercy!How many times had that implacable spark,lighted within him, and upon him by the Bishop,dazzled him by force when he had wished to beblind! How many times had he risen to his feet inthe combat, held fast to the rock, leaning againstsophism, dragged in the dust, now getting the up-per hand of his conscience, again overthrown byit! How many times, after an equivoque, after thespecious and treacherous reasoning of egotism,had he heard his irritated conscience cry in hisear: “A trip! you wretch!” How many times hadhis refractory thoughts rattled convulsively in histhroat, under the evidence of duty! Resistance toGod. Funereal sweats. What secret wounds whichhe alone felt bleed! What excoriations in his la-mentable existence! How many times he had risenbleeding, bruised, broken, enlightened, despair inhis heart, serenity in his soul! and, vanquished,he had felt himself the conqueror. And, after hav-ing dislocated, broken, and rent his consciencewith red-hot pincers, it had said to him, as it stoodover him, formidable, luminous, and tranquil:“Now, go in peace!”But on emerging from so melancholy a conflict,what a lugubrious peace, alas!Nevertheless, that night Jean Valjean felt that hewas passing through his final combat.

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●●●●● Old Heidelberg Road. 1914.●●●●● Heidelberg. Looking east. Circa 1890.

●●●●● Heidelberg Post Office. 1920s.

●●●●● Socialists’ picnic at Heidelberg. 1906. ●●●●● Australian wounded arriving at Heidelberg. 1943.

●●●●● St John’s Church, Heidelberg. Circa 1950. ●●●●● Entertainment at Heidelberg Military Hospital. Circa 1944.

●●●●● Studio of Walter Withers, Heidelberg. 1903. Daughters Gladys and Margery

g y, ,

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 23www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Christmas Craft Guide: 4-Page Pull-Out

Page 24 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Christmas Craft Guide

Christmas Art and Craft GuideMelbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 105www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Page 106 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Christmas Art and Craft Guide

Thoroughbred to enjoy young

ObserverMelbourne

Wines & Liqueurswith

David

Ellis

■ Even though its over 400 years sinceGuy (Guido) Fawkes and his matestried to blow up England’s ParliamentHouse in 1605, the Brits still celebratewhat’s become known as Guy FawkesDay (or Bonfire Night) every Novem-ber 5 with great bonfires and letting offof fireworks across the country.

Certainly with more fervour than wedo here, and even though many of wewrinklies of Anglo-Saxon descent canstill remember looking forward to Bon-fire Night in our childhoods, withtoday’s tighter fireworks laws, ourNight no longer goes off with quite thebang it once did.

Guy Fawkes was one of a group ofCatholics who’d hoped to blow-up Par-liament and everyone inside it duringits official Opening by the ProtestantKing James I on November 5 1605, inprotest at James’ anti-Catholicism in-cluding banishing Catholic priests fromBritain.

Of the dozen or so members of theso-called Gunpowder Plot, Guy Fawkeswas the first caught – discovered guard-ing a cellar under Parliament’s Houseof Lords the plotters had leased andfilled with 36 barrels (2 tonnes) of gun-powder. Although baptised a Protestant,Fawkes had converted in adult life toCatholicism, joining a group thatwanted to restore a Catholic monarchto the throne in place of James. He wascaught when Parliament House guards

■ Having enjoyed a vintage in 2012that most Coonawarra growers andwinemakers agree was excellent,Rymill have released a Shiraz undertheir The Yearling label that certainlybacks-up what all have had to say ofthat year.

Rymill’s Senior Winemaker,Sandrine Gimon says the ideal fruitfrom the vintage was perfect for TheYearling reds, the label named afterone-year-old thoroughbreds as it’s de-signed to be enjoyed young… or asSandrine says “hot out of the startinggates.”

“2012 gave us low yields andsmaller berries with lots of concentra-tion of flavour, for those who can re-member, it was very reminiscent of theexceptional 2004 vintage inCoonawarra,” she said. “It’s meant thatthe 2012 The Yearling Shiraz shows lotsof dark red fruit character complexity,while also offering caramel, vanilla,cedar box and liquorice as well.”

This is a very generous wine withquickly recognisable plum, dark cherryand blackberry to the fore, nice softtannins and a subtle Shiraz spiciness onthe finish. Pay just $15.95 and enjoywith baked lamb shanks, osso bucco orroast beef.

One to note

■ Chenin Blanc is often dubbed a“fruit salad” wine for its fruitinessand sweetness, and while vineyardareas in Australia planted to the va-riety have actually diminished in sizein recent years, it’s still a popularwine to put on the table with mildly-spiced Asian dishes – and equallywith summery seafood salads orplatters.

Western Australia’s Voyager Es-tate has an exceptional 2013 CheninBlanc that truly suits those suggestedfood matches above, the companyhaving some of the oldest CheninBlanc vines in the Margaret Riverregion dating back to the late 1970s.

