Hardly was Leblanc seated when he turned his eyes towards the pallets, which were empty. How is the poor little wounded girl? he inquired. Bad, replied Jondrette with a heart-broken and grateful smile, very bad. Her elder sister has taken her to the Bourbe to have her hurt dressed. You will see them presently. They will be back immediately. Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better, went on Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat. She is dying, said Jondrette. But what do you expect, sir! She has so much courage. She's not a woman, she's an ox. The Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it with the affected airs of a flattered monster. You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette. Jondrette! said Leblanc. I thought your name was Fabantou. Fabantou, alias Jondrette! replied the husband hurriedly. An artistic sobriquet! And launching at his wife a shrug which Leblanc did not catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection. They had had a happy life together. They were so wretched. They had arms, but there was no work. He was not a Jacobin. He had wanted his girls taught the trade of paper-box makers. What a fall, my benefactor, when one has been what we have been. Nothing left of their days of prosperity except a picture, of which he thought a great deal, but which he was willing to part with, for he must live.
While Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent incoherence which detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression of his face, Marius raised his eyes and perceived at the other end of the room a person whom he had not seen before. A man had just entered, so softly that the door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. He wore a violet knitted vest, old, worn, spotted, cut and gaping, wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes, no shirt, his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his face smeared with black. He had seated himself in silence on the nearest bed, and, as he was behind Jondrette, he could only be indistinctly seen. That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze caused Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius. He could not refrain from a gesture of surprise which did not escape Jondrette. Ah! I see! exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat with an air of complaisance. You are looking at your overcoat? It fits me! Who is that man? said Leblanc. Him? He's a neighbour of mine. Don't pay any attention to him. The neighbour was a singular-looking individual. Manufactories of chemical products abound in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Many of the workmen might have black faces. Besides this, Leblanc's whole person was expressive of candid and intrepid confidence. He went on. Excuse me. What were you saying, Fabantou? I was telling you that I have a picture to sell. A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered and seated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette. Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink or lampblack. Although this man had, literally, glided into the room, he had not been able to prevent Leblanc catching sight of him. Don't mind them, said Jondrette. They are people who belong in the house. So I was saying, that there remains in my possession a valuable picture. But stop, sir, take a look at it. He rose, went to the wall, and turned round the panel. It really was something which resembled a picture, and which the candle illuminated, somewhat. Marius could make nothing out of it. He only saw a coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage coloured with the harsh crudity of foreign canvasses.
What is that? asked Leblanc. A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my benefactor! I am as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters. It recalls souvenirs. But I am so wretched that I will part with it. Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness, Leblanc's glance returned to the bottom of the room as he examined the picture. There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one standing near the door-post, all four with bare arms and motionless, with faces smeared with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall, with closed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was old. His white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced a horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young. One wore a beard, the other wore his hair long. None of them had on shoes. Jondrette noticed that Leblanc's eye was fixed on these men. They are friends. They are neighbours. Their faces are black because they work in charcoal. They are chimney-builders. Don't trouble yourself about them, my benefactor, but buy my picture. How much do you think it is worth? Well, said Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye, and with the manner of a man who is on his guard, it is some signboard for a tavern, and is worth about three francs. Jondrette replied sweetly. Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satisfied with a thousand crowns. Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast a rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his left, on the side next the window, and the Jondrette woman and the four men on his right, on the side next the door. The four men did not stir, and did not even seem to be looking on. Jondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vague an eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that Leblanc might have supposed that what he had before him was a man who had simply gone mad with misery. If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor, I shall be left without resources. There will be nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river. He had wanted his two girls taught the middle-class paper-box trade. A table, a special stove, a pot with three compartments, a paring-knife, a mould, a hammer, pincers, and all that in order to earn four sous a day. Fourteen hours. Each box through the workwoman's hands thirteen times. How do you suppose a man is to live? As he spoke, Jondrette did not look at Leblanc, who was observing him. Leblanc's eye was fixed on Jondrette, and Jondrette's eye was fixed on the door. Marius' eager attention was transferred from one to the other. Leblanc seemed to be asking himself: Is this man an idiot? Jondrette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner of varying inflections: There is nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river. I went down three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz the other day for that purpose. All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash. The little man drew himself up and became terrible, took a step toward Leblanc and cried in a voice of thunder: That has nothing to do with the question! Do you know me?
