I George JVashington Flowers Memorial Collection DUKE UNIVERSnV I.IHRARV ESTABLISHED BY THE FAMILY OF COLONEL FLOWERS Price Two Dollars, v r.FTn;-rn^i,iu'i«wrieBM— FANTINE MISERABLES jg-r VICTOR Huao. I DC published ic t'iv© Parts — Each Part a Compl&te Novel, as follows : i FANTINE, MAKK^S, COSETTE, ST. DENIS, JEAN VALJEAN. i « • 1 RI OHM ON I ' WEST & JOHNSTON. L, 1 H G ;> . 1 LES MISERABLES. (THE WRETGHED.) % ioid. BY VICT.OR TTuao. A NEW TRANSLATION, REVISED! IN FIVE PARTS: I. PANTINE. III. MARIU8. II. COSETTE. IV. ST. DENIS. V. JEAN VAL.TEAN. PART I. • RICHMOND: WEST & JOHNSTON, . 1863. ''J ERRATUM. On page 60, line 22, instead of out of rttpect to the dog, it should be, "iji or- der to keep off the dog." C. n. WYNNE, PRINTBB. :W 'I 1 -'- it ii^<3 EDITOR'S PREFACE. " Les Midrahles" — Victor HtlGO^s last novel — is at once the mani- festo of a Radical and the fictittn of a Poet. With all its faults — and they are many and glaring — it is the most remarkable production of its class which has been ^published for many years. The glowing rhetoiic and impassioned dedamatiou of the orator of the Mountain, the fierce invective of " Les Chatiments," the subtle analy.sis (5f " Le dernier jour d'un Condamne," the gorgeous word-painting of " Les Orientales,' the dramatic power, of " Ruy Bias," "Marie Tudor" and "Lucrdce Borgia," are all combined in this wonderful book, concentrated and fussd together, as it were, by the fire of genius. Hence the . immense, sensation it has created in France and in Europe. " Parisiaii work- men," says the author of a violent criticism of the work, published in a late rimber of the Edinburgh Review, "club together in their aJeh'crs, to purchase a copy of this mendacious appeal to thq working classes, and a.ssemble at night to hear it read aloud. Parish priests in remote villages borrow the book from the neighboring chateau and gloat ovcr^e history of social iniquity, in their lonely parsonages." On the other band, the Westminster Review, "the great organ of British Radicalism, is rapturous in its praise. "Faults, eccentricities," says the reviewer, "redundancies, extravagances, errors against good taste, it unquestionably has. Any critic who liked the task might de- vote a whole essay to these alone. But when the most invidious criti- cism has d'one its worst, the immense power, the noble character of the work, remains unimpaired. The foundation of half a dozen great repu- tations might be discovered in the pages of 'Les Miserables.' Perhaps no higher praise could be given to the work than to say, that heralded as it was by months and months of most vehement preliminary lauda- tion, highly wrought up as public expectation had purpo.sely been, the world was not disappointed in the end. The prcse^e of gcnrus is felt by the reader ineverj chapter and page. A deep insight into human na- ture, a warm and almost. pa.s.sioiia(c sympathy with human i?ufrering, a pictorial power scarcely rivalled in our days, a dramatic force which strikes out new and thrilling effects in every new situation, an inexhaus- tible variety of character, incident and illustration, and a vivid elo- quence, absolutely unequalled by nny living author of the same class — these are some, and_ only some of the leading qualities by means of which ViCTOft Hugo has made 'Les Mis6rables' one of the great lite- ,> PRBPACB. mrw mtonxiwuntM of ihf cmttiry. It i« one of fbc master-pieces of the %ft which ha* produocil it." The trap-Utioo which has beeo adoptrd u.-^ liio basis of the present r»print, all hough in the n)ain faithful and spirited, is disfigured by nu- merooB crrom and miAspprehenVions of peculiar French idioms, some of them even of a ludicrous nature. The work of revising and correcting it for republication was commenced by that accomplished scholar, Pro- feMor A. I>imitry ; but the pressure of other engagemeuts having com- pelled that gentleman to give up the undertaking after he bad progressed M* far as page 49 of this edition, the task of revision was entrusted bj the publishers to the present editor, who has endeavored to carry out their vi'.-ws in a manner that will, he hopes, prove satisfactory to the v^diog public. It is proper to state here, that whrlst every chapter and paragraph in any way connected with the story has been scrupulously preserved, Mveral long, and it must be confessed, rather rambling disfjuisitions on political and other matters of a purely local character, of no iiitercst whatever on this sitlo of the Atlantic, and exclusively intended for the French readers of the book, have not been included in this reprint. A few scattered sent<'nc*«. refle 141 II. — Shrewdness of Master ScaufHaire 141^ III. — A Tempest in a Brain 147 IV.— Forms a.^sumcd by suffering during Sleep 159 v.— Clogs in the Wheels 161 VI.— Sister Simplice put to the Proof. 169 VII. — The Traveller arrives and provides for his Return 173 VIII. — Admission by FiiTor - 176 JX. — A place where Convictions are in the way of being formed 179 X. — The System of Denegations., 183 XL — Cbampmatbieu more and more astonished ' ^ 188 BOOK EIGHTH. * I. — In what Mirror Mr. Madeleine looks at his Haij 191 II.— Fantiiie happy 193 III — Jiivort hHtibfiod ^. 195 •IV. — .Authority rctumes its Rights...^.. .♦ 198 v.— A fitting Tomb .' 200 y 1 / / • servant of the curate, now took the double title of Icnime de chambrc of IMademoi- selle and housekeeper of Monscigneur. Miss Baptistine was a tall, pale, thin, and gentle being. She fully realized the idea which is C'lpresscd by the word 'respectable;' for it seems as if it were necessary that a woman <;hould be a mother to be venerable. She had never been pretty; her whole life, which had been but a succession of pious works, had produced upon her a kind of trans- parent M'hiteness, and in growing old she had acquired wht'.t may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been thinness in her youth had become in maturity transparency, and this ctherealucss permitted gleams of the angel within. She was more a .«;pirit than a virgin mortal. iter form was shadow-like, hardly enough body to cOTivey the thought of sex — a little earth containing a spark — large e3'cs, always cast down; a pretext for a sonl to remain on earth. Mrs. ^^aglorre was a little, white, fat, jolly, bustling old womar, always out of breath, caused first by her activity, and then by her asthma. M. Myriel,' upon his arrival, was installed in his episcopal palace with the honors prescribed by the imperial door"(^«, which class the bishop next in rank to tbe field-marshal. The Mayor and the President paid him the first visit, and he, on his part, paid like honor to the General and the Prefect. The inst^allation being completed, the town was anxious to sec its bishop at work. II. MR. .MYRIEI, BECOMKS MY LOHO UIE.NVENU. The bishop's palace at D was contiguous to the hospit;il; the palace was a spacious and beautiful edifice, b\iijt of stone in the i>0!_'inning of the last century by Monsiegnour Henri Piijnt, a doctor of theology of the Faculty of Paris, abbe of Simoro, who was bishop of P in 1712. The palace was a right Irdly dwelling; there was an air of gran- deur about everything, the ap;irtment8 of the bishop, the saloons, the. chambers, the court of honor, which w.ts very largo, with arched walk-* after the antique Florentiac style; and a garden planted with raagnifi- cent trees. 12 LE8 MIS^RABLES. In the dinine b»l!. a Ion? »od tnafinificoot pallcry on the ground floor, pt '!^hop t ' :•■ Vendomc, grand-prior do France, lord abbot of ts^iui 1 1.. vins, Kran9ois de Hertftn de (irillon, bishop baron of \v\i I'-' ."^nbran de Forcalquier, lord bisliop of Ghmdivc, and Jmo Sfianco. priest of the Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the King, lord binhop of Scnffz. The portraits of these seven rVvi-rend perstmagos decorated the hall, and this ineinorablc date, July 20th, 1714, appeared in letters of gold ou a white marble tablet. The hospital was a low, narrow, one-story building, with a small ginlcn. Three days after the bishop's advent, he visited the hospital; when the visit was ended, he invited the director to call at the palace. "Sir," sjiid he to the director of the hospit^il, "how many patients have you ?" "Twenty-six, ray lord." " That is as I had counted," said the bishop. "The beds," continued the director, "are clo.sely packed." " I had so noticed." "The wat-ds are but sraall chambers, and arc not easily ventilated." " It seems so to rac." " And then, when the sun docs shine, the garden is very small for the convalescents." "This I had Kiid to myself." "In the way of epidemics, we have had typhus fever this year; two years ago we had miliary fever, .some times one hundred pnticnf^. ,ind we did not know what to do." "That had occurred to me." " What can we do, my lord," said the director; "we must be resigned " Thii conversation took place in the dining gallery on the ground floor. The bishop was silent a few moments; then he turned abruptly to- wards the director. "Sir," he said, "how many beds do you think this hall alone would cootaiu V " .Nly lord's dining hall I" exclaimed the director, stapeGed. The bishdp ran his eyes over the hall, seemingly taking measure, and making caleuialions. " It will any way hold twenty beds," said he to himself; then raising his vuice. he said : "Jji-ten, Mr. Director, to what I have to say. There is evidently a mistake here There arc twenty-six of you in five or six small rooms. There are only three of us, and space for sixty. There is a mistake, I tell v'lu. You have my house, and I have yours. Restore u)ine to me, and Ik! (his your home." The next day the twenty-six poor invalids were installed in the bish«p")« pulace, and the bishop had gone to the hospital. Mr. Myriel had no property, his family having been impoveri.shed by tb« rovolation. His sister held an annuity of live hundred francs, which (0 the vicarage sufficed for her personal wants. Mr. Myriel received from FANTINE. 13 the government, as bishop, a salary of fifteen thousand francs. The day on which he took up his residence in the hospital building, he resolved to appropriate this sum, once for all, to the following uses. We copy the schedule then written by him : ^' Memorandum for my Household Exj)enses. For the little seminary, fifteen hundred livres. Mission congregation, one hundred livres. For the Lazarists of Montdidier, one hundred livres. Seminary of foreign mi.*sians in Paris, two hundred livres. Congregation of the Holy Ghost, one hundred and fifty livrea. Keligious establishments in the Holy Land, one hundred livres. Maternal charitable societies, three hundred livres. For that of Aries, fifty livres. For the Jail Improvement Society, four hundred livres. For the relief and deliverance of prisoners, five hundred livres. For the liberation of fathers of families imprisoned for debt, one thou- sand livres. Additions to the salaries of poor schoolmasters of the diocese, two thousand livres. Public storehouse of the Upper Alps, one hundred livres. Association of the ladies of D of Manosque and Sisterron for the gratuitous instruction of poor girls, fifteen hundred livres. For the poor, six thousand livres. My personal expenses, one thousand livres. Total, fifteen thousand livres." Mr. Myriel-made no alteration in this plan during tl/e time he held the see of D ; he called it, as will have been seen, the settlement of his household expfnses. Miss Baptistine accepted this arrangement with entire submis- sion: to this holy woman Mr. Myriel was at once a brother and a bishop, her companion by ties of blood and her superior by spiritual au- thority. She loved and venerated him unaffectedly : when he spoke, she listened; when he acted, sfie yielded hor assent. Mrs. Magloire, how- ever, their servant, grumbled a little. The bishop, as it may have been ?een, bad reserved but a thousand francs; this, added to tiie income of Miss Baptistine, gave them a yearly dependence of fifteen hundred francs, upon which the three old people subsisted. Thanks, however, to the rigid economy of Mrs. Magloire, and the excellent management of. Miss Baptistine, whenever a curate came to D , the bishop found means fo extend to him his hospitality. About three months after the installation, the bishop said one day, "With all this. I am very much cramped." "I think so too," said Mrs. Magloire: "My Lord has not even a.