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

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Take it chapter by chapter. One

fight M at a time.

>> Brie Carlisle: So.

>> Speaker A: 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

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>> Brie Carlisle: Values today well be

continuing les miserable by Victor

Hugo chapter five

hindrances the

posting service from heiress to m sur m was still

operated at this period by small mail wagons of the

time of the empire. These mail wagons

were two wheeled cabriolets, upholstered inside

with fawn colored leather, hung on springs,

and having but two seats, one for the

postboy, the other for the traveler.

The wheels were armed with those long offensive axles

which keep other vehicles at a distance and which

may still be seen on the road in Germany. The

dispatch box, an immense oblong coffer, was

placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it.

This coffer was painted black and the cabriolet

yellow. These vehicles, which

have no counterparts nowadays, had something

distorted and hunchbacked about them, and

when one saw them passing in the distance and

climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled the

insects which are called, I think,

termites and which,

with but little corselet, drag a great train behind

them. But they traveled at a very rapid

rate. The post wagon, which was sent out from

Arras at 01:00 every night after the mail from Paris

had passed. Arrived at m sur m a little before

00 in the morning. That night the

wagon, which was descending to m sur m m by the Hesden

road. Collided at the corner of a street just

as it was entering the town with a little Tilbury harnessed

to a white horse which was going in the opposite

direction. And in which there was but one person,

a man, enveloped in a m mantle. The wheel

of the Tilbury received quite a violent shock.

The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the

traveler paid no heed and pursued his road at full

gallop. That man is in a devilish hurry. said

the postman. The man thus hastening on was

the one whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions. Which are

certainly deserving of pity. Whither was he

going? He could not have told.

Why was he hastening? He did not

know. He was driving at random, straight

ahead. Whither to Eris, no

doubt. But he might have been going elsewhere as well.

At times he was conscious of it, and he

shuddered. He plunged into the night as into a

gulf. Something urged him forward.

Something drew him on. No one could have

told what was taking place within him. Everyone

will understand it. What man is there who has

not entered at least once in his life into that obscure cavern

of the unknown? However, he had resolved on

nothing, decided nothing,

formed no plan, done nothing.

None of the actions of his conscience had been

decisive. He was more than

ever as he had been at the first moment.

Why was it going to Eris? He repeated what he

had already said to himself. When he had hired chauffeurs Cambria.

That whatever the result was to be. There was no reason

why he should not see with his own eyes and judge

of matters for himself. That this was even prudent.

That he must know what took place. That no

decision could be arrived at without having observed and

scrutinized. That one made mountains out

of everything from a distance. That, at

any rate, when he should have seen that chant Mathieu.

Some wretch his conscience would probably be

greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys. And his

stead that Javert would indeed be there. And

that brevet, that chandelier, that cock a bale.

Old convicts who had known him. But they

certainly would not recognize him. Bah. What an

idea. That Javert, was a hundred leagues from suspecting

the truth. That all conjectures and all

suppositions were fixed on chap. Mathieu. And that there

is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and

conjectures. That accordingly, there was no

danger, that it was

no doubt a dark moment, but that he should

emerge from it. That after all, he held his

destiny, however bad it might be in his own

hand, that he was m master of it.

He clung to this thought at, bottom. To

tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to

Aerys. Nevertheless, he was going

thither. As he meditated,

he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at

that fine, regular, and even trot, which accomplishes

two leagues and a half an hour in

proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something

within him draw back. At daybreak, he was in

the open country. The town of Imsur. M m

lay far behind him. He watched the horizon

grow white. He stared at all the chilly

figures of a winters dawn as they passed before his

eyes, but without seeing them.

The morning had its specters as well as the evening.

He did not see them, but without being

aware of it, and by means of a sort of

penetration which was almost physical,

these black silhouettes of trees and of

hills added some gloomy and sinister quality

to the violent state of his soul.

Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which

sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself,

and yet there are people there within who are

sleeping. A trot of the horse,

the bells on the harness, the wheels on the road

produced a gentle, monotonous noise.

These things are charming when one is joyous and

lugubrious when one is sad. It was

broad daylight when he arrived at Hesden. He

halted in front of the inn to allow the horse a breathing

spell and to have him given some oats.

The horse belonged, as, chauffeilur had said, to that

small race of the Bolognese, which has too

much head, too much belly, and not enough

neck and shoulders, but which has a broad

chest, a large crupper, thin,

fine legs and solid hooves.

A homely but a robust and healthy race.

The excellent beast had traveled five leagues in 2

hours and had not a drop of sweat on his loins.

He did not get out of the Tilbury. The

stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and

examined the left wheel. Are you going far in this

condition? Said the man. He replied,

with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie.

Why have you come from a great

distance? Went on the man. Five

leagues. Ah. Why do you say ah?

the man bent down once more, was silent for

a moment with his eyes fixed on the wheel. Then he

rose erect and said, because

though this wheel has traveled five leagues,

it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league.

He sprang out of the Tilbury. What is that you

say, my friend? I say that it

is a miracle that you should have traveled five leagues without

you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway.

Just see here. The wheel really

had suffered serious damage. The shock

administered by the mail wagon had split two spokes and

strained the hub so that the nut no longer held

firm.

My friend, he said to the stableman,

is there will right here? Certainly,

sir. Do me the service to go and fetch

him. Hes only a step away from here.

Hey, Master Borglard. Master

Borglard. The wheelwright was standing on his own

threshold. He came, examined the

wheel, and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter

thinks the limb is broken. Can you repair this

wheel immediately?

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes, sir.

>> Brie Carlisle: When can I set out again?

>> Brie Carlisle: Tomorrow.

>> Brie Carlisle: Tomorrow?

>> Brie Carlisle: Theres a long days work on it. Are you in a hurry,

sir?

>> Brie Carlisle: In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an

hour at the latest.

>> Brie Carlisle: Impossible, sir.

>> Brie Carlisle: I will pay whatever you ask.

>> Brie Carlisle: Impossible.

>> Brie Carlisle: Well, in 2 hours then.

>> Brie Carlisle: Impossible. Today two new spokes and a

hub must be made. Monsir will not be able to start before

tomorrow morning.

>> Brie Carlisle: The master cannot wait until tomorrow. What

if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?

>> Brie Carlisle: How so?

>> Brie Carlisle: you are a wheelwright?

>> Brie Carlisle: Certainly, sir.

>> Brie Carlisle: Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then

I could start again at once.

>> Brie Carlisle: A, spare wheel?

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes.

>> Brie Carlisle: I have no wheel on hand that would fit your

cabriolet. Two wheels make a

pair. Two wheels cannot be put together

haphazard.

>> Brie Carlisle: In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.

>> Brie Carlisle: Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.

>> Brie Carlisle: Try nevertheless.

>> Brie Carlisle: It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but

cartwheels. We are but a poor country

here.

>> Brie Carlisle: Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?

The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the Tilbury was a

hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.

>> Brie Carlisle: You treat the cabriolets the people let you so.

Well, if I had one, I would not let it to

you.

>> Brie Carlisle: well, sell it to me then.

>> Brie Carlisle: I have none.

>> Brie Carlisle: What, not even a spring cart? Im not

hard to please.

>> Brie Carlisle: As you see, we live in a poor country.

There is, in truth, added the wheelwright,

an old calish under the shed yonder which

belongs to a burgoy of the town, who gave it to me

to take care of and who only uses it. On the 36th of the

month? Never. That is to say,

I might let that to you for what matters it to me.

But the burgoy must not see it pass. And

then it is a calish. It would require two

horses.

>> Brie Carlisle: I will take two post horses.

>> Brie Carlisle: Where is Monsieur going? Daerys

and monsieur wishes to reach there today.

>> Brie Carlisle: yes, of course.

