Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the eighty-ninth chapter of Les Miserables.

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>> Speaker A: Take a look, in the book and let's see

what we can find.

Take it chapter by chapter. One

fight M at a time

so many adventures and

mountains we can climb

to give word for word, line by

line, one bite at a time.

>> Brie Carlisle: Welcome to bite at a time books where we read you your

favorite classics one byte at a time. my name is

Bre Carlisle and I love to read and wanted to

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today well be continuing.

>> Brie Carlisle: les miserables by Victor Hugo

chapter 19 the battlefield at

night let us return.

It is a necessity in this book to that fatal

battlefield. On the 18 June,

the moon was full, its light

favored bluchers ferocious pursuit betrayed the

traces of the fugitives, delivered up that

disastrous mass to the eager prussian cavalry,

and aided the massacre.

Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes

during catastrophes. After the last

cannon shot had been fired, the plain of Mont Saint Jean

remained deserted. The English

occupied the encampment of the French. It is the

usual sign of victory to sleep in the bed of the

vanquished. They established their

bivouac. Beyond Ross Homme, the

Prussians, let loose on the retreating route, pushed

forward. Wellington went to the village of

Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.

If ever the Sikh vos non

vobis was applicable, it certainly is to that

village of Waterloo. Waterloo took no

part and lay half a league from the scene of action.

Mont Saint Jean was cannonaded Hougoumont was

burned. La Haye saint was taken by

assault. Papylet was burned, to

placentois was burned. La Belle alliance beheld

the embrace of the two conquerors. His

names are hardly known. And Waterloo, which

worked not in the battle, bears off all the honor.

We are not of the number of those who flatter war. When

the occasion presents itself, we tell the truth

about it. War has frightened beauties

which we have not concealed. It has also, we

acknowledged, some hideous features. One of

the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the

dead after the victory. The dawn which

follows a battle always rises on naked corpses.

Who does this? Who thus

soils the triumph? What hideous

furtive hand is that which is slipped into the pocket of

victory? What pickpockets are they who

ply their trade in the rear of glory?

Some philosophers, voltaire among the

number, affirm that it is precisely those

persons who have made the glory. It is the

same men. They say there is

no relief corps. Those who are wrecked

pillage those who are prone on the earth, the hero of the

day is the vampire of the night. One has

assuredly the right, after all, to strip a corpse a bit when one is

the author of that corpse. For our own

part, we do not think so. It

seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck

laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead

man. One thing is certain,

which is that, generally after conquerors follow

thieves. But let

us leave the soldier, especially the

contemporary soldier, out of the question. Every

army has a rear guard, and it is that

which must be blamed. Bat like

creatures, half brigands and

lackeys, all the sorts of Espertillos,

that, twilight called war engenders wearers of

uniforms who take no part in the fighting, pretended

invalids, formidable limpers,

interloping sutlers trotting along

in little carts, sometimes

accompanied by their wives and stealing things which they sell

again. Beggars offering themselves as guides

to officers, soldiers, servants,

marauders, armies on the march in days gone

by. We are not speaking of the present.

Dragged all this behind them so that in the special language

they are called stragglers. No army,

no nation was responsible for those beings.

They spoke Italian and followed the Germans,

then spoke French and followed the English.

It was by one of these wretches, a spanish

straggler, who spoke French. And that the marquis of

Ferveck, deceived by a speckard jargon and

taking him for one of her own men, was traitorously

slain and robbed on the battlefield itself, in the course

of the night which followed the victory of cyras sols,

the rascals sprang from this marauding.

The detestable maxim, live on. The enemy

produced this leprosy which a strict discipline

alone could heal. There are reputations

which are deceptive. One does not always

know why certain generals, great in other directions,

have been so popular. Tyrrhene was adored by

his soldiers because he tolerated pillage.

Evil permitted constitutes part of goodness.

Tyrine was so good that he allowed the

Palatinates to be delivered over to the fire in blood.