<;kcd for the sura due him by the department for his carriage expenses in town, and in his circuits in the diocese. It was formerly the custom with all bishops." " Yes I" said the bishop; "you are right, Mrs. Magloire." He made his application. Some time afterwards, the General Couneii took his claim into con- sideration and voted him an annual stipend of three thousand francs 14 LCS MISKRABLES. undi^r ihii hmd : "AUoirance to the bishop for carriage expenses, rclaj »• " ., f..r p:i*toraI visits." the lowu were much excited on ttie soljoct, and in rt|£drnisfs, For beef and pork for the hospital, fifteen hundred livres. For the Aix MatA-nal .Charity Assoeiatioo, two hundred and fifty livres. For the Draguignan Maternal Charity Aaiociation, two hundred and fifty livres For loiredliugs, five hundred livres. , For orphans, five hundred livres. Total, three thousand livres." Such was the budget of Mr. ^lyricl. In regard to the otlieial jicniufsiles, marriage licenses, dispensations, private baptisms, and preacliing, consecrations of ehurcdies or chapels, marriages, A:c., (he bishop coFlected them from the wealthy with so much the more punctuality, that the proceeds immediately Wtfut to the poor. In a short time donatiojis of money flowed into (lie bishop's hands; ihoso who had and those who had not, knocked at the bisliop's door. Some c;inie to receive alms which others had bestowed, and in less than a yc:ir he had become the trea.surer of all the benevolent, and the banker to all the distressed. Large sums passed through his hands; neverthe- Icsa, he changed in nowi.se his mode of living, nor added the least lux- ury to the'striet necessaries of life. FANTINE. 15 On tlic contrary, as there is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher, every thing was givcQ uwa^, so to speak, before it was received. It was like water on a sandy 'soil. • For all the money that he might receive, he still never had any in hand. In such cases he would rob himself of his own. It being the custom that all bishops should put their christian names at the head of their orders and pastoral letters, the poor people of the district had chosen, by a sort of affectionate instinct, from among the names of the bishop, tliat which was expressive to them, and they always called him My Lord Bienvenu. We shall follow their example, and shall call him tlius. On the whole, he was pleased \vth this form of address. "I like this name,'' said he ; *' Bienvenu is a corrective of * My Lord.' " We do not claim that the portrait which we present hero is a true one ; we say only that it is a good likeness. III. A GOOD BISHOP FOR A HARD DIOCESE. What though the bishop had converged his carriage into charities, he did not, therefore, the less regularly perform his pastoral rounds. A trj^ing diocese, withal, was that of D , as may have been inferred fjxtra the senatorial protest. • There was verj' little plain, a good deal of mountain, and hardly any roads, as the see included thirty-two curacies, forty-one vicarages, and two hundred and eighty-five sub-curacies. To visit all these is a great labor, but the bishop went through with it. He traveled on foot in his own neighborhood, in a cart when he was in the plains, and in a cacolet, a basket strapped on the back of a mule, when in the mountains. The two women usually accompanied him, but when the journey was too difficult for tiiem,-lie went alone. One day he arrived at Senez, an old episcopal seat, mounted on an a.s3. His purse, quite low at the lime, would not allow any better con- veyance. The mayor of the city came to receive him at the portal of the episcopal residence, and with scandalized astonishment, saw him dis- mount from his a.ss. Several of thij citizens stood near by, laughing. " Mr. Mayor,'' said the bishop, "and you, gentlemen burghers, I see what scandalizes you; you think that it argues a deal of pride, for a ponr priest to use the same conveyance which was once used b}' Christ. I have d«no it from necessity, I assure you, and not from vanity." In his visits he was indulgent and gentle, and preached le.«s than he conversed. lie never used far-fetched reasons or examples To the inhabitants of one region he would cite the exan)ple of a neighboring region. In the districts where the needy were treated with ii;;ur, he would say, "Look at the people of Brian^nn. They have given to the poor, and to widows and orphans, the right to mow their meadows two months before all the others. When tiieir houses arc in ruin.s they rebuild them without cost. Hence it is a country ble.s.sed of God. For a whole century they have not known a single murder in their midst." In villages where the people were greedy for gain, and absorbed in their crops, he would say, " Look at Embrun. If a father of a family, 10 LBS mis£rables. at harvest time, hx% hit ooiui in the arinj, and his daughter^ at service io the cilj, and lie be nick, the pricpt reconmionds him, in his Sunday :n«tructinn« and iftcr misn, the whole population of the village, von,^ women and rhiMrcn, g'> info the poor man's fii-ld and harvest, his '•rt»p, and put ttntr aninf of nmney and inheritance, he would say, "See the niountain- c«Tf» of I>cvi>!ny. a country so wild that the nifihtingale is not heanl thor.' onef in lifty years Well, now, when the head of the family dies, the Itoy^ pt away to seek their fortunes, and leave the property to the girld, po rhat they may get husbands." In tho.'se districts where the spirit of litigation exists, and wiiere the farmers were ruining themselves with stampeeople of Queyras." In such fashion would he talk with fatherly gmvity ; in the absence of examples he would contrive parables going straight to his object, with . few phrases and m*.iny images, which was ihe very eloquence of Jesus Chri.-»t, earnesi and persuasive. IV. AVORKS .MATCHING WORDS. IliH conversation was affable and cheerful. Ho adapted himself to the capacity of the two old women who lived with hiu» ; when he laughed, it was the hugh of a school-boy. Mrs. Magloire found no objection in addressing him as Your Grcnf- neu. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library for :v book. It was upon one of the upper shelves, and as the bishop was imther short of stature he could not reach it. " Mrs. Magloire," said he, " bring me a chair. My greatness does not extend to this shelf." One of his distant relatives, the countess of Lo, rarely failed to im- prove an occasion of rehearsing, in his presence, what she called " the expoctations" of her three sons. She had several relatives, very old aod.near their death, of whom her sons were the legal heirs. The ♦ FANTINE. 17 youngest of the three was to receive, from a great-aunt, a rental of a hun- dred thousand livres; the second looked to a substitution of his uncle'sr ducal title ; the eldest would succeed to his grand-father's peerage. The bishop com m only listened in silence to these harmless and pardonable ma- ternal displays. Once, however, he appeared more thougiitful than wa?j his wont, while Madame de L6 rehearsed the various points of all' these successions and all these " expectations." Stopping suddenly, with some impatience, she exclaimed, '' My goodness, cousin, what are you thinking about ?" " I J\m thinking," said the bishop, " of a strange thing, which is, I believe, in St. Augustine; 'place your expectations on him who knows no successor.'" On another occasion, receiving a letter announcing the decease of ft gentleman in the country, in which werb spread out on a long page, besides the dignities of the departed, all the feudal and titular honors of all his relations, he exclaimed : " How broad are the shoulders of Death ! How* wondrous a load of titles is h^ made to carry ! AnJ how keen are the devices of man, thus to impress the grave into the service of his vanity !" On occasions he would indulge in a* quiet irony, which almost always- conveyed some serious sense. Once, during Lent, a young vicar camo to D- , and preached in the cathedral. The subject of his scrmou was charity, and he treated it very eloquently. He called upon the ricb to give alms to the poor, if they Would escape the tortures of hell, whicl> he pictured in the most fearful colors, and enter that paradise which he painted as so desirable and inviting. There was a rich retired merchant in the audience, Mr. Geborand, something of an usurer, who had accumu- lated an estate of two millions in the manufacture of coarse clothe, woolens, serges and camelets. Never, in the whole course of his life, had Mr. Geborand given alms to the unfortunate; but from the date of this sermon it was noticed that he gave regularly, everj- Sunday, a penny to the old beggar women who were stationed at the portals of the cathe- dral. There were six of them to share in the dole. The bishop' chanced to see him one day dispensing this alms, and said to his sister, with a smile, " Here's Mr. Geburand buying a pennyworth of heaven." When the question turbed on charity, not even could a denial rebuff him, and he would then command words that compelled men to reflect. One day ho was begging in a drawing-room of the city, where the Mar- quis of Champtercier, who was old, rich, and miserly, was present. The ^Marquis managed to be, at the same time, an ultra-royali.st, and an ultra- Voltarian, a species of which he was not the only roprcseutative. The bishop coming to him in turn, touched his arm, and said, " Mar- quis^ you must give mc something." The Marquis turned and answcretl bluntly, " My Lord, I have my own poor." " Make them over to me," said the bi.shop. One day he preached this scrnron in the cathedral : " My very dear brethren, ray good fr^end.o, there are in France thirteen hundred an J twenty thousand peasants' cottages that have but three openings; eighteen hundred and seventeen thousand that have two, the door and" one window; and finally, three hundred and forty-six thousand hovels, with only one opening — the door. • And this is in consequence of wha^ IS LBS MIB£rABLH». U oallod the cxcUc upon doorx and windows lludJlc poor fuiuilios, old vomoo and lilUc clrildrcn in ihot-e huts, and look to comiDg fevers and to diMa*©« of every kihd. Alas! God gives light to ii.cn, but the law ctialTcrii it back to ihciii I do not iinpu<;Plhe law ; liut I do bless God. In Im'ta, in N»r, and in the Upper und the Lower Alps, the peasants fcave !K»l cTcn whcclbarrown, they carry the manure on their backs; Ihcy havo no cnDdles, but burn pine knots, and bith of rope soaked in titcL. And the same is the case all through the upper country of Ptuphino. They bake bread once in six months, and then their fuel i^ of Chc dried dung uf the fields. In winter they cut it up with an axe, and •oak it for twenty-four hours, before they can eat it. My brethren, bo COnip-'sionate ; behnld how much sufleting there is around you " ^ Uorn a I'rovencjal, he had ca.sily made himself familiur with all the Jialec'8 of the South. He would say "/i/t, be! mouiiiiu, us su(j^ ?" as in Lt'Wcr Languedoc; "Oiitc ufiarns passu ?" as in the Lower Alps; *''l*ueiU \m bourn moutou rnibe un boven froitmat/c t/rasc," a.s in I ppcr J>aupliin6. This pleasec^ the people j^reafly, and contribuftd not a little to gi«i"g him ready access to their hearts. Whether in the cottage, or in the mountain, he was at home. He could say the grandest things io (ho most commoD language ; and *as he mastered every dialect, so be *poke hi.