. 　　I was present. This woman flung herself on Monsieur Bamatabnois, who is an elector and the proprietor of that handsome house with a balcony, which forms the corner of the esplanade, three stories high and entirely of cut stone. 　　Such things as there are in the world! In any case, Monsieur le Maire, this is a question of police regulations in the streets, and concerns me, and I shall detain wholesale jordans this woman Fantine." 　　Then M. Madeleine folded his arms, and said in a severe voice which no one in the town had heard hitherto:-- 　　"The matter to which you refer is one connected with the municipal police. 　　According to the terms of articles nine, eleven, fifteen, and sixty-six of the code of criminal examination, I am the judge. 　　I order that this woman shall be set at liberty." 　　Javert ventured to make a final effort. 　　"But, Mr. Mayor--" 　　"I refer you to article eighty-one of the law of the 13th of December, 1799, in regard to arbitrary detention." 　　"Monsieur le Maire, permit me--" 　　"Not another word." 　　"But--" 　　"Leave the room," said M. Madeleine. 　　Javert received the blow erect, full in the face, in his breast, like a Russian soldier. 　　He bowed to the very earth before the mayor and left the room. 　　Fantine stood aside from the door and stared at him in amazement as he passed. 　　Nevertheless, she also was the prey to a strange confusion. 　　She had just seen herself a subject of dispute between two opposing powers. She had seen two men who held in their hands her liberty, her life, her soul, her child, in combat before her very eyes; one of these men was drawing her towards darkness, the other was leading her back towards the light. 　　In this conflict, viewed through the exaggerations of terror, these two men had appeared to her like two giants; the one spoke like her demon, the other like her good angel. The angel had conquered the demon, and, strange to say, that which made her shudder from head to foot was the fact that this angel, this liberator, was the very man whom she abhorred, that mayor whom she had so long regarded as the author of all her woes, that Madeleine! And at the very moment when she had insulted him in so hideous a fashion, he had saved her! 　　Had she, then, been mistaken? Must she change her whole soul? 　　She did not know; she trembled. She listened in bewilderment, she looked on in affright, and at every word uttered by M. Madeleine she felt the frightful shades of hatred crumble and melt within her, and something warm cheap Michael Kors bags and ineffable, indescribable, which was both joy, confidence and love, dawn in her heart. 　　When Javert had taken his departure, M. Madeleine turned to her and said to her in a deliberate voice, like a serious man who does not wish to weep and who finds some difficulty in speaking:-- 　　"I have heard you. 　　I knew nothing
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BOOK FIRST.-WATERLOO CHAPTER V 　　THE QUID OBSCURUM OF BATTLES 　　 Every one is acquainted with the first phase of this battle; a beginning which was troubled, uncertain, hesitating, menacing to both armies, but still more so for the English than for the French. 　　It had rained retro jordans all night, the earth had been cut up by the downpour, the water had accumulated here and there in the hollows of the plain as if in casks; at some points the gear of the artillery carriages was buried up to the axles, the circingles of the horses were dripping with liquid mud. 　　If the wheat and rye trampled down by this cohort of transports on the march had not filled in the ruts and strewn a litter beneath the wheels, all movement, particularly in the valleys, in the direction of Papelotte would have been impossible. 　　The affair began late. 　　Napoleon, as we have already explained, was in the habit of keeping all his artillery well in hand, like a pistol, aiming it now Michael Kors wallet at one point, now at another, of the battle; and it had been his wish to wait until the horse batteries could move and gallop freely. 　　In order to do that it was necessary that the sun should come out and dry the soil. But the sun did not make its appearance. 　　It was no longer the rendezvous of Austerlitz. 　　When the first cannon was fired, the English general, Colville, looked at his watch, and noted that it was thirty-five minutes past eleven. 　　The action was begun furiously, with more fury, perhaps, than the Emperor would have wished, by the left wing of the French resting on Hougomont. 　　At the same time Napoleon attacked the centre by hurling Quiot's brigade on La Haie-Sainte, and Ney pushed forward the right wing of the French against the left wing of the English, which rested on Papelotte. 　　