This is a progressive age. Those Americans,--children of the West,--they make nutmegs out of wood.
I, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those children of the forest.
But civilization has acquired deception too. Society is made up of deception. Even the best French society.
Still there was one sincere episode.
Eh?
The French Revolution!
VII.
M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.
M. Myriel was a saint. M. Madeline a good man.
M. Myriel was dead. M. Madeline was living.
That made all the difference.
M. Madeline made virtue profitable. I have seen it written:--"Be virtuous and you will be happy."
Where did I see this written? In the modern Bible? No. In the Koran? No. In Rousseau? No. Diderot? No. Where then?
In a copy-book.
VIII.
M. Madeline was M. le Maire.
This is how it came about.
For a long time he refused the honor. One day an old woman, standing on the steps, said:--"Bah, a good mayor is a good thing.
"You are a good thing.
"Be a good mayor."
This woman was a rhetorician. She understood inductive ratiocination.
IX.
When this good M. Madeline, whom the reader will perceive must have been a former convict, and a very bad man, gave himself up to justice as the real Jean Valjean, about this same time, Fantine was turned away from the manufactory, and met with a number of losses from society. Society attacked her, and this is what she lost:--First her lover.
Then her child.
Then her place.
Then her hair.
Then her teeth.
Then her liberty.
Then her life.
What do you think of society after that? I tell you the present social system is a humbug.
X.
This is necessarily the end of Fantine. There are other things that will be stated in other volumes to follow. Don't be alarmed; there are plenty of miserable people left.
Au revoir--my friend.
"LA FEMME."
AFTER THE FRENCH OF M. MICHELET.
I.
WOMEN AS AN INSTITUTION.
"If it were not for women, few of us would at present be in existence." This is the remark of a cautious and discreet writer.
He was also sagacious and intelligent.
Woman! Look upon her and admire her. Gaze upon her and love her.
If she wishes to embrace you, permit her. Remember she is weak and you are strong.
But don't treat her unkindly. Don't make love to another woman before her face, even if she be your wife. Don't do it. Always be polite, even should she fancy somebody better than you.
If your mother, my dear Amadis, had not fancied your father better than somebody, you might have been that somebody's son. Consider this. Always be a philosopher, even about women.
Few men understand women. Frenchmen, perhaps, better than any one else. I am a Frenchman.
II.
THE INFANT.
She is a child--a little thing--an infant.
She has a mother and father. Let us suppose, for example, they are married. Let us be moral if we cannot be happy and free--they are married--perhaps--they love one another--who knows?
But she knows nothing of this; she is an infant--a small thing--a trifle!
She is not lovely at first. It is cruel, perhaps, but she is red, and positively ugly. She feels this keenly and cries. She weeps.
Ah, my God, how she weeps! Her cries and lamentations now are really distressing.
Tears stream from her in floods. She feels deeply and copiously like M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his Confessions.
If you are her mother, Madame, you will fancy worms; you will examine her linen for pins, and what not. Ah, hypocrite! you, even YOU, misunderstand her.
Yet she has charming natural impulses. See how she tosses her dimpled arms. She looks longingly at her mother. She has a language of her own. She says, "goo goo," and "ga ga."
She demands something--this infant!
She is faint, poor thing. She famishes. She wishes to be restored. Restore her, Mother!
It is the first duty of a mother to restore her child!
III.
THE DOLL.
She is hardly able to walk; she already totters under the weight of a doll.
It is a charming and elegant affair. It has pink cheeks and purple-black hair. She prefers brunettes, for she has already, with the quick knowledge of a French infant, perceived she is a blonde, and that her doll cannot rival her. Mon Dieu, how touching! Happy child! She spends hours in preparing its toilet.
She begins to show her taste in the exquisite details of its dress.
She loves it madly, devotedly. She will prefer it to bonbons. She already anticipates the wealth of love she will hereafter pour out on her lover, her mother, her father, and finally, perhaps, her husband.
This is the time the anxious parent will guide these first outpourings. She will read her extracts from Michelet's L'Amour, Rousseau's Heloise, and the Revue des deux Mondes.
IV.
THE MUD PIE.
She was in tears to-day.
She had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants. They had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet.
They had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands.
Her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. She made a graceful and lovely pie. She stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. She forgot everything. It was being baked in the solar rays, when madame came and took her away.
She weeps. It is night, and she is weeping still.
V.
HER FIRST LOVE.
