I. WOUND WITHOUT, CURE WITHIN

THUS their life gradually darkened.

There was left to them but one distraction, and this had formerly been a pleasure: that was to carry
bread to those who were hungry, and clothing to those who were cold. In these visits to the poor, in
which Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean, they found some remnant of their former lighthearted-
ness; and, sometimes, when they had had a good day, when many sorrows had been relieved and many lit-
tle children revived and made warm, Cosette, in the evening, was a little gay. It was at this period
that they visited the Jondrette den.

The day after that visit, Jean Valjean appeared in the cottage in the morning, with his ordinary
calmness, but with a large wound on his left arm, very much inflamed and very venomous, which resem-
bled a burn, and which he explained in some fashion. This wound confined him within doors more than
a month with fever. He would see no physician. When Cosette urged it: "Call the dog-doctor," said he.

Cosette dressed it night and morning with so divine a grace and so angelic a pleasure in being useful
to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his old happiness return, his fears and his anxieties dissipate,
and be looked upon Cosette, saying:"Oh I the good wound! Oh! the kind hurt!"

Cosette, as her father was sick, had deserted the summer-house and regained her taste for the little
lodge and the back-yard. She spent almost all her time with Jean Valjean, and read to him the books
which he liked. In general, books of travels. Jean Valjean was born anew; his happiness. revived with
inexpressible radiance; the Luxembourg, the unknown young prowler, Cksette's coldness, all these
clouds of his soul faded away. He now said to himself: "I imagined all that. I am an old fool."

His happiness was so great, that the frightful discovery of the Thenardiers, made in the Jondrettc
den, and so unexpectedly, had an some sort glided over him. He had succeeded in escaping trace was
lost, what mattered the rest! he thought of it only to grieve over those wretches."They are now in
prison, and can do no harm in future," thought he,"but what a pitiful family in distress!"

As to the hideous vision of the Derriere du Maine, Cosette had never mentioned it again.

At the convent, Sister Sainte Mcchthilde had taught Cosette music. Cosette had the voice of a warbler
with a soul, and some-times in the evening, in the humble lodging of the wounded man, she sang plain-
tive songs which rejoiced Jean Valjean.

Spring came, the garden was so wonderful at that season of the year, that Jean Valjean said to Cos-
ette:"You never go there. I wish you would walk in it.""As you will, father," said Cosette.

And, out of obedience to her father, she resumed her walks in the garden, of tenest alone. for, as
we have remarked, Jean Valjean, who probably dreaded being seen through the gate, hardly ever went
there

Jean Valjcan's wound had been a diversion.

When Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, and that he was getting well, and that he seem-
ed happy, she felt a contentment that she did not even notice, so gently and naturally did it come
upon her. It was then the month of March, the days were growing longer, winter was departing, winter
always carries with it something of our sadness; then April came, that 'daybreak of summer, fresh
like every dawn, gay like every childhood; weeping a little sometimes like the infant that it is.
Nature in this month has charming gleams which pass from the sky, the clouds, the trees, the fields,
and the flowers, into the heart of man.

Cosette was still too young for this April joy, which resembled her, not to find its way to her
heart. Insensibly, and without a suspicion on her part, the darkness passed away from her mind.
In the spring it becomes light in sad souls, as at noon it becomes light in cellars. And Cosette
was not now very sad. So it was, however, but she did not notice it. In the morning, about ten
o'clock, after breakfast, when she had succeeded in enticing her father into the garden for
a quarter of an hour, and while she was walking in the sun in front of the steps, supporting his
wounded arm, she did not perceive that she was laughing every moment, and that she was happy.

Jean Valjcan saw her, with intoxication, again become fresh and "Oh! the blessed wound!" repeat-
ed he in a whisper.

And he was grateful to the Thenardiers.

As soon as his wound was cured, he resumed his solitary and twilight walks.

It would he a mistake to believe that one can walk in this way alone in the uninhabited regions
of Paris, and not meet with some adventure

II. MOTHER PLUTARCH IS NOT EMBARRASSED ON THE EXPLANATION OF A PHENOMENON

ONE evening little Gavroche had had no dinner; be remembered that he had had no dinner also the
day before; this was becoming tiresome. He resolved that he would try for some supper. He went
wandering about beyond La Salpotriere, in the deserted spots; those are the plates for good luck;
where there is nobody, can be found something. He came to a settlement which appeared to him to
be the village of Austerlitz.