This wine has tropical papaya andmelon to the fore, with suggestionsof citrus and red apple giving it thattypical Chenin Blanc “fruit salad”flavour. Pay $20 and enjoy with thosemildly-spiced Asian dishes or sum-mer-time seafood salads or platters.

Pictured

■ Lamb shanks, osso bucco orroast beef perfect partners with thisone.■ ‘Fruit salad wine’ to go withmildly-spiced Asian dishes or sea-food salads or platters.

●●●●● The Gunpowder conspirators who plotted to blow up England’s House of Parliament

ObserverMelbourne

Travellers’ Good Buyswith

David

Ellis

Tip-off blow to gunpowder plotters

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

raided the cellar in the wee hours ofthe morning of November 5, after ananonymous note tipped-off a Memberof Parliament not to attend the Open-ing because of the Plot.

After extensive torturing, Fawkesrevealed the names of several of hisco-conspirators. They were quicklyrounded-up, and with himself put ontrial in January 1606: their resultant fatewas to be a gruesome one. The judge ordered they be hanged,drawn and quartered on January 31,which meant each would be tied to twoplanks and hauled along the ground byhorses from the Tower of Londonwhere they had been held, to the gal-lows ironically located in the Old Pal-ace Yard opposite Parliament House –locals gathering in their thousandsalong the way to hurl stones and rottenfruit at them. At the gallows they would then beindividually hanged by the neck – butnot until dead: instead the executionerwould judge from his victims’ kickshow close he was to death, then cuthim loose… and with the same knifefirst slice off his genitals, and then cutout his heart, theatrically holding it tothe throng with the exhortation: “Wit-ness this – the heart of a traitor!”

For finality the now-deceased wouldbe beheaded, and their body hackedinto several parts that would be takenaway for public display around the city.Such was “justice” in 17th centuryEngland. Guy Fawkes was the last of thethree to die that day – but his endingwas not as expected: as he was climb-ing the ladder to the gallows, he sud-denly jumped off, turning head-down,and dying instantly from a broken neckas he hit the ground.

And another escaped the gallows aswell: Francis Tresham died of naturalcauses in the Tower while awaiting hispunishment. Tresham’s hatred of theProtestants stemmed from the impris-onment of his father, Sir Thomas whohad spent 15 years in gaol or underhouse arrest for harbouring a Catholicpriest, escaping harsher punishment asa Catholic only because he had oncebeen the High Sheriff ofNottinghamshire and fortuitously stillhad usefully-placed connections. And interestingly Sir Thomas’ de-voutness can still be seen today in abuilding he built in 1593 called the Tri-angular Lodge near Rushton inNorthamptonshire, and which payshomage to the three points of the HolyTrinity… Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Lodge is comprised of threelevels, each with three walls exactly33-feet (10m) wide and with three win-dows in each wall. On top of each wallare three gargoyles surmounted by threepinnacled gables, and in the centre ofthe building a 3-sided triangular chim-ney.

And a Latin religious text of 33 let-ters runs around the inside of each ofthe three walls of the building... whichin two corners has small closets be-lieved to be ‘priest’s holes’ for hidingCatholic clergy from the Protestants.The third corner houses the connectingstaircase.

The British Heritage-listed Triangu-lar Lodge is open April to November.

- David Ellis

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 107

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Victorian Rural News

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 109www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Welcome to Wooling Hill Garden Memorial EstateThe low rolling foot hills of the Macedon Ranges create a wonder-fully picturesque backdrop to Wooling Hill Estate.

Wooling Hill Estate’s beautiful, tranquil gardens are a wonder-ful place of rest for our loved ones and those who have played asignificant part in our lives and those of our family.

Creating a memorial is permanent acknowledgement of a lovedone's life and influence for future generations.

We offer you the opportunity to choose a memorial that you feelwill express the character and personality of your beloved part-ner or family member, the person who has passed away, and besuitably enscribed and mounted in your chosen part of our me-morial gardens.

Pictured at right: Wooling Hill Estate garden memorial and in-set plaque in granite.

Field of Companions - Pet MemorialsWe all love our pets and our pets, in turn, offer us com-panionship, loyalty and unconditional love.

With this in mind, we at Wooling Hill Memorial Gar-den Estate sought to create a special garden within ourrural garden landscape that would allow pet owners tocreate a lasting memorial away from the congestion andnoise of city life.

The Field of Companions is a unique area allowingcompanion pets to be remembered forever. In this ex-clusive garden area, cremated remains can be interredand pets memorialised ... forever.

Wooling Hill Garden Memorial Estate372 Barringo Rd, New Gisborne, Vic 3438

Phone 5465 1333. www.woolinghill.com.au

memories@woolinghill.com.au

Wooling Hill is unique in its rural location, removed from the distraction of noise, pollu-

tion and the frantic pace of city locations, yet still only 45 minutes from Melbourne.

Wooling Hill is truly a place one can take the time to reflect and remember the great

moments and times shared with a loved one.