The attack on Hougomont was something of a feint; the plan was to draw Wellington thither, and to make him swerve to the left. This plan would have succeeded if the four companies of the English guards and the brave Belgians of Perponcher's division had not held the position solidly, and Wellington, instead of massing his troops there, could confine himself to despatching thither, as reinforcements, only four more companies of guards and one battalion from Brunswick. 　　The attack of the right wing of the French on Papelotte was calculated, in fact, to overthrow the English left, to cut off the road to Brussels, to bar the passage against possible Prussians, to force Mont-Saint-Jean, to turn Wellington back on Hougomont, thence on Braine-l'Alleud, thence on Hal; nothing easier. With the exception of a few incidents this attack succeeded Papelotte was taken; La Haie-Sainte was carried. 　　A detail to be noted. 　　There was in the English infantry, particularly in Kempt's brigade, a great many raw recruits. 　　These young soldiers were valiant in the presence of our redoubtable infantry; their inexperience extricated them intrepidly from the dilemma; they performed particularly excellent service as skirmishers: the soldier skirmisher, left somewhat to himself, becomes, so
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said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went and came, "to take in a man like that! and to lodge him close to one's self! 　　And how fortunate that he did nothing but steal! Ah, mon Dieu! it makes one shudder to think of it!" 　　As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door. 　　"Come in," said the Bishop. 　　The door opened. 　　A singular and violent group made its appearance on the threshold. 　　Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the other was Jean Valjean. 　　A brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was standing near the door. 　　He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a military salute. 　　"Monseigneur--" said he. 　　At this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed, raised his head with an air of stupefaction. 　　"Monseigneur!" he murmured. 　　"So he is not the Michael Kors wallet cure?" 　　"Silence!" said the gendarme. 　　"He is Monseigneur the Bishop." 　　In the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his great age permitted. 　　"Ah! here you are!" he exclaimed, looking at Jean Valjean. "I am glad to see you. 　　Well, but how is this? 　　I gave you the candlesticks too, which are of silver like the rest, and for which you can certainly get two hundred francs. Why did you not cheap Michael Kors bags carry them away with your forks and spoons?" 　　Jean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the venerable Bishop with an expression which no human tongue can render any account of. 　　"Monseigneur," said the brigadier of gendarmes, "so what this man said is true, then? 　　We came across him. 　　He was walking like a man who is running away. 　　We stopped him to look into the matter. He had this silver--" 　　"And he told you," interposed the Bishop with a smile, "that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had passed the night? 　　I see how the matter stands. 　　And you have brought him back here? 　　It is a mistake." 　　"In that case," replied the brigadier, "we can let him go?" 　　"Certainly," replied the Bishop. 　　The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled. 　　"Is it true that I am to be released?" he said, in an almost inarticulate voice, and as though he were talking in his sleep. 　　"Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?" said one of the gendarmes. 　　"My friend," resumed the Bishop, "before you go, here are your candlesticks. 　　Take them." 　　He stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them to Jean Valjean. 　　The two women looked on without uttering a word, without a gesture, without a look which could disconcert the Bishop. 　　Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. 　　He took the two candlesticks mechanically, and with a bewildered air. 　　"Now," said the Bishop, "go in peace. 　　By the way, when you return, my friend,
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BOOK THIRD.--THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON CHAPTER VIII 　　MARBLE AGAINST GRANITE 　　 It was hither that Marius had come on the cheap jordan shoes first occasion of his absenting himself from Paris. 　　It was hither that he had come every time that M. Gillenormand had said: 　　"He is sleeping out." 　　Lieutenant Theodule was absolutely put out of countenance by this unexpected encounter with a sepulchre; he experienced a singular and disagreeable sensation which he was incapable of analyzing, and which was composed of respect for the tomb, mingled with respect for the colonel. 　　He retreated, leaving Marius alone in the cemetery, and there was discipline in this retreat. 　　