In one of his preceding strolls, he had noticed an old garden there haunted by an old man and an
old woman, and in this garden a passable apple tree. Beside this apple tree, there was a sort of
fruit-loft poorly inclosed where the conquest of an apple might be made. An apple is a supper;
an apple is life. What ruined Adam might save Gavroche. The garden was upon a solitary lane un-
paved and bordered with bushes for lack of houses; a hedge separated it from the lane.

Gavroche directed his steps towards the garden; he found the lane, he recognised the apple tree,
he verified the fruit-loft, he examined the hedge; a hedge is a stride. Day was declining, not
a cat in the lane, the time was good. Gavroche sketched out the escalade, then suddenly stopped.
Somebody was talking in the garden. Gavroche looked through one of the openings of the hedge.

Within two steps of him, at the foot of the hedge on the other side, precisely at the point where
the hole he was meditating would have taken him, lay a stone which made a kind of seat, and on
this salt the old man of the garden was sitting with the old woman standing before hint. The old
woman was muttering. Gavroche, who was anything but discreet, listened.

"Monsieur Mabeuf!" said the old woman,

"Mabeuf!" thought Gavroche,"that is a funny name."

The old man who was addressed made no motion. The old woman repeated:

"Monsieur Mabeuf."

The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, determined to answer:

"What, Mother Plutarch?"

"Mother Plutarch!" thought Gavroche,"another funny name." Mother Plutarch resumed, and the old
man was forced to enter into the conversation:

"In three months there will be four."

"He says he will turn you out of doors to sleep."

"I shall go."

"The grocery woman wants to be paid, She holds on to her wood. What will you keep warm with this
winter? We shall have no wood."

"There is the sun."

"The butcher refuses credit, he will not give us any more meat."

"That is all right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy."

"What shall we have for dinner?"

"Bread."

"The baker demands something on account, and says no money, no bread."

"Very well."

"What will you eat?"

"We have the apples from the apple tree."

"But, monsieur, we can't live like that without money."

"I have not any."

The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He began to reflect. Gavroche was reflecting
on his side. It was almost night.

The first result of Gavroche's reflection was that instead of climbing over the hedge he crept un-
der. The branches separated a little at the bottom of the bushes.

"Heigho," exclaimed Gavroche internally,"an alcove!" and he hid in it. He almost touched Father
Mabeuf's seat. He heard the octogenarian breathe.

Then, for dinner, he tried to sleep.

Sleep of a cat, sleep with one eye. Even while crouching there Gavroche kept watch.

The whiteness of the twilight sky blanched the earth, and the lane made a livid line between two
rows of dusky bushes.

Suddenly, upon that whitened band two dim forms appeared. One came before--the other, at some dis-
tance, behind.

"There are two fellows," growled Gavroche.

The first form seemed some old bourgeois bent and thoughtful, dressed more than simply, walking
with the slow pace of an aged man, and taking his case in the starry evening.

The second was straight, firm, and slight. It regulated its step by the step of the first; but an
the unwonted slowness of the gait. dexterity and agility were manifest. This form had, in addition
to something wild and startling, the whole appearance of what was then called a dandy the hat was
of the latest style, the coat was black, well cut, probably of fine cloth, and closely fitted to
the form. The head was held up with a robust grace, and, under the hat, coal be seen in the twi-
light the pale profile of a young man. This profile had a rose in its mouth. The second form was
well known to Garmelte: it was Montparnasse.

As to the other, he could have said nothing about it, except that it was an old goodman.

Gavroche immediately applied himself to observation.

One of these two passers evidently had designs upon the other. Gavroche was well situated to see
the issue. The alcove had very conveniently become a hiding-place.

Montparnasse hiding, at such an hour, in such a place--it was threatening. Gavroche felt his ga-
min's heart moved with pity for the old man.

What could he do? intervene? one weakness in aid of another? That would be ludicrous to Montpar-
nasse. Gavroche could not con-ceal it from himself that, to this formidable bandit of eighteen,
the old man first, the child afterwards, would be but two mouthfuls.

While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack was made, sharp and hideous. The attack of a tiger
on a wild ass, a spider on a fly. Montparnasse, on a sudden, threw away the rose, sprang upon
the old man, collared him, grasped him and fastened to him, and Gavroche could hardly restrain
a cry. A moment afterwards, one of these men was under the other, exhausted, panting, strugg-
ling, with a knee of marble upon his breast. Only it was not altogether as Gavroche had expec-
ted. The one on the ground was Montparnasse; the one above was the goodman. All this happened
a few steps from Gavroche.