In fact the entire Macedon Ranges area provides a unique opportunity not afforded by

other Memorial Gardens, to make more of this reflective time.

Take the C708 turnoff and turn right under the freeway towards New Gisborne.

Continue over the railway and arrive at Wooling Hill at the end of that road.

Our VisionWooling Hill Memorial Garden Es-tate Pty Ltd was formed by a groupof people who were concerned aboutthe lack of real alternatives for peoplewanting to memorialise family andfriends they have lost.

Their belief in the importance ofevents that are meaningful to people;that celebrate and commemorate;and that build lasting memories, re-sulted in the development of WoolingHill Memorial Garden Estate.

We aspire to have people leaveWooling Hill looking forward to thefuture with hope and optimism.

This will be possible because theyhave farewelled their past in a waythat reflects the individuality of ev-ery person and every relationship.

Wooling Hill is a new Mt Macedongarden. People will find comfort inthe serene and intimate spaces, plea-sure in being nestled in a rural valley,and inspiration from the views to thedistant horizons.

Our Values• Of prime importance to us is ourrelationship with people; includingthose who come to Wooling Hill,those who work for us and those withwhom we have business relation-ships.• We will be trustworthy, ethical andprofessional.• We will demonstrate our integrityand sensitivity by understanding cli-ent families' needs to reflect beforemaking decisions and we will encour-age individual expressions of cel-ebration and commemoration.• We will be good neighbours andcommunity citizens by using localsuppliers and supporting commu-nity activities consistant with our vi-sion and purpose.• Wherever possible, we will improve

our immediate and district environ-ments by a responsible use of en-ergy, recycled materials and water.

We will continue to replace treecover and minimise the use ofsprays and chemicals.• We will be innovative in celebra-tion, commemoration, events andwork practices.• We acknowledge that this is a longterm commitment, therefore weprovide 'reserve' funds for the longterm care and maintenance of theestate along with ongoing develop-ment of the site.

Answers to your questions- What we offerWho owns Wooling Hill?

Wooling Hill Memorial Garden Es-tate is wholly Australian-owned. Itis the first privately developed me-morial garden in Victoria. Such pri-vate ownership is common inter-state and overseas.

Will I or my family be asked to payagain after 25 years?

There is no 25-year time limit onplacements at Wooling Hill Memo-rial Garden Estate.

Can I choose my own memorial?

Yes, you have individual choice atWooling Hill and while our gardenshave a variety of plants, trees, waterand granite, you may choose to cre-ate a memorial that best suits theperson you are remembering.

Wooling Hill offers a natural placein the garden, as part of the gardendesign and not in a row on a concreteedge.

One family planted a peach tree astheir mother was passionate abouther peach tree, another chose a gran-ite rock, appropriate for their fatherwho was a bit rough around theedges.

You may also choose a family site,reserving up to 8 sites on a particu-lar memorial feature such as a tree,providing peace of mind for the fu-ture. One family designed their owngarden with shrubs and rocks thatwill be a family memorial holding upto 12 placements.

Can I prepay?Of course you can - Wooling Hill of-

fers individuals and families the op-tion of pre-paying their own memo-rial site.

This can be done whether or notyou have prepaid your funeral and al-lows people the flexibility oforganising their own resting place.

This is a recommended option as

you are guaranteeing your futurememorial at today's prices.

A 10 per cent deposit is requiredwith a two year, monthly-instalmentplan available if required. Fees andcharges may apply if you choose topay by instalments.

Can I transfer the site to someoneelse if my needs change?

Yes, as long as you advise us in writ-ing.

If I have prepurchased a site and Ichange my mind will my money be re-funded to me?

Yes, less any costs already incurredby Wooling Hill Memorial GardenEstate along with an administrationfee.

Could my memorial be relocated?If ashes have been interred in the

site, and you wish to relocate themwe can arrange for reloaction. Con-tact us about fees and charges.

What facilities at Wooling Hill areavailable to me?• The Atrium Chapel - Our non-de-nominational chapel is available forall Celebrations of Life includingchristenings and weddings.• The Gardens - All garden areas areavailable during our Open Hours.

Wooling Hill Memorial Garden Estateitself has many memories. It is saidthat the name 'Wooling' comes origi-nally from the Aboriginal word'woolong' meaning "much water com-ing together". This is now reflected bythe lakes and water features whichappear across the developing estate.The Robertson family established theestate in 1840 – it was one of the earli-est settlements in the district – andas the Robertson children had fami-lies of their own, Wooling Hill came toresemble a small village.

