Book 2, Chapter 13, of Les Misérables. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by John Bailey. Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. Book 2, Chapter 13, Little Café. Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented themselves to him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wondered thus the whole morning without having eaten anything and without feeling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage. He did not know against whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched or humiliated.  This state of mind fatigued him. He perceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace this. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison with a gendarm, and that things should not have happened in this way. It would have agitated in less. Although the season was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late flowers in the hedgerows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories of his childhood. These memories were almost intolerable to him. It was so long since they had recurved to him. Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long. As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows thwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large, ruddy plain which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps, not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leaps distant from D, a path which intersected the plains past a few paces from the bush. In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render his rags terrifying to anyone who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible.  One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land, affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers. Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time and played at knuckle bones with some coins which he had in his hand, his whole fortune probably. Among this money there was one Fortissus piece.  This time the Fortissus piece escaped him and went rolling toward the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean set his foot upon it. In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of him. He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man. The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see, there was not a person on the plane or on the path. The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and in purple with its blood red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean. Sir, said the little Savoyant, with that childish confidence which is composed of ignorance and innocence, my money, what is your name? Little Gervais, sir, go away, C'est Jean Valjean. Sir, resumed the child, give me back my money. Jean Valjean dropped his head and made no reply. The child began again. My money, sir. Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth.  My white piece, my silver. It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time, he made an effort to displace the big iron shod shoe which rested on his treasure.  The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed out at the child in a sort of amazement. Then he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice. Who's there? I, sir, replied the child. Little Gervais, I, give me back my Fortissu, if you please. Take your foot away, sir, if you please. Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing, come now. Will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we'll see. Ah, it's still you, says Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added. Will you take yourself off? The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, and after a few moments of stupor, he set out, running at his top speed, without daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry. Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing in the midst of his own reverie. At the end of a few moments, the child had disappeared. The sun had set. The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day. It is probable that he was feverish. He had remained standing, and he had not changed his attitude after the child's flight. The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he shivered. He had just begun to feel the chill of Evie. He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step, and stopped to pick up his cudgel. At that moment he caught sight of the Fortissus peace, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. What is this? He muttered between his teeth. He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden with but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him. At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively toward the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again, and began to gaze far off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon as he stood there erect and shivering like a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge. He saw nothing. Light was falling. The plain was cold and vague. Great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight. He said, ah, and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him, and saw nothing.  He paused and waited. There was no reply. The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space. There was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost and a silence which engulfed his voice.  The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One would have said that they were threatening and pursuing someone. He set out on his march again. Then he began to run, and from time to time he halted and shouted in that solitude with a voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate that it was possible to hear. LITTLE GALVAY, LITTLE GALVAY! Assuredly if the child had heard him he would have been alarmed and would have taken good care not to show himself, but the child was no doubt already far away. He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said, Monsieur le Curé, have you seen a child pass? No, said the priest. He named Little Galvay. I have seen no one. He drew two five frank pieces from his money bag and handed them to the priest. Monsieur le Curé, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Curé, he was a little lad about ten years old with a marble I think, and a hurdy-gurdy, one of those savoyars, you know? I have not seen him. Little Galvay, there are no villages here. You tell me, if he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons pass through these parts, we know nothing of them. Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five franks, each with violence, and gave them to the priest. For your poor, he said. Then he added wildly, Monsieur le Curé, have me arrested, I am a thief! The priest but spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed. Jean Valjean set out in a run in the direction which he had first taken. In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain toward something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or crouching down.  At length, at a spot where three paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last time, Little Gervais, Little Gervais, Little Gervais! His shout died away, he missed, without even awaking an echo. He murmured yet once more, Little Gervais, but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort, but his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil conscience. He fell, exhausted, on a large stone.  Then his heart burst and he began to cry. It was the first time that he had wept in nineteen years. When Jean Valjean left the bishop's house, he was, as we have seen, quite thrown out of everything that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what was going on within him. He hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words of the old man. You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity. I give it to the good God. This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pride, which is the fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable attack which had moved him yet. That his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency, that if he yielded he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him, that this time it was necessary to conquer or be conquered, and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man. In the presence of these lights he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at D? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warned or importuned the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny, that there were no longer remaining a middle course for him, that if he were not henceforth the best of men he would be the worst, that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the bishop or fall lower than the convict, that if he wished to become good he must become an angel, that if he wished to remain evil, he must become a monster here again. Some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves elsewhere. Did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused way? His fortune, certainly, as we have said, does form the education of the intelligence. Nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him into an unutterable and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the bishop had hurt his soul. As too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes, on emerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which offered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors and anxiety, no longer knew where he really was, like an owl, who should suddenly see the sunrise. The convict had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue. That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same man, that everything about him was changed, that it was no longer in his power to make it as though the bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched him. In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais and had robbed him of his fortissue. Why? He certainly could not have explained it. Was this the last effect in the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys, a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It was that, and it was also perhaps even less than that. Let us say it simply. It was not he who stole, it was not the man, it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that money, while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto unheard of thoughts besetting it. When intelligence reawakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror. It was because, strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the situation in which he found himself. In stealing that money from that child he had done a thing of which he was no longer capable. However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him. It abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind and dispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscurity, and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating one element and clarifying the other. First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return his money to him. Then when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At that moment when he exclaimed, I am rich, he had just perceived what he was, and he was already separated from himself to such a degree that he seemed to himself to be no longer anything more than a phantom. As if he had, therefore before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley convict, Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack, filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects. Excessive unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort of a visionary. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was horrified by him. His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in which reverie is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beholds the object which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from oneself, the figures which one has in one's own mind. Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, of what this hallucination he perceived in a mysterious depth, a sort of light which he had first took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a human form, and that this torch was the bishop. His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it, the bishop and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second by one of those singular effects which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasy and proportion as his reverie continued, as the bishop grew great or splendid in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The bishop alone remained. He filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent radiance. Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears. He sobbed with more weakness than a woman, with more fright than a child. As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul. An extraordinary light, a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance. What had happened to him at the bishops? The last thing that he had done, that theft of Fortissus from a child, a crime all the more cowardly and all the more monstrous since it had come after the bishops pardoned. All this recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him. His soul, and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and this soul. It seemed to him that he had beheld Satan by the light of paradise. How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he wept? Where did he go? No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that epic, who arrived at the city about three o'clock in the morning, saw as he traversed the street in which the bishops' residence was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer kneeling on that pavement in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur welcome. Book 3, Chapter 1 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Betty Grebe in Wapella, Illinois. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 3, Chapter 1. The Year, 1817. 1817 is the year which Louis the Eighteenth, with a certain royal assurance which was not wanting in pride, entitled the twenty-second of his reign. It is the year in which M. Bruguet des Sossums was celebrated. All the hairdressers' shops, hoping for powder and the return of the royal bird, were besmeared with azure and decked with fleur-de-lis. It was the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sunday as Churchwarden in the Churchwarden's pew of Saint-Germain-de-Prix in his costume of a pier of France. With his red ribbon and his long nose and the majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has performed a brilliant action. The brilliant action performed by M. Lynch was this, being mayor of Bordeaux on the twelfth of March, 1814. He had surrendered the city a little too promptly to M. the Duke d'Angoulomé, hence his peerage. In 1817 fashion swallowed up little boys of from four to six years of age and vast caps of Morocco leather with ear-tabs resembling Eskimo Mitre. The French army was dressed in white, after the mode of the Austrian. The regiments were called legions, instead of numbers they bore the names of departments. Napoleon was at St. Helena, and since England refused him green cloth he was having his old coats turned. In 1817 Pellegrini sang, Mère Moselle bigotini danced, Portia reigned, Audrey did not yet exist. Madame Sacchi had succeeded to Forioso. There were still Prussians in France. M. de la Lowe was a personage. Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand, then the head of Plainier, of Cabineau, and of Telloran. The Prince de Telerand, Grand Chamberlain and the Aube-Louais, appointed minister of finance, laughed as they looked at each other, with the laugh of the two augurs, both whom had celebrated on the 14th of July 1790 the Mass of Federation in the Champs-des-Mas. Telloran said it as Bishop. Louis had served it in the capacity of Deacon. In 1817 in the side alleys of this same Champs-des-Mas, two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted blue with traces of eagles and bees from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns which two years before had upheld the Emperor's Platform in the Champs-des-Mas. They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the Bivouac, of Austrians encamped near Gros Cailloux. Two or three of these columns had disappeared in these Bivouac fires and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this remarkable point, that it had been held in the month of June and in the Field of March, Mars. In this year, 1817, two things were popular, the Voltaire Toquet and the Snuffbox à la Châtère. The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautoun, who had thrown his brother's head into the fountain of the flower market. They had begun to feel anxious at the naval department, on account of the lack of news from that fatal frigate. The Medusa, which was destined to cover Jean-Meret with infamy and Gericolt with glory, Colonel Selves was going to Egypt to become Solomon Pasha. The Palace of Thermes, in the Rue de la Hap, served as a shop for a cooper. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Haudel de Cluny, the little shed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the naval astronomer under Louis XIV, was still to be seen. The Duchess de Duras, read to three or four friends her unpublished origa in her boudoir furnished by ten in sky-blue satin. The ends were scratched off the louvre. The Bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated and was entitled the Bridge of the King's Garden du Jardin du Wa, a double enigma, which disguised the Bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin de Plants at one stroke. Louis XVIII, much preoccupied while annotating Horus with the corner of his fingernail, heroes who have become emperors and makers of wooden shoes who have become Dauphins, had two anxieties, Napoleon and Matherin Brunau. The French Academy had given for its prize subject the happiness procured through study. M. Bellas was officially eloquent. In his shadow could be seen germinating that future advocate general of Bra dedicated to the sarcasm of Paul Louis Courier. There was a false Chateaubriand named Mashanghi in the interim until there should be a false Mashanghi named D'Elencourt. Clare de Albe and Malik Adel were masterpieces. Madame Coutin was proclaimed the chief writer of the Epoch. The Institute had the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte, stricken from its list of members. A royal ordinance erected Angoulomé into a naval school. For the Duke d'Angoulomé, being Lord High Admiral, it was evident that the city of Angoulomé had all the qualities of a seaport. Otherwise the monarchical principal would have received a wound. In the Council of Ministers the question was agitated whether vignettes representing slack rope performances which adorned Francones advertising posters and which attracted throngs of street urchins should be tolerated. M. Pair, the author of Agnes, a good sort of fellow with a square face and a wart on his cheek, directed the little private concerts of the Marquis de Sassonnet in the Rue Ville de l'Avenique. All the young girls were singing the Hermant of Saint-Avile with words by Edmund Girard. The yellow dwarf was transferred into Miran. The Café Lemblin stood up for the emperor against the Café Valois, which upheld the Bourbons. The Duke de Berri, already surveyed from the shadow by Louvelle, had just been married to a princess of Sicily. Madame de Stale had died a year previously. The bodyguard hissed Madame Wazelmas. The grand newspapers were all very small. Their form was restricted, but their liberty was great. The constitutionnelle was constitutional. La manoeuvre called Chateaubriand, Chateaubriand. That made the good middle-class people laugh heartily at the expense of the great writer. In journals which sold themselves prostituted journalists, insulted the exiles of 1815. David had no longer any talent. Arnold had no longer any wit. Carnault was no longer honest. Sur had won no battles. It is true that Napoleon had no longer any genius. No one is ignorant of the fact that letters sent to an exile by post very rarely reached him, as the police made it their religious duty to intercept them. This is no new fact. Descates complained of it in his exile. Now David, having in a Belgian publication shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had been written to him, it struck the royalist journals as amusing. And they derided the prescribed man well on this occasion. What separated two men more than Abyss was to say the regicides, or to say the voters, to say the enemies, or to say the allies, to say Napoleon, or to say Bonaparte. All sensible people were agreed that the era of revolution had been closed forever by King Louis XVIII, surnamed the immortal Arthur of the Châté. On the platform of the Pont-Neuf, the word Redevivieux was carved on the pedestal that awaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Payet in the Rue de Teresa, number four, was making the rough draft of his privy assembly to consolidate the monarchy. The leaders of the rite said at grave conjunctures, we must write to Beco, M. M. Canoëlle, O'Mahoney, and D. Chapa de Laine were preparing the sketch, to some extent with Mancier's approval of what was to become, later on, the conspiracy of the Bordeaux de l'U of the water side. Le Pingle Noir was already plotting in his own quarter. D'Eleverdurey was conferring with Trogueuf. M. D'Aqueses, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at his window at number twenty-seven, Rue Saint Dominique, clad in footed trousers and slippers with a madras kerchief nodded over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed on a mirror, a complete set of dentist instruments spread out before him, cleaning his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated the monarchy, according to the Chatea, to M. Pilarge, his secretary. Criticism, assuming an authoritative tone, preferred Le Fon to Talma. M. de Feletez signed himself A. M. Hoffman signed himself Z. Charles Naudière wrote Thérèse Albert. Divorce was abolished. Lyceum's called themselves Colleges. The Collegians, decorated on the collar with a golden fleur-de-lis, fought each other apropos of the King of Rome. The counter-police of the Chateau had denounced to her Royal Highness Madame the Portrait, everywhere exhibited, of M. de Duc de Orleans, who made a better appearance in his uniform of a Colonel-General of Hussars, than M. de Duc de Berry in his uniform of Colonel-General of Dragoons, a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was having the dome of the invalids regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked themselves what M. de Trinkelag would do on such an occasion. M. Clousel de Montailles differed on diverse points from M. Clousel de Cosa-Rogues. M. de Salaberry was not satisfied. The Comedian Picard, who belonged to the Academy, which the Comedian Molière had not been able to do, had the two filiburts played at the Odeon, upon whose pediment the removable