The marauders in the train of an army were more or less in

number, according as the chief was more or less

severe. Hoche and Marsu had no

stragglers. Wellington had few,

and we do him the justice to mention it.

Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19

June, the dead were robbed.

Wellington was rigid. He gave orders that

anyone caught in the act should be shot. But

rapin is tenacious. The marauders stole

in one corner of the battlefield, while others are being shot in

another. The moon was sinister

over this plain. Towards midnight,

a man was prowling about, or rather

climbing in the direction of the hollow road of Ohain.

To all appearance, he was one of those whom we have just

described. Neither English nor French,

neither peasant nor soldier. Less a

man than a ghoul, attracted by the scent of the dead bodies,

having theft for his victory and come to rifle

Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse

that was something like a greatcoat. He was

uneasy and audacious. He walked

forwards and gazed behind him.

Who was this man? The night probably

knew more of him than the day. He had no sack,

but evidently he had large pockets under his coat.

From time to time he halted,

scrutinized the plane around him, as though to see whether he were

observed. Bent over abruptly, disturbed something

silent and motionless on the ground, then

rose and fled. His

sliding motion, his attitudes, his

mysterious and rapid gestures, caused him to

resemble those twilight larvae which haunt ruins

and which ancient norman legends call the allures.

Certain nocturnal wading birds produced these silhouettes

among the marshes. A glance capable

of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at

some distance a sort of little

sutlers wagon with a fluted wicker hood

harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across

its bit as it halted, hidden, as it

were, behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to

nival. At the angle of the road from Mont Saint

Jean to brain lude and in the

wagon a sort of woman seated on

coffers and packages.

Perhaps there was some connection between that

wagon and that prowler.

The darkness was serene, not a

cloud in the zenith. What matters it

if the earth be red? The moon remains

white. These are the indifferences of

the sky. in the fields, branches of trees, broken by

grapeshot, but not fallen, upheld by their

bark, sway gently in the breeze of

night. A breath,

almost a respiration, moved to the

shrubbery. Quivers which resembled the

departures of souls. Ran through the grass.

In the distance, the coming and going of patrols

and the general rounds of the english camp were audible.

Hougoumont and La Haye saint continued to burn,

forming one in the west, the other in the

east. Two great flames which were joined by

the cordon of Bivouac fires of the English. Like a

necklace of rubies. With two carbuncles at the

extremities. As they extended in an immense

semicircle over the hills along the horizon.

We have described the catastrophe of the road of

Ohain. The heart is terrified

at the thought of what death must have been to so many brave

men. If there is

anything terrible, if there exists

a reality which surpasses dreams, it is

to live to see the sun.

To be in full possession of virile force. To

possess health and joy. To laugh

valiantly, to rush towards a, Glory which one sees dazzling

in front of one. To feel in ones

breast lungs which breathe a heart which

beats a ah, will which reasons to speak,

think, hope, love. To have

a mother, to have a wife. To have children. To

have the light. And

all at once in the space of a shout.

In less than a minute. To sink into an

abyss. To fall, to roll, to

crush, to be crushed. To see ears of

wheat, flowers, leaves, branches.

Not to be able to catch hold of anything.

To feel one's sword useless

men beneath one, horses on top of

one. To struggle in vain, Since one's bones

have been broken by some kick in the darkness. To

feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from their

sockets. To bite horses shoes in one's

rage. To stifle, to yell, to

writhe, to be beneath. And to say to oneself, but just

a little while ago, I was a living man.

There. Where that lamentable

disaster had uttered its death rattle,

all was silence. Now the

edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses and

riders inextricably heaped up

terrible entanglement. There was no

longer any slope, for the corpses had leveled the road with the

plane. And reached the brim like a well filled

bushel of barley. A heap of dead

bodies in the upper part, a river of

blood in the lower part. Such

was that road on the evening of the 18 June

1815. The blood ran even

to the naval highway and there

overflowed in a large pool in front of the abatis of trees

which barred the way at a spot which is still pointed

out. It will be remembered

that it was at the opposite point in the direction

of the Djehnap road, that the destruction of the cuirasses had

taken place. The thickness of the

layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth of the hollow

road towards the middle,

at the point where it became level, where the lords

division had passed, the layer of corpses

was thinner. The nocturnal prowler

whom we have just shown to the reader was going in that direction.