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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 - Page 111www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 18 warn you. You have your own chamber here, it is

close to ours, it opens on the garden; the troublewith the clock has been attended to, the bed ismade, it is all ready, you have only to take pos-session of it. Near your bed Cosette has placed ahuge, old, easy-chair covered with Utrecht velvetand she has said to it: ‘Stretch out your arms tohim.’ A nightingale comes to the clump of aca-cias opposite your windows, every spring. In twomonths more you will have it. You will have itsnest on your left and ours on your right. By nightit will sing, and by day Cosette will prattle. Yourchamber faces due South. Cosette will arrangeyour books for you, your Voyages of Captain Cookand the other,— Vancouver’s and all your affairs.I believe that there is a little valise to which youare attached, I have fixed upon a corner of honorfor that. You have conquered my grandfather, yousuit him. We will live together. Do you playwhist? you will overwhelm my grandfather withdelight if you play whist. It is you who shall takeCosette to walk on the days when I am at thecourts, you shall give her your arm, you know, asyou used to, in the Luxembourg. We are abso-lutely resolved to be happy. And you shall be in-cluded in it, in our happiness, do you hear, father?Come, will you breakfast with us today?”“Sir,” said Jean Valjean, “I have something to sayto you. I am an ex-convict.”The limit of shrill sounds perceptible can be over-leaped, as well in the case of the mind as in thatof the ear. These words: “I am an ex-convict,”proceeding from the mouth of M. Faucheleventand entering the ear of Marius overshot the pos-sible. It seemed to him that something had justbeen said to him; but he did not know what. Hestood with his mouth wide open.Then he perceived that the man who was address-ing him was frightful. Wholly absorbed in his owndazzled state, he had not, up to that moment, ob-served the other man’s terrible pallor.Jean Valjean untied the black cravat which sup-ported his right arm, unrolled the linen from aroundhis hand, bared his thumb and showed it to Marius.“There is nothing the matter with my hand,” saidhe.Marius looked at the thumb.“There has not been anything the matter with it,”went on Jean Valjean.There was, in fact, no trace of any injury.Jean Valjean continued:“It was fitting that I should be absent from yourmarriage. I absented myself as much as was inmy power. So I invented this injury in order that Imight not commit a forgery, that I might not in-troduce a flaw into the marriage documents, inorder that I might escape from signing.”Marius stammered.“What is the meaning of this?”“The meaning of it is,” replied Jean Valjean, “thatI have been in the galleys.”“You are driving me mad!” exclaimed Marius interror.“Monsieur Pontmercy,” said Jean Valjean, “I wasnineteen years in the galleys. For theft. Then, Iwas condemned for life for theft, for a secondoffence. At the present moment, I have brokenmy ban.”In vain did Marius recoil before the reality, refusethe fact, resist the evidence, he was forced to giveway. He began to understand, and, as always hap-pens in such cases, he understood too much. Aninward shudder of hideous enlightenment flashedthrough him; an idea which made him quiver tra-versed his mind. He caught a glimpse of awretched destiny for himself in the future.“Say all, say all!” he cried. “You are Cosette’sfather!”And he retreated a couple of paces with a move-ment of indescribable horror.Jean Valjean elevated his head with so muchmajesty of attitude that he seemed to grow evento the ceiling.“It is necessary that you should believe me here,sir; although our oath to others may not be re-ceived in law . . . ”Here he paused, then, with a sort of sovereignand sepulchral authority, he added, articulatingslowly, and emphasizing the syllables:“ . . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette!before God, no. Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy, Iam a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my living bypruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent, butJean Valjean. I am not related to Cosette. Reas-sure yourself.”Marius stammered:“Who will prove that to me?”“I. Since I tell you so.”Marius looked at the man. He was melancholy

