“When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me like a cobbler!”
Then addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy:—
“And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist! I’m not a suspicious character, not a bit of it! I’m not a man whose name nobody knows, and who comes and abducts children from houses!
I’m an old French soldier, I ought to have been decorated!
I was at Waterloo, so I was!
And in the battle I saved a general called the Comte of I don’t know what.
He told me his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn’t hear.
All I caught was Merci [thanks].
I’d rather have had his name than his thanks.
That would have helped me to find him again.
The picture that you see here, and which was painted by David at Bruqueselles,—do you know what it represents?
It represents me.
David wished to immortalize that feat of prowess.
I have that general on my back, and I am carrying him through the grape-shot.
There’s the history of it!
That general never did a single thing for me; he was no better than the rest!
But nonetheless, I saved his life at the risk of my own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket!
I am a soldier of Waterloo, by all the furies!
And now that I have had the goodness to tell you all this, let’s have an end of it.
I want money, I want a deal of money, I must have an enormous lot of money, or I’ll exterminate you, by the thunder of the good God!”
Marius had regained some measure of control over his anguish, and was listening.
The last possibility of doubt had just vanished.
It certainly was the Thenardier of the will.
Marius shuddered at that reproach of ingratitude directed against his father, and which he was on the point of so fatally justifying.
His perplexity was redoubled.
Moreover, there was in all these words of Thenardier, in his accent, in his gesture, in his glance which darted flames at every word, there was, in this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything, in that mixture of braggadocio and abjectness, of pride and pettiness, of rage and folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments, in that immodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous delights of violence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something which was as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as the truth.
The picture of the master, the painting by David which he had proposed that M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else, as the reader has divined, than the sign of his tavern painted, as it will be remembered, by himself, the only relic which he had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil.
As he had ceased to intercept Marius’ visual ray, Marius could examine this thing, and in the daub, he actually did recognize a battle, a background of smoke, and a man carrying another man.
It was the group composed of Pontmercy and Thenardier; the sergeant the rescuer, the colonel rescued.
Marius was like a drunken man; this picture restored his father to life in some sort; it was no longer the signboard of the wine-shop at Montfermeil, it was a resurrection; a tomb had yawned, a phantom had risen there.
Marius heard his heart beating in his temples, he had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears, his bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister panel terrified him, and it seemed to him that the misshapen spectre was gazing intently at him.
When Thenardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot eyes on M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt voice:—
“What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you?”
M. Leblanc held his peace.
In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor:—
“If there’s any wood to be split, I’m there!”
It was the man with the axe, who was growing merry.
At the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey face made its appearance at the door, with a hideous laugh which exhibited not teeth, but fangs.
It was the face of the man with the butcher’s axe.
“Why have you taken off your mask?” cried Thenardier in a rage.
“For fun,” retorted the man.
For the last few minutes M. Leblanc had appeared to be watching and following all the movements of Thenardier, who, blinded and dazzled by his own rage, was stalking to and fro in the den with full confidence that the door was guarded, and of holding an unarmed man fast, he being armed himself, of being nine against one, supposing that the female Thenardier counted for but one man.
During his address to the man with the pole-axe, he had turned his back to M. Leblanc.
M. Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with his foot and the table with his fist, and with one bound, with prodigious agility, before Thenardier had time to turn round, he had reached the window.
To open it, to scale the frame, to bestride it, was the work of a second only.
He was half out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him back energetically into the hovel.
These were the three “chimney-builders,” who had flung themselves upon him.
At the same time the Thenardier woman had wound her hands in his hair.
At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up from the corridor.
The old man on the bed, who seemed under the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up, with a stone-breaker’s hammer in his hand.