-i way to every soul. He condemned nothing hastily, or without taking account of circura-_ fcJancos. He would say, "Let us see the way through which the error Los crept." H«-in;r, as he smilin^^ly described himself, an rx-siunr.r, he had none cfthc btiffne.sa of puritanism, and boldly profe.s.sed, even under the eyes rT the Ccrociously virtuous, a doctrine which may be nearly summed up ia this : •' Man ha.s a body which is at once his burden and his temptation. He dra[;s it along, and yields to it. *' Ho ought to watch over it, to keep it in bounds; to repre.le, the indigent, •nd the igoorunt, are the faults of their husbands, father.-*, and n.MSters, cf the strong, the rich, and the learned." At other timo3 he said, *' Teach the ignorant as much a.s you can; society incurs a mora! guilt in failing to provide free instruction for all, and it is answerable for tho intellcctuaf darkness which it creates. If the soul is lef: in darkness, • m. ' FANTINE. 19 •sens will be coTunut.ted. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but he who causes the darkness." As we see, he hud a strange and peculiar way of judging things. X suspect that he had found it in the gospel. 4. . ,, ^ In Company one day lie heard an account of a criminal case that waa about to be tried. A pitiable man, havin^; exhausted his resources, and moved by his love for a woman anil for the child which she had borne him, had resorted to false coining for means of existence. At that time counterfeiting was still punished by death. The woman was arrested in the act of passing the first piecu that he had made. She was held a prisoner, but the evidence worked against her only. She alone could testify against her lover, and convict him by her confession. She denied his guilt. They insisted, but she was obstinate in her denial. In this .state of the case, the prosecuting attorney for the crown devised a shrewd plan. He represented to her that her lover was unfaithful, and by means of fragments of letters skilfully put together, succeeded in con- viffcing the unfortunate woman that she had a rival, and that this man had deceived her. At once exasperated by jealousy, she denounced her lover, confessed all, and proved his guilt He was to be tried in a few days at Aix, with his accomplice, and his conviction was certain. The story was told, and every b(ldy was in eestacy at the adroitness of the officer. In bringing jealousy into play, he had brought truth to light by means of anger, and justice had sprung from revenge. The bishop listened to all this in silence When the account was through, he asked : "Where are this man and woman to be tried?" "At the Assizes." "And where is the proTvn attorney to be tried ?" A tragic event occurred at D . A man had been condemned to death for murder. The culprit was a poorly educated, but not entirely ignorant man, who had been a juggler at fairs, and a public scrivener. ' His trial was the town-talk. The evening before the day fixed for the execution of the condemned, the almoner of the prison fell ill. A priest was needed to attend the prisoner in his last moments. The curate was sent for, but it seems that he refu.«ed to go, saying, " That does not concern me. I have nothing to do with such drudgery, and with that mountebank; besides, I 'am sick myself, and mpreover, it is not ray post" Wlien this reply was reported to the bishop, he said, "The (■urate is right, it is not his post, but mine." He immediately repaired to the prison, went down into the cell of the "mountebank," called him by name, took him by the hand, and talked with him. He spent the whole day with him, forgetful of food and sleep, praying to God for the soul of the comlenmed, and beseerhing the condemned for his own soul's sake He recalled to him the best, wliich are the simplest truths. He wa^s father, brother, friend; bi,-hop for blessing only. He taught him everything in the act of sustaining and comforting liim. The man would ofliL-rwisc have died in despair. Death, I'nr him, was like an abyss. Standing shivering upon the dreadful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was nit ignorant cnongh to be indiflerent. The terrible shock of his condemnation had in some sort broken here and there that wall wliich separates us from the mystery of things beyond, and which we call life. Through these fatal breaches he was constantly iO LES )fIS/^RABLE8. * lookinjr h<>ronoc«*\ ordinarily a prtibcndary, every day ; and nearly every d«T hi> prati'J vicars. He has congregations to Ruperintend, licenses to nmat, a whole ecdesia»ti>-al book-Htorc to examine, formularies of pray- er*, dinr/nan eatochi-sms, manuals of devotions, AcrnaieDt, on the other the ' Holy Sec, a thousand matters of bu!qnrit of God moved iipon the. /ace "J the xcatcrs. Ue contrasts this version with three other texts ; FANTINE. 23 Tfith the Arabic, which has: The winds of God u-ere breathing ] with the text of Flavius Joscphus, who says: A wind from on hi;ical works of Flugo, bishop of Ptolomas, a great grand-nncle of the writer of this book, and proves that sundry little tracts, published in the last century, under the pseudonym of Rarleycourt, should be attributed to that prelate. Sometimes in the midst of his reading, whatever the book might be, he would suddenly be absorbed in a deep meditation, awakening fros» which, he would proceed to write a few lines on the pages thcms'.lvcs of the volume before him. These lines often have no reference to the book in which thoy are written. We have under our own eyes a note writteTi by him upon the margin of a quarto volume entitled : ^'Correspondence of Lord Germain- with General Clinton and General Cornicaliis, and with fhe A , he conceived the idea of having a room partitioned off from the eow-stable with a tight plank coiling, 'i'hcre, during the intense cold would he spend his evening.^, in what he called his icinter parlor. In this winter parlor, as in the dining-room, the only furniturb was a fi juare white wooden table, and four straw-botc solaced unfortunate, returning thanks to God." In his oratory he had two straw-worked camp-stools, and an arm chair, *also of straw, in the bed-room. When he happened to have seven or eight visitors at once, the prefect, general, or the staff-officers of the regiment in the garri.son, or some of the pupils of the lower seminary, he was obliged to go to, the stable for the chairs that were in the winter parlor, to the oratory for the camp-stools, and to thi; bed-room for the arm chair; in this way he could accommodate as many as eleven visitors with seats. I'or each new visitor a room was stripped. It happened sometimes that there wore twelve; when the bishop glossed over the difficulty of the occasion by standing before the tire, if it were winter, or by walking in tlie garden, if it were summer. There was another chair in the guests' alcove, but it had lost half its straw, and had but three legs, so that it could be used only when stand- ing against the wall. Miss Baptistine had alsQ, in her room, a very roomy wooden lounge, that had been once gilded and covered with flow- ered silk, but as it had to be takeu into her room through the window, the stairway being too narrow, it could not be counted among the avail- able items (if furniture. The purchase of a piece of furniture something like a parlor lounge, with Utrecht velvet cushions worked with roses on a yellow ground, and mahoL'any supports carved in the form of .swan's necks, might nave been the aim of Mi.ss IJaptistine's ambition. Its gratilicatinu, however, would have cost some five hundred francs ; while, for all the savings of five years, she had been able to hourd up forty-two franca and ten sous only, for a purpose which she finally concluded to forego. After all, who has ever compassed the realities of his dream ? Nothing plainer could be imagined than the bishop's bed-room. A window coming down to the floor and opening on the garden, facing this, the bed — an iron hospital bed, with a green serge pavilion. Concealed FANTINE. , 25 in the sliadow of the bed, behind a curtain, toilet articles, still. spealvin» of (he former refined habits of the man of the world. Then two dooi* — one .near the ' fire phice, looking- into (he orafpr^— the other, near the library, leading into the dining-room. The library, a large case with glass (Toors, and its hoard of books; the chimney, cased in niarWe- painted wood, habitually unchecred by a lire; on the hearth, a brace of andirons, topped by wreathed and fluted vases, once plated with silver etchings, a kind of episcopal extravagance y above the marble, a braaa crucifix, from which the silver washing had passed away, resting on a threadbare piece of black velvet, set in a wooden frame, from which the gilding had gone ; near the window a large table with an inkstand, covered with scattered papers and heavy volumes. la front of the table was the straw armchair, and before the bed the camp-stool from the oratory. " ■ ' - . Two portraits, in oval frames, hung on the wall on either side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions upon the background of the canvas indi- cated that the portraits represented, one, the vfbbe do Chaliot, bishop of Saint Claude, the other, the Abb6 Tourteau, vi^ar-general of Agde, Abbe of Grandehamps, order of Citeaux, diocese of Chartres. The bishop found these portraits when he succeeded to the hospital patients in this chamber, and left them untouched. They were priests, and probably contributors to the hospital — two reasons wh}' he should respect them. All that he knew of these two personages was that they had been named by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his living, ou the same day, the twenty. seventh of April, 1785. Mrs. Magloire having taken down the pictures to wipe off the dust, the bishop had found this circumstance recorded in a faded ink upon a little square piece of- paper, stuck by four wafers on the back of the portrait of the Abb6 of Grandehamps. He had at his window an antiqiie curtain of coarse woolen stuff, which finally became so old that, to save the expense of a new one, Mrs. Ma-' gL'ire was obliged to take in a large seam in the very middle of it. This seam was in the form of a cross. The bi.shop often called attention to it. " IIow well that suits," he would say. Every room in "the house, on the ground floor, as well as in the upper story, without exception, was whitewashed, which is the style of bar- racks and of hospitals. However, in Inter years, as we shall see by-and-by, IMrs. Magloire found, under the wall-paper, the paintings whicii decorate thoaiipartmcnt of Miss IJaptistiii". linfore irwas a hospitiil, the house had been a sort of gathering-place for the citizens, at whicli time these decorations were introduced. The floors of the chambers were paved with red brick, which were scoured every week, fmd before the beds straw matting waa spread. In all respects, the house kept by these two women only wa« exquisitely neat from top to bottom. This was the only luxury that the biehop Would allow. lie would say, " That takct nothiiv/ from the jwor.'^ Wo must, however, confess that outr of what he had formerly -owned, he still retained .mx silver soup dishes and a silver soup ladle, wldch Mrs Magloire contcrflplated every day with renewed joy, as flicy shone on the coarse, whit« linen table-cloth. And as we are drawing the por- 3 20 l.KS MIsftRADLL5. trail i.f llic Bii»h(ip of D jus« »» ^>^* wa», wo must aJ.l.lliat he li«J *iJ, m.-rc th:in oncf, "It would be uifl'uult for lue to gi\x> up e-iting •^ of i>ilvlaie." Willi llii- filvcr wnre Klioiild be counted two lar«;e, niass-iv^ ^iIv^T ^ ^ra»cli rundlo!«li<.-kH, which he liad iuhcriti-d IVoni a gri-ut-aunt. Th«se ■ ©•Otll'-tick.'* hcM t"^ ^^"^ caiidle.H, ami thtir plaie was up> ii the bi.shii]>'8 ■mill l-tii<'CC ' WIk-d he had aii^ ouc lo diuiicr, Mrs. Ma^loire would h«ht ihf twn camHcs, and jtWce the two cuiili(tk8 ujmui liic t^ildo Tlap' w.iH ie> the hi>li(.p's ch:Uiibi;r. at the head of his bed, a hiiiall ewpboird ill which Jlrs Majiloirc placed ihe .six >ilver di^h«<« and the groal la'ilf' every evening. . 