The invisible inexorable, what an obsession!Then, one is never done with conscience. Makeyour choice, Brutus; make your choice, Cato. Itis fathomless, since it is God. One flings into thatwell the labor of one’s whole life, one flings inone’s fortune, one flings in one’s riches, one flingsin one’s success, one flings in one’s liberty or fa-therland, one flings in one’s well-being, one flingsin one’s repose, one flings in one’s joy! More!more! more! Empty the vase! tip the urn! Onemust finish by flinging in one’s heart.Somewhere in the fog of the ancient hells, thereis a tun like that.Is not one pardonable, if one at last refuses! Canthe inexhaustible have any right? Are not chainswhich are endless above human strength? Whowould blame Sisyphus and Jean Valjean for say-ing: “It is enough!”The obedience of matter is limited by friction; isthere no limit to the obedience of the soul? If per-petual motion is impossible, can perpetual self-sacrifice be exacted?The first step is nothing, it is the last which isdifficult. What was the Champmathieu affair incomparison with Cosette’s marriage and of thatwhich it entailed? What is a re-entrance into thegalleys, compared to entrance into the void?Oh, first step that must be descended, how som-bre art thou! Oh, second step, how black art thou!How could he refrain from turning aside his headthis time?Martyrdom is sublimation, corrosive sublimation.It is a torture which consecrates. One can con-sent to it for the first hour; one seats oneself onthe throne of glowing iron, one places on one’shead the crown of hot iron, one accepts the globeof red hot iron, one takes the sceptre of red hotiron, but the mantle of flame still remains to bedonned, and comes there not a moment when themiserable flesh revolts and when one abdicatesfrom suffering?At length, Jean Valjean entered into the peace ofexhaustion.He weighed, he reflected, he considered the al-ternatives, the mysterious balance of light anddarkness.Should he impose his galleys on those two daz-zling children, or should he consummate his irre-mediable engulfment by himself? On one side laythe sacrifice of Cosette, on the other that of him-self.At what solution should he arrive? What decisiondid he come to?What resolution did he take? What was his owninward definitive response to the unbribable in-terrogatory of fatality? What door did he decideto open? Which side of his life did he resolve uponclosing and condemning? Among all the unfath-omable precipices which surrounded him, whichwas his choice? What extremity did he accept?To which of the gulfs did he nod his head?His dizzy revery lasted all night long.He remained there until daylight, in the same at-titude, bent double over that bed, prostrate beneaththe enormity of fate, crushed, perchance, alas!with clenched fists, with arms outspread at rightangles, like a man crucified who has beenunnailed, and flung face down on the earth. Therehe remained for twelve hours, the twelve longhours of a long winter’s night, ice-cold, withoutonce raising his head, and without uttering a word.He was as motionless as a corpse, while histhoughts wallowed on the earth and soared, nowlike the hydra, now like the eagle. Any one to be-hold him thus motionless would have pronouncedhim dead; all at once he shuddered convulsively,and his mouth, glued to Cosette’s garments, kissedthem; then it could be seen that he was alive.Who could see? Since Jean Valjean was alone,and there was no one there.The One who is in the shadows.

topsy-turvy, and which bore the air of a field ofbattle after the joys of the preceding evening.“Dame, sir,” remarked Basque, “we all woke uplate.”“Is your master up?” asked Jean Valjean.“How is Monsieur’s arm?” replied Basque.“Better. Is your master up?”“Which one? the old one or the new one?”“Monsieur Pontmercy.”“Monsieur le Baron,” said Basque, drawing him-self up.A man is a Baron most of all to his servants. Hecounts for something with them; they are what aphilosopher would call, bespattered with the title,and that flatters them. Marius, be it said in pass-ing, a militant republican as he had proved, wasnow a Baron in spite of himself. A small revolu-tion had taken place in the family in connectionwith this title. It was now M. Gillenormand whoclung to it, and Marius who detached himself fromit. But Colonel Pontmercy had written: “My sonwill bear my title.” Marius obeyed. And then,Cosette, in whom the woman was beginning todawn, was delighted to be a Baroness.“Monsieur le Baron?” repeated Basque. “I willgo and see. I will tell him that M. Fauchelevent ishere.”“No. Do not tell him that it is I. Tell him thatsome one wishes to speak to him in private, andmention no name.”“Ah!” ejaculated Basque.“I wish to surprise him.”“Ah!” ejaculated Basque once more, emitting hissecond “ah!” as an explanation of the first.And he left the room.Jean Valjean remained alone.The drawing-room, as we have just said, was ingreat disorder. It seemed as though, by lending anair, one might still hear the vague noise of thewedding. On the polished floor lay all sorts of flow-ers which had fallen from garlands and head-dresses. The wax candles, burned to stumps, addedstalactites of wax to the crystal drops of the chan-deliers. Not a single piece of furniture was in itsplace. In the corners, three or four arm-chairs,drawn close together in a circle, had the appear-ance of continuing a conversation. The whole ef-fect was cheerful. A certain grace still lingers rounda dead feast. It has been a happy thing. On thechairs in disarray, among those fading flowers,beneath those extinct lights, people have thoughtof joy. The sun had succeeded to the chandelier,and made its way gayly into the drawing-room.Several minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean stood mo-tionless on the spot where Basque had left him.He was very pale. His eyes were hollow, and sosunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearlydisappeared in their orbits. His black coat borethe weary folds of a garment that has been up allnight. The elbows were whitened with the downwhich the friction of cloth against linen leavesbehind it.Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on thepolished floor at his feet by the sun.There came a sound at the door, and he raised hiseyes.Marius entered, his head well up, his mouth smil-ing, an indescribable light on his countenance, hisbrow expanded, his eyes triumphant. He had notslept either.“It is you, father!” he exclaimed, on catching sightof Jean Valjean; “that idiot of a Basque had sucha mysterious air! But you have come too early. Itis only half past twelve. Cosette is asleep.”That word: “Father,” said to M. Fauchelevent byMarius, signified: supreme felicity. There had al-ways existed, as the reader knows, a lofty wall, acoldness and a constraint between them; ice whichmust be broken or melted. Marius had reachedthat point of intoxication when the wall was low-ered, when the ice dissolved, and when M.Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette, a father.He continued: his words poured forth, as is thepeculiarity of divine paroxysms of joy.“How glad I am to see you! If you only knew howwe missed you yesterday! Good morning, father.How is your hand? Better, is it not?”And, satisfied with the favorable reply which hehad made to himself, he pursued:“We have both been talking about you. Cosetteloves you so dearly! You must not forget that youhave a chamber here, We want nothing more todo with the Rue de l’Homme Arme. We will haveno more of it at all. How could you go to live in astreet like that, which is sickly, which is disagree-able, which is ugly, which has a barrier at oneend, where one is cold, and into which one cannotenter? You are to come and install yourself here.And this very day. Or you will have to deal withCosette. She means to lead us all by the nose, I