of the letter still allowed theatre of the Empress to be plainly read. People took part for or against Couchnay de Montalot. Fabvierre was facious, Beveuille was revolutionary. The liberal Péliciaire published an edition of Voltaire, with following title, Works of Voltaire, the French Academy. That will attract purchasers, said the ingenious editor. The general opinion was that M. Charles Loison would be the genius of the century. Envy was beginning to nod him, a sign of glory, and this verse was composed on him. Even when Loison steals, one feels that he has pause. His cardinal fech refused to resign. M. D. Pins, Archbishop of Amassie, administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of Dap was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterwards General Dufour. Saint-Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of Science, whom Posterity has forgotten, and in some garret, an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark. A note to a poem by Milivoy introduced him to France in these terms, a certain Lord Byron. David de Angers was trying to work in marble. The ob-caron was speaking, in terms of praise, to a private gathering of Seminaris, in the blind alley of Fulion Tins, of an unknown priest, named Felicite Robert, who at a later date became a Lemini. A thing which smoked and clattered on the sun, with the noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of the two liaise, from the point Rial to the Pont Louis XV. It was a piece of mechanism, which was not good for much, a sort of plaything, the idle dream of a dream-ridden inventor, and utopia, a steamboat. The Parisians stared indifferently at this useless thing. M. d'Voix Blanc, the reformer of the Institute, by Coup d'état, the distinguished author of numerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after having created them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Fauburg Saint-Germain and the Pavilion du Masson wished to have M. de L'Evoix, for prefect of police, on account of his piety. Depoutrin and Rikamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheater of the School of Medicine, and threatened each other with their fists on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis, and the other on nature, tried to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons flatter Moses. M. François de Noix Chateau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmentier, made a thousand efforts to have the Parmentier potato, pronounced Parmentier, and succeeded therein not at all. The Abbe Gregor, ex-bishop, ex-conventionary, ex-senator, had passed in the royal polomics to the state of infamous Gregor. The locution of which we have made use, passed to the state of, has been condemned, as a newologism, by M. Royer Calade. Under the third arch of the Pondugena, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining aperture made by Blucher, to blow up the bridge, had been stopped up, was still recognizable on account of its whiteness. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the comte toie, entered Notre-Dame, had said aloud, Sapristi, I regret the time when I saw Bonaparte and Thalma enter the belle sauvage, arm in arm. A seditious utterance, six months in prison, traders showed themselves unbuttoned, men who had gone over to the enemy, on the eve of battle, made no secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly, in the light of day, in the cynicism of riches and dignities, deserters from Ligne and Quattrabah, in their brazenness of their well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monarchy in most bare-faced manner. This is what floats up, confusedly, pel mel for the year 1817, and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars, and cannot do otherwise. The infinity would overwhelm it. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial, there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in vegetation, are useful. It is of the signomy of the years that the signomy of the centuries is composed. In this year of 1817, four young Parisians arranged a fine farce. End of Book 3, Chapter 1 of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Recording by Betty Grebe in Wapela, Illinois. Book 3, Chapter 2 of Les Miserables. Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lisa Cho. Lame is a Rob by Victor Hugo. Book 3 in the year 1817, Chapter 2, a double quartet. These Parisians came, one from Toulouse, another from Limoges, the third from Caure, and the fourth from Montauban. But they were students. And when one says student, one says Parisian. To study in Paris is to be born in Paris. These young men were insignificant. Everyone has seen such faces, four specimens of humanity taken at random, neither good nor bad, neither wise nor ignorant, neither geniuses nor fools, handsome with that charming April which is called 20 years. They were four Oscars, four at that epoch. Arthurs did not yet exist. Burn for him the perfumes of Arabie exclaimed romance. Oscar advances. Oscar, I shall behold him. People had just emerged from Ashen. Elegance was Scandinavian and Caledonian. The pure English style was only to prevail later. And the first of the Arthurs, Wellington, had but just won the Battle of Waterloo. These Oscars bore the names, one of Felix Toulomiers of Toulouse, the second, Le Stolié of Carreur, the next, Femmeuil of Limoge, the last, Blachevel of Montauban. Naturally, each of them had his mistress. Blachevel loved Favourite, so named because she had been in England. Le Stolié adored Dahlia, who had taken for her nickname the name of a flower. Femmeuil idolized Zephine, an abridgement of Josephine. Toulomiers had Fantine, called the blonde, because of her beautiful, sunny hair. Favourite, Dahlia, Zephine, and Fantine were four ravishing young women, perfumed and radiant, still a little like working women, and not yet entirely divorced from their needles. Somewhat disturbed by intrigues, but still retaining on their faces something of the serenity of toil, and in their souls that flower of honesty, which survives the first fall in women. One of the four was called the young, because she was the youngest of them, and one was called the old. The old one was twenty-three. Not to conceal anything, the three first were more experienced, more heedless, and more emancipated into the tumult of life than Fantine the blonde, who was still in her first illusions. Dahlia, Zephine, and especially Favourite could not have said as much. There had already been more than one episode in their romance, though hardly begun, and the lover who had borne the name of Adolf in the first chapter had turned out to be Elphons in the second, and Gustave in the third. Poverty and coquetry are two fatal counsellors, one Skolts and the other Flatters, and the beautiful daughters of the people have both of them whispering in their ear, each on its own side. These badly guarded souls listen, hence the falls which they accomplish, and the stones which are thrown at them. They are overwhelmed with splendour of all that is immaculate and inaccessible. Alas! what of the Jungfrau were hungry? Favourite, having been in England, was admired by Zdahlia and Zephine. She had had an establishment of her own very early in life. Her father was an old unmarried professor of mathematics, a brutal man and a braggart, who went out to give lessons in spite of his age. This professor, when he was a young man, had one day seen a chambermaid's gown catch on a fender. He had fallen in love in consequence of this accident. The result had been Favourite. She met her father from time to time, and he bowed to her. One morning, an old woman with the air of a devotee had entered her apartments and had said to her, you do not know me, mademoiselle?  Then the old woman opened the sideboard and ate and drank, had a mattress which she owned brought in and installed herself. This cross and pious old mother never spoke to Favourite, remained hours without uttering a word, breakfasted, dined, and supped for four, and went down to the porters' quarters for company, where she spoke ill of her daughter. It was having rosy nails that were too pretty which had drawn Dahlia to leastolier, to others, perhaps, to idleness. How could she make such nails work? She who wishes to remain virtuous must not have pity on her hands. As for Zafine, she had conquered Femmei by her roguish and caressing little way of saying, yes, sir. The young men were comrades, the young girls were friends. Such loves are always accompanied by such friendships. Goodness and philosophy are two distinct things. The proof of this is that, after making all due allowances for these little irregular households, Favourite, Zafine, and Dahlia were philosophical young women, while Fantine was a good girl. Good, someone will exclaim, and Tolemies, Solomon would reply that love forms a part of wisdom. We will confine ourselves to saying that the love of Fantine was a first love, a sole love, a faithful love. She alone, of all the four, was not called thou by a single one of them. Fantine was one of those beings who blossom, so to speak, from the dregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most unfathomable depths of social shadow, she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. She was born at Montaille-sur-Mer of what parents? Who can say? She had never known father or mother. She was called Fantine. Why, Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth, the directory still existed. She had no family name. She had no family, no baptismal name. The church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her when a very small child running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained. She was called Little Fantine. No one knew more than that. This human creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of 10, Fantine quitted the town and went to service with some farmers in the neighborhood. At 15, she came to Paris to seek her fortune. Fantine was beautiful and remained pure as long as she could. She was a lovely blonde with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry, but her gold was on her head and her pearls were in her mouth. She worked for her living, then still for the sake of her living. For the heart also has its hunger. She loved. She loved Tholomiers. An amour for him, passion for her. The streets of the Latin Quarter filled with throngs of students and grisettes saw the beginning of their dream. Fantine had long evaded Tholomiers in the mazes of the hill of the Pantheon, where so many adventurers twine and untwine, but in such a way as constantly to encounter him again. There is a way of avoiding which resembles seeking. In short, the eclog took place. Blasvel, Listolier, and Femmeu formed a sort of group of which Tholomiers was the head. It was he who possessed the wit. Tholomiers was the antique old student. He was rich, he had an income of 4,000 francs. 