Les Misérables, Volume 1 - Part 2 By: Victor Hugo

[00:00:00] Speaker A: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 6. Javert Chapter 1. The Beginning of Repose. Monsieur Madeleine had Fantine removed to that infirmary which he had established in his own house. He confided her to the sisters, who put her to bed. A burning fever had come on. She passed a part of the night in delirium and raving. At length, however, she fell asleep. On the morrow, towards midday, Fantine awoke. She heard someone breathing close to her bed. She drew aside the curtain and saw Monsieur Madeleine standing there and looking at something over her head. His gaze was full of pity, anguish and supplication. She followed its direction and saw that it was fixed on a crucifix which was nailed to the wall. Thenceforth, Monsieur Madeleine was transfigured in Fantine's eyes. He seemed to her to be clothed in light. He was absorbed in a sort of prayer. She gazed at him for a long time with without daring to interrupt him. At last she said timidly, what are you doing? Monsieur Madeleine had been there for an hour. He had been waiting for Fantine to awake. He took her hand, felt of her pulse, and replied, how do you feel? Well, I have slept, she replied. I think that I am better. It is nothing, he answered, responding to the first question which she had put to him as though he had just heard it. I was praying to the martyr there on high. And he added in his own mind, for the martyr here below. Monsieur Madeleine had passed the night and the morning. In making inquiries he knew all. Now he knew Fantine's history in all its heart rending details. He went on. You have suffered much, poor mother. Oh, do not complain. You now have the dowry of the elect. It is thus that men are transformed into angels. It is not their fault. They do not know how to go to work. Otherwise, you see, this hell from which you have just emerged is the first form of heaven. It was necessary to begin there. He sighed deeply, but she smiled on him with that sublime smile in which two teeth were lacking. That same night, Javert wrote a letter. The next morning he posted it himself at the office of Montre sur Mer. It was addressed to Paris and the superscription ran to Monsieur Chabouer, secretary of Monsieur le Prefet of Police. As the affair in the station house had been brooded about, the postmistress and some other persons who saw the letter before it was sent off, and who recognized Javert's handwriting on the COVID thought that he was sending in his resignation. Monsieur Madeleine made haste to write to the Thenardiers. Fantine owed them 120 francs. He sent them 300 francs, telling them to pay themselves from that sum and to fetch the child instantly to Montreuil sur Mer, where her sick mother required her presence. This dazzled Thenardier. The devil, said the man to his wife, don't let's allow the child to go. This lark is going to turn into a milch cow. I see through it some ninny has taken a fancy to the mother. He replied with a very well drawn up bill for 500 and some odd francs. In this memorandum, two indisputable items figured up over 300 francs. One for the doctor, the other for the apothecary who had attended and physicked Eponine and Aselma through two long illnesses. Cosette, as we have already said, had not been ill. It was only a question of a trifling substitution of names. At the foot of the memorandum, Thenardier wrote, received on account 300 francs. Monsieur Madeleine immediately sent 300 francs more and wrote, make haste to bring Cosette. Christie, said Thenardier, let's not give up the child in the meantime. Fantine did not recover. She still remained in the infirmary. The sisters had at first only received and nursed that woman with repugnance. Those who have seen the bas reliefs of Rems will recall the inflation of the lower lip of the wise virgins as they survey the foolish virgins. The ancient scorn of the vestals for the Abubaje is one of the most profound instincts of feminine dignity. The sisters felt it with the double force contributed by religion. But in a few days Fantine disarmed them. She said all kinds of humble and gentle things and the mother in her provoked tenderness. One day the sisters heard her say amid her fever, I have been a sinner. But when I have my child beside me, it will be a sign that God has pardoned me while I was leading a bad life. I should not have liked to have my Cosette with me. I could not have borne her sad, astonished eyes. It was for her sake that I did evil. And that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the benediction of the good God. When Cosette is here, I shall gaze at her. It will do me good to see that innocent creature. She knows nothing at all. She is an angel, you see, my sisters, at that age, the wings have not fallen off. Monsieur Madeleine went to see her twice a day. And each time she asked him, shall I see my Cosette soon? He answered, to morrow perhaps. She may arrive at any moment I am expecting her. And the mother's pale face grew radiant. Oh, she said, how happy I am going to be. We have just said that she did not recover her health. On the contrary, her condition seemed to become more grave from week to week. That handful of snow applied to her bare skin between her shoulder blades had brought about a sudden suppression of perspiration, as a consequence of which the malady which had been smoldering within her for many years was violently developed at last. At that time people were beginning to follow the fine Lamech's fine suggestions on the study and treatment of chest maladies. The doctor sounded Fantine's chest and shook his head. Monsieur Madeleine said to the doctor, well, has she not a child which she desires to see? Said the doctor. Yes. Well, make haste and get it here. Monsieur Madeleine shuddered. Fantine inquired, what did the doctor say? Monsieur Madeleine forced himself to smile. He said that your child was to be brought speedily, that that would restore your health. Oh, she rejoined, he is right. But what do those Thenardiers mean by keeping my Cosette from me? Oh, she is coming. At last. I behold happiness close beside me. In the meantime, Thenardier did not let go of the child and gave a hundred insufficient reasons for it. Cosette was not quite well enough to take a journey in the winter, and then there still remained some petty but pressing debts in the neighborhood, and they were collecting the bills for them, etc. Etc. I shall send someone to fetch Cosette, said Father Madeleine. If necessary, I will go myself. He wrote the following letter to Fantine's dictation and made her sign it. Monsieur Thenardier, you will deliver Cosette to this person. You will be paid for all the little things. I have the honor to salute you with respect, Fantine. In the meantime, a serious incident occurred. Carve, as we will the mysterious block of which our life is made. The black Fane of destiny constantly reappears in it. End of Book 6 Chapter 1 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 6 Javert Chapter 2 How Jean May Become Sham One morning Monsieur Madeleine was in his study, occupied in arranging in advance some pressing matters connected with the mayor's office, in case he should decide to take the trip to Montfermeil. When he was informed, the police inspector Javert was desirous of speaking with him. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression on hearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since the affair of the police station, and Monsieur Madeleine had not seen him admit him. He said Javert entered. Monsieur Madeleine had retained his seat near the fire, passing pen in hand, his eyes fixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating, and which contained the trials of the Commission on highways for the infraction of Police regulations, he did not disturb himself on Javert's account. He could not help thinking of poor Fantine, and it suited him to be glacial in his manner. Javert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayor, whose back was turned to him. The mayor did not look at him, but went on annotating the stock. It advanced two or three paces into the study and halted without breaking the silence. If any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert and who had made a lengthy study of the savage in the service of civilization, this singular composite of the Roman, the Spartan, the monk and the corporal, the spy who was incapable of a lie, this unspotted police agent, if any physiognomist had known his secret and long cherished aversion for Monsieur Madeleine, his conflict with the Mayor on the subject of Fantine, and had examined Javert at that moment, he would have said to himself, what has taken place? It was evident to anyone acquainted with that clear, upright, sincere, honest, austere and ferocious conscience that Javert had but just gone through some great interior struggle. Javert had nothing in his soul which he had not. Also in his countenance, like violent people in general, he was subject to abrupt changes of opinion. His physiognomy had never been more peculiar and startling. On entering, he bowed to Monsieur Madeleine with a look in which there was neither rancor, anger nor distrust. He halted a few paces in the rear of the mayor's armchair, and there he stood, perfectly erect, in an attitude almost of discipline, with the cold, ingenuous roughness of a man who has never been gentle and who has always been patient. He waited without uttering a word, without making a movement, in genuine humility and tranquil resignation, calm, serious, hat in hand, with eyes cast down, and an expression which was half way between that of a soldier in the presence of his officer and a criminal in the presence of his judge, until it should please the Mayor to turn around, all the sentiments of, as well as all the memories which one might have attributed to him had disappeared. That face, as impenetrable and simple as granite, no longer bore any trace of anything but a melancholy depression. His whole person breathed lowliness and firmness and an indescribable, courageous despondency. At last the Mayor laid down his pan and turned half Round. Well, what is it? What is the matter, Javert? Javert remained silent for an instant, as though collecting his ideas, then raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity which did not, however, preclude simplicity. This is the matter, Monsieur Mayor. A culpable act has been committed. What act? An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect and and in the gravest manner towards a magistrate. I have come to bring the fact to your attention, as it is my duty to do. Who is the agent? Asked Monsieur Madeleine. I, said Javert. You? I? And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent? You, Monsieur Mayor. Monsieur Madeleine sat erect in his armchair. Javert went on with a severe air, and his eyes still cast down. Monsieur Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me. Monsieur Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Chavez interrupted him. You will say that I might have handed in my resignation, but that does not suffice. Handing in one's resignation is honorable. I have failed in my duty. I ought to be punished. I must be turned out. And after a pause he added, Monsieur Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly be so today with justice. Come now. Why, exclaimed Monsieur Madeleine. What nonsense is this? What is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of towards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs with regard to me? You accuse yourself. You wish to be superseded. Turned out, said Javert. Turned out. So be it then. That is well. I do not understand. You shall understand, Monsieur Mayor. Javert sighed from the very bottom of his chest and resumed still coldly and sadly. Monsieur Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman, I was furious. And I informed against you. Informed against me? At the prefecture of police in Paris, Monsieur Madeleine, who was not in the habit of laughing much oftener than Javert himself, burst out laughing now, as a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police as an ex convict. The mayor turned livid. Javert, who had not raised his eyes, went on. I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time, a resemblance inquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverol. The strength of your loins, the adventure with old Fauchelevent, your skill in marksmanship, your leg, which you drag a little, I hardly know what all absurdities. But at all events, I took you for a certain Jean Valjean. A certainwhat did you say the name was? Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing. Twenty years ago, when I was adjutant guard of convicts at Toulon, on leaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop. Then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence on a public highway, on the person of a little Savoyard. He disappeared eight years ago. No one knows how. And he has been sought. I fancied. In short, I did this thing. Wrath impelled me. I denounced you at the prefecture, Monsieur Madeleine, who had taken up the docket again several moments before, this resumed with an air of perfect indifference. And what reply did you receive? That I was mad. Well, well. They were right. It is lucky that you recognize the fact that I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found. The sheet of paper which Monsieur Madeleine was holding dropped from his hand. He raised his head, gazed fixedly at Javert, and said with his indescribable accent, Ah. Chavez continued. This is the way it is, Monsieur Mayor. It seems that there was in the neighborhood near Ayla Cloche, a. An old fellow who was called Father Chamathieu. He was a very wretched creature. No one paid any attention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on lately. Last autumn, Father Chamathieu was arrested for the theft of some cider apples. From. Well, no matter. A theft had been committed. A wall scaled, branches of trees broken. My Chamathieu was arrested. He still had the branch of apple tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up. Up to this point, it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is where providence intervened. The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it convenient to transfer Chamathieu to Arrah, where the departmental prison is situated. In this prison at Arras, there is an ex convict named Breve, who is detained for I know not what, and who has been appointed turnkey of the house because of good behavior. Monsieur. No sooner had Chamathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims, Eh? Why? I know that man. He is a faggot. Take a good look at me, my good man. You are Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean. Who's Jean Valjean? Chamathieu feigns astonishment. Don't play the innocent dodge, says Brevet. You are Jean Valjean. You have been at the galleys of toulon. It was 20 years ago. We were there together. Charmathieu denies it. Parbleu, you understand? The case is investigated. The thing was well ventilated for me. This is what they discovered. This chamathieu had been 30 years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at Favaro. There all trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne, then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright and to have had a daughter who was a laundress. But that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Favaro. Another fact. This Valjean's Christian name was Jean and his mother's surname was Matthew. What more natural to suppose than that on emerging from the galleys he should have taken his mother's name for the purpose of concealing himself and have called himself Jean Mathieu. He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns Jean into Jean. He is called Shan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition, and behold him transformed into Shan Matthieu. You follow me, do you not? Inquiries were made at Favaro. The family of Jean Valjean is no longer there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among those classes a family often disappears. Search was made and nothing was found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as the beginning of the story dates 30 years back, there is no longer anyone at Favarol who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at Toulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean. They are Cuchpai and Chenudieu and are sentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the pretended charmathieu. They do not hesitate. He is Jean Valjean for them as well as poor Brevais. The same age he is 54, the same height, the same air, the same man. In short, it is he. It was precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason and that Jean Valjean is at Arras in the power of the authorities. You can imagine whether this surprised me when I thought that I had that same Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge. He sends for me. Chamathieu is conducted to me. Well interposed, Monsieur Madeleine, Javert replied, his face incorruptible and as melancholy as ever. Monsieur Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry, but that man is Jean Valjean. I recognized him also. Monsieur Madeleine resumed in a very low voice. You are sure? Javert began to laugh with that mournful laugh which comes from profound conviction. Oh, sure. He stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically Taking pinches of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on the table. And he added, and even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Amer. Javert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole station house and bade him leave the room, Javert, that haughty man was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity. Monsieur Madeleine made no other reply to his prayer than the abrupt question, and what does this man say? Ah, indeed, Monsieur Mayor, it's a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a branch, to purloin apples, is a mischievous trick in a child. For a man it is a misdemeanor. For a convict it is a crime. Robbing and housebreaking, it is all there. It is no longer a question of correctional police. It is a matter for the Court of Assizes. It is no longer a matter of a few days in prison. It is the galleys for life. And then there is the affair with the little Savoyard who will return, I hope the deuce. There is plenty to dispute in the matter, is there not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly dog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt that things were getting hot for him. He would struggle, he would cry out, the kettle sings before the fire. He would not be Jean Valjean, etc. But he has not the appearance of understanding. He says, I am Chamathieu and I won't depart from that. He has an astonished air. He pretends to be stupid. It is far better. The rogue is clever, but it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been recognized by four persons. The old scamp will be condemned. The case has been taken to the Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my testimony. I have been summoned. Monsieur Madeleine had turned to his desk again and taken up his docket and was turning over the leaves, tranquilly reading and writing by turns, like a busy man, he turned to Javert. That will do, Javert. In truth, all these details interest me but little. We are wasting our time and we have pressing business on hand. Javert, you will be take yourself at once to the house of the woman Boucapier who sells herbs at the corner of the Rue Saint Sauve. You will tell her that she must enter her complaint against Carter Pierre Chenulong. The man is a brute who came near crushing this woman and her child. He must be punished. You will then go to Monsieur Chassier, rue Montre de Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the adjoining house which discharges rainwater on his premises and is undermining the foundations of his house. After that you will verify the infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in the Rue Guibourg at widow Dori's and Rue Garou Blanc at Madame Rene le Beauce's. And you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a great deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that you were going to Arras on that matter in a week or 10 days? Sooner than that, Monsieur Mayor. On what day then? Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case was to be tried to morrow and that I am to set out by diligence to night. Monsieur Madeleine made an imperceptible movement. And how long will the case last? One day at the most. The judgment will be pronounced tomorrow evening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence which is certain. I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken. That is well, said Monsieur Madeleine, and he dismissed Javert with a wave of the hand. Javert did not withdraw. Excuse me, Monsieur Mayor, said he. What is it now? Demanded Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you. What is it? That I must be dismissed, Monsieur Madeleine. [00:28:13] Speaker B: Rose. [00:28:15] Speaker A: Javert, you are a man of honor and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Moreover, this is an offense which concerns me. Javert, you deserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish you to retain your post. Javert gazed at Monsieur Madeleine with his candid eyes, in whose depths his not very enlightened, but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible and said in a tranquil voice, Monsieur Mayor, I cannot grant you that. I repeat, replied Monsieur Madeleine, that the matter concerns me. But Javert, heeding his own thought, only continued, so far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is the way I reason. I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is our right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed above ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you as a convict. You, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate. That is serious, very serious. I have insulted authority in your person. I, an Agent of the authorities. If one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I should have declared him unworthy of the service and have expelled him. Well, stop. Monsieur Mayor. One word more. I have often been severe in the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have done would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others? [00:30:05] Speaker C: No. [00:30:06] Speaker A: What, I should be good for nothing but to chastise others and not myself? Why, I should be a blackguard? Those who say that blackguard of a Javert would be in the right. Monsieur Mayor, I do not desire that you should treat me kindly. Your kindness roused sufficient bad blood in me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a citizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness. That is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God. It is very easy to be kind. The difficulty lies in being just. [00:30:53] Speaker C: Come. [00:30:53] Speaker A: If you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to you. Not I. You would have seen, Monsieur, I. I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself, if you flinch, if I ever catch you in a fault, you may rest at your ease. I have flinched. I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse. Come. Discharged, cashiered, expelled. That is well. I have arms. I will till the soil. It makes no difference to me, monsieur. The good of the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of Inspector Javert. All this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced tone which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man. We shall see, said Monsieur Madeleine, and he offered him his hand. Javert recoiled and said in a wild voice, excuse me, Monsieur Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his hand to a police spy, he added between his teeth. A police spy? Yes. From the moment when I have misused the police, I am no more than a police spy. Then he bowed profoundly and directed his steps towards the door. There he wheeled round, and with eyes still downcast, Monsieur Mayor, he said, I shall continue to serve until I am superseded. He withdrew. Monsieur Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm, sure step which died away on the pavement of the corridor. End of Book VI. [00:33:04] Speaker D: Chapter 2 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. [00:33:08] Speaker E: Book 7, Chapter 1 Sisters in Place. [00:33:15] Speaker D: The incidents the reader is about to. [00:33:17] Speaker E: Peruse were not all known at Montreuil. [00:33:20] Speaker D: Sur Mer, but the small portion of them which became known left such a memory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we did not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details, the reader will encounter. [00:33:39] Speaker C: Two or three improbable circumstances which we. [00:33:43] Speaker D: Preserve out of respect for the truth. On the afternoon following the Visit of. [00:33:49] Speaker E: Javert, Mr. Madeleine went to see Fontin. [00:33:53] Speaker D: According to his want. [00:33:55] Speaker E: Before entering Fontin's room, he had Sister. [00:33:59] Speaker D: Simplice summoned the two nuns who performed. [00:34:03] Speaker E: The services of nurse in the infirmary. [00:34:06] Speaker D: Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of Charity, bore the names of Sister Perpetu and Sister Simplice. Sister Perpetu was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity in a coarse style. [00:34:22] Speaker E: Who had entered the service of God as one enters any other service. She was a nun, as other women are cooks. [00:34:31] Speaker C: This type is not so very rare. [00:34:34] Speaker D: The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant earthenware, which is easily fashioned into. [00:34:41] Speaker E: A capuchin or an ursuline. [00:34:45] Speaker D: These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. [00:34:50] Speaker E: The transition from a drover to a. [00:34:53] Speaker D: Carmelite is not in the least violent. The one turns into the other without much effort. The fund of ignorance common to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand, and places the boar at once on the same footing as the monk. [00:35:12] Speaker C: A little more amplitude in the smock. [00:35:15] Speaker E: And it becomes a frock. Sister Perpetu was a robust nun from. [00:35:20] Speaker D: The Marines near Portoise, who chattered her patois, droned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the hypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was crabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage, was bold, honest, and Rudy. [00:35:51] Speaker E: Sister Simplice was white with a waxen pallor. [00:35:55] Speaker D: Besides Sister Perpetu, she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely traced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words, in which he mingles. [00:36:10] Speaker E: As much freedom as servitude. [00:36:13] Speaker D: They shall have for their convent only. [00:36:15] Speaker C: The house of the sick, for cell only a hired room, for chapel only. [00:36:23] Speaker D: Their parish church, for cloister only the streets of the town and the words of the hospitals. For enclosure only obedience, for gratings only the fear of God, for veil only modesty. [00:36:42] Speaker E: This Ideal was realized in the living person of Sister Simplice. She had never been young, and it. [00:36:49] Speaker C: Seemed as though she would never grow old. [00:36:52] Speaker D: No one could have told Sister Simplice's age. [00:36:56] Speaker E: She was a person, we dare not. [00:36:58] Speaker D: Say, a woman who was gentle, austere, well bred, cold, and who had never lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile, but she was more solid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that. [00:37:18] Speaker E: Were charmingly pure and fine. [00:37:21] Speaker D: There was, so to speak, silence in her speech. She said just what was necessary, and. [00:37:29] Speaker C: She possessed a tone of voice which. [00:37:32] Speaker D: Would have equally edified a confessional or. [00:37:36] Speaker C: Enchanted a drawing room. [00:37:39] Speaker D: This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge. [00:37:43] Speaker E: Gown, finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of God. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have. [00:37:57] Speaker D: Said for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice's distinctive trait. It was the accent of her virtue. She was almost renowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. [00:38:21] Speaker E: The Abyssika speaks of Sister Simplice in. [00:38:24] Speaker D: A letter to the deaf mute. [00:38:26] Speaker E: Monsieur, however pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candour. [00:38:32] Speaker D: The crack of the little innocent lie. She did not. [00:38:38] Speaker E: Little lie? Innocent lie? [00:38:41] Speaker C: Does such a thing exist? [00:38:44] Speaker D: To lie is the absolute form of evil. To lie a little is not possible. He who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names. He is called Satan and lying. That is what she thought. And as she thought, so she did. The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned, A whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white, her glance was white. There was not a single spider's web, not a grain of dust on the. [00:39:29] Speaker E: Glass window of that conscience. [00:39:32] Speaker D: On entering the Order of Saint Vicente. [00:39:35] Speaker E: De Paul, she had taken the name. [00:39:37] Speaker D: Of Saint Bliss by special choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to allow both her breasts to be torn off, rather than to say that she had been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse. A lie which would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul. Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults which she had gradually corrected. [00:40:09] Speaker E: She had a taste for dainties, and she liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book. [00:40:17] Speaker D: Of prayers printed in Latin in coarse type. [00:40:21] Speaker E: She did not understand Latin, but she understood the book. This pious woman had conceived an Affection for Fontaine, probably feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost. [00:40:35] Speaker D: Exclusively to her career. [00:40:39] Speaker E: Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended. [00:40:43] Speaker D: Fontin to her in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on. On leaving the sister, he approached fantine. [00:40:53] Speaker E: Fountain awaited Mr. Madeleine's appearance. [00:40:56] Speaker D: Every day as one awaits a ray of warmth and joy, she said to the sisters, I only live when Mr. [00:41:04] Speaker E: Le Mer is here. [00:41:06] Speaker D: She had a great deal of fever that day. [00:41:09] Speaker E: As soon as she saw Mr. Madeleine. [00:41:12] Speaker C: She asked him, and Cosette, he replied with a smile. [00:41:17] Speaker D: Soon Mr. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine, only he remained an hour instead of half an hour. To Fantine's great delight, he urged everyone repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It was noticed that there was a. [00:41:37] Speaker E: Moment when his countenance became very somber. [00:41:41] Speaker D: But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had been down. [00:41:46] Speaker E: To his ear and said to him. [00:41:49] Speaker D: She'S losing ground fast. Then he returned to the town hall, and the clerk observed him attentively. [00:41:59] Speaker E: Examining a road map of France which hung in his study. [00:42:04] Speaker D: He wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil. [00:42:14] Speaker E: End of Book 7 Chapter 1 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Recording by Betty greeby in Waapella, Illinois. Book 7, Chapter 2 the Perspicacity of Master Scofflier. From the Town hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town, to a Fleming named Master Scoffle Air, French Scoffle Air, who let out horses and cabriolets as desired. In order to reach this Schofieldier, the shortest way was to take the little frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the parish in which M. Madeline resided. The cure was, it was said, a worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeline arrived in front of the parsonage, there was but one passerby in the street, and this person noticed this. After the mayor had passed the priest's house, he halted, stood motionless, then turned about and retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it. Then he paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall abruptly, he placed it gently and resumed his way. With a sort of haste which had not been apparent previously. M. Madeline found Master Scoffier at home, engaged in stitching a harness. Over Master Scoffier, he inquired, have you a good horse, Mr. Mayor, said the Fleming. All my horses are good. What do you mean by a good horse? I mean a horse that can travel 20 leagues in a day. The Deuce, said the Fleming. Twenty leagues? Yes. Hitch to a cabriolet? Yes. And how long can he rest at the end of his journey? He must be able to set out again on the next day, if necessary, to traverse the same road. Yes. The deuce. The deuce. And it is 20 leagues. M. Madeline drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were five, six, eight and a half. You see, he said, total 19 and a half. As well as, say, 20 leagues. Mr. Mayor, returned the Fleming. I have just what you want. My little white horse. You may have seen him pass occasionally. He is a small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to make a saddle horse of him at first. [00:45:31] Speaker C: Bah. [00:45:32] Speaker E: He reared, he kicked, he laid everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious and no one knew what to do with him. I bought him, I harnessed him to a carriage. That is what he wanted, sir. He is as gentle as a girl. He goes like the wind. [00:45:50] Speaker D: Ah, indeed. [00:45:51] Speaker E: He must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas to be a saddle horse. Everyone has his ambition. Draw, yes. Carry, no. We must suppose that is what he said to himself, and he will accomplish the trip. You're 20 leagues all at a full trot and in less than eight hours. But here are the conditions. State them. In the first place, you will give him half an hour's breathing spell. Midway of the road he will eat. And someone must be by while he is eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats. For I have noticed in inns that oats are more often drunk by the stablemen than eaten by the horses. Someone will be by in the second place. Is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Mercenary? Yes. Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive? Yes. Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage in order not to overload the horse. Agreed. But as Monsieur Lemaire will have no one with him, he will be obliged to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen. That is understood. I am to have 30 francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for also. Not a farthing less. And the beast? Food to be at Monsieur Lemaire's expense. M. Madeline drew three Napoleons from his purse and laid them on the table. Here is the Pay for two days in advance. Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, would fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little Tilbury that I own. I consent to that. It is light but it has no cover. That makes no difference to me. Has Monsieur Le Mer reflected that we are in the middle of winter? And Madeline did not reply. The Fleming resumed that it is very cold and Madeline preserved silence. Master Scoffier continued that it may rain. M. Madeline raised his head and said, the Tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door tomorrow morning at half past four o'. [00:48:21] Speaker D: Clock. [00:48:22] Speaker E: Of course, Monsieur Le Mer, replied Scoffilier. Then, scratching a speck in the wood of the table with his his thumb nail, he resumed with that careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle with their shrewdness. But this is what I am thinking now. Monsieur le Maire has not told me where he is going. Where is Monsieur Lemaire going? He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the conversation but he did not know why he had not dared to put the question. Are your horses four legs good? Said M. Madeline. Yes, Monsieur Lemaire. You must hold him in a little when going downhill. Are there many descents between here and the place whither you are going? Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half past four o' clock to morrow morning, replied M. Madeline, and he took his departure. The Fleming remained utterly stupid, as he himself said. Sometime afterwards. The Mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened again. It was the Mayor once more. He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air. Monsieur Scoffilier, said he, at what sum do you estimate the value of the horse and Tilbury which you are to let me? The one bearing the other, the one dragging the other. Monsieur Le Mer, said the Fleming with a broad smile. So be it. Well, does Monsieur Le Mer wish to purchase them or me? No, but I wish to guarantee you in any case you shall give me back the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and cabriolet? 500 francs, Monsieur Le Mer. Here it is. M. Madeline laid a bank bill on the table, then left the room and this time he did not return. Master Scofflier experienced a frightful regret that he had not said a thousand francs. Besides, the horse and Tilbury together were worth a hundred crowns. The Fleming called his wife and related the affair to her. Where the devil could Monsieur Le Mer be going? They Held council together. He is going to Paris, said the wife. I don't believe it, said the husband. M. Madeline had forgotten the paper with the figures on it and it lay on the chimney piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. Five, six, eight and a half. That must designate the posting relays. He turned to his wife. I have found out what it is. Five leagues from here to Hesden. Six from Hesden to St. Paul. Eight and a half from St. Paul to Arrah. He is going to arrive. Meanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way to return from Master Scoffier's, as though the parsonage door had been a temptation for him and he wished to avoid it. He ascended to his room and there he shut himself up, which is a very simple act, since he liked going to bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the factory, who was at the same time M. Madeline's only servant, noticed that the latter's light was extinguished at half past eight, and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home and adding, is Monsieur Lemaire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air. This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine's chamber. He paid no heed to the portress's words, but went to bed and to sleep. Towards midnight he woke with a start. In his sleep he had heard a noise above his head. He listened. It was a footstep pacing back and forth as though someone were walking in the room above him. He listened more attentively and recognized M. Madeleine's step. This struck him as strange. Usually there was no noise in M. Madeline's chamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later, the cashier heard a noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened and then shut again. Then a piece of furniture was disarranged. Then a pause ensued. Then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now and staring, and through his window panes he saw the reddish gleam of a lighted window reflected on the opposite wall. From the direction of the rays it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine's chamber. The reflection wavered as though it came rather from a faint fire which had been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window frame was not shown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step was still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead. The reflection was still visible on the wall but now it was pale and peaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was still open. This is what had taken place in M. Madeleine's room. End of Book 7 Chapter 2 of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Les Miserables. [00:54:08] Speaker D: By Victor Hugo Book 7 Chapter 3 A Tempest in A SKULL the reader has no doubt already divined that Monsieur Madeleine is no other than Jean Valjean. We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience. The moment has now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man. It can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea. It is heaven. There is a spectacle more grand thank than heaven. It is the inmost recesses of the soul. To make the poem of the human conscience word only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epoch. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts and of temptations, the furnace of dreams, the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed. It is the pandemonium of sophisms. It is the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate at certain hours past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection. And look behind. Gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence. Battles of giants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress. Skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of his life. Alighieri one day met with a sinister looking door before which he hesitated. Here is one before us upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let us enter nevertheless. We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with little Gervais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What the bishop had wished to make of him that he carried out it was more than a transformation. It was a transfiguration. He succeeded in disappearing, sold the bishop's silver, reserving only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France, came to M. Cerrim conceived the idea which we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe from seizure and inaccessible, and thenceforth established at M. Serem, happy in feeling his conscience, saddened by the past and the first half of his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts to conceal his name and to sanctify his life, to escape men and to return to God. These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they formed but a single one. There both were equally absorbing and imperative and ruled his slightest actions. In general, they conspired to regulate the conduct of his life. They turned him towards the gloom, they rendered him kindly and simple. They counseled him to the same things. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will remember, the man whom all the country of M. Cerram called Monsieur Madeleine, did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second, his security to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved the bishop's candlesticks, worn morning for him, summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that way, collected information regarding the families at Fevereau, and saved old fashioned life. Despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert, it seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought, following the example of all those who have been wise, holy and just, that his first duty was not towards himself. At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet presented itself. Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we are narrating engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name which he had buried beneath so many layers was so strangely articulated, he was struck with stupor and as though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his destiny. And through this stupor he felt that shudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his head. As he listened to Javert. The first thought which occurred to him was to go, to run and denounce himself himself, to take that champ Mathieu out of prison and place himself there. This was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, we will see, we will see. He repressed this first generous instinct, and recoiled before heroism. It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the bishop's holy words, after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the same step towards this yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay heaven, that would have been beautiful, but it was not thus. We must render an account of the things which went on in this subject soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was carried away at first by the instinct of self preservation. He rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert's presence. That great danger postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his his buckler. He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within a profound tranquillity without he took no preservative measures, as they may be called. Everything was still confused and jostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow. He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering as usual, and prolonged his visit through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave thus and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras, and without having the least in the world made up his mind to this trip, he said to himself that, being as he was beyond the shadows of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the Tilbury from Scoffler in order to be prepared. In any event, he dined with a good deal of appetite. On returning to his room, he communed with himself. He examined the situation and found it unprecedented. So unprecedented that in the midst of his reverie he rose from his chair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading himself against possibilities. A moment later he extinguished his light. It embarrassed him. It seemed to him as though he might be seen. By whom? Alas, that on which he desired to close the door had already entered. That which he desired to blind was staring him in the face. His conscience. His conscience. That is to say, God. Nevertheless, he deluded himself. At first he had a feeling of security and of solitude. The bolt once drawn, he thought himself impregnable. The candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he took possession of himself. He set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand and began to meditate in the dark. Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really true that I have seen that Javert and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that champ Matthew be? So he resembles me. Is it possible when I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil and so far from suspecting anything? What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done? This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas. They passed like waves and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them. Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which overwhelmed his will and his reason and from which he sought to draw proof and resolution. His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open. There were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the table. The first hour passed in this manner. Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix themselves in his meditation. And he was able to catch a glimpse with precision of the reality, not the whole situation, but some of the details. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary as was this situation, he was completely master of it. This only caused an increase of his stupor. Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned to his actions. All that he had made up to that day had been nothing but a hole in which to bury his name. That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self communion during his sleepless nights was to ever hear that name pronounced. He had said to himself that that would be the end of all things for him. That on the day when that name made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him. And who knows, perhaps even his new soul within him also he shuddered at the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if anyone had said to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name would ring in his ears, when the hideous words Jean Valjean would suddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light, capable of dissipating the mystery and in which he had enveloped himself would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name would not menace him, that that light would but produce an obscurity more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the mystery, that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this prodigious incident would have no other result so far as he was concerned. If so, it seemed good to him than that of rendering his existence and at once clearer and more impenetrable. And that out of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good and worthy citizen Monsieur Madeleine, would emerge more honored, more peaceful and more respected than ever. If anyone had told him that, he would have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman. Well, all this was precisely what had just come to pass. All that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these wild fancies to become real things. His reverie continued to grow clearer. He came more and more to an understanding of his position. It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the middle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the very brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him and whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead. In order that the gulf might close once more, it was necessary that someone, himself or that other man should fall into it. He had only let things take their course. The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself, that his place was empty in the galleys, that do what he would. It was still awaiting him that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to it, that this vacant place would await him and draw him on until he filled it, that this was inevitable and fatal. And then he said to himself himself that at this moment he had a substitute, that it appeared that a certain Champ Mathieu had that ill luck, and that as regards himself, being present in the galleys, in the person of that Champ Mathieu, present in society under the name of Monsieur Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the head of that champion this stone of infamy, which, like the stone of the Sepulchre, falls once never to rise again. All this was so strange and so violent that there suddenly took place in him that indescribable movement which no man feels more than two or three times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the conscience, which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart, which is composed of irony, of joy and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of inward laughter. He hastily relighted his candle. Well, what then? He said to himself. What am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe. All is over. I had but one partly open door through which my past might invade my life. And behold, that door is walled up forever. That Javert, who has been annoying me so long, that terrible instinct which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me, good God, and which followed me everywhere, that frightful hunting dog, always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail. Henceforth he is satisfied. He will leave me in peace. He has his yon Valjean. Who knows? It is even probable that he will wish to leave town. And all this has been brought about without any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it. Ah, but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honour, people would think to see me that some catastrophe had happened to me. After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not my fault in the least. It is Providence which has done it all. It is because it wishes it so to be. Evidently have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged. What do I ask now? Why should I meddle? It does not concern me what I am not satisfied. But what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream of my nights, the object of my prayers to heaven security I have now attained. It is God who wills it. I can do nothing against the will of God. And why does God will it? In order that I may continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at last that a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone and to that virtue to which I have returned. Really, I do not understand why I was afraid a little while ago to enter the house of that good cure and to ask his advice. This is evidently what he would have said to me. It is settled. Let things take their course. Let the good God do as he likes. Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience. Bending over what may be called his own abyss, he rose from his chair and. And began to pace the room. Come, said he. Let us think no more about it. My resolve is taken. But he felt no joy. Quite the reverse. One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can see from returning to the shore. The sailor calls it the tide. The guilty man calls it remorse. God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean. After the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he who listened, saying that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listen to that which he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that mysterious power which said to him, think as it said to another condemned man 2,000 years ago. March on. Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation. It is certain that people do talk to themselves. There is no living being who has not done. May even be said that the word is never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a man, and when it returns from conscience to thought. It is in this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter. He said, he exclaimed, must be understood. One speaks to one's self, talks to oneself, exclaims to one's self. Without breaking the external silence. There is a great tumult. Everything about us talks except the mouth. The realities of the soul are none the less realities, and because they are not visible and palpable. So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that settled resolve. He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged in his mind was monstrous, that to let things take their course, to let the good God do as he liked, was simply horrible. To allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short, was to do everything. That this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree, that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime. For the first time in eight years the wretched man had just tasted the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action. He spit it out with disgust. He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had meant by this. My object is attained. He declared to himself that his life really had an object. But what object? To conceal his name? To deceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had done? Had he not another and a grand object which was the true one? To save not his person but his soul, to become honest and good once more, to be a just man? Was it not that above all that alone which he had always desired, which the bishop had enjoined upon him to shut the door on his past. But he was not shutting it, great God. He was reopening it by committing an infamous action. He was becoming a thief once more, and the most odious of thieves. He was robbing another of his existence, his life, his peace, his place in the sunshine. He was becoming an assassin. He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful living death. That death beneath the open sky which is called the galleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself to save that man struck down with so melancholy an error to resume his own name, to become once more out of duty the convict Jean Valjean. That was, in truth, to achieve his resurrection and to close forever that hell whence he had just emerged. To fall back there in appearance was to escape from it in reality. This must be done. He had done nothing. If he did not do all this, his whole life was useless. All his penitence was wasted. There was no longer any need of saying, what is the use? He felt that the bishop was there. That the bishop was present all the more because he was dead. That the bishop was gazing fixedly at him. That henceforth Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues, would be abominable to him and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight. That men beheld his mask, but that the bishop saw his face. That men saw his life, but that the bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver the false Jean Valjean and denounce the real one. Alas, that was the greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant of victories, the last step to take. But it must be done. Sad fate. He would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men. Well, said he. Let us decide upon this. Let us do our duty. Let us save this man. He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was speaking aloud. He took his books, verified them and put them in order. [01:17:11] Speaker C: He. [01:17:12] Speaker D: He flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might have been read had there been anyone in his chamber at the moment. To Monsieur Lafitte, banker, Rue d', Artois, Paris. He drew from his secretary a pocketbook which contained several banknotes and the passport of which he had made use. That same year, when he went to the elections, anyone who had seen him during the execution of these various acts into which there entered such grave thought. Would have had no suspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his lips move. At other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall, as though there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate. When he had finished the letter to Monsieur Lafitte, he put it into his pocket, together with the pocketbook, and began his walk. Once more his reverie had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his duty clearly written in luminous letters. Which flamed before his eyes and changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance. Go tell your name. Denounce yourself in the same way. He beheld as though they had passed before him invisible forms. The two ideas which had up to that time formed the double rule of his soul, the concealment of his name, sanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct. And he perceived the distance which separated them. He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was necessarily good, while the other might become bad. That the first was self devotion and that the other was personality. That the one said my neighbor and that the other said myself. That one emanated from the light and the other from darkness. They were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion as he meditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit. They had now attained colossal statures. And it seemed to him that he beheld within himself in that infinity of which we were recently speaking. In the midst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending. He was filled with terror. But it seemed to him that the good thought was getting the upper hand. He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his conscience and of his destiny. That the bishop had marked the first phase of his new life. And that champ Matthew marked the second. After the grand crisis, the grand test. But the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to fortify him in his resolution. One moment he said to himself that he was perhaps taking the matter too keenly. That after all this champ Matthew was not interesting. And that he had actually been guilty of theft. He answered himself. If this man has indeed stolen a few apples, that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys. And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of Jean Valjean overwhelms him and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not the attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict. In another instant the thought had occurred to him that when he denounced himself, the heroism of his deed might perhaps be taken into consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years and what he had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on him. But this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he remembered that the theft of the 40 sous from Little Gervais put him in the position of a man guilty of a second offense after conviction. That this affair would certainly come up, and according to the precise terms of the law, would render him liable to penal servitude for life. He turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from earth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself that he must do his duty, that perhaps he should not be more unhappy after doing his duty than after having avoided it. That if he allowed things to take their own course, if he remained at M. Serm his consideration, his good name, his good works, the deference and veneration paid to him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity, his virtue would be seasoned with a crime. And what would be the taste of all these holy things would, when bound up with this hideous thing? While if he accomplished his sacrifice, a celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys, the post, the iron necklet, the green cap, unceasing toil and pitiless shame. At length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus allotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on high. That in any case he must make his choice. Virtue without and abomination within, or holiness within and infamy without. The stirring of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to fail. But his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things, of indifferent matters. In spite of himself. The veins in his temples throbbed violently. He still paced to and frozen. Midnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town hall. He counted the 12 strokes of the two clocks and compared the sound of the two bells. He recalled in this connection the fact that a few days previously he had seen in an ironmonger's shop an ancient clock for sale, upon which was written the name Antoine Albin de Romovie. He was cold. He lighted a small fire. It did not occur to him to close the window in the meantime. He had relapsed into a stupor. He was obliged to make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck, he finally succeeded in doing this. Ah, yes, he said to himself, I had resolved to inform against myself. And then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine. Hold, said he, and what about that poor woman? Here a fresh crisis declared itself. Fentine, by appearing thus abruptly in his reverie, produced the effect of an unexpected ray of light. It seemed to him as though everything about him were undergoing a change of aspect. He exclaimed, ah, but I have hitherto considered no one but myself. It is proper for me to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person, or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an infamous and venerable convict. It is I. It is always I, and nothing but I. But, good God, all this is egotism. These are diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a little about others? The the highest holiness is to think of others. Come, let us examine the matter. The I accepted, the I effaced, the I forgotten. What would be the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested. This champ Mathieu is released. I am put back in the galleys. That is well. And what then? What is going on here? Ah, here is a country, a town. Here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women, aged, grandsires, children, poor people. All this I have created. All these I provide with their living. Everywhere. Where there is a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the pot. I have created ease, circulation, credit. Before me there was nothing. I have elevated, vivified, informed with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched, the whole countryside, lacking me, the soul is lacking. I take myself off, everything dies. And this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite of her fall, the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been. And that child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her mother, do I not also owe something to this woman in reparation for the evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies, the child becomes what it can. That is what will take place if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself. Come, let us see how it will be if I do not denounce myself. After putting this question to himself, he paused. He seemed to undergo a momentary hesitation and trepidation, but it did not last long, and he answered himself Calmly. Well, this man is going to the galleys, it is true. But what the deuce he has stolen? There is no use in my saying that he has not been guilty of theft, for he has. I remain here. I go on. In 10 years I shall have made 10 millions. I scatter them over the country. I have nothing of my own. What is that to me? It is not for myself that I am doing it. The prosperity of all goes on. Augmenting industries are aroused and animated. Factories and shops are multiplied. Families, a hundred families, a thousand families are happy. The district becomes populated. Villages spring up where there were only farms before farms rise. Where there was nothing, wretchedness disappears. And with wretchedness, debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder, all vices disappear, all crimes. And this poor mother rears her child. And behold a whole country, rich and honest. Ah, I was a fool. I was absurd. What was that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about anything. What, because it would have pleased. Pleased me to play the grand and generous? This is melodrama, after all. Because I should have thought of no one but myself. The idea, for the sake of saving from a punishment. A trifle exaggerated, perhaps, but just at bottom no one knows whom a thief a good for nothing. Evidently a whole countryside must perish. A poor woman must die in the hospital. A poor little girl must die in the street like dogs. Ah, this is abominable. And without the mother even having seen her child once more, almost without the child's having known her mother. And all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple thief who most assuredly has deserved the galleys for something else. If not for that, fine scruples indeed, which save a guilty man and sacrifice the innocent. Which save an old vagabond who has only a few years to live at most, and who will not be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children. This poor little Cosette, who has no one in the world but me, and who is no doubt blue with cold at this moment in the den of those Thenardiers. Those peoples are rascals. And I was going to neglect my duty towards all these poor, poor creatures. And I was going off to denounce myself. And I was about to commit that unspeakable folly. Let us put it at the worst. Suppose that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it some day. To accept for the good of others these reproaches which weigh only on myself, this evil action which compromises my soul alone. In that lies self sacrifice. In that alone there is virtue. He rose and resumed his march. This time he seemed to be content. Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth. Truths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him that after having descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand and he was dazzled as he gazed upon it. Yes, he thought, this is right. I am on the right road. I have the solution. I must end by holding fast to something. My resolve is taken. Let things take their course. Let us no longer vacillate. Let us no longer hang back. This is for the interest of all, not for my own. I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean. I am no longer he. I do not know that man. I no longer know anything. It turns out that someone is Jean Valjean at the present moment. Let him look out for himself. That does not concern me. It is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night. If it halts and descends on ahead, so much the worse for that head. He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney piece and said, hold. It has relieved me to come to a decision. I am quite another man now. He proceeded a few paces further. Then he stopped short. Come, he said, I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the resolution which I have once adopted. There are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean. They must be broken. In this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear witness against me. It is settled. All these things must disappear. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it and took out a small key. He inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be seen. So hidden was it, in the most somber tones of the design, which covered the wallpaper. A secret receptacle opened, a sort of false cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the chimney piece. In this hiding place there were some rags, a blue linen blouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack and a huge thorn cudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he passed through D in October 1815 could easily have recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit. He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks in order to remind himself continually of his starting point. But he had concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the candlesticks which came from the bishop to be seen. He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it. It then, with a quick and abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all rags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire. He closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled precautions henceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it. After the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were lighted up with a fierce red, tremendous glow. Everything was on fire. The thorn cudgel snapped and threw its sparks to the middle of the chamber. As the knapsack was consumed together with the hideous rags which it contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending over, one could have readily recognized a coin, no doubt the 40 sous piece stolen from the little savillard. He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step. All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks which shone vaguely on the chimney piece through the glow. Hold, he thought. The whole of Jean Valjean is still in them. They must be destroyed also. He seized the two candlesticks. There was still fire, enough to allow of their being put out of shape and converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal. He bent over the hearth and warmed himself. For a moment he felt a sense of real comfort. How good warmth is, said he. He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks. A minute more, and they were both in the fire. At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him, shouting, jean Valjean. Jean Valjean. His hair rose upright. He became like a man who is listening to some terrible thing. Yes, that's it. Finish, said the voice. Complete what you are about. Destroy these candlesticks. Annihilate the souvenir. Forget the bishop. Forget everything. Destroy this champ. Mathieu. Do that is right. Applaud yourself. So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed. Here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has perhaps done nothing. An innocent man whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and horror. That is good. Be an honest man yourself. Remain, Monsieur Le Mer. Remain honorable and honored. Enrich the town, nourish the indigent, rear the orphan. Live happy, virtuous and admired. And during this time, while you are here, in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch. The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks, but that within him which had spoken had not finished the voice continued. Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear and which will curse you in the dark. Well, listen, infamous man. All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God. This voice, feeble at first and which had proceeded from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached itself from him and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly that he glanced around the room in a sort of terror. Is there anyone here? He demanded aloud in utter bewilderment. Then he resumed with a laugh which resembled that of an idiot, how stupid I am. There can be no one. There was someone. But the person who was there was of those whom the human eye cannot see. He placed the candlesticks on the chimney piece. Then he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the dreams of the sleeping man beneath him and awoke him with a start. This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him. It sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter by chains of place. Place. After the lapse of a few minutes, he no longer knew his position. He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he had arrived. In turn, the two ideas which counselled him appeared to him equally fatal. What a fatality. What conjunction that that champ Mathieu should have been taken for him to be overwhelmed by precisely the means which providence seemed to have employed at first to strengthen his position. There was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself, Great God, Deliver himself up. With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up. Once more he should have to bid farewell to that existence which was so good, so pure, so radiant to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields. He should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May. He should never more bestow alms on the little children. He should never more experience the sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him. He should quit that house which he had built, that little chamber. Everything seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he read those books. Never more should he write on that little table of white wood. His old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God. Instead of that, the convict gang, the iron necklet, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed, all those horrors which he knew so well at his age, after having been what he was. If he were only young again. But you but to be addressed in his old age as thou by anyone who pleased to be searched by the convict guard to receive the galley sergeant's cudgellings, to wear iron bound shoes on his bare feet, to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang, to submit to the curiosity of strangers who would be told, that man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean, who was mayor of M. Cerrime. And at night, dripping with perspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their eyes to remount two by two, the latter staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant's whip. Oh, what misery can destiny then be as malicious as an intelligent being and become as monstrous as the human heart? And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heartrending dilemma which lay at the foundation of his reverie. Should he remain in paradise and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an angel? What was to be done, Great God, what was to be done? The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more. They assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar to despair. The name of Romavie recurred incessantly to his mind with the two verses of a song which he had Heard in the past, he thought that Romavie was a little grove near Paris where young lovers go to pluck lilacs in the month of April. He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child who is permitted to toddle alone at intervals. As he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself for the last time and definitely the problem over which he had in a manner, fallen prostrate with fatigue. Ought he to denounce himself? Ought he to hold his peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other into smoke. He only felt that to whatever course of action he made up in his mind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being able to escape the fact that he was entering a sepulcher on the right hand as much as on the left, that he was passing through a death agony, the agony of his happiness or the agony of his virtue. Alas, all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no further advanced than at the beginning. Thus did the unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. 