>> Brie Carlisle: By taking two post horses.

>> Brie Carlisle: Why not?

>> Brie Carlisle: Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at

00 tomorrow morning?

>> Brie Carlisle: Certainly not.

>> Brie Carlisle: There is one thing to be said about that. You see, by taking post

horses, monsieur has his passport.

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes.

>> Brie Carlisle: Well, by taking post horses. Monsieur cannot reach

Arras before tomorrow. We are on a crossroad.

The relays are badly served. The horses are in the

fields. The season for plowing is just

beginning. Heavy teams are required and horses are

seized upon everywhere. From the post as well as

elsewhere. Monsir will have to wait three or 4 hours at the

least, at every relay. And then they drive it a

walk. There are many hills to ascend.

>> Brie Carlisle: Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the

cabriolet. Someone can surely sell me a saddle in the

neighborhood.

>> Brie Carlisle: Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?

>> Brie Carlisle: That is true. You remind me of that. He

will not bear it then. But I can surely hire

a horse in the village.

>> Brie Carlisle: A horse to travel to Eris in one stretch?

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes.

>> Brie Carlisle: That would require such a horse as to not exist in these

parts. You would have to buy it to begin with because no one

knows you. but you will not find one for sale, nor to let for

500 francs or 4000.

>> Brie Carlisle: What am I to do?

>> Brie Carlisle: the best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man

and set out on your journey tomorrow.

>> Brie Carlisle: Tomorrow will be too late.

>> Brie Carlisle: Meduse.

>> Brie Carlisle: Is there not a mail wagon which runs to Eris?

>> Brie Carlisle: When will it pass? Tonight.

Both the posts pass at night. The one going

as well as the one coming.

>> Brie Carlisle: What? It will take you a day to mend this wheel.

>> Brie Carlisle: A day in the good long one.

>> Brie Carlisle: If you set two men to work.

>> Brie Carlisle: If I set ten men to work?

>> Brie Carlisle: What if the spokes were to be.

>> Brie Carlisle: Tied together with ropes? That could be done with the

spokes, not with the hub. And the feli is in a bad

state too.

>> Brie Carlisle: Is there anyone in this village who lets out

teams? No.

>> Brie Carlisle: Ah.

>> Brie Carlisle: Is there another wheelwright? The

stableman and the wheelwright replied in concert with a

toss of the head.

>> Brie Carlisle: No.

>> Brie Carlisle: He felt an immense joy. It was

evident that Providence was intervening. That

it was it who had broken the wheel of the Tilbury and who was stopping

him on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of

first summons. He had just made every possible

effort to continue the journey. He had

loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means.

He had been deterred neither by the season nor fatigue.

Nor by the expense. He had nothing with which to

reproach himself. If he went no further. That was

no fault of his. It did not concern him

further. It was no longer his fault.

It was not the act of his own conscience, but the act of

providence. He breathed again.

He breathed freely into the full extent of his

lungs. For the first time since javerts visit.

It seemed to him that the hand of iron which

had held his heart in its grasp for the last 20 hours.

Had just released him. It seemed to him

that God was for him now. And was manifesting

himself. He said to himself that he had done

all he could. And that, now he had nothing to do but

retrace his steps quietly. if his

conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a chamber of the

inn. It would have had no witnesses.

No one would have heard him. Things would have rested

there. And it is probable that we should not have had to

relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about to

peruse. But this conversation

had taken place in the street. Any colloquy

in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are

always people who ask nothing better than to become

spectators. While he was questioning

the wheelwright. Some people who were passing back and

forth. Halted around them. After

listening for a few minutes. A young lad to whom no one

had paid any heed. Detached himself from the group and ran

off. At the moment when the

traveler, after the inward deliberation which we have

just described. Resolved to retrace his

steps, this child returned.

He was accompanied by an old woman.

Monsieur, said the woman, my, boy

tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet.

These simple words, uttered by an old woman led by a child.