4,000 francs! A splendid scandal on Mount Saint Geneviève. Tholomiers was a fast man of 30 and badly preserved. He was wrinkled and toothless, and he had the beginning of a bald spot of which he himself said with sadness the skull at 30, the knee at 40. His digestion was mediocre, and he had been attacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion as his youth disappeared, Gaiety was kindled. He replaced his teeth with buffooneries, his hair with mirth, his health with irony, his weeping eye laughed incessantly. He was dilapidated but still in flower. His youth, which was packing up for departure long before its time, beat a retreat in good order, bursting with laughter, and no one saw anything but fire. He had had a peace rejected at the vaudeville. He made a few verses now and then. In addition to this, he doubted everything to the last degree, which is a vast force in the eyes of the weak. Being thus ironical and bald, he was the leader. Iron is an English word. Is it possible that irony is derived from it? One day, Ptolemias took the three others aside with the gesture of an oracle and said to them, Fantine, Dalia, Zephine, and Faberit have been teasing us for nearly a year to give them a surprise. We have promised them solemnly that we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me in particular, just as the old women in Naples cry to St. Januarius, Fa chogoluta, fa omiracolo. Yellow face, perform thy miracle. So our beauty say to me incessantly, Ptolemias, when will you bring forth your surprise? At the same time, our parents keep writing to us, pressure on both sides. The moment has arrived, it seems to me. Let us discuss the question. Thereupon, Ptolemias lowered his voice and articulated something so mirthful that a vast and enthusiastic grin broke out upon the four mouths simultaneously, and Blachevel exclaimed, that is an idea. A smoky taproom presented itself. They entered, and the remainder of their confidential colloquy was lost in shadow. The result of these shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took place on the following Sunday, the four young men inviting the four young girls. End of book three, chapter two. Book three, chapter three of Les Miserables, translated by Elizabeth F. Hapgood. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Sean O'Hara. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Book three, in the year 1817, chapter three, four and four. It is hard nowadays to picture to oneself what a pleasure trip of students and grisettes to the country was like 45 years ago. The suburbs of Paris are no longer the same. The physiognomy of what may be called circumperision life has changed completely in the last half century. Where there was a cuckoo, there is a railway car. Where there was a tender boat, there is now the steamboat. People speak of the comp nowadays as they spoke of some cloud in those days. The Paris of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts. The four couples conscientiously went through with all the country follies possible at that time. The vacation was beginning and it was a warm, bright summer day. On the preceding day, Feverite, the only one who knew how to write, had written the following to Tholomies in the name of the four. It is a good hour to emerge from happiness. That is why they arose at five o'clock in the morning. They went to sun cloud by the coach, looked at dry cascade and exclaimed, this must be very beautiful when there is water. They breakfast at Tete Noir, for car staying and not yet been. They treated themselves to a game of ring-throwing under the quincong of trees of the Grand Fountain. They ascended Diogenes Lantern. They gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment of Pont de Cervés, picked up bouquets at Pateau, brought reed pipes at Newly. They dabbled carts everywhere and were perfectly happy. Young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their cage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to time, they bestowed little taps on young men. Matudinal intoxication of life. Adorable years, the wings of the dragonfly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you rambled through the brushwood, holding the side of the branches on account of the charming head which is coming on behind you?  Let us say at once that Mary obstacle, a shower was lacking in the case of this good-humored party. Although Favreete had said, as they set out, magisterial and maternal tone, the slugs are crawling in the past, a sign of reigned children. All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a good fellow who had an Eleanor, Montiel de Chevalier de la Brise, as he strolled that day beneath the chestnut trees of suncloud, saw them pass about 10 o'clock in the morning and exclaimed, here's one too many of them, as he caught in the braces. Favreete, a Montiavelle's friend, one age three and 20, the old one, ran on in front under the great green boughs, jumped the ditches, stopped strightly over bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of young female fawn. Zethine and Dahlia, whom chance made beautiful in such a way that they set each other off when they were together and completed each other, never left each other, more from an instinct of coquetry than from friendship, and clinging to each other, they assumed English poses. The first keepsakes had just made their appearance.  Zethine and Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Vestoliae and Thémul, who were engaged in discussing their professors, explained to Fantine the difference that existed between Montier Delvinco and Montiavelle Blondeau. Favreete seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favreete's single-bordered imitation India shawl of Ternot Manufacturer on his arms on Sunday. Tholomais followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt the force of government in him. There was dictation in his joviality. His principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern of mannequin with straps of braided copper wire. He carried his stout rattan with 200 francs in his hand, and he treated himself to everything, a strange thing called scar in his mouth. Nothing was sacred to him. He smoked. That Tholomais' astounding, said the others with veneration, but trousers, what energy? As for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had evidently received an office from God, laughter. She preferred to carry her little hat of sewed straw with its long, white strings in her hand rather than on her head. Her thick blonde hair, which was inclined to wave, and which easily uncoiled, and which it was necessary to fasten up incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mouth voluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of origini, had an air of encouraging the odacious. But her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over the chality of the lower part of her face as sewed call halt. There was something indescribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress. She wore a gown of mauve barrage, little reddish-brown bustins, whose ribbons traced next on her fine, white, open-worked stockings, and that sort of Muslim spencer, a Marseille invention whose name, Kenazo, a corruption of the words, Kinz Ahot, pronounced after the fashion of Convier, signifies fine weather, heat, and midday. The three others, must timid as we have already said, wore low-neck dresses without disguise, which in summer, beneath flower-adorned hats, are very graceful and enticing. But by the side of these audacious outfits, blonde Fantine's Kanazo, with its transparencies, its indiscretions, its reticence, concealing and displaying at one and the same time, esteemed and alluring godsend of decency, and the famous Court of Love, resided by the Vekamtas Deset, with the sea-green eyes, would, perhaps, have awarded prize for coquetry to this Kanazo in the contest for the prize of modesty. The most ingenious is, at times, the wisest. This does happen. Grilling to face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue, heavy lids, feet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a white skin, which, here and there, allowed the usurred branching of the veins to be seen, joy, a cheek that was young and fresh, the robust throat of the Juno Vigina, a strong and supple nape of the neck, shoulders model as though by casto, with a voluptuous dimple in the middle, visible through the muslin, a gaiety cooled by dreaminess. Sculptural and exquisite, such was Fantine, and beneath these feminine adornments and these ribbons, one could divine a statue, and in that statue, a soul. Fantine was beautiful without being conscious of it. Those rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful, who silently confront everything with perfection, would have got a glimpse in this little working woman through the transparency of her Parisian grace, of the ancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in the two ways, style and rhythm. Style is the form of the ideal. Rhythm is its movement. We have said that Fantine was joy. She was also modesty. To an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from her thwart all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love affair, was an invincible expression of reserve and modesty. She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of difference that separates psyche from Venus. Fantine had the long, white fingers of the vestal virgin who stirs the ashes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothing to thalamize, as we shall have more than ample opportunities to see her face in her pose from the supremely virginal, a sort of serious and almost a steered dignity suddenly overwhelmed her at certain times. And there is nothing more singular and disturbing than to see Gayety become so suddenly extinct there and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without any transition state. This sudden and sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the disdain of goddess. Her brow, her nose, her chin presented that equilibrium of outline, which is quite distinct from equilibrium of proportion and from her charming of countenance results. In the very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose from the upper lip, she had that imperceptible and charming fold, a mysterious sign of chastity, which makes Bob Rosa fall in love with that Diana found in the treasure's viconia. Love is a fault, so be it. Fantine was innocent, floating high over fault. End of Book 3, Chapter 3. Book 3, Chapter 4 of Les Miserables. Translated by Isabella F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 3, in the year 1817. Chapter 4. Tolomis is so merry that he sings a Spanish diddy. That day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. All nature seemed to be having a holiday and to be laughing. The flower beds of St. Cloud perfumed the air. The breath of the sun rustled the leaves vaguely. The branches gesticulated in the wind. Bees pillaged the jasmines. A whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the arrow. The clover and the sterile oats. In the Auguste Park of the King of France there was a pack of vagabonds, the birds. The four merry couples, mingled with the sun, the fields, the flowers, the trees, were resplendent. And in this community of paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing, chasing butterflies, plucking convulvas, wetting their pink, open-work stockings in the tall grass, fresh, wild, without malice, all received, to some extent, the kisses of all, with the exception of Fontine, who was hedged about with that vague resistance of hers composed of dreaminess and wildness, and who was in love.  