sires a scoundrel or a demi-god.

For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are instances
of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves step by
step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes. Noble and
mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited with no
renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life, misfortune,
isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle which have
their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander than the
heroes who win renown.

Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a
step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of
soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good
milk for the magnanimous.

There came a moment in Marius' life, when he swept his own landing, when
he bought his sou's worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer's, when he
waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker's and purchase
a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though he had
stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the butcher's shop
on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed him, an
awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm, who had a timid yet
angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a brow whereon stood
drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the butcher's astonished
wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven sous for it, wrapped
it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between two books, and went
away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he
lived for three days.

On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the
third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and
sent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on every
occasion, saying that he needed nothing.

He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we
have just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he
had not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him.
The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next.
What was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some
good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned
by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was green.
Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. Thi