15ui the key w s never takoo out of it. TJi" j^arden,. which wa.s sonjcwhat niarrirJ !•}• tlie un-i^^htly structures of wliicii we have hpokcii, was lai I out wah four walk- in tlie furni o( n, erc^K, nieciin^ at the draiuwtll in the.cen re. Thcr« wa.s auoilier walk which made ilic circuit of the parden, along tl.e white wall which eu- eloHed it. Tliese walks left four scj'iare pl;it> which Were bi>rd«red. with box In tlircc of theiu*iMr.« Magloiie t nllivalid vcgpiablis; iu the f4«ttrt)i the bishop haj plan.'ed flowers, and here and tlure were a few fruk trees. Mr.s. i^lagloire once said to him with a kind of- pi-nilo r^pri'ach : " My Lord, you arc ever 3iiixiou.M to make cverythini; useful, but yet here is a plat tlint is of no use it wtuld be much bcttert» have salads tlicro than boufjuciai " "Mrw. Maglnire," replied the bif'hop, "you mi.stuke. The beuuiilul is as useful as the u.s;.ful."^ II'> added, afl4'r a moment's .^ilcfK-e, " more so, peihaps.'j This plat, cfinsi.stinj: of throe or four bed;*, engaged the bishop nearly a« lunch as his books. lie usually pa.ssed an hour or two there, trini- mihg, wcciling, and making liohs here and there iu the ground, aud planting seeds. He was nut (juiie as hostile to insects as a gardeucr mii'ht have wished. He made no p:7len.>.i>iii.s to b'ltuny, aod knew nothing of groups or eonipusitinn of bodies; he did not care in the 'least to deeiflo between Tourncfnrt ami the naluial method; he touk no part,' either for the utricles again.vt the eotyloduns, or for Jussicu against Iiinn;cu8 He wa's ih> di.ssei-lcr of plants; but u lover of fi'iwers. IIo bad much respect fur the learned; but sull more for the ignorant; and, while he neve the door of a prison. The bishop had had all (his ironw«irk taken oil, an4 'hu *l"or, by night kH well as by day, wa.s closed only "h ih,. jjitch. The pas.serby, what- ever might be the hour, eould open it with a simple p\ish. At tirst tlio two women had bec'u Very much irouhled at tlwr door being ni'vcr locked; but My Lord of D said fo ihem : '' Have ledts on your own doors, if you like" They joined, at last, in hi.s confiding trust, or at • least acted as if they shared it. Mrs. Mng'oire alone hail her occasional visii.iiioiiH of fear As lo the bi.>hi>p, an i'.x(,lanation, or an indii-atioa »t Un>t of his thought on the fcuhj' et. may be found in the three (ollow- inir lines, written by him on the margin (.f a biblo: "A sh.de of meaoiojr ;»tlic phy-iclaii's door should never bo closed; the door of tL') pritsl should ever be opcu." • FANTINE. 2t In another boolc, entitled Pluloxophie ife la Scimr.e Mt'to I'iodmont, and suddenly re-appeared in Fniuce in the neighliorliood of IJarcel innette. He was first seen at Jauzier*.", thcMi at the Filts. He concealed hin)self in the caverns of Jong dc r Aigle, from which he made descents upon .the hamlets anJ viilagiis by the ravines of Ubaye and Ubiyette. Ho even pushed as far as Embrun, and one night broke intt) the ca- thedral, and stripped the sacristy His robberies desolated the country. The jrrusd'armes were put upon his trail, but iu vain. He always escaped, BQmeiiiiics by furcible re.sist;ince. He was a daring scoundrel. In the midst of all this tei ror, the bishop arrived. He was making hi.s visij to Cha-iL-lar The mayor came to see him and urg<^d him to tnri\ back. CraVatte commanded the mountains as far as Arche, and b<'yund; there w.is peril iu,the journey, even with »» escort. It would uselessly expu:M; throe or four poor jrensd'armes to danger. i_ . * We liftvp rP'-foroJ tlie text of the pj>nlm, wliicli the miihor, no douht intcn- tionnlly, misquote-l to meet the i!i.-hRABLKi "Ami tbcreryro," caiJ tl:c lishop, "I ratend to go without au OKOti". . , ,,. , • , . " Do you (vrinusly nic.nn it, mj lord ? exclaimed the mayor. - "I ^o'rc•JII> mean it, tl'^t I ab-olutely refuse the gcnsd'iu mes, aud I , (Ongoing to hUrt iu an hour." <• To start ? " * , "To start." " Alone ? " "Alcne." " My Kt'I, you will not do such a thinp." "Tin ro is in the mountain." ^ipliod tlie hishop, "no humble little pliidh, not bigger* tLao my haud, wliich I have not seen for three \ear.s; and they are good frfbnd.« of mine, kind and hune.st luidsmen. Th.ey ©vyn one goat out of thirty that they pa.stur;). They, make pretty wooleu COrd.s and tas8cls of variegated huen, and they play their mountain airs upon small six-holed flutes. Tiicy need some one occasionally to tell CLcm of the gnodnes.s of God. What would they say of a bi^^llopwho .is afraid 5* What would they say if I should miss them in my rounds?" " }Jut, my lord, the brigands ? " "True," said the bi.shop, "and now the^hing occurs to me, you are right. 1 may meet them. They too mu.st need some one to tell them of the goodne.^s of pod." " IJut, my lord, it is a band I a pack of wolves ! " " Mr. Mayor, it may preci^iLly be of thip very flock that my Ma.ster haa made me shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?". "My lord, they will rob you.'' • " 1 have nothing." "They will kill you." "A simple old priest who passes along, muttering his pFoycr ? No, BO ; what good would it do ihcm ? " "Oil, my good .sir, suppose you sbpuld fall in with them ?" "1 should a-k them for alms for uiy poor." " I^ly lord, do not go. In the name of Heaven I you are cxpo.sing your life." " Mr. Mayor," said the bishop, " is that decidedly your only objec- tion ? WvU, then, I was noj gent into this world to take care of my life, but to lake care of souls." Thty Jiad to allow him his own way. lie set out, accompanied only by a child, who offered to go as his guide. His ohsUiiacy was the talk of the country, and all dreaded tlie result. Uc would not titke along cither his si-stcr, or Mrs. Magloire. lie qroKsed the mountuiu on a mule, met no one, and arrived safe and •ouod among Iuh "good friends," the shepherds. There he spent a f.iri night, preaebing, admiui.'^tering the holy rites, teaching and moral- ning them When he was about to leave, he resolved to chant a Te Douui, in his pontificals. lie broke the matter to the curate. But wJiat could bp done ? There were neither episcojtal vestures or orna- ments. They oould only place at his disposition a j)altry village sacristy, with a few old vestments of faded dau.ask trinimcd with tawdry tinsel. ._ " No matter," said the bishop, " Do your ]leverence, at the sermon, jpvo out notice of our Te Deum. Things will yet turn out well." I-ANTINE. ' 39 All the jpcigbboring chuichcs wore ransacked, but tlie rakings of the combined magnificences of those humble parishes could hardly have gupplird a decent outfit for a single cathedral chanter. While they wore iu this dilonuna, a large box was brought to the parsonage, and foft for the bishop by two unlmown horsemen, who iiiv- mediately rode away. The box was opened; it contained a cope' of cloth of gold, a mitre adorned with diamonds, an archbishop's cross, a niagni6cent crosier, and all the pontifical vestments stolen a jiionth be- fore from the 'treasures of Our Lady of Embrun. In the box was a" paper on which were written those words : " From Cravatte to Mon- sei'(/ii( itr Blrnvenu." " I said that inatJcrs would work out of themselves," ""said the bishop. Then he added with a smile ; -"To him who is contented with" the surplice of a curate, Gocl sends the pall of an archbish(yp." " My ^ Lord," murmured' the curate, with a nod and a snlilo, " God— or the devil." The bishop looked steadily at the curate, and replio^ with gravity ; "God!" .. • When he returned to Chastclar, all along the road, the *people came with curiosity to sec him. At the parsonage in Chastclar he found' Miss Baptistinc and Mrs Magloire waiting for him, and he said to hia ' sister, " Well, was I not right ? The- poor priest went among those poor mount;iinecrs with empty hands; he comes back with hands filled. I went forth bearing with me but aiy trust in God. I bring back the treasure of a cathedral." ' ^. •' In the evening, before going to bed, he said further : " Have no fear of thieves or murderers. Thesa' are the dangers, the trifling danger^*, that come from without. But let us fear ourselves. Our prejudices arc the thieves, our vices the murdercra. The great dangers are within us. What matters that which threatens our heads or our purse? Let ilB ' think only of what threatens our souls." Then turning to his sister : '' Sister, a priest should never take sny precaution against his neighbor^ What hrs neighbor does, God permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer to God when we think that danger hangs ovir us. Lot us beseech him, not for ourselves, but that car brother may not fall into sin on our account." To sum up, great events were rare in his life. We relate those we know of; but u.sually he passed his life in always doing the same things at the same hours. A month of his . year was like 'an hour of his day. As to what became of the " treasure," of the Cathedral of Embrna, an answer to any fjuestion on that point might prove somewhat embar- rassing. There were among them very fine, and very tempting, and very good things, to steal for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had already been by others. Half the work was done; it only remained to change the course of the theft, and to make it creep a little ahead in the^linction of tlic poor. ■ We, however, abstain from all aflSt.- mation on thi.s subject; except, that among the bishop's papers, tiicre was found a somewhat ambigiioua memorandum, that may have some bearing on the ca.«!e, and which reads as follows : The question h, ichclhcr this thould revert to the cathedral or to the hospitals ^9 LBS MISKBADLKa. VIII. . * roST IRAN DIAL rilll^BOPnY. TVie Pcoator lirroli.ri.ie rtfirrcd to was n f.Iir< wtl man, wl»o Ind made his »>By in lif'- wi'l" a (lirPftriC(»8 uf puip"H.' whu-h licedi'd iicne of th<«e «tuniblirii;Mf. He had l>M'n forniirly a crown adonu-y, liu:nanizcd by success ; by hd uioans a bad bfiiricd man ; be, on fbe ct-ntrhry, would iniul'ie in all good offices «»f life, in which he oould, in lndi(ilr of bis sons, sons-in-law, and rela- tive* generally, and cv< ii of bi« fiiondft Having widely taktu life in its Wiorc pleasant ahpcctfl, he availed himself of all its Oiti-^ oppirtunities and lucky windfalls. Out of (bis system Bf morals, evorythini: else was tc biiii deeiiledly stupd lie was sjnighlly, and just e' owiih of a pdiolar to think himself a disciple of l'-(.ieurns; while po.-siltly he was only a produet of rij^mili-L' biun. He liHigbed readily ami with rity. On ••ome semiofficial occasion, Co'unt , this self-same senalor, end Mr Myriel were biddcti to dinn< r with (he prefict Atdcssert, Ihe.Ff uafor, a little cxeited, thou^Ii n(ft bcynnd propriety, exclaimed : •' K^ad, ^>ish<>p, l«t us t ilk It is diflkult for a senator and u bi-liop to look iHch other in tin' faec without i» wink. W'r arc two augurs. I Lave a confession to make ; 1 have I'ly tiystem of philusuphy." •'And you arc ri open my li.art, and confess to my p.istor, as I ought, I WmI c 'of i!s that I have common sense,! am n<'t infatuated with your Maator, perpetually preaching self-denial and. Belf-sacrificc. It in ibc PANTINE. 