Such things are joys. These passages of happy couples are a profound appeal to life and nature, and they are things of joy. These passages of happy couples are a profound appeal to life and nature, and make a caress and light spring forth from everything. There was once a fairy who created the fields and forests expressly for those in love, in that eternal hedge school of lovers, which is forever beginning anew, and which will last as long as there are hedges and scholars. Hence the popularity of spring among thinkers. The patrician and the knife-grinder, the duke and the pier, the limb of the law, the courtiers and townspeople, as they used to say in olden times, are all subjects of this fairy. They laugh and hunt, and there is in the air the brilliance of an apotheosis. What a transfiguration affected by love. Notary's clerks are gods. And the little cries, the pursuits through the grass, the wastes embrace on the fly, those jargons which are melodies, those adorations which burst forth in the manner of pronouncing a syllable, those cherries torn from one mouth by another, all this blazes forth and takes its place among the celestial glories. Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly. They think that this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets, painters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it. So greatly are they dazzled by it. The departure for Scythera, exclaims Watteau, Lancret, the painter of plebeians, contemplates his bourgeois who have flitted away into the azure sky, Diderot stretches out his arms to all those love-iddles, and Derfé mingles druids with them. After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's Square to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which at that epoch was attracting all Paris to St. Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub with a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and as fine as threads, were covered with a million tiny white rosettes. This gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers. There was always an admiring crowd about it. After viewing the thub, Ptolemies exclaimed, I offer you asses, and having agreed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned by way of von Vries and E.C. At E.C. an incident occurred. The truly national park, at that time owned by Bergen, the contractor, happened to be wide open. They passed the gates, visited the mannequin, Anchorite, in his garter, tried the mysterious little effects of the famous Cabinet of Mirrors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a millionaire or of Tuscarae metamorphosed into a Priapus. They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut trees celebrated by the Abbey de Bernice. As he swung these beauties, one after the other, produced folds in the fluttering skirts which Gruz would have found to his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Toulouse and Toulomies, who was somewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Toulosa, spaying to a melancholy chant the old ballad galaga, probably inspired by some lovely maid dashing in full flight upon a rope between two trees, Soe de Barrios, Amor mi ama, Toda mi alma, es en mi ellos porque ensinas a tuas pernas. Barrios is my home, and love is my name, To all my eyes and flame, all my soul doth come, For instruction meet, I receive at thy feet. Fantine alone refused to swing. I don't like to have people put on airs like that, muttered Favreit, with a good deal of acrimony. After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight. They crossed the sun in a boat, and proceeding from Pasi on foot they reached the barrier of Letual. They had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember, But bah, there is no such thing as fatigue on Sunday, said Favreit, on Sunday fatigue does not work. About three o'clock the four couples, frightened at their happiness, were sliding down the Russian mountains, a singular edifice which then occupied the heights of Beaujant, and whose undulating line was visible above the trees of the Champs-Elysées. From time to time Favreit exclaimed, And the surprise, I claim the surprise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Russian Mountains, having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner, and the Radiant Party of Eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombardus Public House, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Elysées by that famous restaurant keeper, Bombardus, and the famous restaurant owner, Favreit, and the restaurant owner, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Elysées by that famous restaurant keeper, Bombardus, whose sign could then be seen in the rude Rivoli, near Delorme Alley, a large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end. They had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd. Two windows, once they could survey beyond the Elms, the Quay and the River, a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes. Two tables, upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women. At the other end, four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and bottles. Jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine. Very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it. They made beneath the table a noise a clatter of the feet that was abominable, says Molière. This was the state which the shepherd idol, begun at five o'clock in the morning, had reached at half past four in the afternoon. The sun was setting, their appetites were satisfied. The Champs-Elysées, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marlis, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent bodyguards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the avenue de Nuitilly. The white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de le Concorde, which had become the Place Louis XV once more, was choked with happy promenaders. Many wore the silver fleur de lise suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from the buttonholes in the year 1817. Here and there, choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passers-by, who formed into circles and applauded. The then celebrated bourbon air, which was destined to strike the hundred days with lightning and which had for its refrain, rendez-nous notre père de gants, rendez-nous notre père. Give us back our father from Ghent. Give us back our father. Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated with the fleur de lise, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the marinesies square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses. Others were engaged in drinking. Some journeymen, printers, had on paper cups. Their laughter was audible. Everything was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound royalist security. It was the epoch, when a special and private report of Chief of Police Angélée to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines. Taking all things into consideration, sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The population is restless in the provinces. It is not in Paris. These are very pretty men, sire. It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris, the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty years, and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the revolution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble. Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion. That does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat, so despised by Count Angélée, possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate, and as though to serve as pendant to Minerva Aptera of the Piraeus, there stood on the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenious police of the restoration held the populace of Paris into, rose-colored, a light. It is not so much of an amiable rabble as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek. No one sleeps more soundly than he.  No one can better assume the air of forgetfulness. Let him not be trusted, nevertheless. He is ready for any sort of cool deed, but when there is glory at the end of it he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the tenth of August. Give him a gun, you will have Osterlitz. He is Napoleon's stay and Danton's resource. Is it a question of country? He enlists. Is it a question of liberty? He tears up the pavements. Beware. His hair filled with wrath is epic. His blouse drapes itself like the folds of a clamus. Take care. He will make of the first rue granitote which comes to hand causing forks. When the hour strikes this man of the foe bores will grow in stature.  It is thanks to the suburban man of Paris that the revolution mixed with arms conquers Europe. He sings. It is his delight. Proportion his song to his nature and you will see as long as he has for his refrain nothing but Le Carmeignol he only overthrows Louis the sixteenth. Make him sing the Marseillais and he will free the world. This note jotted down on the margin of Angela's report will return to our four couples. The dinner as we have said was drawing to its close. End of book three chapter five. Recording by Sarah Williams, Germantown, Maryland. Book three chapter six of Les Miserables, translated by Isabel F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. A Miserable by Victor Hugo. Book three chapter six. A chapter in which they adore each other. Chat at table, the chat of love. It is as impossible to reproduce one as the other. The chat of love is a cloud. The chat at table is smoke. Famerie and dailier were humming. Tholomies was drinking. Saphine was laughing. Faintine smiling. Vestolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at St. Cloud. Favoret gazed tenderly at Blascherville and said, Blascherville, I adore you. This calls forth a question from Blascherville. What would you do, Favoret, if I were to cease to love you? I cried Favoret. Do not say that even in jest. If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you. I would scratch you. I should rend you. I would throw you into the water. I would have you arrested. Blascherville smiled with a voluptuous self-conceit of a man who has tickled in his self-love. Favoret resumed, Yes, I would scream to the police. Ah, I should not restrain myself, not at all, rabble. Blascherville threw himself back in his chair in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly. Dailier, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favoret amid the uproar, So you really idolized him deeply, that Blascherville of yours? I detest him, replied Favoret in the same tone, seizing her fork again. He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, that young man. Do you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors.  There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, he was splitting my head. So he goes up to rat-britten garrets, to black holes as high as he can mount. And there he sets the singing, the claiming. How do I know one? So that he can be heard downstairs. He earns twenty-two a day at the attorneys by penning quibbles. Here is the son of a former pressantor of Saint-Jacques-du-Ho-Pas. And he is very nice. He idolizes me so, that one day, when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me, Mamzell, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them. It is only artists who can say such things as that. He is very nice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow. Never mind. I tell Blascherville that I adore him. How I lie. Hey, how I do lie. Favourite pause, then they went on. I am sage, you see, Dalia. It has done nothing but rain all summer. The wind irritates me. The wind does not abate. Blascherville is very stingy. There are hardly any green peas in the market. One does not know what to eat. I have the spleen, as the English say. Butter is so dear.  