1800 years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity, had also long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to him dripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths, all studded with stars. Chapter 3 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. [01:42:31] Speaker B: Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood Book 7. [01:42:36] Speaker E: The Champ Matthieu Affair Chapter 4 Forms Assumed by Suffering During Sleep. [01:42:45] Speaker B: 3 O'. [01:42:46] Speaker C: Clock in the morning had just struck. [01:42:48] Speaker E: And he had been walking thus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair. [01:42:57] Speaker B: There he fell asleep and had a dream. [01:43:00] Speaker E: This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except. [01:43:06] Speaker B: By its painful and heartrending character. But it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that. [01:43:14] Speaker E: He wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting, which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text, of whatever nature this dream may be. The history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it. It is the gloomy adventure of an ailing soul. Here it is on the envelope we find this line inscribed the dream I had that night. I was in a plain, a vast, gloomy plain where there was no grass. [01:43:51] Speaker D: It did not seem to me to be daylight, nor yet night. [01:43:55] Speaker E: I was walking with my brother, the. [01:43:57] Speaker B: Brother of my childish years, the brother. [01:44:00] Speaker E: Of whom, I must say I never think and whom I now hardly remember. We were conversing and we met some passers by. We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. [01:44:18] Speaker B: As we talked, we felt cold because of that open window. [01:44:22] Speaker E: There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse. [01:44:32] Speaker B: Which was earth color. [01:44:34] Speaker E: The man had no hair. We could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine shoot and as heavy as iron. [01:44:45] Speaker C: This horseman passed and said nothing to us. [01:44:49] Speaker E: My brother said to me, let us. [01:44:51] Speaker B: Take the hollow road. [01:44:53] Speaker E: There existed a hollow way wherein one. [01:44:56] Speaker B: Saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply. [01:45:06] Speaker E: When I spoke, I perceived that my. [01:45:09] Speaker B: Brother was no longer with me. I entered a village which I espied. [01:45:14] Speaker E: I reflected that it must be Romainville. Why Romaineville? The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street behind the angle formed by the two streets. A man was standing erect against the wall. I said this to the what country is this? [01:45:34] Speaker B: Where am I? The man made no reply. [01:45:38] Speaker E: I saw the door of a house. [01:45:39] Speaker B: Open and I entered. [01:45:41] Speaker E: The first chamber was deserted. [01:45:44] Speaker B: I entered the second. [01:45:45] Speaker E: Behind the door of this chamber a. [01:45:47] Speaker B: Man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, whose house is this? [01:45:53] Speaker E: Where am I? [01:45:54] Speaker B: The man replied not, the house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. [01:46:01] Speaker C: The garden was deserted. [01:46:03] Speaker E: Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. [01:46:06] Speaker B: I said to this man, what garden is this? [01:46:10] Speaker E: Where am I? [01:46:11] Speaker B: The man did not answer. I strolled into the village and perceived. [01:46:15] Speaker C: That it was a town. [01:46:17] Speaker B: All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. [01:46:20] Speaker C: Not a single living being was passing. [01:46:23] Speaker E: In the streets, walking through the chambers. [01:46:25] Speaker B: Or strolling in the gardens. [01:46:28] Speaker E: But behind each angle of the walls. [01:46:30] Speaker B: Behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. [01:46:35] Speaker C: Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass. [01:46:40] Speaker B: I left the town and began to ramble about the fields. [01:46:44] Speaker C: After the lapse of some time I. [01:46:46] Speaker B: Turned back and saw a great crowd. [01:46:48] Speaker C: Coming up behind me. [01:46:50] Speaker B: I recognized all the men whom I. [01:46:52] Speaker E: Had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in. [01:46:57] Speaker B: A hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. [01:47:03] Speaker E: In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue. The first one whom I had seen. [01:47:12] Speaker B: And questioned on entering the town, said. [01:47:14] Speaker E: To me, whither are you going? [01:47:17] Speaker B: Do you not know that you have. [01:47:18] Speaker C: Been dead this long time? [01:47:21] Speaker E: I opened my mouth to reply and. [01:47:24] Speaker B: I perceived that there was no one near me. [01:47:28] Speaker E: He woke up. [01:47:29] Speaker B: He was icy cold. [01:47:30] Speaker C: A wind which was chill like the. [01:47:32] Speaker E: Breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window which had been left. [01:47:37] Speaker B: Open on their hinges. The fire was out. [01:47:40] Speaker E: The candle was nearing its end. [01:47:42] Speaker C: It was still black night. [01:47:45] Speaker B: He rose. [01:47:45] Speaker E: He went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet. [01:47:50] Speaker B: From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp, harsh noise which made him. [01:47:57] Speaker E: Drop his eyes resounded from the earth below him. [01:48:01] Speaker B: He perceived two red stars whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness as his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep. [01:48:13] Speaker E: Hold, said he, there are no stars in the sky. [01:48:16] Speaker B: They are on earth now. But this confusion vanished. A second sound, similar to the first roused him thoroughly. [01:48:26] Speaker E: He looked and recognized the fact that. [01:48:28] Speaker B: These two stars were the lanterns of a carriage. [01:48:31] Speaker E: By the light which they cast, he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. [01:48:36] Speaker B: It was a Tilbury, harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horses hoofs on the pavement. What vehicle is this? He said to himself. Who is coming here so early in the morning? [01:48:52] Speaker C: At that moment there came a light. [01:48:54] Speaker B: Tap on the door of his chamber. He shuddered from head to foot and cried in a terrible voice. Who is there? [01:49:02] Speaker E: Someone, said I, Monsieur Lemaire. He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress. [01:49:11] Speaker C: Well, he replied. [01:49:13] Speaker B: What is it, Monsieur Lemaire? [01:49:16] Speaker C: It is just five o' clock in the morning. [01:49:19] Speaker E: What is that to me? [01:49:21] Speaker B: The cabriolet is here, Monsieur Lemaire. What cabriolet? The Tilbury. What Tilbury? [01:49:32] Speaker C: Did not Monsieur Lemaire order a Tilbury? [01:49:35] Speaker B: No, said he. The coachman says that he has come. [01:49:40] Speaker C: For Monsieur le Maire. What coachman? [01:49:45] Speaker B: Monsieur Scoffler's coachman. Monsieur Scofflare. [01:49:51] Speaker E: That name sent a shudder over him. [01:49:53] Speaker C: As though a flash of lightning had. [01:49:55] Speaker E: Passed in front of his face. [01:49:57] Speaker B: Ah, yes, he resumed. Monsieur Scofflare. If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have been frightened. A tolerably long silence ensued. [01:50:11] Speaker E: He examined the flame of the candle. [01:50:13] Speaker B: With a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning wax which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him. [01:50:22] Speaker C: She even ventured to uplift her voice once more. [01:50:26] Speaker E: What am I to say, Monsieur Lemaire? [01:50:29] Speaker B: Say that it is well, and that. [01:50:31] Speaker C: I am coming down. [01:50:35] Speaker B: End of Book 7 Chapter 4. [01:50:43] Speaker E: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champathieux Affair Chapter 5 Hindrances the posting service from Arras to Montres sur Mer was still operated at this period by small mail wagons of the time of the Empire. These mail wagons were two wheel cabriolets, upholstered inside with fawn colored leather, hung on springs, and having but two seats, one for the post boy, the other for the traveler. The wheels were armed with those long offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a distance, and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The dispatch box, an immense oblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black and the cabriolet yellow. These vehicles, which have no counterparts nowadays, had something distorted and hunchbacked about them and when one saw them passing in the distance and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled the insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though with but little corselet, drag a great train behind them. But they traveled at a very rapid rate. The post wagon, which set out for Morass at one o' clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at Montreisor Mayor a little before 5:00 in the morning. That night the wagon which was descending to Montreisor Mer by the Hesden road, collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering the town, with a little Tilbury harness to a white horse which was going in the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a man enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the Tilbury received quite a violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the traveler paid no heed, and pursued his road at full gallop. That man is in a devilish hurry, said the postman. The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions, which are certainly deserving of pity. Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening? He did not know he was driving at random, straight ahead, wither to Arras, no doubt. But he might have been going elsewhere as well. At times he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into the night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward, something drew him on. No one could have told what was taking place within him. Everyone will understand it. What man is there who has not entered at least once in his life into that obscure cavern of the unknown? However, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan, done nothing, none of the actions of his conscience had been decisive. He was more than ever as he had been at the first moment. Why was he going to eras? He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired Scoffler's cabriolet. That whatever the result was to be, there was no reason why he should not see with his own eyes and judge of matters for himself that this was even prudent. That he must know what took place, that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and scrutinized. That one made mountains out of everything from a distance. That at any rate, when he should have seen that Charmatiu some wretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys in his stead. That Javert would indeed be there, and that Brevet, that Chinill deux, that kosh pie old convicts who had known him, but they certainly would not recognize him. Pah. What an idea. That Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth. That all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Shaw Matthieu, and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures. That accordingly there was no danger. That it was no doubt a dark moment, but that he should emerge from it. That after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be in his own hand, that he was master of it. He clung to this thought. At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras. Nevertheless, he was going thither. As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at that fine, regular and even trot which accomplishes two leagues in a half an hour. In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him draw back. At daybreak he was in the open country. The town of Montreuil sur Mer lay far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white. He stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes, but without seeing them. The morning has its specters as well as the evening he did not see them, but without his being aware of it, and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul. Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself, and yet there are people there within who are sleeping the trot of the horse. The bells on the harness, the wheels on the road produce a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming when one is joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad. It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesden. He halted in front of the inn to allow the horse a breathing spell and to have him given some oats. The horse belonged, as Scoffler had said, to that small race of the Boulogne, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin fine legs, and solid hoofs, a homely but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had traveled five leagues in two hours and had not a drop of sweat on his loins. He did not get out of the Tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel. Are you going far in this condition? Said the man. He replied with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie. Why have you come from a great distance? Went on the man. Five leagues. [01:56:44] Speaker C: Ah. [01:56:45] Speaker E: Why do you say ah? The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment with his eyes fixed on the wheel. Then he rose erect and said, because though this wheel has traveled five leagues, it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league. He sprang out of the Tilbury. What is that you say, my friend? I say that it is a miracle that you should have traveled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here. The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by the mail wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub so that the nut no longer held firm. My friend, he said to the stableman, is there a wheel right here? Certainly, sir. Do me the service to go and fetch him. He is only a step from here. Hey, Master Bourguard. Master Bourgeoille, the wheelwright, was standing on his own threshold. He came, examined the wheel, and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken. Can you repair this wheel immediately? Yes, sir. When can I set out again? Tomorrow. Tomorrow? There is A long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir? In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest. Impossible, sir. I will pay whatever you ask. Impossible. Well, in two hours then. Impossible today. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to morrow morning. The matter cannot wait until to morrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it? How so? You are a wheelwright? Certainly, sir. Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once. A spare wheel? Yes. I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together haphazard. In that case, sell me a pair of wheels. Not all wheels fit all axles, sir. Try, nevertheless. It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cartwheels. We are but a poor country here. Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have? The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the Tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders. You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well. If I had one, I would not let it to you. Well, sell it to me then. I have none. What, not even a spring card? I am not hard to please. As you see, we live in a poor country. There is in truth, added the wheelwright, an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town who gave it to me to take care of and who only uses it on the 36th of the month. Never. That is to say, I might let that to you for what matters it to me. But the bourgeois must not see it pass. And then? It is a collage. It would require two horses. I will take two post horses. Where is Monsieur going? To arrest. And Monsieur wishes to reach there today? Yes, of course. By taking two post horses? Why not? Does it make any difference whether monsieur arrives at 4 o' clock to morrow morning? Certainly not. There is one thing to be said about that. You see, by taking post horses, Monsieur has his passport. Yes. Well, by taking post horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before tomorrow. We are on a crossroad. The relays are badly served. The horses are in the fields. The season for plowing is just beginning. Heavy teams are required and horses are seized upon everywhere from the post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or four hours at the least. Every relay. And then they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend. Come, then I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Someone can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood. Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle? That is true. You remind me of that. You will not bear it, then. But I can surely hire a horse in the village. A horse to travel at Arras? In one stretch, yes. That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You would have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But you will not find one for sale, nor to let for 500 francs or for a thousand. What am I to do? The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man and set out on your journey tomorrow. Tomorrow will be too late. The deuce. Is there not a mail wagon which runs to harass. When will it pass? Tonight. Both the posts pass at night. The one going as well as the one coming. [02:01:22] Speaker A: What? [02:01:23] Speaker E: It will take you a day to mend this wheel? A day and a good long one if you set two men to work. If I set ten men to work. What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes? That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub. And the feli is in a bad state too. Is there anyone in this village who lets out teams? No. Is there another wheelwright? The stableman. And the wheelwright replied in concert with a toss of the head? No. He felt an immense joy. It was evident that Providence was intervening, that it was it who had broken the wheel of the Tilbury and who was stopping him on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons. He had just made every possible effort to continue the journey. He had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means. He had been deterred neither by the season nor fatigue, nor by the expense. He had nothing with which to reproach himself if he went no further. That was no fault of his. It did not concern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the act of his own conscience, but the act of Providence. He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of his lungs. For the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed to him that the hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the past 20 hours had just released him. It seemed to him that God was for him now and was manifesting himself. He said himself that he had done all he could and that now he had nothing to do but retrace his steps quietly. If his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in the chamber of the inn, it would have had no witnesses. No one would have heard him. Things would have rested there, and it is probable that we should not have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about to peruse. But this conversation had taken place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are always people who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright, some people who were passing back and forth halted around them. After listening for a few minutes, a young lad to whom no one had paid any heed, detached himself from the group and ran off. At the moment when the traveler, after the inward deliberation which we have just described, resolved to retrace his steps, this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman. Monsieur, said the woman, my boy tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet. These simple words, uttered by an old woman led by a child, made the perspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the hand, which had relaxed its grasp, reappear in the darkness behind him, ready to seize him once more. He answered, yes, my good woman, I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire. And he hastened to add, but there is none in the place. Certainly there is, said the old woman. Where? Interpolated the wheelwright. At my house, replied the old woman. He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again. The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring cart. The wheelwright and the stableman, in despair at the prospect of the traveler escaping their clutches, interfered. It was a frightful old trap. It rests flat on the axle. It is an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs. The rain came into it. The wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture. It would not go much further than the Tilbury, a regular ramshackle old stage wagon. The gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it, etc. Etc. All this was true. But this trap, this ramshackle old vehicle, this thing, whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to Arras. He paid what was asked, left the Tilbury with the wheelwright to be repaired, intending to reclaim it on his return, had the white horse put to the cart, climbed into it, and resumed the road which he had been traveling since morning. At the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he had felt a moment previously, a certain joy in the thought that he should not go whither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort of wrath, and found it absurd. Why should he Feel joy at turning back. After all, he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one was forcing him to it. And assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose. As he left Hesdon, he heard a voice shouting to him. [02:05:45] Speaker D: Stop. [02:05:46] Speaker E: Stop. He halted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish and convulsive element resembling hope. It was the old woman's little boy. Monsieur, said the latter. It was I who got the cart for you. Well, you have not given me anything. He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost odious. Ah, it's you, you scamp, said he. You shall have nothing. He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed. He had lost a great deal of time at Hesden. He wanted to make it good. The little horse was courageous and pulled for two. But it was the month of February. There had been rain, the roads were bad. And then it was no longer the Tilbury. The cart was very heavy and in addition there were many ascents. He took nearly four hours to go from Hesden to St. Paul. Four hours for five leagues at St. Paul. He had the horse unharnessed at the first, and he came to and led to the stable as he had promised. Go, Flair. He stood beside the manger while the horse was eating. He thought of sad and confusing things. The innkeeper's wife came to the stable. Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast? Come. That is true. I even have a good appetite. He followed the woman, who had a rosy, cheerful face. She led him to the public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth. Make haste, said he. I must start again. I am in a hurry. A big Flemish servant maid placed his knife and fork in all haste. He looked at the girl with a sensation of comfort. That is what ailed me, he thought. I had not breakfasted. His breakfast was served. He seized the bread, took a mouthful and then slowly replaced it on the table and did not touch it again. A carter was eating at another table. He said to this man, why is there bread so bitter here? The carter was a German and did not understand him. He returned to the stable and remained near the horse. An hour later he had quitted St. Paul and was directing his course towards Tank, which is only five leagues from arrest. What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in the morning? He watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fields pass by, and the way in which the landscape broken at every turn of the road vanished. This is a sort of contemplation which sometimes suffices to the soul and almost relieves it from thought. What is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects? For the first and last time to travel is to be born and to die at every instant. Perhaps in the vaguest region of his mind, he did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence. All the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us. The dark and bright intervals are intermingled after a dazzling moment, an eclipse. We look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing. Each event is a turn in the road, and all at once. We are old. We feel a shock. All is black. We distinguish an obscure door. The gloomy horse of life which has been drawing us, halts and we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadows. Twilight was falling when the children who were coming out of school beheld this traveler enter Tank. It is true that the days were still short. He did not halt at Tank. As he emerged from the village, a laborer who was mending the road with stones raised his head and said to him, that horse is very much fatigued. The poor beast was in fact going at a walk. Are you going to harass? Added the road mender. Yes. If you go on at that rate, you will not arrive very early. He stopped his horse and asked the laborer, how far is it from here to Harass? Nearly seven good leagues. How is that? The posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter. Ah, returned the road mender. So you don't know that the road is under repair. You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on. There is no way to proceed further. Really? You will take the road on the left leading to Carancy. You will cross the river. When you reach Camlin, you will turn to the right. That is the road to Mont Saint Alloy, which leads to Arras. But it is night. And I shall lose my way. You do not belong in these parts. No. And besides, it is all crossroads. Stop, sir, resumed the road mender. Shall I give you a piece of advice? Your horse is tired. Return to Tank. There is a good in there. Sleep there. You can reach your ass tomorrow. I must be there this evening. That is different. But go to the inn all the same, and get an extra horse. The stable boy will guide you through the crossroads. He followed the road mender's advice, retraced his steps, and half an hour later he passed the same spot again, but this time at full speed with a good horse trade. A stable boy who called himself a postillion, was seated on the shaft of the cariole. Still he felt that he had lost time. Night had fully come. They turned into the crossroad. The way became frightfully bad. The cart lurched from one rut to the other. He said to the postilion, keep it a trot and you shall have a double fee. In one of the jolts the whiffle tree broke. There's the whiffle tree broken, sir, said the postillion, I don't know how to harness my horse now. This road is very bad at night. If you wished to return and sleep at Tank, we could be in Arras early tomorrow morning. He replied. Have you a bit of rope and a knife? Yes, sir. He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffletree of it. This caused another loss of 20 minutes. But they set out again at a gallop. The plain was gloomy, low hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched themselves away like smoke. There were whitish gleams in the clouds. A strong breeze which blew in from the sea, produced a sound in all quarters of the horizon as of some one moving furniture. Everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night. He was stiff with cold. He had eaten nothing since the night before. He vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain, in the neighborhood of Dengue, eight years previously. And it seemed but yesterday the hour struck. From a distant tower he asked the boy, what time is it? Seven o', clock, sir. We shall reach harass at eight. We have but three leagues still to go. At that moment he for the first time indulged in this reflection, thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner that all this trouble which he was taking was perhaps useless, that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial, that he should at least have informed himself of that, that he was foolish to go thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not. Then he sketched out some calculations in his mind. That ordinarily the sittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o' clock in the morning, that it could not be a long affair, that the theft of the apples would be very brief, that there would then remain only a question of identity, four or five depositions and very little for the lawyers to say, that he should arrive after all was over. The postilion whipped up the horses. They had crossed the river and left Mont Saint Alloy behind them. The night grew more profound. Chapter 5 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champathieu Affair Chapter 6 Sister Simplice put to the proof. But at that moment Fontin was joyous. She had passed a very bad night. Her cough was frightful, her fever had doubled in intensity. She had had dreams. In the morning, when the doctor paid his visit, she was delirious. He assumed an alarmed look and ordered that he should be informed as soon as Mr. Madeleine arrived. All the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plates in her sheets, murmuring the while in a low voice, calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up again and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth. Each time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt, she replied invariably, well, I should like to see Monsieur Madeleine. Some months before this, at the moment when Fantine had just lost her last modesty, her last shame and her last joy, she was the shadow of herself. Now she was the specter of herself. Physical suffering had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of 5 and 20 had a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which the gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent shoulder blades, frail limbs, a clayey skin. And her golden hair was growing out, sprinkled with gray. Alas, how illness improvises old age. At midday the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook his head. Mr. Medlen usually came to see the invalid at 3 o'. Clock. As exactness is kindness, he was exact. About half past two. Fantine began to be restless. In the course of twenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times. What time is it, Sister? Three o' clock struck at the third stroke. Fantine set up in bed. She who could in general hardly turn over, joined her yellow, fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of those profound size which seem to throw off dejection. Then Fantine turned and looked at the door. No one entered. The door did not open. She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the door, motionless and apparently holding her breath, the sister dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three. Fantine fell back on her pillow. She said nothing, but began to plate the sheets once more. Half an hour passed, then an hour no One came every time the clock struck. Fantine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back again. Her thought was clearly perceptible, but she uttered no name. She made no complaint. She blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way. One would have said that something dark was descending upon her. She was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then five o' clock struck. Then the sister heard her say very low and gently, he is wrong not to come today, since I am going away tomorrow. Sister Semplice herself was surprised at Mr. Madeleine's delay. In the meantime, Fantine was staring at the tester of her bed. She seemed to be endeavoring to recall something. All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what Fantine was singing. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the Faubourgs through Roses are pink, cornflowers are blue I love my love, Cornflowers are blue. Yesterday in the Virgin Mary came near my stove and embroidered mantle clad and said to me, here hide neath my veil the child whom you one day begged from me. Haste to the city, Buy linen, buy a needle, buy thread. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the Faubourgs through. Dear Holy Virgin, beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star. I prefer the child thou hast granted me. Madam, what shall I do with this linen? Fine make of it. Clothes for thy newborn babe. Roses are pink and cornflowers are blue. I love my love and cornflowers are blue. Wash this linen. Where? In the stream. Make of it soiling, not spoiling, not a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will embroider and fill with flowers. Madam, the child is no longer here. What is to be done then? Make of it a winding sheet in which to bury me. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the faubourgs through Roses are pink, cornflowers are blue I love my love, Cornflowers are blue. This song was an old cradle romance with which she had, in former days lulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her child. She sang it in so sad a voice and to so sweet an air that it was enough to make anyone, even a nun, weep. The Sister, accustomed as she was to austerities, felt a tear spring to her eyes. The clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it she no longer seemed to pay attention to anything about her. Sister Simplice sent a serving maid to inquire of the portress of the factory whether the mayor had returned and if he would not come to the infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes. Fantine was still motionless and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. The servant informed Sister Simplice in a very low tone that the mare had set out that morning before 6:00 clock in a little Tilbury, harnessed to a white horse, cold as the weather was, that he had gone alone, without even a driver, that no one knew what road he had taken, that people said he had been seen to turn into the road to arrest, that others asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris, that when he went away he had been very gentle as usual, and that he had merely told the portress not to expect him. That night, while the two women were whispering together with their backs turned to Fantine's bed, the sister, interrogating the servant, conjecturing Fantine with the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies which unite the free movements of health with the frightful emaciation of death, had raised herself to her knees in bed, with her shriveled hands resting on the bolster and her head thrust through the opening of the curtains, and was listening. All at once she cried, you are speaking of Monsieur Madeleine. Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come? Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they heard the voice of a man. They wheeled round in a fright. Answer me. Cried Fantine. The servant stammered, the portress told me that he could not come today. Be calm, my child, said the sister. Lie down again. Fantine, without changing her attitude, continued in a loud voice and with an accent that was both imperious and heart rending, he cannot come. Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering it to each other. There. I want to know it, the servant made hastened to say in the nun's ear, say that he is busy with the city council. Sister Simplice blushed faintly, for it was a lie that the maid had proposed to her. On the other hand, it seemed to her that the mere communication of the truth to the invalid would without doubt deal her a terrible blow, and that this was a serious matter. In Fantine's present state, her flush did not last long. The sister raised her calm, sad eyes to Fantine and said, monsieur Lemaire has gone away. Fantine raised herself and crouched on her heels in the bed her eyes sparkled. Indescribable joy beamed from that melancholy face. Gone. She cried. He has gone to get Cosette. Then she raised her arms to heaven and her white face became ineffable. Her lips moved. She was praying in a low voice. When her prayer was finished, Sister, she said, I am willing to lie down again. I will do anything you wish. I was naughty just now. I beg your pardon for having spoken so loud. It is very wrong to talk loudly. I know that well, my good sister. But you see, I am very happy. The good God is good. Mr. Madeleine is good. Just think, he has gone to Montfermeil to get my little Cosette. She lay down again with the nun's assistance, helped the nun to arrange her pillow and kiss the little silver cross which she wore on her neck and. And which Sister Simplice had given her. My child, said the sister, try to rest now and do not talk any more. Fantine took the sister's hand in her moist hands, and the latter was pained to feel that perspiration. He set out this morning for Paris. In fact, he need not even go through Paris. Montfermeil is a little to the left as you come thence. Do you remember how he said to me yesterday when I spoke to him of Cosette? Soon, soon. He wants to give me a surprise, you know. He made me sign a letter so that she could be taken from the Thenardiers. They cannot say anything, can they? They will give back Cosette, for they have been paid. The authorities will not allow them to keep the child since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that I must not talk. Sister, I am extremely happy. I am doing well. I am not ill at all any more. I am going to see Cosette again. I am even quite hungry. It is nearly five years since I saw her last. You cannot imagine how much attached one gets to children. And then she will be so pretty, you will see. If you only knew what pretty little rosy fingers she had in the first place. She will have very beautiful hands. She had ridiculous hands when she was only one year old. Like this. She must be a big girl now. She is seven years old. She is quite a young lady. I call her Cosette, but her name is really Euphrasie. Stop. This morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney piece and I had a sort of idea come across me like that. That I should see Cosette again soon. Mon Dieu. How wrong it is not to see one's children for years. One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good Monsieur le Maire is to go. It is very cold. It is true. He had on his cloak. At least he will be here to morrow, will he not? To morrow will be a festival day. Tomorrow morning, Sister, you must remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montfermeil is. I took that journey on foot once. It was very long for me. But the diligences go very quickly. He will be here tomorrow with Cosette. How far is it from here to Montfermeil? The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, oh, I think that he will be here tomorrow. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, said Fantian. I shall see Cosette tomorrow. You see, good Sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill. I am mad. I could dance if anyone wished it. A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not have understood the change. She was all rosy now. She spoke in a lively and natural voice. Her whole face was one smile now. And then she talked. She laughed softly. The joy of a mother is almost infantile. Well, resumed the nun, now that you are happy, mind me and. And do not talk any more. Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice, yes, lie down again and be good, for you are going to have your child. Sister Simplice is right. Everyone here is right. And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to stare all about her with wide open eyes and a joyous air. And she said nothing more. The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall into a doze. Between seven and eight o'. [02:25:06] Speaker C: Clock. [02:25:06] Speaker E: The doctor came, not hearing any sound. He thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly and approached the bed on tiptoe. He opened the curtains a little, and by the light of the taper he saw Fantine's big eyes gazing at him. She said to him, she will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed, will she not, sir? The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added, see, there is just room. The doctor took Sister Simplice aside and she explained matters to him that Monsieur Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their doubt they had not thought it well to undeceive the invalid, who believed that the mare had gone to Montfermeil, that it was possible after all, that her guess was correct. The doctor approved. He returned to Fantine's bed and she went on. You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be Able to say good morning to her poor kitten. And when I cannot sleep at night, I can hear her asleep. Her little gentle breathing will do me good. Give me your hand, said the doctor. She stretched out her arm and exclaimed with a laugh. Ah, hold. In truth, you did not know it. I am cured. Cosette will arrive tomorrow. The doctor was surprised. She was better. The pressure on her chest had decreased. Her pulse had regained its strength. A sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn out creature. Doctor, she went on, did the sister tell you that Monsieur Lemaire has gone to get that might of a child? The doctor recommended silence and that all painful emotions should be avoided. He prescribed an infusion of pure cinchona and, in case the fever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he took his departure, he said to the sister, she is doing better. If good luck will that the mare should actually arrive tomorrow with the child. Who knows? There are crises so astounding. Great joy has been known to arrest maladies. I know well that this is an organic disease and in an advanced state. But all those things are such mysteries. We may be able to save her. Chapter 6 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champ Affair Chapter 7 the Traveler, on his arrival takes precautions for departure. It was nearly 8 o' clock in the evening when the cart which we left on the road entered the port cochere of the Hotel de la Poste in Eras. The man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted from it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the people of the inn, sent back the extra horse and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable. Then he opened the door of a billiard room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there and leaned his elbows on the table. He had taken 14 hours for the journey, which he had counted on making in six. He did himself the justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom he was not sorry. The landlady of the hotel entered. Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper? He made a sign of the head in the negative. The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued. Here he broke his silence. Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again tomorrow morning? Oh, Monsieur, he must rest for two days at least. He inquired, Is not the posting station located here? Yes, sir. The hostess conducted him to the office. He showed his passport and inquired whether there was any way of returning. That same night To Montresor Mayor by the mail wagon, the seat beside the postboy chance to be vacant. He engaged it and paid for it. Monsieur, said the clerk, do not fail to be here, ready to start at precisely one o' clock in the morning. This done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town. He was not acquainted with the rest. The streets were dark and he walked on at random. But he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the passers by. He crossed the little river Crenshaw and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys, where he lost his way. A citizen was passing along with a lantern. After some hesitation, he decided to apply to this man, not without having first glanced behind and in front of him, as though he feared lest someone should hear the question which he was about to put. Monsieur, said he, where is the courthouse, if you please? You do not belong in town, sir, replied the bourgeois, who was an oldish man. Well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the courthouse, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture. For the courthouse is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the prefecture. Is it there that the assizes are held? He asked. Certainly, sir. You see, the prefecture of today was the Bishop's palace. Before the revolution. Monsieur de Konzi, who was bishop in 82, built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is held. On the way, the bourgeois said to him, if Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings generally close at 6 o'. [02:30:19] Speaker C: Clock. [02:30:21] Speaker E: When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to him four long windows, all lighted up in the front of a vast and gloomy building. Upon my word, sir, you are in luck. You have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows? That is the quarter of assizes. There is a light there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness? He replied. I have not come on any business. I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers. That is different, said the bourgeois. Stop, sir. Here is the door where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase. He conformed to the bourgeois directions, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people and where groups intermingled with lawyers in their gowns were whispering together here and there. It is always a heartbreaking thing to see These congregations of men, robed in black, murmuring together in low voices on the threshold of the halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words. Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful observer so many somber hives where buzzing spirits construct in concert all sorts of dark edifices. This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of the Episcopal palace and served as the large hall of the palace of Justice. A double leave door, which was closed at that moment, separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting. The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer whom he met. What stage have they reached, sir? He asked. It is finished, said the lawyer. Finished? This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round. Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you are a relative? No, I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced? Of course. Nothing else was possible. To penal servitude for life, he continued in a voice so weak that it was barely audible. Then his identity was established. What identity? Replied the lawyer. There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child, the infanticide was proved, the jury threw out the question of premeditation, and she was condemned for life. So it was a woman, said he. Why, certainly. The limousine woman. Of what are you speaking? Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still lighted for another case which was begun about two hours ago? What other case? Oh, this one is a clear case. Also. It is about a sort of blackguard, a man arrested for a second offense. A convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's abandoned Spiz for you. I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone. Is there any way of getting into the courtroom, sir? Said he. I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you. You might make an effort. Where is the entrance? Through yonder large door. The lawyer left him in the course of a few moments. He had experienced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had in turn pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more. But he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure. He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket of the session was very heavy. The president had appointed for the same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide, and now they had reached the convict, the old offender, the return horse. This man had stolen apples. But that did not appear to be entirely proved. What had been proved was that he had already been in the galleys at Tulum. It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. However, the man's examination and the depositions of the witnesses had been completed. But the lawyer's plea and the speech of the public prosecutor were still to come. It could not be finished before midnight. The man would probably be condemned. The Attorney General was very clever and never missed his culprits. He was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses. An usher stood at the door, communicating with the hall of the Assizes. He inquired of this usher, will the door be opened soon, sir? It will not be opened at all, replied the usher. [02:34:58] Speaker C: What? [02:34:59] Speaker E: It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed. Is not the hearing suspended? The hearing has just begun again, replied the usher, but the door will not be opened again. [02:35:09] Speaker D: Why? [02:35:10] Speaker E: Because the hall is full. [02:35:12] Speaker D: What? [02:35:12] Speaker E: There is not room for one more? Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now, the usher added after a pause. There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Monsieur le President. But Monsieur le President only admits public functionaries to them. So saying, the usher turned his back. He retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber and slowly descended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding council with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not yet ended, and every moment he encountered some new phase of it. On reaching the landing place, he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his pocketbook, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote rapidly, by the light of the street lantern, this line. Monsieur Madeleine, Mayor of Montresor. Mayor. Then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way through the crowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative manner, take this to Monsieur le President. The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed. End of Book 7 Chapter 7. [02:36:38] Speaker C: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champ Mathieu Affair Chapter 8 An Entrance by Favor Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer enjoyed a sort of celebrity for the space of seven years, his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bospel Bolognese. It had eventually passed the confines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two or three neighboring departments. Besides the service which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black jet industry, there was not one of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement of Montuit sur Mer which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds, the linen factory at Boulogne, the flax spinning industry at Fervins, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubert's sur Conchet. Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douai envied the happy little town of Montreuille sur Mer. Its mayor, the counselor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over the session of the Assembly Assize at Arras, was acquainted in common with the rest of the world with this name which was so profoundly and universally honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which connected the council chamber with the courtroom, bent over the back of the President's armchair and handed him the paper on which was inscribed the line which we have just perused, adding, the gentleman desires to be present at the trial. The president, with a quick and differential movement, seized the pen and wrote a few words at the bottom of the paper, returning it to the usher, saying, admit him. The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the door of the hall in the same place, in the same attitude in which the usher had left him in the midst of his reverie, he heard one of them saying to him, will Monsieur do the honor to follow me? It was the same usher who had turned his back on him but a moment previously, and who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time the usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light, he could read it. The President of the Court of Assize presents his respects to M. Madeline. He crushed the paper in his hands, as though the words contained for him a strange and bitter aftertaste. He followed the usher. A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of Wayne Scotted cabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles placed upon a table with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him still rang in his ears. Monsieur, you are now in the council chamber. You have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself in the courtroom behind the President's chair. These words were mingled in his thoughts with a vague memory of narrow corridors and dark staircases which he had recently traversed. The usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment, when there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where judges deliberated and condemned with stupid tranquillity. He surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment where so many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring with his name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall. Then he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and. And that it should be he. He had eaten nothing for four and 20 hours. He was worn out by the jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that he felt nothing. He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall and which contained under glass an ancient autograph letter of Jean Nicholas Pach, mayor of Paris and minister, and dated through an era, no doubt the 9th of June of the year 2, and in which Pa Pachet forwarded to the Commune the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by them. Any spectator who had chanced to see him at that moment and who had watched him, would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter struck him as very curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He read it without paying any attention to it, and unconsciously he was thinking of Fantine and Cosette as he dreamed. He turned round and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the cord of Assize. He had almost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained fixed on that brass handle, and grew terrified little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples. At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingle mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey. Pardue, who compels me to this. He then wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it and passed out. He was no longer in that Chamber. He was outside in a corridor. A long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and grantings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns, similar to to the night taper of invalids. The corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, listened. Not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued. When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath. He staggered. He leaned against the wall. The stone was cold. The perspiration lay ice cold on his brow. He straightened himself up with a shiver. Then, there, alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something else too, perchance he meditated. He meditated all night long. He meditated all the day. He heard within him but one voice, which said, alas. A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed with agony, dropped his arms and retraced his steps. He walked slowly, as though crushed. It seemed as though someone had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back. He re entered the council chamber. The first thing he caught sight of was the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished brass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger. He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door. Had he listened to, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like some confused murmur. But he did not listen and he did not hear. Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, he found himself near the door. He grasped the knob convulsively, and the door opened. He was in the courtroom. End of book 7 chapter 8 an. [02:43:16] Speaker B: Entrance by Favor Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champ Machu Affair Chapter 9 A place where convictions are in process of formation. He advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically behind him, and remained standing, contemplating what he saw. It was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of uproar, now full of silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of development. At one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges with abstracted air in threadbare robes, who were gnawing their nails or closing their eyelids. At the other end, a ragged crowd, lawyers in all sorts of attitudes, soldiers with hard but honest faces, ancient spotted woodwork, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green, doors blackened by hand marks Taproom lamps, which emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the wainscot, on the tables, candles and brass candlesticks. Darkness, ugliness, sadness. And from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression. For there one felt that grand human thing which is called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice. No one in all that throng paid any attention to him. All glances were directed toward a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door. And in the stretch of wall on the president's left. On this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat a man between two gendarmes. This man was the man. He did not seek him. He saw him. His eyes went thither, naturally, as though they had known beforehand where that figure was. He thought he was looking at himself, grown old, not absolutely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in attitude and aspect. With his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that blouse, just as it was on the day when he entered Dean, full of hatred, concealing his soul in that hidden mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent 19 years in collecting. On the floor of the prison. He said to himself with a shudder, good God, shall I become like that again? This creature seemed to be at least 60. There was something indescribably coarse, stupid and frightened about him. At the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn aside to make way for him. The president had turned his head and understanding that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer. He had bowed to him, the attorney general who had seen Monsieur Madeleine at Montreal sur Mer. Whether the duties of his office had called him more than once, recognized him and saluted him also, he had hardly perceived it. He was the victim of a sort of hallucination. He was watching judges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads. All these he had already once beheld. In days gone by, 27 years before, he had encountered those fatal things once more. There they were, they moved, they existed. It was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage of his thought. They were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd and real men of flesh and blood. It was all over. He beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him, with all that there is formidable in reality. All this was yawning before him. He was horrified by it. He shut his eyes and exclaimed in the deepest recesses of his soul, never. And by a tragic plot of destiny which made all his ideas tremble and rendered him nearly mad. It was another self of his that was there, all called that man who was being tried, Jean Valjean. Under his very eyes, unheard of vision, he had a sort of representation of the most horrible moment of his life enacted by his specter. Everything was there. The apparatus was the same. The hour of the night, the faces of the judges, of soldiers and of spectators, all were the same. Only above the president's head there hung a crucifix, something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation. God had been absent when he had been judged. There was a chair behind him. He dropped into it, terrified at the thought that he might be seen. When he was seated, he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxes which stood on the judge's desk to conceal his face. From the whole room he could now see without being seen. He had fully regained consciousness of the reality of things. Gradually he recovered. He attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen. Monsieur Beaumatabois was one of the jurors. He looked for Javert but did not see him. The seat of the witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk's 10 table. And then, as we have just said, the hall was barely lighted at the moment of this entrance. The defendant's lawyer had just finished his plea. The attention of all was excited to the highest pitch. The affair had lasted for three hours. For three hours that crowd had been watching. A strange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stupid or profoundly subtle, gradually bending beneath the weight of a terrible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a vagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with ripe apples broken in the orchard of a neighbor called the Pierron Orchard. Who was this man? An examination had been made. Witnesses had been heard, and they were unanimous. Light had abounded throughout the whole debate. The accusation said, we have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit, we have here in our hands a bandit, an old offender who has broken his band, an ex convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous description, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence on the person of a child, a Savoyard named little Gervais, a crime provided for by the Article 383 of the Penal Code. The right to try him, for which we reserve hereafter when his identity shall have been judicially Established he has just committed a fresh theft. It is a case of a second offense. Condemn him for the fresh deed. Later on he will be judged for the old crime. In the face of this accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the accused appeared to be astonished. More than anything else. He made signs and gestures which were meant to convey no or else he stared at the ceiling. He spoke with difficulty, replied with embarrassment, but his whole person, from head to foot, was a denial. He was an idiot in the presence of all these minds, minds ranged in order of battle against him, and like a stranger in the midst of this society which was seizing fast upon him. Nevertheless it was a question of the most menacing future for him. The likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd surveyed with more anxiety than he did himself. That sentence freighted with calamity, which descended ever closer over his head. There was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded, besides the galleys, a possible death penalty, in case his identity was established, and the affair of little Gervaise was to end thereafter in condemnation. Who was this man? What was the nature of his apathy? Was it imbecility or craft? Did he understand too well, or did he not understand at all? These were questions which divided the crowd and seemed to divide the jury. There was something both terrible and puzzling in this case. The drama was not only melancholy, it was also obscure. The counsel for the defense decided, spoken tolerably well in that provincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was formerly employed by all advocates at Paris as well as at Romarentine or at Montbrison, and which today, having become classic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of magistracy, to whom it is suited, on account of its grave sonorousness and its majestic stride, a tongue in which a husband is called, a consort, and a woman a spouse. Paris, the center of art and civilization. The king, the monarch, monsignor, the bishop, a sainted pontiff, the district attorney, the eloquent interpreter of public prosecution. The. The arguments, the accents which we have just listened to. The age of Louis xiv, the grand age, a theater, the temple of Mel Pomaine, the reigning family, the august blood of our kings, a concert, a musical solemnity, the grand commandant of the province, the illustrious warrior who, etc. The pupils and the seminary, these tender levities, errors imputed to newspapers, the imposture which distills its venom through the columns of those organs, etc. The lawyer had accordingly begun with an explanation as to the theft of the apples. An awkward matter couched in fine style. But Benin Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the midst of a funeral oration, and he extricated himself from the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact that the theft of the apples had not been circumstantially proved. His client, whom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling Shamachu, had not been seen scaling that wall, nor breaking the that branch by anyone. He had been taken with that branch, which the lawyer preferred to call a bough in his possession. But he said that he had found it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up. Where Was there any proof to the contrary? No doubt that branch had been broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then thrown away by the alarmed marauder. There was no doubt that there had been a thief in the case. But what proof was there that that thief had been Champa Chu? One thing only. His character as an ex convict. The lawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be unhappily well attested. The accused had resided at Feverill. The accused had exercised the calling of a tree pruner there. The name of Champ might well have had its origin in Jean Michou. All that was true. In short, four witnesses recognized Jean Machu positively and without hesitation as that convict Jean Valjean. To these signs, to this testimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his client, the denial of an interested party. But supposing that he was the convict, Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the apples? That was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner it was true, and his counsel in good faith was obliged to admit it had adopted a bad system of defense. He obstinately denied everything, the theft and his character of convict. An admission upon the last point would certainly have been better and would have won for him the indulgence of his judges. The council had advised him to do this, but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking no doubt that he would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error. But ought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into consideration? The man was visibly stupid. Long continued wretchedness in the galleys, long misery outside the galleys had brutalized him, etc. He defended himself badly. Was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with little Gervais, the council need not discuss did not enter into the case. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the jury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to be evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for a criminal who's broken his bank, and not the frightful chastisement which descends upon the convict guilty of a second offense. The district attorney anselled the counsel for the defense. He was violent and florid, as district attorneys usually are. He congratulated the counsel for the defense on his loyalty and skillfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed to admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this. So this man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the accusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever adamasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime, the district attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic school then dawning under the name of the satanic school which had been bestowed upon it by the critics of the Cottage dien and the oriflamme. He attributed, not without some probability, to the influence of this perverse literature, the crime of Champlain, or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exercised these considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself. Who was this Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean A monster spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is contained in the tale of Teremont, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders great services to judicial eloquence. The audience and the jury shuddered. The description finished. The district attorney resumed with an oratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusiasm of the journal of the Prefecture to the highest pitch on the final following day. And it is such a man. Etc. Etc. Etc. Vagabond, beggar without means of existence, etc. Etc. Inured by his past life to culpable deeds and but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by the crime committed against little Gervaise. Etc, etc. It is such a man caught against the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from a wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the stolen object, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall denies everything, denies even his own identity. In addition to a hundred other proofs to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize Javert, the upright inspector of police. Javert and three of his former companions in infamy, the convicts prevey Chenildou and Coche Payau. What does he offer in opposition to this overwhelming unanimity, his denial. What obduracy. You will do justice, gentlemen of the gentleman, jury, etc. Etc. While the district attorney was speaking, the accused listened to him open mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which some admiration was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could talk like that. From time to time, at those energetic moments of the prosecutor's speech, when eloquent eloquence, which cannot contain itself, overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelopes the accused, like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and from left to right, in the sort of mute and melancholy protest, the district attorney directed the attention of the jury to this stupid attitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but craft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set forth in all its nakedness the profound perversity of this man. He ended by making his reserves on the fare of little Gervais and demanding a severe sentence. At that time, as the reader will remember, it was penal servitude for life. The count, the counsel for the defense, rose, began by complimenting M. L' avocat general on his admirable speech, then replied as best he could. But he weakened. The ground was evidently slipping away from under his feet. End of Book 7 Chapter 9. [03:03:50] Speaker C: Les. [03:03:50] Speaker B: Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champ Machu Affair Chapter 10 the System of Denials the moment for closing the debate had arrived. The president had the accused stand up and address to him the customary question. Have you anything to add to your defense? The man did not appear to understand as he stood there, twisting in his hands a terrible cap which he had. The president repeated the question. This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made a motion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court, laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench, took another look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the district attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption. It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth, incoherent, impetuous, pell mell tumbling over each other, as though they were all pressing forward to issue forth. At once he said, this is what I have to say, that I have been a wheelwright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Ballou. It is a hard trade. In the wheelwrights trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, under sheds, when the masters are good. Never in closed workshops, because space is required. You see, in winter one gets so cold that one beats one's arms together to warm oneself. But the masters don't like it. They say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving stones is hard work that wears a man out quickly. One is old when he is still quite young. In that trade, at 40, a man is done for. I was 43. I was in a bad state. And then. Workmen are so mean. When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but an old bird, old beast. I was not earning more than 30 sous a day. They paid me as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my age. And then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She earned a little also. It sufficed for us too. She had trouble also all day long, up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow, when the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same. You must still wash. There are people who have not much linen and wait until late. If you do not wash, you lose your custom. The planks are badly joined and water drips on you from everywhere. You have your petticoats all damp above and below that penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants Rouge, where the water comes through the facets. You are not in the tub there. You wash at the faucet in front of you and rinse in a basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold, but there is that hot steam which is terrible and which ruins your eyes. She came home at seven o'clock in the evening. Evening. And went to bed at once. She was so tired her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very happy. She was a good girl who did not go to the ball and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove Tuesday when she went to bed at 8 o'. [03:08:04] Speaker C: Clock. [03:08:06] Speaker B: There I am telling you the truth. You have only to ask. [03:08:10] Speaker C: Ah, yes. [03:08:11] Speaker B: How stupid I am. Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Shamachu there? But M. Ballou does. I tell you. Go see if Monsieur Balu's. And after all, I don't know what is wanted of me. The man ceased speaking and remained standing. He had said these things in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute someone in the crowd. The sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him at random came like hiccups. And to each he added the gesture of a woodcutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished, the audience burst into a laugh. He stared at the public and, perceiving that they were laughing and not understanding why, he began to laugh himself. It was inauspicious. The president, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his voice. He reminded the gentleman of the jury that the jury Ballou, formerly a master wheelwright with whom the accused stated that he had served, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt and was not to be found. Then, turning to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to what he was about to say and added, you are in a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon you and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Piran orchard, break the branch and steal the apples, that is to say, commit the crime of breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the discharged convict John Valjean, yes or no? The prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has thoroughly understood and who knows what answer he is going to make. He opened his mouth, turned towards the president, and said, in the first place. Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace. Prisoner, said the district attorney in a severe voice, pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Jean Machu, that you are the convict Jean Valjean concealed first under the name of Jean Machu, which was the name of his mother, that you went to Auvergne, that you were born at Favaros, where you were a pruner of trees. It is evident that you have been guilty of entering and of the theft of ripe apples from the Peron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury will form their own opinion. The prisoner had finally resumed his seat. He arose abruptly when the district attorney had finished and exclaimed, you are very wicked. That you are. That is what I wanted to say. I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day. I was coming from a. I was walking through the country after a shower which had made the whole country yellow. Even the ponds were overflowed, and nothing sprang from the sand anymore but the little blades of grass. At the wayside I found a broken branch with apples on the ground. I picked up the branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison and they have been dragging me about for the last three months. More than that I cannot say. People talk against me. They tell me, anthony, answer. The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow and says to me in a low voice, come, answer. I don't know how to explain. I have no education. I am a poor man. That is where they wrong me, because they do not see this. I have not stolen. I picked up from the ground things that were lying there. You say Jean Valjean, Jean Machu. I don't know those persons. They are villagers. I worked for Majer Ballou, Boulevard de l'. Hopital. My name is Jean Machu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born. I don't know myself. It's not everybody who has a house in which to come into the world that would be too convenient. I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along the highways. I know nothing different. When I was a child, they called me young fellow. Now they call me old fellow. Those are my baptismal names. Take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne. I have been at Favaros, Pardi. Well, can't a man have been in Auvergne or at Favarol's without having been in the galleys? I tell you that I have not stolen and that I am Father Shamachu. I have been with Monsieur Ballou. I have had a settled residence. You worried me with your nonsense there. Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously? The district attorney had remained standing. He addressed the president. Monsieur le President, in view of the confused but exceedingly clever denials of the prisoner who would like to pass himself off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing? We shall attend to that. We demand that it shall please you and that it shall please the court to summon once more into this place the convicts prevey Coachpail and Chenildu and Police Inspector Javert and question them for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean. I will remind the district attorney, said the president, that Police Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital of a neighboring arrondissement, left the courtroom and the town as soon as he had made his deposition. We have accorded him permission, with the consent of the district attorney and of the counsel for the prisoner. This is true, Mr. President, responded the district attorney. In the absence of Sheriff Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentleman of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable man who does honor by his rigorous and strict probity to inferior but important functions. These are the terms of his deposition. I do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisoner's denial. I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champion. He is an ex convict named Jean Valjean and is very vicious and much to be feared. It is only with extreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his death term. He underwent 19 years of penal servitude for theft. He made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from little Gervais and from the piron orchard, I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of his Grace, the late bishop of Dean. I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of the galley guard at the prison of Toulon. I repeat that I recognize him perfectly. This extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid impression on the public and on the jury. The district attorney concluded by insisting that in default of Javert, the three witnesses, Brevet Chenel du and Coche Payau should be heard once more and solemnly interrogated. The president transmitted the order to an usher, and a moment later the door of the witness's room opened. The usher, accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him armed assistance, introduced the convict Bravais. The audience was in suspense, and all breasts heaved as though they had contained but one soul. The ex convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of the central prisons. Brevet was a person 60 years of age, who had a sort of businessman's face and the air of a rascal. The two sometimes go together in prison, whither fresh misdeeds had led him. He had become something in the nature of a turnkey. He was a man of whom his superiors said, he tries to make himself of use. The chaplains bore good testimony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration. Brevet, said the president, you have undergone an indominious sentence and you cannot take an oath. Brevais dropped his eyes. Nevertheless, continued the president, even in the man whom the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour, if it still exists in you, and I hope it does, reflect before replying to me, consider on the one Hand this man whom a word from you may ruin. On the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten. The instance is solemn. There is still time to retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner Brevet. Take a good look at the accused. Recall your souvenirs and tell us on your soul and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean. Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court. Yes, Mr. President. I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it. That man is Jean Valchan, who entered at Toulon in 1796 and left in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now, but it must be because age has brutalized him. He was sly at the galleys. I recognize him positively. Take your seat, said the president. Prisoner, remain standing. Chenauldu was brought in. [03:19:42] Speaker A: Who? [03:19:42] Speaker B: A prisoner for life, as was indicated by his red Cossack and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence at the galleys of Toulon, whence he had been brought for this case. He was a small man of about 50, brisk, wrinkled, frail, yellow, brazen faced, feverish, who had a sort of sickly feebleness about all his limbs and his whole person, and an immense force in his glance. His companions in the galleys had nicknamed him I deny God. Je ne du chenel du. The president addressed him in nearly the same words which he had used to Brevet at the moment when he reminded him of his infant infamy, which deprived him of the right to take an oath. Chenildu raised his head and looked the crowd in the face. The president invited him to reflection and asked him, as he had asked Brevet, if he persisted in recognizing of the prisoner. Chenildu burst out laughing. Pardieu. As if I didn't recognize recognize him. We were attached to the same chain for five years. So you are a sulking old fellow. Go take your seat, said the president. The usher brought in coach Payil. He was another convict for life, who had come from the galleys and was dressed in red, like Chenildu was a peasant from Lourdes and a half bear of the Pyrenees. He had guarded the flocks among the mountains, and from a shepherd he had slipped into a brigand cospail was no less savage and seemed even more stupid than the prisoner. He was one of those wretched men whom nature has sketched out for wild beasts and on whom society puts the the finishing touches as convicts in the galleys. The president tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words, and asked him, as he had asked the other two, if he persisted without hesitation or trouble, in recognizing the man who was standing before him. He is Jean Valjean, said Coach Payou. He was even called John the Screw, because he was so strong. Each of these accusations from these three men, evidently sincere and in good faith, had raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury for the prisoner, a murmur which increased and lasted longer each time that a fresh declaration was added to the proceeding. The prisoner had listened to them with that astounded face, which was, according to the accusation, his principal means of defense. At the first, the gendarmes, his neighbors, had heard him mutter between his teeth, ah, well, he's a nice one. After the second, he said a little louder, with an air that was almost that of satisfaction. [03:23:09] Speaker C: Good. [03:23:10] Speaker B: And at the third he cried, famous. The president addressed him. Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say? He replied, I say famous. An uproar broke out among the audience and was communicated to the jury. It was evident that the man was lost. Ushers, said the President, enforced silence. I am going to sum up the arguments. At that moment there was a movement just beside the President. A voice was heard. Brevet, Chenildeau, Coche, Payil. Look here. All who had heard that voice were chilled. So lamentable and terrible was it. All eyes were turned to the point. Once it had proceeded, a man placed among the privileged spectators, who was seated behind the court, had just risen, had pushed open the half door which separated the tribunal from the audience, and was standing in the middle of the hall. The President, the district attorney, Monsieur Baumatabois. 20 persons recognized him and exclaimed in concert, monsieur Madeleine. [03:24:42] Speaker C: End of chapter Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 7 the Champ Mathieu Affair Chapter 11 Champ More and more Style Astonished. It was he. In fact. The clerk's lamp illumined his countenance. He held his hat in his hand. There was no disorder in his clothing. His coat was carefully buttoned. He was very pale, and he trembled slightly. His hair, which had still been gray on his arrival in Arras, was now entirely white. It had turned white during the hour he had sunk. Sat there. All heads were raised. The sensation was indescribable. There was a momentary hesitation in the audience. The voice had been so heart rending. The man who stood there appeared so calm that they did not understand at first they asked themselves whether he had indeed uttered that cry. They could not believe that that tranquil man had been the one to give that terrible outcry. This indecision only lasted a few seconds, even before the President and the District Attorney could utter a word, before the ushers and the gendarmes could make a gesture. The man whom all still called at that moment, Mr. Madeleine, had advanced towards the witnesses. Koshpal, Bravais and Chanill Deux. Do you not recognize me? Said he. All three remained speechless and indicated by a sign of the head that they did not know him. Koshpal, who is intimidated, made a military salute. Mr. Madeleine turned towards the jury and the court and said in a gentle voice, gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released. Mr. President, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search of. It is I. I am Jean Valjean. Not a mouth breathed. The first command emotion of astonishment had been followed by a silence like that of the grave. Those within the hall experienced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses when something grand has been done. In the meantime, the face of the President was stamped with sympathy and sadness. He had exchanged a rapid sign with the District attorney and a few low toned words with the assistant judges. He addressed the public and asked in accents which all understood, is there a physician present? The District Attorney took the word. Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a sentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by reputation at least, the honorable Monsieur Madeleine, Mayor of Montresor. Mayor, if there is a physician in the audience, we join the President in requesting him to attend to Mr. Madeleine and to conduct him to his home. Mr. Madeleine did not allow the District Attorney to finish. He interrupted him in accents full of suavity and authority. These are the words which he uttered here. They are literally, as they were written down immediately after the trial by one of the words witnesses to this scene, and as they now ring in the ears of those who heard them nearly 40 years ago. I thank you, Mr. District Attorney, but I am not mad. You shall see. You were on the point of committing a great error. Release this man. I am fulfilling a duty. I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one here who sees the matter clearly. And I am telling you the truth. God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that suffices. You can take me, for here I am. But I have done my best. I concealed myself under another name. I have become rich. I have become a mayor. I have tried to re enter the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I cannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you. You will hear it one of these days. I robbed Monsignor the bishop. It is true. It is true that I robbed little Gervais. They were right in telling you that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges. A man who has been so greatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to Providence nor any advice to give to society. But, you see, the infamy from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing. The galleys make the convict what he is. Reflect upon that, if you please. Before going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant with very little intelligence, a sort of idiot. The galleys wrought a change in me. I was stupid. I became vicious. I was a block of wood. I became a firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me as severity had ruined me. But pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. You will find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the 40 sous piece which I stole seven years ago from little Gervais. I have nothing farther to add. Take me. Good God. The district attorney shakes his head. You say Monsieur Madeleine has gone mad. You do not believe me? Me? That is distressing. Do not at least condemn this man. What? These men do not recognize me. I wish Javert were here. He would recognize me. Nothing can reproduce the somber and kindly melancholy of tone which accompanied these words. He turned to the three convicts and said, well, I recognize you. Do you remember, Brevet? He paused, hesitated for an instant, and said, do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which you wore in the galleys? Brevais gave a start of surprise and surveyed him from head to foot. With a frightened air, he continued, chanill Dieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of Johnny Du. Your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn because you one day laid your shoulder against the chafing dish full of coals in order to efface the three letters tfp, which are still visible. Nevertheless. Answer. Is this true? It is true, said Chanil dear. He addressed himself to Koshpal. Koshpal, you have near the bend in your left arm a date stamped in blue letters with burnt powder. The date is that of the landing of the emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815. Pull up your sleeve. Kochpile pulled up his sleeve. All eyes were focused on him. And on his bare arm a gendarme held a light. Close to it there was the date. The unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile which still rends the hearts of all who saw it. Whenever they think of was a smile of triumph. It was also a smile of despair. You see plainly, he said, that I am Jean Valjean. In that chamber there were no longer either judges, accusers nor gendarmes. There was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing hearts. No one recalled any longer the part that each might be called upon to play. The district attorney forgot he was there for the purpose of prosecuting the prosecution president. That he was there to preside the council for the defense. That he was there to defend. It was a striking circumstance that no question was put, that no authority intervened. The peculiarity of sublime spectacles is that they capture all souls and turn witnesses into spectators. No one probably could have explained what he felt. No one probably said to himself that he was witnessing this splendid outburst. Burst of a grand light. All felt themselves inwardly dazzled. It was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes. That was clear. The appearance of this man had sufficed to suffuse with light that matter which had been so obscure but a moment previously. Without any further explanation. The whole crowd, as by a sort of electric revelation, understood instantly and, and at a single glance the simple and magnificent history of a man who is delivering himself up so that another man might not be condemned in his stead. The details, the hesitations, little possible oppositions were swallowed up in that vast and luminous fact. It was an impression which vanished speedily, but which was irresistible at the moment. I do not wish to disturb the question. Court further resumed. Jean Valjean. I shall withdraw. Since you do not arrest me, I have many things to do. The district attorney knows who I am. He knows whether I am going. He can have me arrested when he likes. He directed his steps towards the door. Not a voice was raised, not an arm extended to hinder him. All stood aside. At that moment there was about him that divine something which causes multitudes to stand aside and make way for a man. He traversed the crowd slowly. It was never known who opened the door. But it is certain that he found the door open when he reached it. On arriving there, he turned round and said, I am at your command, Mr. District Attorney. Then he addressed the audience. All of you, all who are present consider me worthy of pity, do you not? Good God. When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur. He withdrew, and the door closed behind him as it had opened. For those who do certain sovereign things are always sure of being served by someone in the crowd. Less than an hour after this, the verdict of the jury freed the said shop Matthew from all accusations and Shop Matthew, being at once released, went off in a state of stupefaction, thinking that all men were fools, and comprehending nothing of this vision. End of Book 7 Chapter 11. [03:35:10] Speaker D: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 8 A Counter Blow Chapter 1 In what Mirror Monsieur Madeleine contemplates his hair? The day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and feverish night filled with happy visions. At daybreak she fell asleep. Sister Simplice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this slumber to to go and prepare a new potion of Cinchona. The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending over her drugs and phials and scrutinizing things very closely, on account of the dimness which the half light of dawn spreads over all objects. Suddenly she raised her head and uttered a faint shriek. Monsieur Madeleine stood before her. He had just entered silently. Is it you, Mr. Mayor? She exclaimed. He replied in a low voice, how is that poor woman? Not so bad just now, but we have been very uneasy. She explained to him what had passed, that Fantine had been very ill the day before, and that she was better now because she thought that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child. The sister dared not question the mayor, but she perceived plainly from his air that he had not come from there. All that is good, said he. You were right not to undeceive her. Yes, responded the sister. But now, Mr. Mayor, she will see you and will not see her child. What shall we say to her? He reflected for a moment. God will inspire us, said he, but we cannot tell a lie, murmured the sister half aloud. It was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full on Monsieur Madeleine's face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it. Good God, sir, she exclaimed. What has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white. White, Said he. Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. Monsieur Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said, well? He uttered the word indifferently and as though his mind were on something else. The sister felt chilled by something strange, of which she caught a glimpse. In all this he inquired, can I see her? Is not Monsieur Lemaire going to have her child brought back to her? Said the sister, hardly venturing to put the question, of course, but it will take two or three days at least. If she were not to see Monsieur Le Mer until that time, went on the sister timidly, she would not know that Monsieur Le Mer had returned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience. And when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact a lie. Monsieur Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments. Then he said with his calm gravity, no, Sister, I must see her. I may perhaps be in haste. The nun did not appear to notice this word perhaps, which communicated an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor's speech. She replied, lowering her eyes, and her voice replied respectfully, in that case, she is asleep, but Monsieur le Maire may enter. He made some remarks about a door which shut badly and the noise of which might awaken the sick woman. Then he entered Fantine's chamber, approached the bed, and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep. Her breath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is peculiar to those maladies and which breaks the hearts of mind mothers, when they are watching through the night beside their sleeping child who is condemned to death. But this painful respiration hardly troubled a sort of ineffable serenity which overspread her countenance and which transfigured her in her sleep. Her pallor had become whiteness, her cheeks were crimson, her long golden lashes the only beauty of her youth and her virginity which remained to her palpitate, though they remained closed and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an indescribable unfolding of wings, all ready to open wide and bear her away, which could be felt as they rustled, though they could not be seen to see her thus, one would never have dreamed that she was an invalid whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather something on the point of soaring away than something on the point point of dying. The branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower, and seems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time. The human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives in which the mysterious fingers of death are about to pluck the soul. M. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed, gazing in turn upon the stairs. Sick woman and the Crucifix, as he had done two months before. On the day when he had come for the first time to see her in that asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude. She sleeping, he praying. Only now, after the lapse of two months, her hair was grey and his was white. The sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed with his finger on his lips, as though there were someone in the chamber whom he must enjoin to silence. She opened her eyes, saw him and said quietly, with a smile, and Cosette. End of BOOK eight Chapter one. [03:41:16] Speaker C: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book eight A Counter Blow Chapter two Fontane Happy. She made no movement of either surprise or of joy. She was joy itself, that simple question. And Cosette was put with so profound a faith, with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued. I know that you were there. I was asleep. But I saw you. I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of celestial things, forms. He raised his glance to the crucifix, but she resumed. Tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place her on my bed against the moment of my waking? He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to recall. Fortunately, the doctor had been warned and he now made his appearance. He came to the aid of Mr. Madeleine. Calm yourself, my child, said the doctor. Your child is here. Fontan's eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped her hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to prayer in the way of violence and tenderness. Oh. She exclaimed, bring her to me. Touching illusion of a mother. Cosette was for her still the little child who is carried. Not yet, said the doctor. Not just now. You still have some fever. The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be cured first. She interrupted him impetuously. But I am cured. Oh, I tell you that I am cured. What an ass. That doctor, is the idea. I want to see my child. You see, said the doctor, how excited you become. So long as you are in this state, I shall oppose you having your child. It is not enough to see her. It is necessary that you should live for her. When you are reasonable, I will bring her to you myself. The poor mother bowed her head. I beg your pardon, doctor. I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should never have spoken as I have just done. So many misfortunes have happened to me that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I understand you. You fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like. But I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her. I have not taken my eyes from her since yesterday evening. Do you know, if she were brought to me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should desire to see my daughter who has been brought to me expressly from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen white things and persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I have no longer any fever. I am well. I am perfectly conscious that there is nothing the matter with me any more. But I am going to behave as though I were ill and not stir to please these ladies here. When it is seen that I am very calm, they will say she must have her child. Monsieur Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned toward him. She was making a visible effort to be calm and very good, as she expressed it, in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself, she could not refrain from questioning Monsieur Madeleine. Did you have a pleasant trip, M. Lemaire? Oh, how good you were to go and get her for me. Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas, she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten me by this time. Poor darling. Children have no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing today and another thing tomorrow and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have a white linen? Did those then our days keep her clean? [03:46:20] Speaker E: How have they fed her? [03:46:22] Speaker C: Oh, if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during all the time of my wretchedness. Now it is all past. I am happy. Oh, how I should like to see her. Do you think her pretty? Monsieur Lemaire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that diligence. Could she not be brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me. You are the master. It could be so, if you chose. He took her hand. Cosette is beautiful, he said. Cosette is well. You shall see her soon. But calm yourself. You are talking with Too much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the clothes, and that makes you cough. In fact, fits of coughing, interrupted Fontan. At nearly every word Fontan did not murmur. She feared that she had injured by her too passionate lamentation, the confidence which he was desirous of inspiring. And she began to talk of indifferent things. Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thenardiers prosperous? There are not many travelers in their parts. That inn of theirs is sort of a cook shop. Mr. Madeleine was still holding her hand and gazing at her with anxiety. It was evident that he had come to tell her things before which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit, retired. Sister Someplice remained alone with them. But in the midst of this pause, Fontan exclaimed, I hear her. Mon Dieu, I hear her. She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath and began to listen with rapture. There was a child playing in the yard, the child of the portress or of some work woman. It was one of those accidents which are always occurring and which seem to form a part of the mysterious stage setting of mournful scenes. The child, a little girl, was going and coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Alas, in what are the plays of children not intermingled? It was this little girl whom Fontan heard singing. Oh, she resumed, it is my Cosette. I recognize her voice. The child retreated as it had come. The voice died away. Fontan listened for a while longer. Then her face clouded over, and Monsieur Madeleine heard her say in a low voice, how wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter. That man has an evil countenance, that he has. But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She continued to talk to herself with her head resting on the pillow. How happy we are going to be. We shall have a little garden. The very first thing. Mr. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell. She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first communion. Ah, when will she take her first communion? She began to reckon on her fingers. 