Made the perspiration trickle down his limbs.

He thought that he beheld the hand which had relaxed its

grasp. Reappear in the darkness behind him. Ready

to seize him once more. He answered,

yes, my good woman, im in search of a Cambria which I can

hire. And he hastened to add,

but there is none in the place.

Certainly there is, said the old woman.

Where, interpolated the wheelwright?

At my house, replied the old woman.

He shuddered. The fatal hand had

grasped him again. The old woman really

had in her shed a sort of basket spring cart.

The wheelwright and the stable man in despair at the prospect

of the traveler. Escaping their clutches interfered.

It was a frightful old trap. It rests flat on the

axle. It is an actual fact that the seats were

suspended inside it by leather thongs. The rain came

into it. The wheels were rusted and neat with

moisture. It would not go much further than the Tilbury.

A regular ramshackle old stage wagon. The

gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it.

Etcetera, etcetera. All this

was true. But this trap,

this ramshackle old vehicle, this thing,

whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to

Eris. He paid what was asked,

left the Tilbury with the wheelwright to be repaired,

intending to reclaim it on his return. Had the

white horse put to the cart, climbed into it,

and resumed the road which he had been traveling since

morning.

At the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he

had felt a moment previously a certain

joy in the thought that he should not go whither he was now

proceeding. He examined this joy with

a sort of wrath and found it absurd.

Why should he feel joy at turning back?

After all, he was taking this trip of his own free will.

No one was forcing him to it, and

assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose.

As he left Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him,

stop. Stop. He halted the

cart with a vigorous movement which contained a

feverish and convulsive element resembling hope.

It was the old womans little boy,

monsieur, said the latter. It

was I who got the cart for you.

Well, youve not given me

anything. He who gave to all so

readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost

odious. Ah, ah, its

you, you scamp, said he. You

shall have nothing. He whipped up his horse

and set off at full speed. He had lost a great deal of

time at Hesden. He wanted to make it

good. The little horse was courageous and pulled for

two. But it was the month of February.

There had been rain, the roads were bad,

and then it was no longer the Tilbury.

The cart was very heavy, and in

addition, there were many ascents. He took

nearly 4 hours to go from Hesden to St. Paul,

4 hours for five leagues. At St.

Pole he had the horse unharnessed. At the first inn he came to and

led to the stable as he had promised

chauffeilur. He stood beside the manager while the horse was

eating. He thought of sad and

confusing things. The innkeeper's wife came to

the stable. Does Monsieur wish to

breakfast? Come.

>> Brie Carlisle: That is true.

>> Brie Carlisle: I even have a good appetite. He followed the

woman who had a rosy, cheerful face. She

led him to the public room. Where there were tables covered with waxed

cloth. Make haste, said he.

I, must start again. I am in a hurry. A

big flemish servant maid placed his knife and fork. In all

haste. He looked at the girl with a sensation of

comfort. That is what ailed me, he

thought. I had not breakfast. His

breakfast was served. He seized the bread,

took a mouthful. And then slowly replaced it on the table. And

did not touch it again. Carter was eating

at another table. He said to this man,

why is their bread so bitter here? The

carter was a German and did not understand him.

He returned to the stable and remained near the

horse. An hour later he had quitted St. Paul. And

was directing his course towards Tincis. Which is only

five leagues from Arras.

What did he do during this journey? Of what was he

thinking? As in the morning he watched the

trees, the thatched roofs. The tilled

fields pass by. And the way in which the

landscape, broken at every turn of the road,

vanished. This is a sort of

contemplation which sometimes suffices to the

soul. And almost relieves it from thought.

What is more melancholy and more profound. Than to see a

thousand objects for the first and the last

time? To travel is to be born and

to die. At every instant. Perhaps

in the vaguest region of his mind. He

did make comparisons between the shifting horizon.

And our human existence. All the things

of life are perpetually fleeing before us.

The dark and bright intervals are intermingled.