81. advice of a miser to bcgp^ars'. Self-denial! Why? Self sacrifice, to what? It is nor recordiul that one wolf wi'l sacrifice himself for the weal of another wolf. Let us, then, not depart from nature's law.i. We are at the summit, and let U8 have a higher philosophy. What is thft use nf being in a higlur posiiimi if we can't sec further than another man's noi-e ? Let us live and be merry, for life is all. That man -has another -life, elsewhere, above, below, anywhere — I don't b'liive ano decL'ivin-^ word of it. So ! I am recommended to self-sac rhfiue and renuncation, I am ta watcdi each of my ac^ii ns — to addle my biuina with questions of good and of evil, (.f justice and of injustice — of the yeak the truth ; there is neither good nor evil ; there is vegetation only. Let us seek fi>r the real ; lot us dig into' everything. Let us go to - much whipped .syllabub I God is a huge u)yth. I shouMn'fc say that in the Monllcur, of course, but I wiiisper it am ng my frienul I Safaii even come into the house, no one would inte'i'- ferc. Afier all, whit is there to fear in this hou.se? There is always One with u-s who is the strongest, Satan may darken our house; but it stii] is tlie dwelling of our f^ood G"d _ " - ''That is en"uyh for me. iMy br ither has uo need mw cvsr to speak a woid. I understand him witlio'at his spunking, and we pat ourselves in the hand of Providence. " This iintjjc way to deal with a raan^ of such greatness of soul. ." I asked -my brother for the information which you requested respecting the Faux fuuily. You know hovv varied is his knowl(?dge, and how much he retneuibers, for hn still is' a very staunch royalist. Well, thf n, they are really a very old Norman family, of the district of Caen. There are records for five centuries of a Kuoul do Faux, Jean de Faux and Ttiomas do Faux, who were of the geiifty, one of whom was a lord of llochefiirt. The -list was Guy Eriennc Alexandrt>, who was a colonel, an I held some rank in the light horse of B^iltau3^ His daught r Marie Louise married' Adiien Charles de Gramont, son of Duko Louis de Cramout, a peer of France, colonel of the French Guards, and Lieutenant General of the army. It is written Faux, Fauq, and Faouq. • " Will you not, my dear madamo, ask for us the prayers of yowr holy relative, the cardinal. As to your preciitu^i Sylvanie, she has done well not to waste the sh off trine that she is with you in writing to me. She is well, you say ; studies according to your wishes, and loves me still. That is .all I could desire. Her remembrance, through you, reached mc, an(l I was g'ad to receive it. !My health is tolerably good; still I grow thinner every day. "Farewell: my paper is filled and 1 must stop.' With a thousand good wishes, " Bai'ti.stine. " 1*. S. — Your little nephew is charming; do you romeiuber that he will soon bo five years old? He saw a horse pass yesterday on which they had put kuee-eap-i, and lie cried out: ' Whal is'that he has got on his knees 'r" The child is so pretty. His little brother drags an old broom about the room for u carriage, aud sa^s, hi I" • ■ ' * As this letter sliow.s, these two women know how to conform to the bishop's mode of life, with that womau's tact which understands maa better than he can conipreheiKl himself. The Bishop of D — — , Cvv all the unalteiably gentle and frank niaiiiier which characterized hiin, some- times performed gieat daring aTid even splendid acts-, without the appear- ance of their consciousness. Tne women looked on in awe, but did not interfere Mrs. Magloire might sometimes venture on a warning remon- strance ; but never during, or after, his exertions of " authority'. No one ever disturbed him by word or token in an action once begun. At certain times, without any necessity for his impressing the fact, when, perhaps, ho himself wai5 hardly conscious of it, so complete was his simplicity of manner^ they intuitively felt that be was acting as th6 FANTINE. Sb tisliop ; and at such times they were but two shadows lUKtcr th«t roof. Tliey waited on iiim paRsivcIy, and if to obey wjft to disapiicar, tliey disappcHrtd. With an admirable destiny 5f instinct, thC-y felt that cer- tain solicitous attentinns mijiht prove irks nie to liim ; ho even wlien tliey dcftiiiM] bin) cxpufied to danger, they read, I do^notsay bis tlioujibtH, but his wbdie uatme to such a point as to cease watching over him. They bft him unie crvidly in the bauds "of Gi>d. Besides, liaptistinc bad said, as we have seen, that bis death would be hers, Mrs. M«igloiro did not say so; but she know it. • X. THE BISHOP IK THE 1>KKSENCE OF AN UNKNOWN LIGHT. A little wbilc before tlie date of the letter quoted in the preceding pages, (be bishop peiformed an atit, which, in the universal ju(igiiient of the town, was far more venturesome than his excursion across the moun- tains inftsted by the batidits. In the couiUry near I) , there was a tliao who liv^irl alono. 1'bis man, to sp. ak it out bluntly, bad been a menrbor of fbc National CViuvention. His name was G—. — . The little circle of D spoke of the convt ntionor wilb a certain sort of honor. A ctaivcntioner ; it belonged^ to the days when folks tbec'and-thoued one luiother, and said ''citizen." This man came very near being a monster. True, that he bad not voted the death of the King ; but he bad conuj very near it. He was a quasi-regicide, and had altogether been teiliblo. Ilow camo it tlun fhit, on the return of tho legitimate sovereign, this ujan bad not been biuught before a military court? rie might not, perhaps, have forfeited his bead ; there is p(dicy in clcmency,'no doubt. iJut a lifelong exile would have been no unfit doom. Irj fact, something by way of example, &c., &c. JJesides, like all of bis stamp, be was au atheist. The gablplo of geese over the liereencss of the vulture ! liut was this G a vulture? Yes, if one .shou'd judge him by (he savagencss of bis solitude. As be had not voted for the king's exc- cuti'in, be was nut lucluded in the sentence of exile, and he was allowed to remain in •France. He lived about an hour's walk from the town, far from any hamlet or road, in the secluded Imllow of a veiy wild ravine. It was said he had there a sort of patch of ground, a bole, a den He bad no neighbors; there was not even an occasu)nal w^iyfarcr. Since he bad lived tin re, the p^b which led to the place had become overgrown, and people spoke of it as the Imuse of (he public executioner. And yet the bishop would think, and from time to- time, looking abing the btuizon on the spot where a cltimp of trees defined the ImMow of the oM convetitiontr, be would say : " There breathes a soul that lives alone" — and within himself wvu'd add, " I owe biiu a visit." ]}ut this idea, we must confess, thc^gli it; appeared natural at first, yet, after a few .moment's reflection, seemed to him impracticable, and almotil repulsive. Fot at heart he shared- iu the general impression, % LES MISERABLES. and the coriventtorrcr inspired him, be knew not wlij, with that senti- ment which borJcr^on hatred, and which the word "aversion" so well expresses. Should, however, the mange of the sheep drive the shepherd away? Yet, what a sheep vjas that ! The good bishnp was perplexed. He would sometimes walk in that direction, and then turn back. At last, it was one day bruited' about town that a sort of a hcrdsboy, who teirded the conveotioncr, in his lair, had come* for a doctor; that the old wretch was dyinjj; — that he wUs already palsied, and could n|^ live tlirnu^houf the night. "Thank God I" some would add. The bishep took his cafie, put on hi.^ ov.ercoat, because his cassock was badly worn, as we have said, and be&ides the night wijid was evidently rising, and set out. The sun was slanting, and all but touched the horizon, when tlie bi.shop reached the accursed spot.. Pie felt a certain quickening of the pulse, which told him that he had reached the den. He jumped over a ditch, cleared a hedge, made his way through a brush fence, found himself in a dilapidated garden, and after a bold advance across the open ground, suddenly, behind, some high brushwood, he discovered the retreat. ** It was a low,_poverty-strickcn hut, small and cleaa, with a little vine narled up in fiout. Before the door, in an old chair on rollers, there sat a white-haired inan, smiling on t|ie setting sun. Near the old man stood the herd.sb)y, handing him a bowl of milk. While the bishop was looking on, the old niau raised his voice. "Thank you," he sad,' ".I need notliing more;" and his smile passed from the sun to rest upon the boy. The bishop stepped forward. At the sound of his footsteps the old man turned his head, and his face expressed all of the surprise that may be left a man after the course of a long life. "This is the ffist time since I have lired here," said he, that I have Lad a visitor." Who are you, sir ? " " My name is IJienvenu— Myriel," the bishop replied. "IJienvenu — Myriel ? I have heard that name before. Arc yoa be whom the people call My Lord Bicnveou ?" "lam." • TKe old man continued half smiling. " Then you are my bishop." " Somewhat so." " C^ome in, sir." The eonventioucr held out his hand to the bishop, "but he did not take it. lie only said : • " I am glad to find that I have been mis-informed. You certainly do not seem to mc to be, ill." " Sir," replied the old man,*" I am about to get well." He paused and .said : .• ' " I shall be dead in three hoMrs. Then he cuniinued : * "I am something of a physician; T know the gradual approaches of the last hour. Yesterday my feet only were cold ; to-day the cold has FANTINE. . ■ 37 readied ray knees ; it is now creeping up to my waisl ; ' when it will have touched the hearfj my race will be up. It is a btautifu! sunset, is if not? I have had myself wheeled out to take a farewell look of earth. You can speak to me; it will not tire me. It was welhiii you to come and look on a dying man. It is good that there should be witnesses of that supreme hour. .4 K very one has his yrhims. I should like to have lasted until dawn ; but I kuow,that the sands of life will scarcely run throe hours longer. It will be night; but what of tliat? Tiiis settling i;p is a very simple thing. Be it so : I shall die ;n the starlight." The old man turned towards the herd.sboy : "Little one, go to bed: thou didst watch last night; thou art weary." • .The child went into the hut. The old man folK)Wod him with his eyes, and added, as if speaking to himself: "While he is sleeping, I shall die: the t>vo slumbers can keep fit company." The bi.sliop was not as much affected as he might h^ve been : it seems iu .such a death he»w. 'I'ho bishop seated hin^solf upon a stone near by- The bc'i:iiiiiiii;r if their conversation was >>x ahmptn : " I cungraiulnto jtiu," lie e;iiJ, in that tone whioh roboke is convoyed. ■••At any rale jou »li-l Jiol vote for the. rxi cution of the Uiiiir" The c.>nvcniionir di'l n>)t ^cem to Qolico the lurl^ing bittgrness of the words " at ;.ny rule." The Siuiio hud «gono frouj his faco and ho re- plied : "Do Milt conpratulatp lue too much, sir; I did vole for the destruc- tion iif the tyrant." And the tone «tf austerity conrrmfod fho tone of Bcvcrily. " Wliat d • you ni 'an ?" asked the bishop.* " 1 mean tint mm ha^i a tyrant, Ij^uurauoe. I voted for fho d'wnfall of that tyrant That tyrant has begotten royalty, whieli is authority derived fioui Falsehood ; while Knowledge is power derived from Truth j Knowledge only hhoiild <:overn man." " What of conscience?" added the bishop. "It is till' same thing; conseienjc is the sum of injiatc knowledge, lurking within u.s "• Tlie b^hnp lir4.'ncd with sotno axazemcnt to this language, novel aa it was to hiui. * The eonveiitioner went on : " As to Louis XVI. : 1 Haited in rooting out prejudices and errors: their dovVn'al!, like the .sweep of the liglitning's light. We, of those days, toppled down thy tXd world ; and the ohl world, a va.sc of wretchedness, outpoured upon inankiiid, has been eouvcrted into an urn of joys " •♦ Ohetpurod joys," h\'u\ the bishop. " ^ ou might Hay troublous joy.