1, 2, 3, 4. She is seven years old. In five years she will have a white veil and open work stockings. She will look like a little woman. Oh, my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I think of my. My daughter's first communion. She began to laugh. He had released Fontanne's hand. He listened to her words as one listens to the sighing of the breeze with his eyes on the ground, his mind absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fontanne had become too terrible. She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed. She had raised herself to a sitting posture. Her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise. Her face, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she seemed to have fixed, her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something alarming at the other extremity of the room. Good God. He exclaimed. What ails you, Fontan? She made no reply. She did not remove her eyes from the object which she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm and with the other made him a sign to look behind him. He turned and beheld Javert. Book VIII Chapter 2 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book number 8 the Counterblow Chapter 3 Javert satisfied this is what had taken place. The half hour after midnight had just struck when Monsieur Madeleine quitted the hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set out again by the mail wagon in which he had engaged his place. A little before 6 o' clock in the morning he had arrived at Montreuil sur Mer and his first care had been to post a letter to Monsieur Lafitte, then to enter the infirmary and see Fantine. However, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Assizes when the District attorney, recovering from his first shock, had taken the word to deplore the mad deed of the honourable mayor of Montreuil sur Mer, to declare that his convictions had not been in the least modified by that curious incident which would be explained thereafter, and to demand in the meantime the condemnation of that champ Mafieu, who was evidently the real Jean Valjean. The District attorney's persistence was visibly at variance with the sentiments of everyone of the public, of the court and of the jury. The counsel for the defence had some difficulty in refuting this harangue and in establishing that in consequence of the revelations of Monsieur Madeleine, that is to say of the real Jean Valjean, the aspect of the matter had been thoroughly altered and that the jury had before their eyes now only an innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn up some epiphany not very fresh, unfortunately, upon judicial errors. Etc. Etc. The president, in his summing up, had joined the council for the defence and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Jean Mathieu out of the case. Nevertheless, the District Attorney was bent on having a genre. And as he had no longer Champ Mathieu, he took Madeleine. Immediately after Champ Mathieu had been set at liberty, the district of Tornay shut himself up with the President. They conferred as to the necessity of seizing the person of Monsieur le Maire of Montreuil sur Mer. This phrase in which there was a great deal of as the district attorneys written with his his own hand on the minutes of his report to the Attorney General. His first motion having passed off, the President did not offer many objections. Justice must, after all, take its course. And then, when all was said, although the President was a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was at the same time a devoted and almost an ardent right royalist. And he had been shocked to hear the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer say the Emperor and not Bonaparte, when alluding to the landing at Cairns. The order for his arrest was accordingly dispatched. The District attorney forwarded it to Montreuil sur Mer by a special messenger at full speed, and entrusted its execution to Police Inspector Javert. The reader knows that Javert had returned to Montreuil sur Mer immediately after having given his deposition. Javert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the order of arrest and the command to produce the prisoner. The messenger himself was a very clever member of the police who, in two words, informed Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The order of arrest signed by the District Attorney was couched in these Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur Madeleine, mayor of Montreuil sur Mer, who in this day's session of the court was recognized as the liberated convict Jean Valjean. Anyone who did not know Javert and who had chanced to see him at the moment when he penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what had taken place and would have thought his heir the most ordinary in the world. He was cool, calm, grave. His grey hair was perfectly smoothed upon his temples, and he had just mounted the stairs with his habitual deliberation. Anyone who was thoroughly acquainted with him and who had examined him attentively at the moment would have have shuddered. The buckle of his leather stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape of his neck. This portrayed unwonted agitation. Javert was a complete character who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform, methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of his coat that he should have set the buckle of his Stock awry, it was indispensable that there should have taken place in him one of those emotions which may be designated as internal earthquakes. He had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighbouring post for a corporal and four soldiers had left. The soldiers in the courtyard had had Fantine's room pointed out to him by the portress, who was utterly unsuspicious, accustomed as she was to the seeing armed men inquiring for the mayor. On arriving at Fantine's chamber, Javert turned the handle, pushed the door open with the gentleness of a sick nurse or a police spy, and entered. Properly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in the half open door, his hat on his head and his left hand thrust into his coat, which was buttoned up to the chin in the bend of his elbow. The leaden hand of his enormous cane, which was hidden behind him, could be seen. Thus he remained for nearly a minute without his presence being perceived. All at once Flamtine raised her eyes, saw him and made Monsieur Madeleine turn around. The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glance, Javert, without stirring, without moving from his pal coast, without approaching him, became terrible. No human sentiment can be as terrible as joy. It was the visage of a demon who had just found his damned soul. The satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean caused all that was in his soul to appear in his countenance. The depths, having been stirred up, mounted to the surface the the humiliation of having in some slight degree lost the scent and of having indulged for a few moments in an error with regard to champion, was effaced by pride at having so well and accurately divined in the first place and of having for so long cherished a just instinct. Javert's content shone forth in his sovereign attitude. The deformity of triumph overspread that narrow brow. All the demonstrations of horror which a satisfied face can afford were there. Javert was in heaven at that moment, without putting the thing clearly to himself, but with a confused intuition of the necessity of his presence and of his success. He, Javert, personified justice, light and truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil. Behind him and around him at an infinite distance. He had authority, reason, the case judged, the legal conscience, the public prosecution, all the stars. He was protecting order. He was causing the law to yield up its thunders. He was avenging society. He was lending a helping hand to the absolute. He was standing erect in the midst of a glory. There existed in his vision Victory, a remnant of defiance and of combat. Erect, haughty, brilliant, he flaunted abroad in open day the superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel. The terrible shadow of the action which he was accomplishing caused the vague flash of the social sword to be visible in his clenched fist. Happy and indignant, he held his heel upon crime, vice, rebellion, perdition, hell. He was radiant, he exterminated, he smiled. And there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous St. Michael. Javert, though frightful, had nothing ignoble about him. Probity, sincerity, candour, conviction, the sense of duty, are things which may become hideous when wrongly directed, but which, even when hideous, remain grand. Their majesty, the majesty peculiar to the human conscience, clings to them in the midst of horror. They are virtues which have one vice, error, the honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the flesh, full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance. Without himself suspecting the fact, Javert, in his formidable happiness, was to be pitied, as is every ignorant man who triumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good. End of Book Number eight, Chapter three Book eight, chapter four of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood F. Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mare had torn her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing but. The only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her. She could not endure that terrible face. She felt her life quitting her. She hid her face in both hands and shrieked in her anguish, monsieur Madeleine. Save me, Jean Valjean. We shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise had risen. He said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices, be at ease. It is not for you that he is come. Then he addressed Javert and said, I know what you want. Javert replied, be quick about it. They lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, be quick about it. He said, be quick about it. No orthography can do justice to. The accent with which it was uttered was no longer a human word. It was a roar. He did not proceed according to his custom. He did not enter into the matter. He exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes, Jean Valjean was a sort of mysterious combatant who was not to be laid hands upon. A wrestler in the dark, whom he had had in his grasp for the last five years without being able to throw him. This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying, be quick about it. As he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step. He hurled at Jean Valjean a glance, which he threw out like a grappling hook, and with which he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him. It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very marrow of her bones two months before. Previously. At Javert's exclamation, Fantine opened her eyes once more. But the mare was there. What had she to fear? Javert advanced to the middle of the room and cried, see here now, art thou coming? The unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present excepting the nun and the mare. To whom could that abject use of thou be addressed? To her only. She shuddered. Then she beheld a most unprecedented thing. A thing so unprecedented that nothing equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest deliriums of fever. She beheld Javert, the police spy, seize the mare by the collar. She saw the mayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was coming to an end. Javert had in fact, grasped Jean Valjean by the collar. Monsieur Le Mer. Shrieked Fantine. Javert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed all his gums. There is no longer any Monsieur Le Mer here. Jean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped the collar of his coat. He said, Javert. Javert interrupted him. Call me Mr. Inspector, monsieur, says Jean Valjean. I should like to say a word to you in private. Aloud. Say it aloud, replied Javert. People are in the habit of talking aloud to me. Jean Valjean went on in a lower tone. I have a request to make of you. I tell you to speak loud, but you alone should hear it. What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen. Jean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly and in a very low voice, grant me three days grace. Three days in which to go and fetch the child of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You shall accompany me if you choose. You are making sport of me. Cries Javert. Come now, I did not think you such a fool. You ask me to give you three days in which to run away. You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature's child. Ah, that's good. That's really capital. Fantine was seized with a fit of trembling. My child. She cried. Go and fetch my child. She is not here. Then answer me, Sister. Where is Cosette? I want my child. Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur le Mer. Javert stamped his foot. And now there's the other one. Will you hold your tongue, you hussy? It's a pretty sort of place where convicts are magistrates and where women of the town are cared for like countesses. Ah, but we are going to change all that. It is high time. He stared intently at Fantine and added once more, taking into his grasp Jean Valjean's cravat, shirt and collar. I tell you that there is no Monsieur Malun and that there is no Monsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean Valjean. And I have him in my grasp. That's what there is. Fantine raised herself in her bed with a bound. Supporting herself on her stiffened arms and on both hands, she gazed at Jean Valjean. She gazed at Javert. She gazed at the nun. She opened her mouth as though to speak. A rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat. Her teeth chattered. She stretched out her arms in her agony, opening her hands convulsively and fumbling about her like a drowning person. Then suddenly fell back on her pillow. Her head struck the headboard of the bed and fell forwards on her breast. And with gaping mouth and staring sightless eyes, she was dead. Jean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert and opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby. And then he said to Javert, you have murdered that woman. Let's have an end of this. Shouted Javert in a fury. I am not here to listen to argument. Let us economize all that. The guard is below. March on instantly, or you'll get the thumbscrews. In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead which was in a decidedly decrepit state and which served the sisters as a camp bed when they were watching with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up to this bed in a twinkling, wrenched off the headpiece, which was already in a dilapidated condition. An easy matter to muscles like his. Grasped the principal rod like a bludgeon and glanced at Javert. Javert retreated towards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of iron, walked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there, he turned and said to Javert in a voice that was barely audible, I advise you not to disturb me at this moment. One thing is certain, and that is that Javert trembled. It did occur to him to summon the Guard. But Jean Valjean might avail himself of that moment to effect his escape. So he remained, grasped his cane by the small end and leaned against the door post without removing his eyes from Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed and his brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of Fantine which lay extended there. He remained thus mute, absorbed, evidently with no further thought of anything connected with this life. Upon his face and in his attitude there was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this meditation, he bent towards Fantine and spoke to her in a low voice. What did he say to her? What could this man who was reproved say to that woman who was dead? What words were those? No one on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching allusions which are perhaps sublime realities. The point, as to which there exists no doubt, is that Sister Simplicity, the sole witness of the incident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valjean whispered in Fantine's ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lips and in those dim eyes filled with the amazement of the tomb. Jean Valjean took Fantine's head in both his hands and arranged it on the pillow, as a mother might have done for her child. Then he tied the string of her chemise and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That done, he closed her eyes. Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment. Death. That signifies entrance into the great light. Fantine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt down before that hand, lifted it gently and kissed it. Then he rose and turned to Javert. Now, said he, I am at your disposal. End of Book 8 Chapter 4 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Book 8 the Counter Blow Chapter 5 A Suitable Tomb Javert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison. The arrest of of Mr. Madeleine occasions a sensation, or rather an extraordinary commotion in Montre Surme. We are sorry that we cannot conceal the fact that at the single word he was a convict. Nearly everyone deserted him in less than two hours. All the good that he had done had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a convict from the galleys. It is just to add that the details of which what had taken place at Aras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the following were to be heard in all the quarters of the town. You don't know he was a liberated convict. [04:12:10] Speaker B: Who? [04:12:10] Speaker C: The mayor. Bah, Monsieur Madeleine. Yes, really. His Name was not Madeleine at all. He had a frightful name. Be John Beaujean. Boujee. Ah, good God. He has been arrested. Arrested? In prison in the city prison while waiting to be transferred. Until he is transferred. He is to be transferred. Where is he to be taken? He will be tried at the assizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago. Well, I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the cross. He. He bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that. The drawing rooms particularly abounded in remarks of this nature. One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau Blanc, made the following remark, the depth of which it is impossible to fathom. I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists. It was thus that the phantom which had been called Mr. Madeleine vanished from Montreal sur Mer. Only three or four persons in all the town remained faithful to his memory. The old portress who had served him was among the number. On the evening of that day, the worthy old woman was sitting in her lodge, still in a thorough fright and absorbed in sad reflections. The factory had been closed all day. The carriage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns, Sister Perpetuate and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of Fantine. Towards the hour when Mr. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the good portress rose mechanically took from a drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, her and the flat candlestick which he used every evening to go up to his quarters. Then she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one side as though she was expecting him. Then she sat down again on her chair and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor good old woman had done all this without being conscious of. Was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from her reverie and exclaimed, hold, my good Jesus. And I hung his key on the nail. At that moment the small window in the lodge opened. A hand passed through, seized the key and the candlestick and lighted the taper at the candle which was burning there. The portress raised her eyes and stood there with gaping mouth and a shriek which she confined to her throat. She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat. It was Monsieur Madeleine. It was several seconds before she could speak. She had a seizure, as she said herself, when she related the adventure afterwards. Good God. Monsieur Le Mer. She cried at last. I thought you were. She stopped. The conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in respect to. Towards the beginning, Jean Valjean was still Monsieur Lemaire to her. He finished her thought. In prison, said he, I was there. I broke a bar of one of the windows. I let myself drop from the top of a roof. And here I am. I am going up to my room. Go and find sister simplest for me. She is with that poor woman, no doubt. The old woman obtained obeyed in all haste. He gave her no orders. He was quite sure that she would guard him better than he should guard himself. No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the courtyard without opening the big gates. He had and always carried about him a pass key which opened a little side door. But he must have been searched and his latch key must have been taken from him. This point was never explained. He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the top, he left his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door with very little noise, went and closed his window and his shutters by feeling. Then returned for his candle and re entered his room. It was a useful precaution. It will be recollected that his window could be seen from the street. He cast a glance about him at his table, at his chair, at his bed, which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder of the night before last remained. The portress had done up his room. Only she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of the cudgel and the 40 sue piece which had been blackened by the fire. He took a sheet of paper on which he wrote. These are the two tips of my iron shod cut cudgel and the 40 sous piece stolen from little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of Assizes. And he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron and the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be seen. On entering the room from a cupboard he pulled out one of his old shirts which he tore in pieces. In the strips of linen thus prepared, he wrapped the two silver candlesticks. He betrayed neither he haste nor agitation. And while he was wrapping up the bishop's candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was probably the prison bread which he had carried with him in his flight. This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room. When the authorities made an examination later on, there came two taps at the Door. Come in, said he. It was Sister Simples. She was pale. Her eyes were red. The candle which she carried trembled in her hand. The peculiar feature of the violence of destiny is that however polished or cool we may be, they wring human nature from our very bowels and force it to reappear on the surface. The emotions of that day had turned the nun into a woman. Once more she had wept, and she was trembling. Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper which he handed to the nun, saying, sister, you will give this to Monsieur Le Cure. The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it. You can read it, said he. She read, I beg Mr. Le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me. He will be so good is to pay out of it the expenses of my trial and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor. The sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer a few inarticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however, does not Monsieur Le Mer desire to take a last look at that poor unhappy woman? No such, said he. I am pursued. It would only end in their arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her. He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the staircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps and the old portress saying in her loudest and most piercing tones, my good sir, I swear to you by the good God that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the trouble door. A man responded, but there is light in that room. Nevertheless, they recognized Javert's voice. The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner of the wall on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed himself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table. The door opened. Javert entered. The whispers of men, many men, and the protestations of the portress were audible in the corridor. The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying. The candle was on the chimney piece, but gave very little light. Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement. It will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert, his element, the very air he breathed, was veneration for all authority. This was impregnable and admitted of neither objection nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecclesiastical authority was the chief of all. He was religious, superficial and correct on this point, as on all others. In his eyes, a priest was a mind who never makes a Mistake. A nun was a creature who never sins. They were souls walled in from this world with a single door which never opened except to allow the truth to pass through. On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire. But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement was to remain and to venture on at least one question. This was Sister Simples, who had had never told a lie in her life. Javert knew it and held her in special veneration in consequence. Sister, said he, are you alone in this room? A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress felt as though she should faint. The sister raised her eyes and answered, yes. Then resumed Javert, you will excuse me if I persist. It is my duty. You have not seen a certain person, A man this evening? He has escaped. We are in search of him. That is Jean Valjean. You have not seen him? The sister replied. No. She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other, without hesitation, promptly as a person does when sacrificing herself. Pardon me, said Javert. And he retired with a deep bow. O sainted maid, you left this world many years ago. You have rejoined your sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the angels, in the light. May this lie be counted to your credit in paradise. The sister's affirmation was, for Javert, so decisive a thing that he did not even observe the singularity of the that candle, which had but just been extinguished and which was still smoking on the table. An hour later, a man marching amid trees and mists was rapidly departing from Montre Surme in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the testimony of two or three carters who met him, that he was carrying a bundle, that he was dressed in a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse? No one ever found out. But an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few days before, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps that was the one. One last word about Fantine. We all have a mother the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother the cure thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he really was in reserving as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean had left for the poor, who was concerned, after all, a convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine and reduced it to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave. So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery, which belongs to belongs to anybody and everybody. And where the poor are lost, fortunately, God knows where to find the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade among the first bones that came to hand. She was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown into the public grave. Her grave resembled her bed. End of volume one. End of book eight. End of chapter five.