Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER V—IN THE CASE OF SAND AS IN THAT OF WOMAN, THERE IS A FINENESS
1890 words | Chapter 414
WHICH IS TREACHEROUS
He felt that he was entering the water, and that he no longer had a
pavement under his feet, but only mud.
It sometimes happens, that on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland a
man, either a traveller or a fisherman, while walking at low tide on
the beach far from shore, suddenly notices that for several minutes
past, he has been walking with some difficulty. The beach under foot is
like pitch; his soles stick fast to it; it is no longer sand, it is
bird-lime. The strand is perfectly dry, but at every step that he
takes, as soon as the foot is raised, the print is filled with water.
The eye, however, has perceived no change; the immense beach is smooth
and tranquil, all the sand has the same aspect, nothing distinguishes
the soil that is solid from that which is not solid; the joyous little
cloud of sand-lice continues to leap tumultuously under the feet of the
passer-by.
The man pursues his way, he walks on, turns towards the land, endeavors
to approach the shore. He is not uneasy. Uneasy about what? Only he is
conscious that the heaviness of his feet seems to be increasing at
every step that he takes. All at once he sinks in. He sinks in two or
three inches. Decidedly, he is not on the right road; he halts to get
his bearings. Suddenly he glances at his feet; his feet have
disappeared. The sand has covered them. He draws his feet out of the
sand, he tries to retrace his steps, he turns back, he sinks in more
deeply than before. The sand is up to his ankles, he tears himself free
from it and flings himself to the left, the sand reaches to mid-leg, he
flings himself to the right, the sand comes up to his knees. Then, with
indescribable terror, he recognizes the fact that he is caught in a
quicksand, and that he has beneath him that frightful medium in which
neither man can walk nor fish can swim. He flings away his burden, if
he have one, he lightens himself, like a ship in distress; it is too
late, the sand is above his knees.
He shouts, he waves his hat, or his handkerchief, the sand continually
gains on him; if the beach is deserted, if the land is too far away, if
the bank of sand is too ill-famed, there is no hero in the
neighborhood, all is over, he is condemned to be engulfed. He is
condemned to that terrible interment, long, infallible, implacable,
which it is impossible to either retard or hasten, which lasts for
hours, which will not come to an end, which seizes you erect, free, in
the flush of health, which drags you down by the feet, which, at every
effort that you attempt, at every shout that you utter, draws you a
little lower, which has the air of punishing you for your resistance by
a redoubled grasp, which forces a man to return slowly to earth, while
leaving him time to survey the horizon, the trees, the verdant country,
the smoke of the villages on the plain, the sails of the ships on the
sea, the birds which fly and sing, the sun and the sky. This engulfment
is the sepulchre which assumes a tide, and which mounts from the depths
of the earth towards a living man. Each minute is an inexorable
layer-out of the dead. The wretched man tries to sit down, to lie down,
to climb; every movement that he makes buries him deeper; he
straightens himself up, he sinks; he feels that he is being swallowed
up; he shrieks, implores, cries to the clouds, wrings his hands, grows
desperate. Behold him in the sand up to his belly, the sand reaches to
his breast, he is only a bust now. He uplifts his hands, utters furious
groans, clenches his nails on the beach, tries to cling fast to that
ashes, supports himself on his elbows in order to raise himself from
that soft sheath, and sobs frantically; the sand mounts higher. The
sand has reached his shoulders, the sand reaches to his throat; only
his face is visible now. His mouth cries aloud, the sand fills it;
silence. His eyes still gaze forth, the sand closes them, night. Then
his brow decreases, a little hair quivers above the sand; a hand
projects, pierces the surface of the beach, waves and disappears.
Sinister obliteration of a man.
Sometimes a rider is engulfed with his horse; sometimes the carter is
swallowed up with his cart; all founders in that strand. It is
shipwreck elsewhere than in the water. It is the earth drowning a man.
The earth, permeated with the ocean, becomes a pitfall. It presents
itself in the guise of a plain, and it yawns like a wave. The abyss is
subject to these treacheries.
This melancholy fate, always possible on certain sea beaches, was also
possible, thirty years ago, in the sewers of Paris.
Before the important works, undertaken in 1833, the subterranean drain
of Paris was subject to these sudden slides.
The water filtered into certain subjacent strata, which were
particularly friable; the foot-way, which was of flag-stones, as in the
ancient sewers, or of cement on concrete, as in the new galleries,
having no longer an underpinning, gave way. A fold in a flooring of
this sort means a crack, means crumbling. The framework crumbled away
for a certain length. This crevice, the hiatus of a gulf of mire, was
called a _fontis_, in the special tongue. What is a _fontis?_ It is the
quicksands of the seashore suddenly encountered under the surface of
the earth; it is the beach of Mont Saint-Michel in a sewer. The soaked
soil is in a state of fusion, as it were; all its molecules are in
suspension in soft medium; it is not earth and it is not water. The
depth is sometimes very great. Nothing can be more formidable than such
an encounter. If the water predominates, death is prompt, the man is
swallowed up; if earth predominates, death is slow.
