“Your blessing,” said the bishop. And he fell upon his knees.
When the bishop raised his head, the face of the old man had become august. He had expired.
The bishop went home deeply absorbed in ineffable thoughts. He spent the whole night in prayer. The next day, some persons, emboldened by curiosity, tried to talk with him of the conventionist G—; he merely pointed to Heaven.
From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly love for the weak and the suffering.
Every allusion to “that old scoundrel G—,” threw him into a strange reverie. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his own, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his own had not had its effect upon his approach to perfection.
BOOK TWO
THE FALL
1
THE EVENING AFTER A LONG DAY’S WALK
AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET, on the evening of a day in the beginning of October, 1815, a man travelling afoot entered the little town of D—. The few persons who at this time were at their windows or their doors, regarded this traveller with apprehension. It would have been hard to find a passer-by more wretched in appearance. He was a man of middle height, burly and hardy, in the prime of life; he might have been forty-six or seven. A leather slouch cap half hid his face, bronzed by the sun and wind, and dripping with sweat. His hairy chest could be seen through the coarse yellow shirt which at the neck was fastened by a small silver anchor; he wore a cravat twisted like a rope; coarse blue trousers, worn and shabby, white on one knee, and with holes in the other; an old ragged grey smock, patched on one side with a piece of green cloth sewed with twine: upon his back was a well-filled knapsack, strongly buckled and quite new. In his hand he carried an enormous knotted stick: his stockingless feet were in hobnailed shoes; his hair was cropped and his beard long.
The sweat, the heat, his long walk, and the dust, added an indescribable squalor to his tattered appearance.
His hair was shorn, but bristly, for it had begun to grow a little and seemingly had not been cut for some time. Nobody knew him, he was evidently a traveller. Whence had he come? From the south—perhaps from the sea; for he was making his entrance into D—by the same road by which, seven months before, the Emperor Napoleon went from Cannes to Paris.
n
This man must have walked all day long; for he appeared very weary. Some women of the old city which is at the lower part of the town, had seen him stop under the trees of the boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which is at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty, for some children who followed him, saw him stop not two hundred steps further on and drink again at the fountain in the market-place.
When he reached the corner of the Rue Poichevert he turned to the left and went towards the mayor’s office. He went in, and a quarter of an hour afterwards he came out.
The man raised his cap humbly and saluted a gendarme who was seated near the door, upon the stone bench which General Drouot mounted on the fourth of March, to read to the terrified inhabitants of D—the proclamation of the
Golfe Juan.
5
Without returning his salutation, the gendarme looked at him attentively, watched him for some distance, and then went into the city hall.
There was then in D—, a good inn called
La Croix de Colbas.
The traveller turned his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the place, and went at once into the kitchen, which opened out of the street. All the ranges were fuming, and a great fire was burning briskly in the chimney-place. Mine host, who was at the same time head cook, was going from the fire place to the saucepans, very busy superintending an excellent dinner for some wagoners who were laughing and talking noisily in the next room. Whoever has travelled knows that nobody lives better than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and gamecocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire; upon the ranges were cooking two large carps from Lake Lauzet, and a trout from Lake Alloz.
The host, hearing the door open, and a new-comer enter, said, without raising his eyes from his ovens—
“What will monsieur have?”
“Something to eat and lodging.”
“Nothing more easy,” said mine host, but on turning his head and taking an observation of the traveller, he added, “for pay.”
The man drew from his pocket a large leather purse, and answered,
“I have money.”
“Then,” said mine host, “I am at your service.”
The man put his purse back into his pocket, took off his knapsack and put it down hard by the door, and holding his stick in his hand, sat down on a low stool by the fire. D—being in the mountains, the evenings of October are cold there.
However, as the host passed backwards and forwards, he kept a careful eye on the traveller.
“Is dinner almost ready?” said the man.
“Directly,” said mine host.
While the new-comer was warming himself with his back turned, the worthy innkeeper, Jacquin Labarre, took a pencil from his pocket, and then tore off the corner of an old paper which he pulled from a little table near the window. On the margin he wrote a line or two, folded it, and handed the scrap of paper to a child, who appeared to serve him as lackey and scullion at the same time. The innkeeper whispered a word to the boy and he ran off in the direction of the mayor’s office.
The traveller saw nothing of this.
He asked a second time: “Is dinner ready?”
“Yes; in a few moments,” said the host.
The boy came back with the paper. The host unfolded it hurriedly, as one who is expecting an answer. He seemed to read with attention, then throwing his head on one side, thought for a moment. Then he took a step towards the traveller, who seemed drowned in disturbing thoughts.
“Monsieur,” said he, “I cannot receive you.”
The traveller half rose from his seat.
“Why? Are you afraid I shall not pay you, or do you want me to pay in advance? I have money, I tell you.”
“It is not that.”
“What then?”
“You have money—”
“Yes,” said the man.
“And I,” said the host; “I have no room.”
“Well, put me in the stable,” quietly replied the man.
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because the horses take all the room.”
“Well,” responded the man, “a corner in the garret; a truss of straw: we will see about that after dinner.”
“I cannot give you any dinner.”
This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, appeared serious to the traveller. He got up.
“Ah, bah! but I am dying with hunger. I have walked since sunrise; I have travelled twelve leagues. I will pay, and I want something to eat.”