-;*; and now, since this fatal reinstate- ment of the past, which is ealle3 V . FANTINE. ' 39. "Ah! tliorc you are. Ninof3--throe ! I was prepared for this. A cloud had been teeming for fif oen centuries, at the end of those ceutii- rios it burst. You are indictiiifjc the lijihtniiig " Without acknowh ding it, perhaps, to biii)«i If, the bishop folt tliat the thrust had tidd. Yet he b(ire it out and said : " A judge ."speaks in the nnino of jusliie ; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is but a higher form of jLt^tiee. A thuuderb(dt should not strike ami-s" — then he added, gazing steadily at the couventiouer — "Louis the XVIIth?" The conv.eutioner reiiched outliis hand and took the bishop's arm. "Louis the XVIIth!" Come, tlien. ^For whom are your fears? Are they for the innocent child? Be it so; UiUic will blend with yours. Are they for the royal i'ffspring? Tliis reriuin s thoUj^ht. To my mind Cartoiiche's brother, hanged at the GrCive by the armpits until he died for the bare guilt of liis brothershjp, touches me no less deeply than the grandson of Louis the XVth, an innntcnt child, tortured into martyrdom, in the temple tower, for no' other crime than that of his (iescont.." « " Sir, said the bishop, " T dislike t'le coupling of these names." "Cartouche? Louis the X\'Iltl) ? In behalf of whieh do y%lii protest ?" An interval of silence ensued The bishop ahnost regretted his call; aud yet he felt vaguely and strangely affected. The conveniioner resumed : " So, Mr. Priest, you di^ike the n;.kednoss of truth ? Christ loved it. With rod in hand, he once dostcd the temple. The lash of his scourge waf? a stern dispenser of truth. When he spol* his shiile par- vulos — 'let iitiie chihiren come unto nio,' he niaile no discriminalion among them. lie would not have scrupled to couple tlic dauphin of Barabbas with the dauphin of Herod. The best crown of innocence, sir, is innocence itself Innocence has no need to be a ' Highness.' It stands as comman'ding, clut!ied in rags, as bodigtitcl with the flcur- delis." _ • _ "That's true," said the bishop, with a subdued voice "1^0 further," continued the conventi(»nci*;..^Yiy""' mentioned Jiouis the XVIIth, to me. Arc we called to weep ov»,-.''i'ie fate of all the innocents, of all the martyrs, of all the children; those of the high in station as well as those of the l.nvly in life? I am with you. Bat then, a« I have said to yon, we must go farther back than '0;'; and strike the founlaiu of tears before the days of Louis the XVIIth. I will weep with you over the offspring of kings, if you will weep with me over tliC whclp.s of the people." " .^Iy te MS belong to all," said the bishop " E«|uaUy !" exclainred G — "and if the bean) be swayed at all, let it be on the ^ide of the peojdc. Their's has b6en the longer lot of suf- fering." • Again silence ensued ; and asain the conventioner broke in upon it. Jlai.ing hiui^elf on one of his clbow«, as a prop, and iMlding a porli>ic, of one who comes to mc with tbc probable pretension of reading me lectures on vwsdoju. To whoni am I speaking!' Who arc you?" The bishop bowed his head and answered : " Vermis sum." "An earth-worm, and in a carriage!" grumbled the convcntioner. Now'ljad the right of haughtiness come round to him; to the bishop, the duty of humility. " ]iv it so, sir," said the brshop mildly; "but will'you explain to me in what way my carriage, wliich is two steps behind tlie trees; in what way my rich b j.ird and llie water-hens, whieh I eat of Fridays; in what way, my income /y»tT\'cnty-five thousand francs a year; and in what, " my palace and- <^iackey.'<, go to .prove tliat pity is not a virtue, mercy not u duty, and that '93 was not inexorable i'" «T)ie convcntioner passed his hand acro.ss his forehead, as if tp drive uvfuy a cloud. , " Krc I answer," said he, " I beg your forgiveness. Sir, a moment ago I was in the wrong. You arc under my roof, and are my guest. You arc entitled to my courtesy. You were discussing my ideas of things; it id fit tliat I sliould confine njyself to conti:overting your argu-, ment.s. Your wealth and your luxuries put nic'on the vantage-ground ill this debate with you; b\it it is in good ta^te not to avail myself of the advantage ; I^promisc you, therefore, not to use it again." " I am obliged to you," said the bishop, and the convcntioner re- sumed : " i^et us return to the explanation whioh you have sought from mc. What point had we reached';' What were you saying? That '93 had bccu. inexorable ?" ' FANTINE. 41 " YesL, inexorable," sa'nl (lie bishop. "What do you think of Marat applauding the guillotine at work?" " \Vh4,t do }'uu, of TJossuct singing the Te Dcum over the slaughter of the (//(tijon 7i(i(/(s ! '* The retort was a liarsh one; but it reached its aim with tiie kfcnnesa oif the dagger's point. The bishop shrank before it; no reply rose to his lips; but he felt wounded by sueh » lyontiou of Bossuet'.s name. The best of niinda have their idnl worship and are sometime!* sliocked by the little do fere nee that I.igie pays thorn. The convontioner had beguu to pant, in his .«;pceeh. The shortening heaves of agony, blending with the hist breathings of life, broke his ut- terance; and yet his was still a jierfect clearness of vision and of mind. . He continued thus? "L<*us add a fcvr words licre and there — T am agreed. Inde- pendently of the Kevolution which, takun as a whole, is an iinmenae assertion of human power, '93, alas I was a republic. This you adjudge to liave been inexorable; but what of the wlinle of your monarchy? Carrier is a blood-dritiker; but what wouhl you call Montrevel ? Fouquier-Fainville is a scoundrel; but wliatis your judgment of Lanioignon-15;tvilje ? 3Iaillard is frightful; but Saulx- Tavanu'.s, what of him, wiir you . please to tell me? P6re Duchene ia ferocious; but what epithet will you help me to for Father Letellier? Jourdan, the hcad-cho'j»per, is monstrous; but nothing like the Marquis of Louvois. Sir, sir, I piiy Marie-Antoinette, arch-duchess and queen; but I pity the poor Ilumienot wrto fact is admitted : that nuinkind hav-e been^violently shaken ; but tliat, withal, they have advanced " It did not occur to the convent ioner that, one after the other, he had just-darried all the inner entrenchments of the bishop. There wa-< one, however, still atanding, and from this, the last bulwark of My Lord * An fttUision to the l>Ioorlj trork o^ Lonvois' force?, pent into the Cevonnes Mountain-', n^Miiisl JpHn Oaicalier; who. with liis Ciinii.^arils — fliiiK c«l.fi| from .fhe wli't*.! frocks ihnt they wore — was livuling tlic fiinuiicAl cxct'HH*-^ which, in Oerinany. h:i ] 4 42 LES MISEKABI.B3. Iticiivenu'ii rcri«tan?c, came Tirtli tliesc woi J.'*, htampcJ with nearly all Ibc Kiedi-iCM of I In: cxuniiijiii : •• I'r..gri5)< ii huM to buli»:ve In God Goi-doess cnnoo' be sub ervfd by iiiipioy; aiil is mi evil Icnior uF inunkiixl " N«» tiii'Wcr Icll from the nhl rfjiie.'^fMHative of tliu people. A tr uior cam • over liim Ho hmkoJ up to Hoavcn, and a trsir >l'>wly j£ii«lu-rt', 111* .-ai'l : •' I), I lion ! O, Uie Ideal ! Thou only hast cxiftcnci^ !" TIm? lii.^liMp I'Xpeiioncid u sort of unutiL-iablc eniulion. Af:or a nioiiicui's aileucc, llio old man pointid u. finjitr to the pkics, and s.iid : • •'The Infinite exists. It is there. If the Infinite h.id u^ / of its own, llii«i / III" mine wuuM bo its limil.; He, thfrcfore, would not bo In- finite; in oiher word.s, Ho would not cxi-t. He, therLfore, his an / of his i-wn. That /hop pi-rccivfid it j time w i.s presa- ing lie had come hh a pric^^t ; fiom i-xireine coldiie.<8, he had gnolu- a% niched into extreme emutioii.s. lie gazoil on the elo.sed ey* s ; he took tliu (lid, wiintiled and icy liaiid, and ^Miied over the d^ing iiiun : "Thi^ hour is (j'ud'.i. Do you n it thiuk that it were cau>e fjr deep regret, should we have met in vain '/ " Tiie eoiivi nti ii<.n.s of .-ireiigib, *' ill iiiediiatriti, 8tudy und oo'item|dation hits my lite bo'ii speiU- 1 ^vu8 BlJCty )iMiH of age \vlii-n iny coiinlry called me forth and coiiiii'and«;d me to ^h ire in the inanagemeiit. of its concerns. I obeyed the mandate. Thi-re existed iibu»e8; and I stood up against them. Tyrannits were rife; and I dcHlioycd them. Tlifre were rights and pi iiniple.-< ; and I proclaiiiietaiinch the eountry'.s wounds. I h.ive ever sustained the onward niijrcli of ina';hup, as he ktielt down. Whm lie lifred up his head, tlie face of the couvfenliuner was stamped with njajcsty. Fie bad ju.-^l expired. Tlie bi.'^hup returned to his home, deeply ab.*orbcd in thoughts ufmt- ^tered. Tfiat. whole night he .«pent in .{trajer. Next day, some uf the more boldly inqtiisiiivy attempted to speak to lii.n of G , the con- veutiouer. He im rely pointed to Heaven From tbaf hour, his ten- derne.n of tliat miiid to him, and the reflex of that high conr^cienee upon bis own, had nut .'•omcthing to do wiih bin nearer appriniehes ti peit'ec- tion. This " I astiiral visit" naturally afforded rjum fur the buzzing commentary of the local eoicrie.s : " Nuw, was it the place of a bishop to stand at the dealh-b''d of such a man? Iherc cvidenily was no conversion to be cx{)ecled there All (bese rovulutiuni-ts are relap.sers and fur ever cut off frum grace. Then why go there? What did he go there to see ? He mu^l then have been very .anxious to feed hj.s curiosity with the .*ight uf the dev.l carry- ing off a snul One day a dovvager, one of the impertinent variety of the cln^>s that deem themselves witry, addres.sed him with (his, sally : "My Lord, there are people that ask when your greatness will be culled .to the red cap?" "Oil ! uli !" atiswer d the bishrc wiitcJicd in ajtpearaneo. He was a man of inidin^ with sweat. His shaggy breast wa> set ii lhr"Uliirf, which at the neck was fastened by a sur^JI kiIvci; anehur; b<,' wore a cravat twi-teil bke a rope; .coarse blue trowm-rs, worn and shabby, white on one knee, and with holes in llu« oihtr; iin-
rey Lhiuse, p^tib' d on one side with t piece of green eh>ih scwid with twine: upon lijs biiek was a well hlKd knapf^aek, strcn^dy biukKd atwl (|uiio ni w In bis bund he carried an enormous knottid slit k : bis siockiu'^h-Ks feet were iu hobnailed shoes; his hair w;is or<-pped and Ids beard long. The sweat, the heat, bis long walk, nnd the dust, nddcd an inde- Beribab'e meuitn<'.ss to his taft( red appearaoLe. His \\vt was sh irn, bu' bri>tly, lor it had b"gun to grow a litllc, and i»pcniin;:ly bad iioi bem eut fur sunie time. Nobndy knew him ; be was eviden ly a trav«ller. Whence had he conic? Froni the south — por- linps from the s<'a ; for he was in king bis entrance into D by the paiue road by wliitdi, seven months hd'ore, 'he K)uperor Napoleon- went froju CnniH's to l*Hris This man mu^t have walked all d.y long; for he nppuind v. ry weary. 8omo women of the idd eity, which is at the lower part of tlie town, had .-cm him stop under iho trees of the boule- vard (las.sendi, nnd diink at the fountain whieli is at the end of the pronieua« ('rijii-ilc-t'olbnx; 0tH ho^l waB ii:«ijed tJaetjuin Lab;irre, a man hold iu some consideration FANTINE. 45 in the town on account of his k latinu.ship with anoflier Liibarre, who kept an i^in at (jlreniibk', called Tn>is Duupliins, ami who had served iu the Guides. At the time of tlie laiidiiiir of the Emperor, tliere liad been piueh nuise in the country abnut tliis inn of the Tmis Dnuphiiis. It was said tliut General lieitiaud, disguised as a wa«inuer, ha 1 made fre- quent ji>urt)ejs ibither in the aionih id' January, and that he bad •dis- tributed crosses of honor to the sobiiers and bandfuls of N;ipoienns to the country-folks. The trutli is, that the'Enipen'r, when he entered . Grenoble, refused to take up bis ijuarters at (lie Prefecture, sayin^r to the Mou-ieur, after thaukinjr Iiim, "/ am (johnj (o thi- /imisr. i>f' a brave man, with ivftom I am arquaiiifii/," and lie went to the Tr is Dimpliins. This jilory t)f Ijabane of the- 7V'//.s '^aiifthius was reflecK d tw. uiy-fivo miles to- Jjubarre of the Cr u.c-u-ni8," p;»iti>:lit f<>r n uinufiit Tluii he tocilc a Htfji l"WarJ"< ihe traVelli-r, who si-eiueU drowni^'d in troublous thi'tiv'lil '• Sir." 8'ii !•'', " I cannot ropoive you.'-' The triivillcr hiilf rose fnrtii hi** seat " Why ? Arc you afraid I shall not pny you, or do you w;iut nic to pay in juivanco? I have the uiuni y, I tell you." ♦' If is in>L that." "Whit then?" , " Vou have money — " •* Yes," «ii>l the man. .** And I," said the host, "have no room." " \Vi II, put mc in the stuble," (juietly rvpHed the nrian. ** I cann-'i." •'Wliy?" • " lk'o;iu-c the hf^.