Here we are dining in a room with a beard in it. And that disgusts me with life. End of book three, chapter six. Book three, chapter seven of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. They Miserable by Victor Hugo. Book three, chapter seven. The Wisdom of Tholomies. In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together, tumultuously, all at once. It was no longer anything but noise. Tholomies intervened. Let us not talk at random, nor too fast, he exclaimed. Let us reflect, if we wish to be brilliant.  Running beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with meditation. Let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the springtime. If it makes haste, it is done for. That is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach trees and apricot trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen. Grimoire de la Reignia agrees with Taliran. A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group. Leave us in peace, Tholomies, said Blascherville. Down with the tyrant, said Femme. Bombardo, bombance, and bombachel. Ricard distolio. Someday exists, resumed Femme. We are sober, had a distolio. Tholomies remarked Blascherville. Contemplate my calmness, mon calm. You are the Marquis of that, you co-hostors of Tholomies. This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool. The Marquis de Moncarme was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the frogs held their peace. Friends cried Tholomies with the accent of a man who had recovered his empire. Come to yourself. This pun which has fallen from the skies must not be received with too much stupor. Everything which falls in that way is not necessarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The pun is the dung of the mind which soars. The jest falls no matter where, and the mind, after producing a piece of stupidity, plunges into the azure depths. A whitish speck flattened against the rock does not prevent the condor from soaring aloft. Far bit from me to insult the pun. I honour it in proportion to its merits, nothing more. All the most august, the most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on St. Peter, Moses on Isaac, Ascariot on Polynesias, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observed that Cleopatra's pun preceded the Battle of Actium, and had it not been for it, no one had remembered the Greek city of Turin, and the Greek name which signifies a ladle. That once conceded, I return to my exhortation. I repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no hubbub, no axis, even in witticisms, gaiety, jollities, or plays on words. Listen to me. I have the prudence of Amphiris and the baldness of Caesar. There must be a limit even to rebuses, at murders and rebus. There must be a limit even to dinners. You are fond of apple turnovers, lady. Do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter of turnovers, good sense and art are requisite. Gluttony chastises the glutton, gula punit gulax. Insuggestion is charged by the good God with preaching morality to stomachs. And remember this. Each one of our passions, even love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full. In all things, the word finis must be written in good season. Self-control must be exercised when the matter becomes urgent. The bolt must be drawn on appetite. One must set one's own fantasy to the violin. And carries one's own self to the post. The sage is the man who knows how, at a given moment, to affect his own arrest. Have some confidence in me, for I have succeeded to some extent in my study of the law, according to the verdict of my examinations, for I know the difference between the question put and the question pending. For I have sustained a thesis in Latin upon the manner in which torture was administered at Rome at the epoch when Manetis Demens was quester of the parasite.  I recommend you to moderation in your desires. It is true that my name is Felix Tholomies. I speak well. Happy is he who, when the hour strikes, takes a heroic resolve and abdicates like Silla or Origenes. Feveri listened with profound attention. Felix, you said, what a pretty word. I love that name. It is Latin. It means prosper. Tholomies went on. Coritis, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel the prick, to do without the nuptial bed and to brave love? Nothing more simple. Here is a receipt. Lemonade, excess exercise, hard labour, work yourself to death, drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil, gorge yourself with nitrous beverages and portions of nymphias. Drink emulsion of poppies and agnus castus. Season this with a strict diet, starve yourself and add there to cold barns, girdles of herbs, the application of a plate of lead, notions made with a subacetate of lead, and fermentations of oxycrate. I prefer a woman, said Lystolia. Woman, raised him Tholomies, distressed her, woes to him who yields himself to the unstable heart of a woman. Woman is perfidious and disingenuous. She detests the serpent from the professional jealousy. The serpent is the shop over the way. Tholomies, cried Lashabelle, you are drunk. Badur, says Tholomies. Then be gay, resumed Lashabelle. I agree to that, responded Tholomies, and refilling his glass he rose. Glory to wine, no tobacco, canum. Pardon me, ladies, that is Spanish, and the proof of its sonoras is this. Like people, like cask. The aroba of Castile contains 16 litres, the cantara of Alicante 12, the alamurd of the canaries 25, the curtain of the Balearic Arles 26, the boot of Zarpita 30.  Ladies, take the advice of a friend. Make a mistake in your neighbour if you see fit. The property of love is to err. A love affair is not made to crouch down and beautilise itself like an English-serving maid who has calluses on her knees from scrubbing. It is not made for that. It is gaily our gentle love. It has been said, error is human. I say error is love. Ladies, I idolise you all. Oh, Zafine, oh, Josephine, face more than irregular. You would be charming when you're not all askew. You have the air of a pretty face upon which someone has sat down by mistake. As for favourites, oh, nymphs and muses. One day, when Blaschevel was crossing the Gatta in the Rue Gourain Poisson, he aspired a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which displayed her legs. This prologue pleased him, and Blaschevel fell in love. The one he loved was Favorit. Oh, Favorit, thou hast Ionian lips. There was a Greek painter named Euphorion who was surnamed the painter of the lips.  Listen, before thee, there was never a creature worthy of the name. Thou were made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it like Eve. Beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve's. It is thou who hast created her. Thou deserveest the lettuce patent of the beautiful women. Oh, Favorit, I cease to address you as thou, because I pass from poetry to prose. He was speaking of my name a little while ago. That touched me. But let us, whoever we may be, distrust names. They may delude us. I am called Felix, and I am not happy. Words are liars. Let us not blindly accept the indications which they afford us. It would be a mistake to write to liege the corks, and to power for gloves. This day there, were I in your place, I would call myself Rosa. A flower should spill sweet, and women should have wit. I say nothing of fainting.  She is a phantom possessed of the form of a nymph, and the modesty of a nun, who strayed into the life of a good-a-set, but who takes refuge in illusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into the azure, without very well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and who, with her ears fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden, where there are more birds than her own existence. Oh, Fantine, know this. I follow me. I am all illusion, but she does not even hear me. That blonde maid of Cameras has for the rest everything about her as fresh as suavity, youth, sweet morning light.   Do not marry. Marriage is a graft. It takes well or ill. Avoid that risk. But, bar, what am I saying? I am wasting my words. Girls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise men can say will not prevent the waistcoat-makers and the shoe-stitches from dreaming of husbands stuttered with diamonds. Well, so be it. But, my beauties, remember this.  You have but one fault, O woman, and that is nibbling sugar. Oh, nibbling sex.  Now, hear me well. Sugar is a salt. All salts are withering. Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts.  Hence the coagulation, and then the solidification of the blood. Hence tubicles in the lungs. Hence death. That is why diabetes borders on consumption. Then, do not crunch sugar, and you will live. I turn to the men. Gentlemen, make conquest. Rob each other of your well-beloved without remorse. Chasse across. In love there are no friends. Everywhere there is a pretty woman, hostility is open. No quarter. War to the death. A pretty woman is a causus bellae. A pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats. Woman is man's right. Romulus carried off the Sabines. William carried off the Saxon women. Caesar carried off the Roman women.  Soldiers, you are in need of everything. The enemy has it. Tholomey paused. Take breath, Tholomey, said Blascherville. At the same moment, Blascherville, supported by Listalia and Fomey, spruck up a plaintive air, one of those stupid studio songs composed of the first words was come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as destitute of senses the gesture of the tree, and the sounds of the wind which have their berth in the vapor of pipes and the dissipators and take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group replied the Tholomey's harangue. The father Turkey cocks so grave some money to an agent gave, that master Good Clermontonnier might be made Pope on St John's day fair, that this Good Clermont could not be made Pope because no priest was he, and then their agent whose wrath burned with all their money back returned. This was not calculated to calm Tholomey's improvisation. He emptied his glass, filled, refilled it, and began again. Down with wisdom, forget that all I have said, let us be neither prudes nor prudent men nor prudoms. I propose a toast to Merth, be merry, let us complete our course of law by folly and eating, in suggestion and the digest, let Justinian be the male and feasting the female. Joy in the depth, live O creation, the world is a great diamond. I am happy, the birds are astonishing, what a festival everywhere. The nightingale is a gratuitous eleveur. Summer, I salute thee, O Luxembourg, O Georgic of the rumour dame, and of the alled double observatoire, O pensive infantry soldiers, O all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves. The purpose of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odeon. My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is beautiful, the fly is buzzing the sun, the sun has sneezed out the hummingbird. Embrace me, Fantine. He made a mistake and embraced the favorite. End of book three, chapter seven. Book third, chapter eight, of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hepcott. This is the Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Recording by Veran Mial. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book third, The House in the Rue Plumée. Chapter eight, The Death of a Horse. The dinners are better at Eden said at Bombardus, exclaimed Afien. I prefer Bombardus to Eden, to clear up Dashville. There is more luxury, it is more athiatic. Look at the room downstairs. There are mirrors, glazes, on the walls. I prefer them, glazes, ices, on my plate, say favorite. Dashville persisted. Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombardus, and I've borne at Eden's. Now, silver is more valuable than bone. Except for those who have a silver chin, observed Touloumi. He was looking at the dome of the Anvalite, which was visible from the Bombardus windows. I pause in two. Touloumi exclaimed for more. These two li and I were having a discussion just now. A discussion is a good thing, replied Touloumi. A quarrel is better. We are disputing about philosophy. Well, let's you give up the scout of Spenota. Do sojie, said Touloumi. There's the creep announced. He took a drink, and went on. I consent to live. All is not at Eden on earth, since we can still talk mountains. For there I return thanks to immortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms. But one doubts. The unexpected burst forth from the solidism. That is fine. There are still human beings. Here below, who know how to open and close the surprise box of a paradox merely. This, ladies, which are drinking with so tranquil an air, is zero wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coral du Shri Ayrush, with this 317 phefums above the level of the sea. Attention while you drink. 317 phefums. M. Bombardre, the magnificent eating housekeeper, gives you those 317 phefums for four francs and 50 cent times. Again, from you he instructed him. Your opinions fix the law. Who is your favourite author? Per? Ga? No. And Touloumi continue. Honour to Bombardre, he would equal Manifest of Aliphanta, if you could by get me an Indian dancing girl, and du Gilion of Gaironia. If he could bring me a Greek courtesan. Four, all ladies, they were Bombardres in Greece and in Egypt. A Boliarus tells of them. Alice, always the same, nothing more unpublished by the creator and creation. Nils absolutely new. Says Solomon. Amor omnibus idem. Says Virgil. And Cahabin melts with Cahabon, into a bath of sanglou, as Espezia embarked with pericles upon the fleet at Thomas. One last word. Do you know what Espezia was, ladies? Although she left at an impoc, where a woman had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul, a soul of rosy and purple hue, more ardent hue than fire, fresher than the dawn. Espezia was a creature, in whom two extremes of womanhood met. She was a goddess prostitute, Socrates placement in the school. Espezia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus. Tulumi, who once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the key just at that moment. The shot crossed the cart, and the orator to come to a dead halt. Was a bose home, there, all then thin, and one fit for the necker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Mbadas, the worn out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This incident attracted the crowd. Hartley had the cursing and the dignitarter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word. Maton, the jade, backed up, with a pitiless cut of a whip, when the jade fell, never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the fastest by, Tulumi's merry auditors turned their heads, and Tulumi took advantage of the opportunity to bring his alchution to a close with his mentally straff. Elle était de ce monde au couscous et carrosse. On le même distance, et, rose, elle a vécu, ce que vivant les roses, l'espace d'un matin. Poir horse, c'est fontine. And Darlie exclaimed, there's fontine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that? At that moment, Favourite, holding her arms and throwing her head back, looked resonantly at Tulumi and said, Come now, her surprise. Exactly, the moment has arrived, replied Tulumi. Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has dropped. Wait for us, the moment, ladies. Et began to have a kiss, said Blasphil. On the brow, Elle et Tulumi, et gravely with Darlie kiss on his mistresses' brow, then all four fell out through the door with the fingers on their lips. Favourite clapped her hands on their departure. It's beginning to be amusing already, said she. Don't meet too long, moment, fontine. We are waiting for you. End of Book 3, Chapter 8. Book 3, in the year 1817, Chapter 9. A Merry End to Murth. When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the windowsills, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one window to the other. They saw the young men emerge from the cafe bombada, arm in arm. The latter turned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in that dusty Sunday throng, which makes a weakly invasion into the charm's alliers. Don't be long, cried fontine. What are they going to bring us, said Zephine. It will certainly be something pretty, said Darlie. For my part, said Favourite, I want it to be of gold. Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees, and which diverted them greatly. It was the hour for the departure of the male coaches and diligence's. Nearly all the stage coaches for the south and west passed through the charm's alleys. The majority followed the key, and went through the Pasi barrier. From moment to moment some huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge, with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavement, changing all the paving stones into steels. This uproar delighted the young girls. Favourite exclaimed, What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away. It chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with difficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out again at a gallop. This surprised Fontine. That's odd, said she. I thought the diligence never stopped. Favourite shrugged her shoulders. This Fontine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of curiosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case. I am a traveller. I say to the diligence. I will go on in advance. You shall pick me up on the key as you pass. The diligence passes. Sees me, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not know life, my dear. In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a movement like a person who is just waking up. Well, said she, and the surprise. Yes, by the way, joined in Dahlia. The famous surprise. They are a very long time about it, said Fontine. As Fontine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at dinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter. What is that? demanded Favourite. The waiter replied, It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies. Why did you not bring it at once? Because, said the waiter, the gentleman ordered me not to deliver it to the ladies for an hour. Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter's hand. It was, in fact, a letter. Stop, said she. There is no address, but this is what is written on it. This is the surprise. She tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read. She knew how to read. Our beloved. You must know that we have parents. Parents, you do not know much about such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is purile and honest. Now these parents groan. These old folks implore us. These good men and these good women call us prodigal sons. They desire our return and offer to kill calves for us. Being virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery horses will be bearing us to our fathers and mothers. We are pulling up our stakes, as Bossway says. We are going. We are gone. We flee in the arms of Lafitte and on the wings of Kaliar. The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyss.  We return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects, fathers of families, rural police and councillors of state, venerate us, we are sacrificing ourselves, mourn for us in haste and replace us with speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it, adieu. For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you no grudge for that. Signed, Blasheville, Femmeuil, Listoie, and Felix Toulommier. Postscriptum, the dinner is paid for. The four young women looked at each other. Favourite was the first to break the silence. Well, she exclaimed. It's a very pretty farce all the same. It is very droll, said Zafine. That must have been Blasheville's idea, resumed favourite. It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure indeed. No, said Dahlia. It was one of Toulommier's ideas. That is evident. In that case, resorted favourite. Death to Blasheville and Long live Toulommier. Long live Toulommier, exclaimed Dahlia and Zafine. And they burst out laughing. Fontaine laughed with the rest. An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first love affair, as we have said. She had given herself to this Toulommier as to a husband. And the poor girl had a child. End of book three, chapter nine. Recording by Jordan.


We are back and better than ever. We're working through our food goals as we sample 20 bites at the Venetian Resort. Modern global steakhouse. Wood oven artisan pizza. French bistro classic. Homestyle Italian favorites. Four world-class restaurants. 20 bites of delicious dishes. 20 sound bites from the people tasting them. This is 20 bites with the Fung Brothers. What's going on, everybody? David and Andrew here from the Fung Brothers and we are back here at the Venetian Resort in Las Vegas for another episode of 20 bites. Last time we ate so much good food, but there is still so much more to try. They really have a world of dining options here. 20 bites. Let's go. All right, so we have just arrived to cut by Wolfgang Puck. This is a global modern steakhouse with a constantly evolving menu. Basically, they're putting a contemporary twist on a classic concept. Let's check it out. Starting off, we have General So's quail. Quail. Not chicken, quail. Chinese people do traditionally eat quail. So it's like a hybrid. Let's go for it. Perfect bite, shaved scallion, fresh chilies. That's an aesthetic bite. Notable. Wow. This has taken me back to New York City where I believe General So's was invented. Cilantro, chili, scallions. Ooh, that's got a nice, spicy kick. Anybody who's a fan of General So's chicken needs to check out cut's General So's quail. Next up, we've got the Korean steak tartar. This is the chef's take on the traditional Korean dish, yukhoe. Korean pears. You got sesame seeds. You have a quail egg cracked right in the middle. There's a rice cracker with the onion powder. You can't find this at a lot of steak houses in America. No, a lot of steak houses are there just to cook steak. But here, they're serving it raw. David, I don't know, man. I'm feeling some raw emotions. A little bit of dip on your chip. Korean steak tartar. That meat was succulent. That is high grade beef. I gotta go on again for the chip. Oh man, this was amazing. Such an airy, crispy rice chip.  