Can any one picture to himself such a death? If being swallowed by the
earth is terrible on the seashore, what is it in a cesspool? Instead of
the open air, the broad daylight, the clear horizon, those vast sounds,
those free clouds whence rains life, instead of those barks descried in
the distance, of that hope under all sorts of forms, of probable
passers-by, of succor possible up to the very last moment,—instead of
all this, deafness, blindness, a black vault, the inside of a tomb
already prepared, death in the mire beneath a cover! slow suffocation
by filth, a stone box where asphyxia opens its claw in the mire and
clutches you by the throat; fetidness mingled with the death-rattle;
slime instead of the strand, sulfuretted hydrogen in place of the
hurricane, dung in place of the ocean! And to shout, to gnash one’s
teeth, and to writhe, and to struggle, and to agonize, with that
enormous city which knows nothing of it all, over one’s head!
Inexpressible is the horror of dying thus! Death sometimes redeems his
atrocity by a certain terrible dignity. On the funeral pile, in
shipwreck, one can be great; in the flames as in the foam, a superb
attitude is possible; one there becomes transfigured as one perishes.
But not here. Death is filthy. It is humiliating to expire. The supreme
floating visions are abject. Mud is synonymous with shame. It is petty,
ugly, infamous. To die in a butt of Malvoisie, like Clarence, is
permissible; in the ditch of a scavenger, like Escoubleau, is horrible.
To struggle therein is hideous; at the same time that one is going
through the death agony, one is floundering about. There are shadows
enough for hell, and mire enough to render it nothing but a slough, and
the dying man knows not whether he is on the point of becoming a
spectre or a frog.
Everywhere else the sepulchre is sinister; here it is deformed.
The depth of the _fontis_ varied, as well as their length and their
density, according to the more or less bad quality of the sub-soil.
Sometimes a _fontis_ was three or four feet deep, sometimes eight or
ten; sometimes the bottom was unfathomable. Here the mire was almost
solid, there almost liquid. In the Lunière fontis, it would have taken
a man a day to disappear, while he would have been devoured in five
minutes by the Philippeaux slough. The mire bears up more or less,
according to its density. A child can escape where a man will perish.
The first law of safety is to get rid of every sort of load. Every
sewerman who felt the ground giving way beneath him began by flinging
away his sack of tools, or his back-basket, or his hod.
The fontis were due to different causes: the friability of the soil;
some landslip at a depth beyond the reach of man; the violent summer
rains; the incessant flooding of winter; long, drizzling showers.
Sometimes the weight of the surrounding houses on a marly or sandy soil
forced out the vaults of the subterranean galleries and caused them to
bend aside, or it chanced that a flooring vault burst and split under
this crushing thrust. In this manner, the heaping up of the Parthénon,
obliterated, a century ago, a portion of the vaults of Saint-Geneviève
hill. When a sewer was broken in under the pressure of the houses, the
mischief was sometimes betrayed in the street above by a sort of space,
like the teeth of a saw, between the paving-stones; this crevice was
developed in an undulating line throughout the entire length of the
cracked vault, and then, the evil being visible, the remedy could be
promptly applied. It also frequently happened, that the interior
ravages were not revealed by any external scar, and in that case, woe
to the sewermen. When they entered without precaution into the sewer,
they were liable to be lost. Ancient registers make mention of several
scavengers who were buried in fontis in this manner. They give many
names; among others, that of the sewerman who was swallowed up in a
quagmire under the man-hole of the Rue Carême-Prenant, a certain Blaise
Poutrain; this Blaise Poutrain was the brother of Nicholas Poutrain,
who was the last grave-digger of the cemetery called the Charnier des
Innocents, in 1785, the epoch when that cemetery expired.
There was also that young and charming Vicomte d’Escoubleau, of whom we
have just spoken, one of the heroes of the siege of Lérida, where they
delivered the assault in silk stockings, with violins at their head.
D’Escoubleau, surprised one night at his cousin’s, the Duchesse de
Sourdis’, was drowned in a quagmire of the Beautreillis sewer, in which
he had taken refuge in order to escape from the Duke. Madame de
Sourdis, when informed of his death, demanded her smelling-bottle, and
forgot to weep, through sniffling at her salts. In such cases, there is
no love which holds fast; the sewer extinguishes it. Hero refuses to
wash the body of Leander. Thisbe stops her nose in the presence of
Pyramus and says: “Phew!”
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