^ps take nil the room " *' ^^i'"»" ri'Hpond d the man, •' a crncr in the ■'arret ; a tru»» of straw : we will »-ce uhmii that after dinner." * • • • !• It . •• I cannoi pive you any dinniT Thin derhraiion, nui'le in u Uieusurcd but firm tone, appeared serious to tlic traveller lie ing liis votec : " I am ul an inn 1 nm liunj;ry, and I .-hall stay " The hi8t beut down to his vnv, and said in a vniee whieh made him tremble : . " (.]<• gwuy I' At tlK8j wordii, the traveller, who was bent over, pokinjj some embers in the firo wiih the iron-shod *nd of his stick, turmd suddenly amnnd, fiml npeiicd his mouth, as if to reply, whin the host, htoking sie idily at him, ailded in the same low tone :," Stop, no more of that Siiall I toll you y nil r name? Your name i.s Jean \'aljran. Now «!nill I tell you <(■/(« yi.u arc? When I saw yoti enter, I suspi cted som.lhinj^. I sent ta the miyiir'fi offK-e, and here i.s the vi ply. Qiin yon read T' So say- iog, he held tdward.s him the open pa])cr, which had just eumc from the FANTINE. " 47 niavor. The m-\n oast a look upon it. The innkeeper, after a short sik-rici', 8ai(1 : " It is my custi'iii to be polite to all : " Ijo !" The man bowel his head, picked up his knapsack, and went out. . }Ic t'liik the principal street; he wa'ked at lando^n, fliuki?!}^ ?icar the houses like a snd and humiliated ni:in : he did not once turn around. If he had turned, lie would have seen the innkeeper of the C (n'.c -hcd opcQ the d 'or. •♦ Who is it?" said the host " Une. who wants supper arid a b(d." " All right: here you can sup and sleep." Tie W' nt in, all the men who were drinking turned towards hinri ; the lamp shininj^ on one side of lii.s face, the fin light on the other, they' cximined him for some time as he was lifking off his knap-^aek. The host said to him : "There is the fire; the sup}ier is cooking in the pot; come atid w.irm yourself, comrade." He scaled hini.si If near the fireplace and stretched his feet out towards , th" fire, h:ilf deal with fatioking hirangtr travellinu; between Bras d'Asse and — f fofjfei tht' [ilaci-, I think it is lOseoublon. Now, on iiiffting h'tti, tlie man, who liccmed already vi-ry miicli falijiued, ai'd asked him to take him Oil boiiind, to which the fi>liiriii!iu re.«pi>n(k'd-(iidy by doub- !ini' lii'* |Mice. The (ishermau, half an hour bi fore, had been one of the thittn-j ahniil J:ic<|uin Libirre, and had himself related his unpleasant meelitij' with him to the people nf the 6V /> ih Cul/jas. He berkoncd to iho tavern-keeper to come to him, whieh he tlid. They exeliaiJ«>ed a few words in a low voice; the traveller had ag;iin rela|iM'd into thought.- 'I'lie tavern-keeper refunie ! " ' The stranger turned aroutid and s-aid mildly : •'Ah ! Do you ktiow? " "Y-s.'"' ... "They sent me away from the other inn." "And we lurn you out of this." * " Where wonid yon have me go?" " S<»mewh' re else." :. The man t<»ok up his stjck and knap.sack, imd went off. As he went' out, Rome ehildrenwho had followed him from the Croix de C'/f ffs, i\nd Bcemed to be waif'ng for lii^n, threw stones at liii^ He t'lrned angrily on 1 tlireaicncd iheui with hii .stick, and they scattered like a flock of birds • He passed the prison : an iron chain hung frou; tho door attached to 1»>'I1. He rang. 'J'he grating opened. "Mr. Turnkey," said he, taking oft' his cap respectfully, " will you open aiiil let me stay hereto-night ?" A Voice answi-red : '.' A prison i> not a tavern : get yoursf^Jf arrested and we will open." The -.rating clo.sed. He went into a «maM street where there are many gardens j some of them are enclos-d oidy by hedges, whieh enliven the sfieet. Among them he saw a pr-ity lit'le one st'ry house, where there was u light in the'winrhtw He looked in as he had done at tho tavern. It was a large whitewashed rooni, wirii a b'd diapeil with calico, and a cradle in the corner, some woixien chairs, and a Wluiblivharrelled gun hung against the wall A table was net in the wntre of the ro6in ; a bras.s lamp lighted t'lo coar-e white tablecloih ; a titi mug full of wine shouc like eilver, and the brown soup dish wa^ smoking. At ihi.s table sat a man about foi fy yeais old, witli a joydus, open ciuntenance, who w.is frottiui^ n link* child upon his knee. Near hy him a young woman was aoekling another child ; the father was laughiug, the child was laughing, and the mother was smiling The traveler remained a moment contemplating (his sweet and touch- ing seem". What were Ills thoughts ? • He only could have fold : pro- bab'y lie kliought th.it this happy home wnuld he hospitab c, and that where h" beheld so much happiness, he might perhupH tind a little pity. He rapped faiutly on the wiudow. fanti:jb. , 43 No one ht'ard him. . Ho ni[iped a second time. He heard the woman say, « Husband, T think I hear some one rap." "No," replied the hu-baud. He rapped a third time. The husband got up, took the lamp, ani opened the door. He vva.s a tall man, half peasant, half niechaftc. He wore a lar^'9 leather apron that reached to his left shoulder, and formed a pocket containing a hammer, a red handkerchii-f, a powder-horn, and all sorts of things which the girdle held up. He turned his head; his shirt, wide and open, showed hi,s bull-like throat, white and. nakcil ; he had tliiek brows, enormous bla'ck whiskers and pmniiuent eyes; tlie lower part uf the face was covered, and had witlial that air of being ut homo which is quite indescribable. '*Sir,'' said the traveller, " I beg your pardon ; for pay can you give me a plate of soup and a corner of the shed in your garden to sleep in ? Tell me; can you, forpny?" " Who are you ?" demanded the master of the house. Tlie man replied : " I have come from Puv-VJoisson ;- T have walked ii.]\ day; 1 have come twelve leagues Can you, if I pay?" " 1 wouldn't refuse to lodge any proper [)erson who would pay," said the peasant ; " but why do you not go to the inu ?" " Tliere is no room " " Bah ! That is not possible. It is neither a fair nor a market-day, Havi'-you been to Labarre's house?" " Yes " » Well ?" The traveler replied hesitatingly: "I don't know; ho didn't take uier' " Have you been to that place in the Rue Chaffaut?" The embarrassment of the stranger increased; he stammered: "They didii''t take me cither " The peasant's face assumed an expression of distrust: he looked over the ni:A'-eomer frftm head to foot, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder : " Are you the man !" He look'd again at the stranger, stepped back, put tht? lamp ou the table, and loik down his gun. His wife, oa heaaug the words, " are i/ou (he ni'in," started up, and, clisping her two children, precipitately took refuge behind her husband j she l.iukeil at tlie stranger with atTiight, her neck bsire, her eyes dilated, murmuring in a low tone : " T.^o rnnrniult !"* All this happened in loss tinio thin it takes to read it ; after exaniia- iui^ the mm for ;i moment, .13 one would a vipor, the man advanced to the dour and said : "(Jet out!" " For pity's sake, a glass of water," said the man. " A guHshot," said the peasant, and iht4i he closed the door vio- lently, Jincl tlio man heard two heavy b tits drawn. A momeot afltcr- warda tbc window-shu'ters were shut, and noisily barred * Patoia of the Frencb A)ps, " Chut dt mavaud$." 50 LKS MISKRABLtS. Ni..Mc:..ncon*«r^-^; M.cc^M Alpine wi.uls ^fvere blowing ; by^tho H^l.M.f \\u- cxi.i.in- d..v ilic Klnm^er pcTceivcd in one of ilic- ga.dins vliicli froiiUd ihc httiif a kind ol' liut wl.i< li pcen.od to be made ot turf • lie bobllv < le:irr.l a wooden ft-ncc :ind f-und bjinsclf in the gar- din.' HciKjrnl tlie liut ; its door was u narrow b.w iiitiunce ; it rc- feiublil, in «'« oonRtru(ti..n, tbj shanti. s wliich tlie road laborers put up f..r tboir tcmp<.iai) HC#u-m-Mliiiion Ho doubtless tbou;:lit tlial it was in f.icl tbe lodging of a roa-i-laborer. He was suffering botb from cdj find hunger, lie bad reMgned Itiiiiself to the latter; but ihirc at least ^8 a sli.ltcr from the cold. Tli.-sc buts are not usually oaupicd at night. He.gotdown hikI crawled into the hut. It was warm there, • nd be found a good bed of straw, lie rorttcd'a moment upon tiii>! bed noiii>nlc>K from fiijigu.! ; ibi-n, as his knapsack on his back In-nbkd him, Bud it would make a good pillow, he began to unbmklc the .strata. Just then ho beanl a fero'.-ious growling, and looking up saw the head of an enormous bulldog at the opening of the but. . It was a dog ki'iinid ! He was himself vigorous and formidable; seizing bis fslitk, bo made ft hhield of bis knapsaek, and got out of the but as best he could, but not ri'b'Mit enl-irgii'g the routs of bis already tattered garments. He made bis way also out of the gardeUi- but backwards; lioinj* obli-'od, ou( fi/ rrnjnit to ffir iI(hj, to have recourse to that kind ol nia- noeivro with bia htick, which adepts in this sort of fencing call la ruse COVCrrlC. When he bad, not without diflfioulty, got over the fence, he .ngaia found himself alone in the street without lodging, rpof or hhebcr, driven even from the straw b-d (»f tliat wjcetched dog-kennel. He threw him- Belf rather than seaiel himself mi a stone, and it appears that some one vbo wa.>» pa6.r and mean in contour, loomed out ilim and pule li^on the glooiny horizon; the whole prospect was hideous, mean, lugubrious and in-igni(iiant. There was nothing in the field nor upon tho hill but ori(! ugly tree, a few steps from the travcKr, which seemed to be twisting anri t-ontorting i'solf. This man was evid-ritly far from possessing tlio.ac dercate perceptions of iuV'Higonce and feiding n+ieh produces a senMtivencss to 'he myste- rio 13 n.'pect.s of nature ; still, there was in tho sky, in this hillock, plain ftQd tree, sometbing so profoundly desolate, that after a monjent of mo- FANTINE. 51 (jonloss contemplation, lie tarncl back hastl'y to tlie road. Tliere aro moments when uature Jippi-ais liosti e. lie retrac d his steps; the j^ntes of D were chxcd D •^vhioh pustainetl sieited the proclamations of th ■ emperor, and tlie imperial j^iiard to the army, brought from the island of Elba^ and dictited by Napoleoa Limst If. Exhausted jiritli fatigue, and hoping for nothing better, he lay down on a stone bench in front of this |Hiniing-officc. Ju.st then an old woman came out of church. She saw the man lyiog (here in ihe dark, and said : " What arc you doing there, my friend?" He replifc 1 liarshly, and with anger in lii.s tone : " You see iiiy good woman, I am going to sleep." , The good wcitiau,- wlio really merited the name, was the Mar(iuise of 11 . •'Upon the bench?" said she. , "For nineteen years I have had a wooden niattress," said the man; to night I have a .•■toue one." • «« Y'U hnve been u solTlier?" * • ** Yes, my good woman, a soMier." " Why don't you go to the inu ?" "Because 1 have no money." i' Alas !" said the Maiquine of R , "I hav(f only four sous iu my purse." "Give them, then." The man took the four sous, and the Ma>rquise . of 11 , continued ; " You can not find lodging for S0|little in an inn. But havcv you tr'cd ? You can not pass the night so. You must be cold and hungry. They should give yoii lo(]g little low house beside the bi.'ihop'a palace. •' Have you knocked at every door ?" she asked. "Yes" " Have you knocked at that one there?" " No." "Knock there." 52 LK3 >!rSKRADLE9. II. PRUDK.NCK COMMENDED TO WISDOM. Tlint ovttiinfr, afier his w:»'k in tlie »ovvn, the Hi Imp of D ro- BMiu« I <|uiH; lute in his room. He w:i8 \m>y with iii** great work oa Putv, whi. Ii unfortuiiatfly is left incuinpliCe. lie carefuriy di>6ei;ted all ihat the K;i«lier.i iinual, came in u> tike tlif .>-iJver from ilie panel Qeiir the he« t!ie bishop entered, Mrs M:igloire was speaking with amnt warmtl). Sift* was talking to .^liss Hapii-^^tinc upon a familiar subject, and one to which the bi-^hop was ijtiitc uccuatoiued. It was a discussion OO the nieuns on these last wonU^ but the bishop, having come fro'u II cold room, seated hint.self before tlie fire and began {a warm himself, and then, he was tliinkinjr of something else. He did nol hear II word ef what -was let fall by Mr.s. Magloire, and slie repeated it. Then Miss Kflpli.^line, oudeavoring to f^ali.^fy llrs. Magloire with- out displeasing her brother, ventuied to say timidiv: " Hrother, do yon hear what Mrs. .>lagl.'iie says?" " I heard something of it indistinctly," said the bishop. Then turn- ing his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and iai.>-ing to- War.liH the old servant his cordial and good-huinored face, which the fire- light vhonc upon, he ,Miid : " Well, well ! what is the matter? Are wo ia any ijreal danger? " Then .Mrs.Miigloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerat- ing it n liftlo. It appeared that a bare-footed gipsy man, a .sort of dau-' gerous beggar, was in the town. He had gone for lodging to Jacquin FANTINE. . S^ Labarre, who hail refused to receive liini ; he had been seen to enter ^he tdwu by the boulevard <5ass(ndi, and to roam thiougli the street at dusk. A man with a knapsack and a rope, and a terrible-looking face. ''Inleeii!" said the bisliffp. */'■ * Tliis readiness to question her oncourapod Mrs. Magloire ; it seemed to indicate that the bi.shi