Death appeared to him with large epaulets, and he almost made the wholesale jordans military salute to him. Not knowing what to write to his aunt, he decided not to write at all; and it is probable that nothing would have resulted from the discovery made by Theodule as to the love affairs of Marius, if, by one of those mysterious arrangements which are so frequent in chance, the scene at Vernon had not had an almost immediate counter-shock at Paris. 　　Marius returned from Vernon on the third day, in the middle of the morning, descended at his grandfather's door, and, wearied by the two nights spent in the diligence, and feeling the need of repairing his loss of sleep by an hour at the swimming-school, he mounted rapidly to his chamber, took merely time enough to throw off his travelling-coat, and the black ribbon which he wore round his neck, and went off to the bath. 　　M.Gillenormand, who had risen betimes like all old men in good health, had heard his entrance, and had made haste to climb, as quickly as his old legs permitted, the stairs to the upper story where Marius lived, in order to embrace him, and to question him while so doing, and to find out where he had been. 　　But the youth had taken less time to descend than the old man had to ascend, and when Father Gillenormand entered the attic, Marius was no longer there. 　　The bed had not been disturbed, and on the bed lay, outspread, but not defiantly the great-coat and the black ribbon. 　　"I like this better," said M. Gillenormand. 　　And a moment later, he made his entrance into the salon, where Mademoiselle Gillenormand was already seated, busily embroidering her cart-wheels. 　　The entrance was a triumphant one. 　　M. Gillenormand held in one hand the great-coat, and in the other the neck-ribbon, and exclaimed:-- 　　"Victory! 　　We are about to penetrate the mystery! 　　We are going to learn the most minute details; we are going to lay our finger on the debaucheries of our sly friend! 　　Here we have the romance itself. I have the portrait!" 　　In fact, a case of black shagreen, resembling a medallion portrait, was suspended from the ribbon. 　　The old man took this case and gazed at it for some time without opening it, with that air of enjoyment, rapture, and wrath, with which a poor hungry fellow beholds an admirable dinner which is not for him, pass under his very nose. 　　"For this evidently
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BOOK THIRD.--ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN CHAPTER VIII 　　THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE'S HOUSE A POOR MAN WHO MAY BE A RICH MAN 　　 Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big doll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant's; then she knocked. The door opened. 　　The Thenardier appeared with a candle in her hand. 　　 "Ah! so it's you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you've taken your time! 　　The hussy has been amusing herself!" 　　"Madame," said Cosette, trembling all over, "here's a gentleman who wants a lodging." 　　The Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the new-comer with her eyes. 　　"This is the gentleman?" said she. 　　"Yes, Madame," replied the man, raising his hand to his hat. 　　Wealthy travellers are not so polite. 　　This gesture, and an inspection of the stranger's costume and baggage, which the Thenardier passed in review with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the gruff mien to reappear. 　　She resumed dryly:-- 　　"Enter, my good man." 　　The "good man" entered. 　　The Thenardier cast a second glance at him, paid particular attention to his frock-coat, wholesale jordans which was absolutely threadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and, tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular beggar. 　　Thereupon, the Thenardier exclaimed:-- 　　"Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left." 　　"Put me where you like," said the man; "in the attic, in Michael Kors wallet the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room." 　　"Forty sous." 　　"Forty sous; agreed." 　　"Very well, then!" 　　"Forty sous!" said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thenardier woman; "why, the charge is only twenty sous!" 　　"It is forty in his case," retorted the Thenardier, in the same tone. "I don't lodge poor folks for less." 　　"That's true," added her husband, gently; "it ruins a house to have such people in it." 　　In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench, had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. 　　The merchant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting. 　　The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention. 　　Cosette was ugly. 　　If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years
