Hindrances — Les Misérables

The posting service still runs the old Empire mail-wagons: yellow cabriolets, black coffers on their backs like termites, long axles that keep other vehicles off. The wagon that left Arras at one arrives a little before five. At the corner, just as it enters the town, it collides with a little tilbury and a white horse going the other way, one man in a mantle. The postman shouts to stop. The traveller pays no heed. That man is in a devilish hurry. He could not have told whither. He has resolved on nothing. He is going to Arras to see with his own eyes, to be relieved, perhaps, when he has seen Champmathieu. Javert will be there, and Brevet, Chenildieu, Cochepaille; they will not recognize him. At daybreak the town lies far behind. Isolated houses: and yet there are people there who are sleeping. The trot, the bells, the wheels are lugubrious when one is sad. At Hesdin the Boulonnais has done five leagues in two hours without a drop of sweat.

The stableman bends to the left wheel. It will not travel another quarter of a league. Two spokes split, the hub strained, from the mail-wagon's shock. The wheelwright grimaces like a surgeon. Tomorrow. A long day's work. Two hours? Impossible. A spare wheel? Wheels come in pairs. A cabriolet to let? You treat hired ones so well. Post-horses cannot reach Arras today; the relays are in the fields for ploughing. The white horse will not bear a saddle. No horse in the village for that stretch. Immense joy. Providence has broken the wheel. He has exhausted every means. He may turn back.

The conversation is in the street. A boy runs off and returns with an old woman. She has a basket spring-cart. The wheelwright and the stable-man run it down: rain, rust, seats on leather thongs. It runs on two wheels and can go to Arras. He pays, leaves the tilbury to be repaired, puts the white horse to the cart. He admits he felt joy at not going, and finds the joy absurd. No one is forcing him. As he leaves Hesdin a voice shouts Stop. He halts with something like hope. It is the boy, wanting a coin. He who gives to all so readily gives the scamp nothing and whips up. Four hours for five leagues to Saint-Pol. He stands by the manger as he promised Scaufflaire. Breakfast is served; he takes a mouthful of bread and puts it down. Why is their bread so bitter here? The German carter does not understand.

Twilight at Tinques. A road-mender: the horse is walking; the road is barred a quarter of an hour on; seven leagues by crossroads. Sleep at the inn. He must be there this evening. He takes an extra horse and a postilion. The whiffle-tree breaks. Have you a bit of rope and a knife? He cuts a branch from a tree. The plain is gloomy; low fogs; a breeze from the sea like someone moving furniture. He is stiff with cold and has eaten nothing since the night before. He recalls the other nocturnal trip near D, eight years ago; it seems but yesterday. Seven o'clock; three leagues still. Then the thought he should have had sooner: he does not even know the hour of the trial; the apples will be brief; he may arrive after all is over. They cross the river and leave Mont-Saint-Éloy behind them. The night grew more profound.