The old man had received the shock and had returned it, and re-turned it so terribly that in
the twinkling of an eye the assailant and assailed had changed parts.

"There is a brave Invalide!" thought Gavroche.

And he could not help clapping his hands. But it was a clapping of hands thrown away. It did
not reach the two combatants, absorbed and deafened by each other, and mingling their breath
in the contest.

There was silence. Montparnasse ceased to struggle. Gavroche said this aside: "Can he be dead?"

The goodman had not spoken a word, nor uttered a cry. He arose, and Gavroche beard him my to
Montparnasse:

"Get up."

Montparnasse got up, but the goodman held him. Montparnasse had the humiliated and furious at-
titude of a wolf caught by a sheep.

Gavroche looked and listened, endeavouring to double his eyes by his ears. He was enormously
amused.

He was rewarded for his conscientious anxiety as a spectator. He was able to seize upon the
wing the following dialogue. which borrowed a strangely tragic tone from the the darkness. The
good-man questioned. Montparnasse responded.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"You are strong and well. Why don't you work?"

"It is fatiguing."

"What is your business?"

"Loafer."

"Speak seriously. Can I do anything for you? What would you like to be?"

"A robber."

There was a silence. The old man seemed to be thinking deept He was motionless, yet did not
release Montparnasse.

From time to time the young bandit, vigorous and nimble, mad the efforts of a beast caught in
a snare. He gave a spring, attempte' a trip, twisted his limbs desperately, endeavoured to es-
cape. The oh man did not appear to perceive it, and with a single hand held his two arms with
the sovereign indifference of absolute strength.

The old man's reverie continued for some time, then, looking steadily upon Montparnasse, he
gently raised his voice and addressed to him, in that obscurity in which they were, a sort of
solemn allocution of which Gavroche did not lose a syllable:

"My child, you are entering by laziness into the most laborious of existences. Ah! you declare
yourself a loafer! prepare to labour. Have you seen a terrible machine called the rolling-mill?
Beware of it, it is a cunning and ferocious thing; if it but catch the skirt of your coat, you
are drawn in entirely. This machine is idleness. Stop, while there is yet time, and save your-
self! otherwise, it is all over; you will soon be between the wheels. Once caught, hope for no-
thing more. To fatigue, idler! no more rest. The implacable iron hand of labour has seized you.
Earn a living, have a task, accomplish a duty, you do not wish it! To be like others is tire-
some! Well! you will be different. Labour is the law; he who spurns it as tiresome will have
it as a punishment. You are unwilling to be a working-man, you will be a slave. Labour releases
you on the one hand only to retake you on the other; you are unwilling to be her friend, you
will be by negro. Ah! you have refused the honest weariness of men, you shall have the sweat
of the damned. While others sing, you will rave. You will see from afar, from below, other men
at work; it will semi in you that they are at rest. The labourer, the reaper, the sailor, the
blacksmith, will appear to you in the light like the blessed in a paradise. What a radiance
in the anvil! To drive the plough, to bind the sheaf, is happiness. The bark free before the
wind, what a festival! You, idler, dig, draw, roll, march! Drag your halter, you are a beast
of burden in the train of hell! Ah! to do nothing, that is your aim. Well! not a week, not a
day, not an hour, without crushing exhaustion. You can lift nothing but with anguish. Every
minute which elapses will make your muscles crack. What will be a feather for others will be
a rock for you. The simplest things will become steep. Life will make itself a monster about
you. To go, to come, to breathe. so many terrible labours. Your lungs will feel like a hundred
pound weight: To go here rather than there will be a problem to solve. Any other man who
wishes to go out, opens his door, it is done, he is out of doors. You, if you wish to go out,
must pierce your wall. To go into the street, what does everybody do? Everybody goes
down the staircase! but you, you will tear up your bed clothes, you will make a rope of
them strip by strip, then you will pass through your window and you will hang on that
thread over an abyss, and it will be at night, in the storm, in the rain, in the tempest, and,
if the rope is too short, you will have but one way to descend, to fall. To fall at a ven-
ture, into the abyss, from whatever height, upon what? Upon whatever is below, upon the
unknown. Or you will climb through the flue of a chimney, at the risk of burning yourself;
or you will crawl through a sewer, at the risk of being drowned. I do not speak of the
holes which you must conceal, of the stones which you must fake out and put back twenty
times a day, of the mortar which you must hide in your mattress. A lock presents itself;
the bourgeois has in his pocket his key, made by a locksmith. You, if you want to pass
out, are condemned to make a frightful masterpiece; you will take a big sou, you will
cut it into two slices; with what tools? You will invent them. That is your business.
Then you will hollow out the interior of these two slices, preserving the outside care-
fully, and you will cut all around the edge a screw-thread, so that they will fit close-
ly one upon the other, like a bottom and a cover. The bottom and the top thus screwed
together, nobody will suspect anything. To the watchmen, for you will be watched, it
will be a big sou; to you, it will be a box. What will you put in this box? A little bit
of steel. A watch-spring in which you will cut teeth, and which will be a saw. With
this saw, as long as a pin, and hidden in this sou, you will have to cut the bolt of
the lock, the slide of the bolt, the clasp of the padlock, and the bar which you will
have at your window, and the iron ring which you will have on your leg. This master-
piece finished, this prodigy accomplished, all those miracles of art, of address, of skill,
of patience, executed, if it comes to be known that you are the author, what will be
your reward? the dungeon. Behold your future. Idleness, pleasure, what abysses! To do
nothing is a dreary course to take, be sure of it. To live idle upon the substance of
society! To be useless, that is to say, noxious! This leads straight to the lowest
depth of misery.