A heart-rending question presented itself.Predestinations are not all direct; they do not openout in a straight avenue before the predestinedman; they have blind courts, impassable alleys,obscure turns, disturbing crossroads offering thechoice of many ways. Jean Valjean had halted atthat moment at the most perilous of these cross-roads.He had come to the supreme crossing of goodand evil. He had that gloomy intersection beneathhis eyes. On this occasion once more, as had hap-pened to him already in other sad vicissitudes,two roads opened out before him, the one tempt-ing, the other alarming.Which was he to take?He was counselled to the one which alarmed himby that mysterious index finger which we all per-ceive whenever we fix our eyes on the darkness.Once more, Jean Valjean had the choice betweenthe terrible port and the smiling ambush.Is it then true? the soul may recover; but not fate.Frightful thing! an incurable destiny!This is the problem which presented itself to him:In what manner was Jean Valjean to behave inrelation to the happiness of Cosette and Marius?It was he who had willed that happiness, it washe who had brought it about; he had, himself, bur-ied it in his entrails, and at that moment, when hereflected on it, he was able to enjoy the sort ofsatisfaction which an armorer would experienceon recognizing his factory mark on a knife, onwithdrawing it, all smoking, from his own breast.Cosette had Marius, Marius possessed Cosette.They had everything, even riches. And this washis doing.But what was he, Jean Valjean, to do with thishappiness, now that it existed, now that it wasthere? Should he force himself on this happiness?Should he treat it as belonging to him? No doubt,Cosette did belong to another; but should he, JeanValjean, retain of Cosette all that he could retain?Should he remain the sort of father, half seen butrespected, which he had hitherto been? Should he,without saying a word, bring his past to that fu-ture? Should he present himself there, as thoughhe had a right, and should he seat himself, veiled,at that luminous fireside? Should he take thoseinnocent hands into his tragic hands, with a smile?Should he place upon the peaceful fender of theGillenormand drawing-room those feet of his,which dragged behind them the disgracefulshadow of the law? Should he enter into partici-pation in the fair fortunes of Cosette and Marius?Should he render the obscurity on his brow andthe cloud upon theirs still more dense? Should heplace his catastrophe as a third associate in theirfelicity? Should he continue to hold his peace? Ina word, should he be the sinister mute of destinybeside these two happy beings?We must have become habituated to fatality andto encounters with it, in order to have the daringto raise our eyes when certain questions appearto us in all their horrible nakedness. Good or evilstands behind this severe interrogation point. Whatare you going to do? demands the sphinx.This habit of trial Jean Valjean possessed. Hegazed intently at the sphinx.He examined the pitiless problem under all itsaspects.Cosette, that charming existence, was the raft ofthis shipwreck. What was he to do? To cling fastto it, or to let go his hold?If he clung to it, he should emerge from disaster,he should ascend again into the sunlight, he shouldlet the bitter water drip from his garments and hishair, he was saved, he should live.And if he let go his hold?Then the abyss.Thus he took sad council with his thoughts. Or, tospeak more correctly, he fought; he kicked furi-ously internally, now against his will, now againsthis conviction.Happily for Jean Valjean that he had been able toweep. That relieved him, possibly. But the begin-ning was savage. A tempest, more furious thanthe one which had formerly driven him to Arras,broke loose within him. The past surged up be-fore him facing the present; he compared themand sobbed. The silence of tears once opened, thedespairing man writhed.He felt that he had been stopped short.Alas! in this fight to the death between our ego-tism and our duty, when we thus retreat step bystep before our immutable ideal, bewildered, fu-rious, exasperated at having to yield, disputing theground, hoping for a possible flight, seeking anescape, what an abrupt and sinister resistancedoes the foot of the wall offer in our rear!To feel the sacred shadow which forms an ob-stacle! Continued on Page 92

BOOK SEVENTH.—THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP

CHAPTER ITHE SEVENTH CIRCLE AND THE EIGHTH

HEAVEN

The days that follow weddings are solitary. Peoplerespect the meditations of the happy pair. Andalso, their tardy slumbers, to some degree. Thetumult of visits and congratulations only beginslater on. On the morning of the 17th of February,it was a little past midday when Basque, withnapkin and feather-duster under his arm, busy insetting his antechamber to rights, heard a lighttap at the door. There had been no ring, whichwas discreet on such a day. Basque opened thedoor, and beheld M. Fauchelevent. He introducedhim into the drawing-room, still encumbered and