After a dazzling moment, an eclipse.

We look, we hasten,

we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing.

Each event is a turn in the road.

And all at once we are old.

We feel a shock. All is black.

We distinguish an obscure door. The gloomy horse

of life. Which has been drawing us halts. And we see a veiled

and unknown person. Unharnessing amid the shadows.

Twilight was falling. When the children who were coming out of school.

Beheld this traveler. Enter Tinkas.

It is true that the days were still

short. He did not halt at Tincus. As, he

emerged from the village. A laborer who was mending the road with

stones. Raised his head and said to him,

that horse is very much fatigued.

The poor beast was, in fact, going at a

walk. Are you going to Eris?

Added the road mender? Yes.

If you go on at that rate, you will not arrive very

early. He stopped his horse and asked

the laborer, how far is it from here to

Eris? Nearly seven good

leagues.

>> Brie Carlisle: How is that the posting guide?

>> Brie Carlisle: Only says five leagues in a quarter. Ah, returned

the road mender. So you dont know that the

road is under repair. You will find it barred a

quarter of an hour further on. Theres no way to proceed

further. Really? You, will take

the road on the left, leading to carency. You will

cross the river. When you reach Camblin, you will turn to

the right. That is the road to Mont St. Eloi, which

leads to Arras. But it is night, and I

shall lose my way. You do not belong in these

parts. No, And besides, it is all

crossroads. Stop, sir, resumed the

road mender. Shall I give you a piece of

advice? Your horse is

tired. Return to Tincis. Theres a good inn

there. Sleep there. You can reach aerys

tomorrow. I must be there this evening.

That is different. But go to the inn all the same and get an

extra horse. The stable boy will guide you through the

crossroads. He followed the roadmenders

advice, retraced his steps, and

half an hour later he passed the same spot again,

but this time at full speed, with a good horse to

aid. A stable boy who called himself a postillion

was seated on the shaft of the cariole.

Still, he felt that he had lost time.

Night had fully come. They turned

into the crossroad. The way became frightfully

bad. The cart lurched from one rut to

the other. He said to the postillion,

keep it a trot and you shall have a double fee.

In one of the jolts, the whiffle tree broke.

Theres the whiffle tree broken, sir, said the

postilion. I dont know how to harness my horse. Now,

this road is very bad at night. If you wished to return and

sleep at Tincus, we could be in heiress early tomorrow morning,

he replied. Have you a bit of rope and a

knife? Yes, sir. He cut

a branch from a tree and made a whiffle tree of it.

This caused another loss of 20 minutes, but they set out again

at a gallop.

The plane was gloomy. Low hanging,

black crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched

themselves away like smoke. There were whitish

gleams in the clouds. A strong

breeze, which blew in from the sea, produced a sound in all

quarters of the horizon, as of someone moving

furniture. Everything that could be

seen assumed attitudes of terror.

How many things shivered beneath these vast breaths of the

night? He was stiff with cold.

He had eaten nothing since the night before. He

vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the

neighborhood of d eight years previously.

And it seemed but yesterday, the hour struck from a distant

tower, he asked the boy, what time is

it? 07:00, sir. We shall

reach arras at eight, but we have three leagues still to go.

At that moment he for

the first time indulged in this reflection,

thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him

sooner that all this trouble which he was

taking was perhaps useless,

that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial,

that he should at least have informed

himself of that, that he was foolish to go thus straight

ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not.

Then he sketched out some calculations in his mind

that ordinarily the sittings of the court of

assizes began at 09:00 in the morning, that

it could not be a long affair, that the theft of the

apples would be very brief, that there would then

remain only a question of identity. Four, or five

depositions, and very little for the lawyers to

say that he should arrive after all was over.

The postilion whipped up the horses. They had

crossed the river and left mont st. Ello. Behind them.

The night grew more profound.

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 le Miserable.

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

newsletter@biteautotimebooks.com comma 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.