"Woe to him who would be a parasite! he will be vermin. Ah! it is not pleasant to you
to work? Ah! you will have but one thought; to eat, and drink, and sleep in luxury.
You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep upon a board, with irons
riveted to your hands, the chill of which you will feel at night upon your flesh! You
will break those irons, you will flee. Very well. You will drag yourself on your belly
in the bushes, and eat grass like the beasts of the forest. And you will be retaken.
And then you will spend years in a dungeon, fastened to a wall, groping for a drink
from your pitcher, gnawing a frightful loaf of darkness which the dogs would not touch,
eating beans which the worms have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a
cellar. Oh! take pity on yourself, miserable child, young thing, a suckling not twen-
ty years ago, who doubtless have a mother still alive! I conjure you, listen to me.
You desire fine black clothes, shining pumps, to curl your hair, to put sweet-scented
oil upon your locks, to please your women, to be handsome. You will be close shorn,
with a red coat and wooden shoes. You wish a ring on your finger, you will have an
iron collar on your neck. And if you look at a woman, a blow of the club. And you
will go in there at twenty, and you will come out at fifty! You will enter young,
rosy, fresh, with your eyes bright and all your teeth white, and your beautiful
youthful hair; you will come out broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with
white hair! Oh! my child, you are taking a mistaken road, laziness is giving you bad
advice; the hardest of all labour is robbery. Trust me, do not undertake this dreadful
drudgery of being an idler. To become a rascal is not comfortable. It is not so hard to
be an honest man. Go, now, and think of what I have said to you. And now, what did you
want of me? my purse? here it is."

And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in his hand, which Montparnasse
weighed for a moment; after which, with the same mechanical precaution as if he had sto-
len it, Montparnasse let it glide gently into the back pocket of his can.

All this said and done, the goodman turned his back and quietly resumed his walk.

"Blockhead!" murmured Montparnasse.

Who was this goodman? the reader has doubtless guessed.. Montparnasse, in stupefaction,
watched hint till he disappeared in the twilight. This contemplation was fatal to him.

While the old man was moving away, Gavroche was approaching.

Gavroche, with a side glance, made sure that Father Mabeuf perhaps asleep, was still sit-
ting on the seat. Then the urchin came out of his bushes, and began to creep along in the
shade, behind the motionless Montparnasse. He reached Montparnasse thus without being
seen or heard, gently insinuated his hand into the back pocket of the fine black cloth
coat, took the purse, withdrew his hand, and, creeping off again, glided away like an
adder into the darkness. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be upon his guard, and who
was reflecting for the first time in his life, perceived nothing of it. Gavroche, when
he had reached the point where Father Mabeuf was, threw the purse over the hedge, and
fled at full speed.

The purse fell on the foot of Father Mabeuf. This shock awoke him. He stooped down,
and picked up the purse. He did not understand it at all, and he opened it. It was a
purse with two components; in one there were some small coins; in the other, there
were six napoleons.

M. Mabeuf, very much startled, carried the thing to his governess.

"This falls from the sky," said Mother Plutarch