M. de Chauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin; M. de Caumartin, M. Caumartin; M. de Constant de Robecque, Benjamin Constant; M. de Lafayette, M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind the rest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac.
We might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop here, and confine ourselves to saying with regard to what remains: “For Courfeyrac, see Tholomyes.”
Courfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youth which may be called the beaute du diable of the mind.
Later on, this disappears like the playfulness of the kitten, and all this grace ends, with the bourgeois, on two legs, and with the tomcat, on four paws.
This sort of wit is transmitted from generation to generation of the successive levies of youth who traverse the schools, who pass it from hand to hand, quasi cursores, and is almost always exactly the same; so that, as we have just pointed out, any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in 1828 would have thought he heard Tholomyes in 1817.
Only, Courfeyrac was an honorable fellow.
Beneath the apparent similarities of the exterior mind, the difference between him and Tholomyes was very great.
The latent man which existed in the two was totally different in the first from what it was in the second.
There was in Tholomyes a district attorney, and in Courfeyrac a paladin.
Enjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the centre.
The others gave more light, he shed more warmth; the truth is, that he possessed all the qualities of a centre, roundness and radiance.
Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on the occasion of the burial of young Lallemand.
Bahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, brave, a spendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, talkative, and at times eloquent, bold to the verge of effrontery; the best fellow possible; he had daring waistcoats, and scarlet opinions; a wholesale blusterer, that is to say, loving nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an uprising; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution; always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the pavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect of it; a student in his eleventh year. He had nosed about the law, but did not practise it.
He had taken for his device:
“Never a lawyer,” and for his armorial bearings a nightstand in which was visible a square cap.
Every time that he passed the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his frock-coat,—the paletot had not yet been invented,—and took hygienic precautions.
Of the school porter he said:
“What a fine old man!” and of the dean, M. Delvincourt:
“What a monument!”
In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads, and in his professors occasions for caricature.
He wasted a tolerably large allowance, something like three thousand francs a year, in doing nothing.
He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for their son.
He said of them:
“They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the reason they are intelligent.”
Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous cafes; the others had habits, he had none.
He sauntered.
To stray is human. To saunter is Parisian.
In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to view.
He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C and other still unorganized groups, which were destined to take form later on.
In this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member.
The Marquis d’Avaray, whom Louis XVIII. made a duke for having assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated, was wont to relate, that in 1814, on his return to France, as the King was disembarking at Calais, a man handed him a petition.
“What is your request?” said the King.
“Sire, a post-office.”
“What is your name?”
“L’Aigle.”
The King frowned, glanced at the signature of the petition and beheld the name written thus: LESGLE.
This non-Bonaparte orthography touched the King and he began to smile.
“Sire,” resumed the man with the petition,
“I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules. This surname furnished my name.
I am called Lesgueules, by contraction Lesgle, and by corruption l’Aigle.”
This caused the King to smile broadly.
Later on he gave the man the posting office of Meaux, either intentionally or accidentally.
The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, or Legle, and he signed himself, Legle [de Meaux].
As an abbreviation, his companions called him Bossuet.
Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow.
His specialty was not to succeed in anything.
As an offset, he laughed at everything.
At five and twenty he was bald.
His father had ended by owning a house and a field; but he, the son, had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad speculation.
He had nothing left.