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your secret to yourself. You are neither denounced,nor tracked nor pursued. You have a reason forwantonly making such a revelation. Conclude.There is something more. In what connection doyou make this confession? What is your motive?”“My motive?” replied Jean Valjean in a voice solow and dull that one would have said that he wastalking to himself rather than to Marius. “Fromwhat motive, in fact, has this convict just said ‘Iam a convict’? Well, yes! the motive is strange.It is out of honesty. Stay, the unfortunate point isthat I have a thread in my heart, which keeps mefast. It is when one is old that that sort of thread isparticularly solid. All life falls in ruin around one;one resists. Had I been able to tear out that thread,to break it, to undo the knot or to cut it, to go faraway, I should have been safe. I had only to goaway; there are diligences in the Rue Bouloy; youare happy; I am going. I have tried to break thatthread, I have jerked at it, it would not break, Itore my heart with it. Then I said: ‘I cannot liveanywhere else than here.’ I must stay. Well, yes,you are right, I am a fool, why not simply remainhere? You offer me a chamber in this house,Madame Pontmercy is sincerely attached to me,she said to the arm-chair: ‘Stretch out your armsto him,’ your grandfather demands nothing betterthan to have me, I suit him, we shall live together,and take our meals in common, I shall give Cosettemy arm . . . Madame Pontmercy, excuse me, it isa habit, we shall have but one roof, one table, onefire, the same chimney-corner in winter, the samepromenade in summer, that is joy, that is happi-ness, that is everything. We shall live as one fam-ily. One family!”At that word, Jean Valjean became wild. Hefolded his arms, glared at the floor beneath hisfeet as though he would have excavated an abysstherein, and his voice suddenly rose in thunderingtones:“As one family! No. I belong to no family. I donot belong to yours. I do not belong to any familyof men. In houses where people are among them-selves, I am superfluous. There are families, butthere is nothing of the sort for me. I am an un-lucky wretch; I am left outside. Did I have a fa-ther and mother? I almost doubt it.

To Be Continued Next Week

Page 112 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, November 27, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

yet tranquil. No lie could proceed from such acalm. That which is icy is sincere. The truth couldbe felt in that chill of the tomb.“I believe you,” said Marius.Jean Valjean bent his head, as though taking noteof this, and continued:“What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten yearsago, I did not know that she was in existence. Ilove her, it is true. One loves a child whom onehas seen when very young, being old oneself. Whenone is old, one feels oneself a grandfather towardsall little children. You may, it seems to me, sup-pose that I have something which resembles aheart. She was an orphan. Without either fatheror mother. She needed me. That is why I began tolove her. Children are so weak that the first comer,even a man like me, can become their protector.I have fulfilled this duty towards Cosette. I do notthink that so slight a thing can be called a goodaction; but if it be a good action, well, say that Ihave done it. Register this attenuating circum-stance. To-day, Cosette passes out of my life; ourtwo roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing forher. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her providencehas changed. And Cosette gains by the change.All is well. As for the six hundred thousand francs,you do not mention them to me, but I forestallyour thought, they are a deposit. How did thatdeposit come into my hands? What does thatmatter? I restore the deposit. Nothing more canbe demanded of me. I complete the restitution byannouncing my true name. That concerns me. Ihave a reason for desiring that you should knowwho I am.”And Jean Valjean looked Marius full in the face.All that Marius experienced was tumultuous andincoherent. Certain gusts of destiny produce thesebillows in our souls.We have all undergone moments of trouble inwhich everything within us is dispersed; we saythe first things that occur to us, which are not al-ways precisely those which should be said. Thereare sudden revelations which one cannot bear, andwhich intoxicate like baleful wine. Marius wasstupefied by the novel situation which presenteditself to him, to the point of addressing that manalmost like a person who was angry with him forthis avowal.“But why,” he exclaimed, “do you tell me all this?Who forces you to do so? You could have kept

Observer Solution No 39 (This Week)

Observer Solution No 38 (Last Week)