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. 　　The headlong precipitation of a people into the truth, a '93, terrified him; nevertheless, stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he detected putrefaction and death; on the whole, he preferred scum to miasma, and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, and the falls of Niagara to the lake of Montfaucon. 　　In short, he desired neither halt nor haste. 　　While his tumultuous friends, captivated by the absolute, adored and invoked splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was inclined to let progress, good progress, take its own course; he may have been cold, but he was pure; methodical, but irreproachable; phlegmatic, but imperturbable. 　　Combeferre would have knelt and clasped his hands to enable the future to arrive in all its candor, and that nothing might disturb the immense and virtuous evolution of the races. 　　The good must be innocent, he repeated incessantly. And in fact, if the grandeur of the Revolution consists in keeping the dazzling ideal fixedly in view, and of soaring thither athwart the lightnings, with fire and blood in its talons, the beauty of progress lies in being spotless; and there exists between Washington, who represents the one, and Danton, who incarnates the other, that difference which separates the swan from the angel with the retro jordans wings of an eagle. 　　Jean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. 　　His name was Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled with the powerful and profound movement whence sprang the very essential study of the Middle Ages. 　　Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of flowers, played on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied woman, wept over the child, confounded God and the future in the same confidence, and blamed the Revolution for having caused the fall of a royal head, that of Andre Chenier. His voice was ordinarily delicate, but suddenly grew manly. He was learned even to erudition, and almost an Orientalist. Above all, he was good; and, a very simple thing to those who know how nearly goodness borders on grandeur, in the matter of poetry, he preferred the immense. 　　He knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and these served him only for the perusal of four poets: Dante, Juvenal, AEschylus, and Isaiah. 　　In French, Michael Kors bags he preferred Corneille to Racine, and Agrippa d'Aubigne to Corneille. He loved to saunter through fields of wild oats and corn-flowers, and busied himself with clouds nearly as much as with events. His mind had two attitudes, one on the side towards man, the other on that towards God; he studied or he contemplated. 　　All day long, he buried himself in social questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, property, production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the human ant-hill with darkness; and at night, he
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INT -- SHAFT -- NIGHT (1966) 249 Andy squeezes through the hole head-first, emerges to the waist, He reaches for the opposite wall, manages to snag a steel conduit with his fingers. Suddenly, a huge rat darts for his hand. Andy yanks away and almost plummets head-first down the shaft. He dangles wildly upside-down for a moment, arms windmilling, then gets his hands pressed firmly against the opposite wall. The rat scurries off, pissed. Andy snags the conduit again. He contorts out of the hole and dangles into the shaft. We now see the purpose for the rope: the plastic bag cheap jordans hangs from his ankle with about two feet of slack, He kicks his legs across the shaft, gets his feet braced. Wit3 his back against one wall and feet against the other, Michael Kors handbags he starts down the shaft. Sliding dangerously. Using pipes for handholds. Flinching as rats dart this way and that, scurrying in the shadows. He drops the last few feet to the bottom. He approaches the ceramic sewer pipe and kneels before it. Pulls out the rock-hammer and says a quick silent prayer. Raises the rock-hammer high and swings it down with all his might. Once, twice -- third time lucky. An enormous eruption of sewage cascades into the air as if rocket-propelled, the Mount St. Helens of shit. Andy is instantly coated black. He turns away and heaves his guts out. The shit keeps coming. 250 INT -- SEWER PIPE -- NIGHT (1966) 250 Andy peers down through the hole, playing his penlight aroun5, The inside diameter is no more than two feet. Tight squeeze. Coated with crud. It seems to go on for miles. No turning back. He wriggles into the pipe and starts crawling, plastic bag dragging behind. RED (V.O.) Andy crawled to freedom through five hundred yards of shit-smelling foulness I can't even imagine. Or maybe I just don't want to. 251 EXT -- FIELD -- NIGHT (1966) 251 Rain is falling in solid sheets. Shawshank is half a mile distant. BOOM DOWN to reveal the creek...and PUSH IN toward the mouth of the sewer pipe that feeds into it. RED (V.O.) Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of half a mile. Fingers appear, thrusting through the heavy-gauge wire mesh covering the mouth of the pipe. Andy's face looms from the darkness, peering out at freedom. He wrenches the mesh loose, pushes himself out, and plunges head-first into the creek. He comes up sputtering for breath. The water is waist-deep. He wades upstream, ripping his clothes from his body. He gets his shirt off, spins it through the air over his head, flings the shirt away. He raises his arms to the sky, turning slowly, feeling the rain washing him clean. Exultant. Triumphant. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING arcs from horizon to horizon. 252 INT -- ANDY'S TUNNEL -- DAY (1966) 252 Once again, we see stunned faces as CAMERA PULLS BACK. RED (V.O.) The next morning, right about the time Racquel was spilling her little secret... 253 INT -- CASCO BANK OF PORTLAND -- MORNING (1966) 253 The door opens. Spit-shined shoes enter. DOLLY the shoes to the counter. RED (V.O.) ...a man nobody ever laid eyes on before strolled into the Casco Bank of Portland. Until that moment, he didn't exist -- except on paper. FEMALE TELLER (O.S.) May I help you? TILT UP to Andy. Smiling in Norton's gray pinstripe suit. ANDY My name is Peter Stevens. I've come to close out some accounts. 254 INT -- BANK -- SHORTLY LATER (1966) 254 The teller is cutting a cashier's check while the MANAGER carefully examines Mr. Stevens' various I.D.s. RED (V.O.) He had all the proper I.D. Driver's license, birth certificate, social security card. The signature was a spot-on match. MANAGER I must say I'm sorry to be losing your business. I hope you'll enjoy living abroad. ANDY Thank you. I'm sure I will. TELLER Here's your cashier's check, sir. Will there be anything else? ANDY Please. Would you add this to your outgoing mail? He hands her a package, stamped and addressed. Gives them a pleasant smile. Turns and strolls from the bank. RED (V.O.) Mr. Stevens visited nearly a dozen banks in the Portland
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was she who finished off Ariana – ” “How can you, Muriel!” groaned Doge. “A mother kill her own daughter? Think what you’re saying!” “If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on end, why not?” shrugged Auntie Muriel. “But as I say, it doesn’t fit, because Kendra died before Ariana – of what, nobody ever seemed sure-” “Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle,” said Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. “Shake your head all you like, Elphias. You were at Ariana’s funeral, were you not?” “Yes I was,” said Doge, through trembling lips, “and a more desperately sad occasion I cannot remember. Albus was heartbroken-” “His heart wasn’t the only thing. Didn’t Aberforth break Albus’ nose halfway through the service?” If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another swig of champagne, which dribbled down cheap Michael Kors bags her chin. “How do you -?” croaked Doge. “My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot,” said Auntie Muriel happily. “Bathilda described the whole thing to mother while I was listening at the door. A coffin-side brawl. The way Bathilda told it, Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’ fault that Ariana was dead and then punched him in retro jordans the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that’s odd enough in itself. Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his back.” Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of those old scandals seemed to elate her as much as they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to think, what to believe. He wanted the truth and yet all Doge did was sit there and bleat feebly that Ariana had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that Dumbledore would not have intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his own house, and yet there was undoubtedly something odd about the story. “And I’ll tell you something else,” Muriel said, hiccupping slightly as she lowered her goblet. “I think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in Skeeter’s interview about an important source close to the Dumbledores – goodness knows she was there all through the Ariana business, and it would fit!” “Bathilda, would never talk to Rita Skeeter!” whispered Doge. “Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry said. “The author of A History of Magic?” The name was printed on the front of one of Harry’s textbooks, though admittedly not one of the ones he had read more attentively. “Yes,” said Doge, clutching at Harry’s question like a drowning man at a life heir. “A most gifted magical historian and an old friend of Albus’s.” “Quite gaga these days, I’ve heard,” said Auntie Muriel cheerfully. “If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of her,” said Doge, “and no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!” “Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and I’m sure Rita Skeeter knows them all,” said Auntie Muriel “But even if Bathilda’s
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