He was searching that vast tomb.

He gazed about. He passed the dead in

some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet in the

blood all at once. He

paused a few paces in front

of him in the hollow road, at the point where the pile of dead came

to an end, an open hand,

illumined by the moon, projected from beneath that

heap of men. That hand had on its finger

something sparkling, which was a ring of gold.

The man bent over remained in a

crouching attitude for a moment, and when he

rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.

He did not precisely rise.

He remained in a stooping and frightened

attitude with his back turned to the

heap of dead, scanning the horizon on his knees,

with the whole upper portion of his body supported on his two

forefingers, which rested on the earth, and his

head peering above the edge of the hollow road. The

jackals fore paws suit some actions.

Then, coming to a decision, he rose to his

feet. At that moment he gave a

terrible start. He felt someone clutch him from

behind. He wheeled round. It was the open

hand which had closed and had seized the skirt of his

coat. An honest man would have been

terrified. This man burst

into a laugh. Come, said he,

it's only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a

gendarme. But the hand

weakened and released him.

Effort is quickly exhausted in the grave.

Well now, said the prowler, is that

dead fellow alive? Lets see.

He bent down again, fumbled among the

heap, pushed aside everything that was in his

way, seized the hand, grasped the arm,

freed the head, pulled out the body, and a few moments

later he was dragging the lifeless,

or at least the unconscious man, through the shadows of Hollow

road. He was a cuirassier

an officer, and even an officer of

considerable rank. A large gold

epaulette peeped from beneath the cuirass.

This officer no longer possessed a helmet.

A furious sword cut had scarred his face where

nothing was discernible but blood.

However, he did not appear to have any broken limbs,

and by some happy chance, if that word is permissible

here, the dead had been vaulted above him in such a

manner as to preserve him from being crushed.

His eyes were still closed. On

the cuirass, he wore the silver cross of the Legion of

honor. The prowler tore off this cross,

which disappeared into one of the gulfs, which hid beneath his

greatcoat. Then he felt of

the officers fob, discovered a watch there, and

took possession of it. Next he searched

his waistcoat, found a purse, and

pocketed it. When he had arrived at this

stage of succor which he was administering to this dying

mandev, the officer opened his eyes.

Thanks, he said feebly. The

abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him,

the freshness of the night, the air which he could

inhale freely, had roused him from his lethargy.

The prowler made no reply.

He raised his head. A sound of footsteps

was audible in the plane. Some patrol was probably

approaching, the officer murmured,

for the death agony was still in his voice.

Who won the battle? The English,

answered the prowler. The officer went

on, look in my pockets. You will find a watch and

a purse. Take them.

It was already done. The prowler executed

the required feint and said, there is nothing

there. I have been robbed, said the

officer. Im, sorry for that. You shouldve had them.

The steps of the patrol became more and more distinct.

Someone is coming, said the prowler, with the movement

of a man whos taking his departure.

The officer raised his arm feebly and detained

him. You saved my life.

Who are you? the prowler answered rapidly and in a low

voice like yourself. I belonged to the

french army. I, must leave you. if they were to catch me,

they would shoot me.

I have saved your life. Now get out of the scrape

yourself. What is your

rank? Sergeant. What

is your name? Thenardier.

I shall not forget that name, said the officer.

And do you remember mine? My name is

Pontmercy. Thank you for

joining Byte at a time books today while we read a

bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlisle, and I

hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite

of, Les Miserable.

>> Brie Carlisle: Dont forget to sign up for our

newsletter@byteaditimebooks.com. and check

out the shop. You can check out the show notes or

our website, byteaditimebooks.com, for

the rest of the links for our show. wed love to hear

from you on social media as well.

>> Speaker A: Take a look and let's

see what we can find.

Take it chapter by chapter one.