Ridiculous. Now, we got the whole Thai fried snapper deboned side of jasmine rice with the toasted garlic chili sword. I didn't expect to see this here in Las Vegas. With the head on, this fish had a pretty good dentist. They dressed this snapper to the nines. Could you say, Andrew, that this snapper is dapper? Woo! My favorite bites from this dish had all the elements. And the snapper was just bringing it all together. David, if you had to be a fish, which fish would you be? Probably pick a shark, the apex predator. This is real Japanese Kobe beef from Japan. This is it. Look at this, unbelievable. Here we go. Wow, this was melting at room temperature. It was phenomenally buttery. This is not steak. This is perfection. Now, finishing off the meal, we have banana cream pie. This is actually banana ice cream inside of a dark chocolate dome. Yo! I like that. That looks like a movie. Almost a sci-fi-like. Just visually, this is out of this world. Stunning. It's so funny, it gets such a beautiful masterpiece and then they just say, just dig it. Oh! Oh! Oh, David Fung, destroyer of worlds. That made bananas taste better. That was the perfect exclamation point on the meal. I am going bananas over this banana cream dome. We have now arrived to the newest addition to the Venetian, six and mil, restaurante, pizzeria and bar. They are specializing in authentic Southern Italian recipes. They've done a great job of recreating a special neighborhood vibe and guess what? They've got some amazing artisan pizzas we gotta check out. Starting off, we have the arancini, which is essentially a fried risotto ball. Here it's actually a fried risotto cone. Oh, it's shaped differently. Let's give it a shot, man. This is actually probably what the original pizza bite was based off of. Oh my gosh, look at this. Oh! Yo, you popped the top on Patrick. It almost looks like a pasta dish all in one bite. That's crispy on the outside, delectable in the middle. It's almost like a pizza bite, but the best pizza bite you have ever had. So traditionally this dish is actually made into a ball, but I like how they made it into a cone, kind of like a pear shape because it's actually easier to eat. The aerodynamics of it. We've got two different pizzas. You've got a Coppia, AKA the meat lover's pizza. I've got a Vince, this is a Bianca, AKA a white sauce pizza. I feel like we gotta do rock, paper, scissors, and then that person gets a pick. One, two, three. One, two, three. I picked that one, the Coppia. Here's what I'm seeing on the Vince. Crust pistachio, a little bit of orange zest, fresh mozzarella. You have some sausage here. When I heard that this pizza was neither American nor Italian, but a fusion between authentic and the American style, I was like, okay, I think I'm gonna like this. Cheers. Salud. The crust is tender. David, do you usually finish the crust? No. But today I will. I do not expect you to do anything like that. Perfecto. This is a cheese and pepper pasta. Cacio e pepe. Cacio e pepe. David, you gotta get this. Oh my gosh. Yo, yo, you know what is dope about this? This is perfectly, look at that. It is perfectly cooked. Southern Italian naples style, guys. Italy has five different provinces, five different distinct styles of food. Here in the Venetian they're gonna have three. Six and mil is designed to take you to Naples. That is so cheesy. David, I can't tell if I'm chewing on the noodles or it's almost like noodles of cheese. Such a simple dish, executed perfectly. That pasta has just enough bounce, has enough chew, cheese, and that little peppery kick. My word to describe this would be unexpected. I got it, I got it. Designer. Oh, I like that. Next up, we've got aquapasa, aka crazy water. Well, it means crazy water. But it's actually sea bass. It's actually sea bass, aka brandino. What we're looking at here is a wild Mediterranean sea bass. It's got a little bit of a crispy skin. This amazing tomato sauce. Wow. Hold on. The spicy tomato broth really has a nice zip to it. David, you got any crazy water stories? One time at the aquarium, a beluga came and spit salt water in my face for like 30 seconds. And it was weird because people were kind of jealous, but they were also kind of glad. I got an interaction in with the beluga, but then it was like I was covered in salt water. You know what it? We got a story, but it came at a cost. Beluga chosen one. When you come to Six and Mill, ask Chef Angelo about the story behind calling this crazy water.  We have arrived at dessert. In Italy, they say they eat desserts for two reasons, guilt or fashion. So it's either gonna look really good or just feel really good or both. We have the zeppelini, the sand Giuseppe. Sounded good. I like how these snacks are bite-sized and Chef Angelo was telling us that they wanted to make it easy for you guys. So you just pick it up and eat it. No fork or knife needed. Little cherry on top. Let's see what's in the middle. Wow, that is deadly sweet. Here's the obaba. Basically, this is like a rum-soaked cake with supreme oranges. You got the lemon cream on the inside. Oh my God. Oh my God. That's great. All right, David, going back to the Italian philosophy about dessert, that one might be for fashion. This one's for guilt.  We have arrived at Bouchon Bistro, which features the quintessential Bistro classics by Chef Thomas Keller. We're eating their famous brunch. Let's go. Woo! Starting off, we got the Escargo a la Boryonne, AKA snails and butter. There's a little hat on it. Well, it's almost like the shell got replaced by a puff pastry. Escargo, have I had snails so delicate, so decadent? No, I haven't. I think all snails should come with a pastry hat like they do here at Bouchon. That was buttery and excellent. And you have to say it like that. You can't just be like, I don't taste like butter. I think I could eat a dozen of these on my own, man. These are good snails. In fact, these are great snails. No snail fails here. It's a grail snail. If I had to rename this dish, I would call it snails in a blanket. Oh, I got it. I got it. Butter of the sea. This brunch superstar is the croque madame. Different from a croque monsieur. This has the egg on top. Believe me, I care about the croque madame. Croque madame. Croque madame. But I care about the fries. 10 out of 10 on the fries. Those fries are impeccable. You know what I love about this sandwich? This is your classic ham and cheese sandwich, and on top you got a fried egg with morné sauce. The croque madame is my favorite way to eat a grilled cheese sandwich in the entire world. Bar none. Wow. If we were to rename the croque madame. What would you rename it? So more Americans would eat it. I would call it a French drip breakfast sandwich. Oh, I would call it the French open. As they would say in France, these fries are filled. Fire. Here we are with one of their premier dishes, the poulet et de goffrets. AKA roast chicken and waffles. Normally people are used to seeing fried chicken and waffles. This is their own unique take on chicken and waffles here at Bouchon. So here you have your savory sauce. You're at your sweet sauce. So you'll get sweet and savory in one bite. Dude, this waffle is super light and crispy. Yo, this is my first roasted chicken and waffles. There is such a palate pleasing inside to that waffle. Wow. The sweet, the savory, the crispy. That was perfect. This dish proves that any chicken goes well with waffles. Are you gonna drink the syrup again? Okay, we're at a French spot. I think I gotta watch my manners, all right. This onion French soup is called soup à l'onion. I think it's French onion soup. French onion soup, soup à l'onion. That word soup must have came from France. Yeah. It's the same word. Is that a big piece of onion? No, that was bread, bro. Oh, there's bread, onion and cheese on top. This is not a dish that you're supposed to eat very clean. That's why they give you this plate underneath. It's overflowing. You can eat it when it's pretty, but I think it's gonna taste the best when it's rugged. Oh my gosh. You gotta eat that. This is French onion soup. It gives you options. You went for the cheesy McGee bite. That was a lot of cheese. That's a lot of onions. Man, these onions are bringing me tears of joy. We're ending off brunch here at Bouchon Bistro with assortment de patisserie. Pastries? I can already visually analyze the power levels of these pastries. What's got the highest power level? This is a cream cheese, but you just look at the layers. I can just tell they're back there. All right, you know what? I gotta go for this chocolate one right here. Super crispy. Binoculars. Oh my gosh. This is the only good time to be flaky. Mm. Wow. Wow. I have to rave about that raisin one. Bouchon Bistro. We just landed here at Buddy V's. They're serving up Italian-American classics by none other than the cake boss himself, Buddy Velastro. These recipes have been handed down from grandmothers to aunties to moms. And let me tell you this, just being here, I'm already feeling the vibe. Let's head inside. Our very first dish here at Buddy V's has arrived. It is the charred octopus. The chef told us it is one of his favorites. We'll see how tender it is. It's cutting straight through.  That is so good. It's cooked perfectly. It's tender. It's got a little bit of sweet and a little bit of heat. The best way to describe that? It's brothy. If you can cut some meat with your fork, that's when you know it's soft. Oh. Clean. The fork became the knife. Wow. The different sauces that he had pair perfectly. You have choices. I choose both. David, you know what I'm doing? You know what I'm doing? It's got to be some sort of octopus move. Okay, now we have the hot honey on white pizza. We are looking at honey drizzled pizza. Spicy honey drizzled pizza. It's inspired by drizzling honey on cheese, which is a traditional Italian thing. They took that concept and applied it to cheese pizza. The chef did tell us that this will change the way we look at pizza for the rest of our lives. Let's see. Okay. You get the sweet and the savory at the same time. When you said it was going to change the way that I thought of pizza, definitely. I now know in my head that putting delicious spicy honey on pizza does work. I am actually really, really excited for this next dish. I am as well because this is Sunday gravy. David, I've never had pasta like this. There's lamb neck, there's pork shoulder, there's spicy Italian sausage in there. I don't know if we can do this in one bite, bro. I've never had it like this. I'm so excited. You know what it reminds me of? You know when you're in Jury or Brooklyn, everybody's like, the Italian spots in my mouth. Stay and go. Stay and go. You mean this is one of those spots that you stay at? Stay. I gotta go for the uh. I look at the sauce and turn it around. I'm going with the lamb, because I've never had lamb pasta before. That is truly Sunday's best. Oh my gosh. David, if I had to rename this dish, I would call it daily gravy because I would want to eat this Monday through Sunday to Monday to Tuesday through Sunday again. This is where it's at. You know what I love about Italian restaurants is that it's so centered around being a family. You know, it's made to share. The portions are big. Everybody scoop out their peas. And never go against the family. Our next dish is their famous veal, the asabuco. Look, you've got a piece of omero in the middle, very trendy. Trendy before it was trendy. Let's get it. Oh, there you go. This is the asabuco. And then you have this focaccia bread right here. Is it focaccia or focaccia? Focaccia. Reveal that veal. Yo, yo, I gotta keep it veal. This is so good. Veal for vendetta. I thought that this was gonna be covered in sauce, but really they let the veal shine on its own. This was impeccably homemade. This was impeccably masterpain. Ending off on dessert here at Buddy Bees, we've got the lobster tail. It's a flaky, long pastry that's in the shape of a lobster tail, but it's filled with a Bailey's custard. What is the tail? All right, I'm gonna split it. Wow. Sounds like crack it open a lobster. I'm actually gonna fit in a couple blueberries and raspberries up in there. But it's not lobster tail, it's actually pie strings. So you're kind of saying it like Sean Conner. Lobster tail. This is definitely a guilty pleasure dessert, but it could have been for fashion too. Yeah, I could see somebody wearing this.  Cheers.