Another man lived in this chapel.  He never went outside the gate and used to take exercise at night.  He had a cot-bed in the shelter of the altar; beneath his pillow were a pair of pistols and a copy of Tacitus.  This man lived there Summer and Winter, although there was no warmth save the scanty sunshine that stole in through the shattered windows.  He, too, taught the children and gave them little lectures on history.  He loved the youngest boy and would carry him on his shoulder and tell him stories of deeds of valor.

One day a file of soldiers came.  They took this man and manacled him.  The mother sought to keep her children inside the house so that they should not witness the scene, but she did not succeed.  The boys fought their mother and the servants in a mad frenzy trying to rescue the old man.  The soldiers formed in columns of four and marched their prisoner away.

Not long after, Madame Hugo was passing the church of Saint Jacques du Haut Pas:  her youngest boy’s hand was in hers.  She saw a large placard posted in front of the church.  She paused and pointing to it said, “Victor, read that!” The boy read.  It was a notice that General Lahorie had been shot that day on the plains of Grenville by order of a court martial.

General Lahorie was a gentleman of Brittany.  He was a Republican, and five years before had grievously offended the Emperor.  A charge of conspiracy being proved against him, a price was placed upon his head, and he found a temporary refuge with the mother of his godson.

That tragic incident of the arrest, and the placard announcing General Lahorie’s death, burned deep into the soul of the manling, and who shall say to what extent it colored his future life?

When Napoleon met his downfall, it was also a Waterloo for General Hugo.  His property was confiscated, and penury took the place of plenty.

When Victor was nineteen, his mother having died, the family life was broken up.  In “Les Miserables” the early struggles of Marius are described; and this, the author has told us, may be considered autobiography.  He has related how the young man lived in a garret; how he would sweep this barren room; how he would buy a pennyworth of cheese, waiting until dusk to get a loaf of bread, and slink home as furtively as if he had stolen it; how carrying his book under his arm he would enter the butcher’s shop, and after being elbowed by jeering servants till he felt the cold sweat standing out on his forehead, he would take off his hat to the astonished butcher and ask for a single mutton-chop.  This he would carry to his garret, and cooking it himself it would be made to last for three days.

In this way he managed to live on less than two hundred dollars a year, derived from the proceeds of poems, pamphlets and essays.  At this time he was already an “Academy Laureate,” having received honorable mention for a poem submitted in a competition.