F R A M E W O R K S U B T L Y A U N R E S T J O I N I N G U P

I L G M E L A N O O R B I T E P E T E N G O O

L E G R I M Y M I R R O R S M E A N E R R E N A L B E

L O C K O U T S H U T C K O O L A M O K E G O T I S M

W A N G S T B E E C H E A R N S T I R E D E R R O R I

V E E R S I D O L R E T R I B U T I O N D D A Y A O A F S

A D D L E B M S O D A S G G R A F S E S T A T E

I I A D V E R B S N P O L Y G O N N M O L L I F Y R V

N A T U R E T S E V E R E E E E L E V E N I O N E D G E

E O M A D A M V R I S O T T O A I N T R O V R

S P R E A D N M E A G R E N U B O A T S E E N R A G E

T I R T S A R B E D E L W E I S S N T A R E Y R D

L A N K A E S P Y V B A N I N A Y S S M O K E

L M I S S E S A U B E R E T D O I N H E L M S

G M A I D T O A S T E R S D O P E R E T T A L U T E A

T R U E D A S H S T E R S I E D O M O O T E T C H

I S H E R A D I C A T E V E N G E A N C E Y L M

O N T H E G O T N C S G P O N R I D D A I S I E S

R R E K I L T S M O N A R E A L D O L L S S N I

G N A W N N C O T H E N L E I M A R E A Y E S S A W N

A C A M E T O I R A S T I E V E R C S T R O W E L G

N E T S A W N E E D S R A I S E G R A P H P R G L E E

R H L I L A C N U S A I R E N E D I C T M T

N A T O O E L A G E R P A N E L N O T E S E M E A C H

O B U L G E D O T E A S E A S H E E O C U E I N G O

R I O T I G E T H A U L R I G U S S R U S E N T A L C

M N S E T H O S P A P A L I D S S A T E S T I K

S T E A L T H H V C B T H E D S S L A S C E N D S

I P E I N E B R I A T E T A L K A T I V E B N U

A C H E H A L O R U M S O S E R N C R A B V I C E

K S L A V P L A C E M A T V I D E A L I S T T I N Y K

D L E V I C O L A H E E L S S H I N I D E A D

S E R G E A C T S C A R P S M E I N S A T A N

T R Y A N N A T H A I R S T Y L E I O G L E W L A

W H E L P S E M E S S U P E E X O T I C I T A B L E T

O L S C O W L W P R E E N E D O S N E A K I H

T R I V I A D M E D D L E R O G R A I N S K M E N A C E

I C E M P E R O R U A B A L O N E S S A R A C E N N I

M A T E S L Z X M A S S S R A I D R G S A C K S

E L S A A H E A T P R E D E C E A S E D M O R E A M E E T

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R O L L B A R I T E M W R V R O H U G S P E A N U T S

U E E M A I L C U T O U T E I N S T I L M E A L S R O

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H A R D S H I P S P E C K E D S L O L L E D G U E R R I L L A

T O U G H N E S S A N O I N T B O F F S E T E M P L O Y E E S

O R A X N A P E N H E A V Y I M A T A A N T I

U N B U C C O P R E F E R N S C R U B S R O B E S N C

R E S P I T E B A L D R O D T T E T O N L I E B A C K

X I T A L Y P E S T O N O I S E R I D E S F O R T E U

M A I N H O O H S I N V E N T O R I E S S C A R E N A B S

I M R A N K I A N T E H P M E L T A E M E D A L

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S H I N T O H S A V A G E N I G A S H E S K O S W A L D

I T T O G A S G R A D I A T E L B L O A T N G

L E A D I N M M A N I L A N R A I D E D E M I S C U E

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U L T R A R E A D C U O B P C A G E H Y E N A

E L O G O G E A R S M A L L I C O N V I L E G

O P E E K C R E S C E N T D E N C I R C L E L A V A B

I N C A S A S H N R A A S H E T I N E A R H O R S

C I Y U N D R E S S E D O V E R E X E R T M E A

D E F R A Y S R A S T M B A D D N E A D A M A N T

O L O H E I S T M I N I R O L F O T H E R E I R

W E E D U A S S H E A L R O D E L M S O N O M E M M A

E C R A T E R L R H Y D E E D D Y T S B E A G L E C

L A K E H S A L O H A E R O D E I N E R T B N I D L E

K S H O H U M W R U B P U N O E M E N D X E

C A R S O N A B A B A U B O A T G A P E S R I I R A Q

O A U S S I E B W J U T E C H E F A S I G N O R E U

P U L P T S P A A S A P M E T R O O T E W E G S A N E

E P E S A D L Y H E R O I B E X H O S E S L R S

S C H O O L S T E B N A D O C T X I T Y P E S E T

A I C H A G R I D D E N N A T T E R I N G R R X

T W I N M O N O E B E S A S L P D H E A D O N E S

S K W O N L A N D L A D Y N L Y R I C I S T M E N S S

A P E S O D E E M O R A T E O D D S I M P S P

E M C E E G A S P P B E A D R E N E K A Y A K

E P N O N Y X O L I S A M A R I E O O R B S D L R

J A U N T S U E I T H E R I M O R M O N E S O L A C E

E T R I G I D O K E T C H U P A O W N E R T L

C R A V E N S O U N C E S A U R E C I T E I M I R A G E

T T E N T A I L S H O A K T R E E L S I R L O I N B A

O B E Y S N D R O A M E T S C O T G D G A L A S

R O S E K C U E D S P E C I A L I S E D T H E E K G E N E

N T E N S E S E W E R U N F E D A S S E T R A N G E T

M A D I S O N O T T O O R F E S P A S S P E R S I S T

E R S T A S H E R U P T S I A L I B I S T E P E E N E

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