“I have nothing,” said the host.
The man burst into a laugh, and turned towards the fireplace and the ranges.
“Nothing! and all that?”
“All that is reserved.”
“By whom?”
“By those persons, the wagoners.”
“How many are there of them?”
“Twelve.”
“There is enough there for twenty.”
“They have ordered and paid for it all in advance.”
The man sat down again and said, without raising his voice: “I am at an inn. I am hungry, and I shall stay.”
The host bent down his ear, and said in a voice which made him tremble:
“Go away!”
At these words the traveller, who was bent over, poking some embers in the fire with the iron-shod end of his stick, turned suddenly around, and opened his mouth, as if to reply, when the host looking steadily at him, added in the same low tone: “Stop, no more of that. Shall I tell you your name? your name is Jean Valjean, now shall I tell you
who
you are? When I saw you enter, I suspected something. I sent to the mayor’s office, and here is the reply. Can you read?” So saying, he held towards him the open paper, which had just come from the mayor. The man cast a look upon it; the innkeeper, after a short silence, said: “It is my custom to be polite to all: Go!”
The man bowed his head, picked up his knapsack, and went out.
He took the main street; he walked at random, slinking near the houses like a sad and humiliated man: he did not once turn around. If he had turned, he would have seen the innkeeper of the
Croix de Colbas,
standing in his doorway with all his guests, and the passers-by gathered about him, speaking excitedly, and pointing him out; and from the looks of fear and distrust which were exchanged, he would have guessed that before long his arrival would be the talk of the whole town.
He saw nothing of all this: people overwhelmed with trouble do not look behind; they know only too well that misfortune follows them.
Jean Valjean wanders until he finds another tavern, but word of his criminal history has spread, and he is turned away there too. He asks to sleep in the prison, but is refused; he is driven from a private home at gunpoint, and refused even a glass of water. As night falls, he takes refuge in a small hut, but it proves to be a dog kennel, and when the dog returns, it bites and scratches him. Finally he meets an old woman in front of the church, and she directs him to Bishop Myriel by saying simply, “Knock at that door there.”
It was about eight o‘clock in the evening: as he did not know the streets, he walked at random.
So he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary; on passing by the Cathedral square, he shook his fist at the church.
At the corner of this square stands a printing-office; there were first printed the proclamations of the emperor, and the Imperial Guard to the army, brought from the island of Elba, and dictated by Napoleon himself.
Exhausted with fatigue, and hoping for nothing better, he lay down on a stone bench in front of this printing-office.
Just then an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man lying there in the dark and said:
“What are you doing there, my friend?”
He replied harshly, and with anger in his tone:
“You see, my good woman, I am going to sleep.”
The good woman, who really merited the name, was Madame la Mar quise de R—.
“Upon the bench?” said she.
“For nineteen years I have had a wooden mattress,” said the man; “to-night I have a stone one.”
“You have been a soldier?”
“Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”
“Why don’t you go to the inn?”
“Because I have no money.”
“Alas!” said Madame de R—, “I have only four sous in my purse.”
“Give them then.” The man took the four sous, and Madame de R—continued:
“You cannot find lodging for so little in an inn. But have you tried? You cannot pass the night so. You must be cold and hungry. They should give you lodging for charity.”
“I have knocked at every door.”
“Well, what then?”
“Everybody has driven me away.”
The good woman touched the man’s arm and pointed out to him on the other side of the square, a little low house beside the bishop’s palace.
“You have knocked at every door?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you knocked at that one there?”
“No.”
“Knock there.”
2
PRUDENCE COMMENDED TO WISDOM
THAT EVENING, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D—remained quite late in his room. He was busy with his great work on Duty, which unfortunately remains incomplete.
At eight o‘clock he was still at work, writing with some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on his knees, when Madame Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from the cupboard near the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and went into the dining-room.
This dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, and with a door upon the street, as we have said, and a window opening into the garden.
Madame Magloire had just finished setting the table.
While she was arranging the table, she was talking with Mademoiselle Baptistine.
The lamp was on the table, which was near the fireplace, where a good fire was burning.
One can readily fancy these two women, both past their sixtieth year: Madame Magloire, small, fat, and quick in her movements; Mademoiselle Baptistine, sweet, thin, fragile, a little taller than her brother, wore a silk puce colour dress, in the style of 1806, which she had bought at that time in Paris, and which still lasted her. To borrow a common mode of expression, which has the merit of saying in a single word what a page would hardly express, Madame Magloire had the air of a peasant, and Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a lady. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, clever, and kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and the upper lip projecting beyond the under one, gave something morose and imperious to her expression. So long as monseigneur was silent, she talked to him without reserve, and with a mingled respect and freedom; but from the time that he opened his mouth as we have seen, she implicitly obeyed like mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Baptistine, however, did not speak. She confined herself to obeying, and endeavouring to please. Even when she was young, she was not pretty; she had large and very prominent blue eyes, and a long pinched nose, but her whole face and person, as we said in the outset, breathed an ineffable goodness. She had been fore-ordained to meekness, but faith, charity, hope, these three virtues which gently warm the heart, had gradually sublimated this meekness into sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb; religion had made her an angel. Poor, sainted woman! gentle, but lost memory.
Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often related what occurred at the bishop’s house that evening, that many persons are still living who can recall the minutest details.