account vf n.y yellow |.,..s>|M.it, whieh I had sliuWM at tho B„y„r% ofTue, Hs was nee s8ury. I went to another inn ; they saidj ••Oct out !" It wart the same wiili one as with another; nobody woiild bavc n.r. I went to the inisoii, iiitil ihu turnkey wouhJ not lei me in. 1 crept into s dog kennel, the dog hit me. and drove me aWiiy as if ho bnd Item a man; y-'U wdul.l h vc .>^aid that he knew who I wa.-<. 1 went into the liehis to sheji hencalh the .'^tus: ihcru were no stare; 1 thought it would rain, and th.Te was no g'-oj IJod lo stop the drops. hO I cuino baek to the towu to gel the hhelter ot some doorway The e in tbo equare I lay rhiwn up..n a stone; a good Woman showed mo yonr house, and Kiid : "Knock there!" 1 liavt; kni>ukcd. What is ihis place? Is this an inn? I have money ;niy ^avingn, one hundred and nine frune.H and Bitecn Sous, whieh I 'iive 'earned in the gallijs by my work fovuineir* II ye'ars. 1 will pay. U hut d. 1 care ? Ihavenionji lain fery lircd — twelve leiigne.-* on foot, nod I am «o hungry. Can 1 .stay?" " Mrs Maglnire," Puid the bi-ho|), •• |>ut'on another plate." Thv man took th^ee steps, iind e;inu' near the lamp whieh s'ood on the tabic. " Slop," he eXehiimed, as if he had not been nnder-tood, ••not ihut, did you un» " The lamp," said the bishop, " gives a very poor light. Mrs MawMre understood him, and going 10 hi.s bedchamber, took frnni tho mai.iel the two silver caudlcsiieks, lighted the candles, and placid them on the table. , , j • " Mr.' Curate," said the man, "you are good; you don t despise me. 56 LES MIS^RABLES. You take me into your home ; yon light your cnndle^ for nic, nni I fcavni lii-1 from you whore I foine from, aud how iiii:5crablo I am." The hi-ihop, wh.. vf.s siitin;,' near him, touihed his huml <:o»itly nml ••id: " Y.iu ueed uol tell me vfhuyou arc. This is not my house; it w \hc h->u>^e of Obrist. It dues n»task any comer wlicfh.r he has a name, .^ul whether he has an affliclinti. You are suffciiug ; ym are hungry and ihirtty; be w Icome. And do nnt thank mo; (To not toll mo that I 4.idcs, boloro yoti luld mc, I knew it." Tlie man opened his eyes in a8toiii.^e, the ball and chain, the' plank fo sleep on, the heat, the cold, the galley's crcw, the la«h, t!ie double chain ft»r no'hing, llic dun'eoi^ for a w-ird — even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogS, ' the dogs are happier! nineteen years I and I am forty -.si.s, and in>w a yellow p;i.s.>port. That is all " " Yes," answereii the b'shi>p, "you have left the place of suffering. But lisieu, there will be more j ly in Ileaveti over the tears of a rc- |»ont.aot f-iuimr, flian over the white rob .s of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger «gainst men, jr-'U are worthy of ctimpa.s.-^icm ; if ynu leave it with good-will, geBtle- Dess and peace, you are belter than any of us." Meantime .>lrs. Magloire had .served up supper; it consi.-fcd of soup made of water, oil, bread and salt, a little purk, u scrap of mution, a few Ggs H gr.'cn choeae and a liugt; lo.f of rye bnad. She h .d. with- out asking, addcA t^ the dinner of the bi.*;hop a bottle of fine gltl Mauves wine. The bishop's countcfmnce wi.s lighted up with this expression of plcu-iuro, peculiar to h i.spiiaUle natures. "To supper," he saih..p wild the bles.-,iN^' :,nd then served the si.up liim.scir, ao- •cording t.. his usual custom. TIil ,„;,n tVII to eating greedily Fud.lenly the bish-.p said : *' Ft seen.i, to me .souiHhing is lacking on ^ Ibe table " ^ •= The fact WIS, that Mrs. IMaghdre bnd'sCl out only the three plates vliich were ueiessary. Now it was the cuslom-v.f the house, wh n the tl-hop had any one to RuppeV, to set all six of the ^i.ver plates on tho Iflble. an innocent display This graceful appearance of luxury was a •ort of ehiidhk-iness whieh was full of charm in tliis gentW but austere liousetiolii, which elevated poverty to di;;niry. Mr.i Magloire understood ihe remark^; without a word she wont out •nd tt momeut afterwards the throe 'plates for whieh the bishop had FANTINE. 5f asked were shining on ibc clotb, symmetrically aiTanged before eacb of throe guests. IV. SOME ACCOUNT OF THE DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER. Now, in order (o give i\n idea of what passed at this table, we can not do bettor than to transcribe hero a passage in a letter from Misa. Baptistine to Mrs. Boiscbevron, in wliich the conversation between the convict and the bishop is related with charming miijutcness. * * * * * * **^ " This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a starving man. After supper, however, he said : * , " 'Mr. Curate, all this i.- too good for me, but I must say that the wagoners, who wouldn't have mp eat with them, live better than you.' " Between us, the remark shocked me a little. My brother answered : " 'They are more fatigued than I am.' " 'No,' responded this man ; 'tliey have more money. You arc poor, T cau see. Perhaps you are not a curate even. Are you only a curate? Ah I ,if G'^d is just, you well deserve to be a curate.' . » " 'God is more than just,' said niy.brother. " A moment after, he added : • ♦ " Olr. Jean Valjeau, j-ou are going to Pontarlier ?' *•' 'A compulsory journey.' '' I am prttty sure that is the expression the man used. Then he continued : " 'I must be ou the road to-morrow morning by day-break. It ia a hard journey. If the nigiits are cold, the days arc warm.' "'You are going,' said my brother 'to a fine country. During the revolution, when my family was ruined, I took refuge at first in Fraoche- Comt^, and supported myself there for some time by the labor of mj hands. There 1 found plenty of work, and had only to make my choice. There are paper-mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil-factories, large clock- making establishments, steel manufactories, copper foundries, at least twenty iron foundries, four of which, at Jiods, Chatillion, Audiucourt, and Beure, are very large.' "I think I am not mistaken, and that these are the names that mj brother mentioned. Then he broke off and addressed me : " 'Dear sister, have we not relatives in that part of the country':" " I answered : " 'We had ; among others, Mr. Lucenet, who was captain of tlic galea of Pontarlier, under the old regime.' " 'Yes,' replied mj^JBrothcr, 'but in 'O.S, no one had relatives ; evcrj one depended upon his hands. I laborcA. They have, in the region of Pontarlier, when) you arc going, Mr. Valjean, a business which i.s quit« patriarchal and very charming, sister. It is their dairies, which tlTey call /ruiticrex.' " Then, my brother, while- helping this man at table, explained to him in detail what these /rjnV/e/Ts were; that they were divided into 5 M LES MISKRABLRS. • hfo kinJs : ihc great banm, belonging to the rich, anJ where thoro nre forty <'r fifty cowh, wliich produce from Rcvcn to tight thousand theesi-fl during thu summer; -and the u?-ociaU'(l /nn'tiircs, which hch.iig to iho »o<.rftht'i»o ronipiisf the peasants jnh.ibitinu; the luoiintaius, wlio put lb^l•illtc•.s three times a day, and ui.t^.s the quauliiies in duplicate. Tow. mis the end -of April the dairy woik couiuicncfs, and almul the liiddK! of June the clu'e.se-n)akiT,s drive iheir cows into tlie niuuiitains. - "Tlic man bccTmc nuimatcd even wljile hi' was caiin^ My brother Ijave him home good Mauvcs wine, whiili he doi-s not drink himself, Wiu-c ho .«ays it is too dear. My broihor ^uve liiin all these details with that easy gaiety which you know is pccoHar to liiiii, intermiuLiling fH}« wlrr nfiir Inucni, aiid wfi", he added, are happy, iicrausr thr// mr wnrnnt, he stopped t-hort, fearing there might have been in this jvoid, which had escaped hitp, fonulhing which could wound the feelings of thi.s man. Upon reflec- tion, I iliink I understand what was p:issing i.n my brother's? mind Uo thou^'ht, doubtloH.^, that this man, who caMed hiiiisolf Jean Valjcau, had bis wretchedness too constantly before his mind ; that it was best not to di^lrcss him by referring to it, and to make him think, if* it were only for :i,moment, that ho was a common person like any one else, by lreatin<4 him thus ill the oitlinary way Is not this really understanding charity ? Jh there not, .dear madam, something tiuly evangelical in this delicacy, which ab.'-tainH from aernKiiiizing, moralizing and making allusions, ami is it uof the wisest sympathy, when a man hns a suffering point, not to touch upon it at all '{ It socuih to me that this was my brother's inmo.at thn\i;;ht. At any rate, all I can say is, if he had all these ideas, he did Hot show them even to me : h« was, from beginning to end, the same aa On other evenings, and he took su[iper with this Jean Valjean with tho Bame air and manner that he would have supped with Mr. Gedeon, the Provost, or with the curate of the pari.sh. " Towards the end, aa we were at desert, some one pushed the door open. It was mother Gcrbaud with her child in ber arms. My brother . PANTINE. 50 kissed tlic child, and borrowed fifteen sons that IJiad with rae to give to mother Gerbaud. Tlie niiui, during this tifne, pafd hut little atlention to what passed. He did not speak, and appeared to be vcrj tired. The poor ohl lady left, and ni}' }»ro," said the bishop, "a g{^od night s rest to you : to-morrow morning before you go, you shall have a cup of warm milk from our cows." "Thank you, Mr Abb6,' said the man. Scarcely had he pronounced these words of peace, when snddenly b« made a singubft- motion which would have chilled the two good women of the house with horror, had they witnessed it. Even now it is hardi for us to understand what impulse he obeyed at that moment. Did he intend to give a wnrning or to throw out a menace ? Or wrb be simply obeying a sort of instinctive impulse, obscure even to him.9elf? II« turnf'd abruptly towards the old man, cros.> the eye. As to the man, he w;^ so completely exhausted that he did not even %v&\\ liiniself of the clean white sheets; he blew out the candle with his nos-tril, after the manner of convicts, and fejl on the bed, dressed as be was, into a sound sleep. Midnight struck hs the bishop came back to his chamber A few moments afterwards all in the little house slept. VI. • JF..\N VAIJEAN. Towardrt the middle of the night, Jean Valjoan .-fwokc. Jean Valjcan wa.s born of a poor peasant family of Brie. Tn his CQildh(»od he had not been taught to read : when he was grown up, he chose the occupation of a pruncr, at Faverolles. His m-other's name wa-s Jeanne Mathieu ; his father'.^, Je;in Valjean or Vlajeau, probably a Qickn:ini(», a contraction of VoilA Jmn.* Jiau Valjean was of a tfJoughtful disposition, but not ead, which is characteristic of afTc'ct innate natures. Upon the whole, however, there waH Honiething torj.id and iiis-ignificaut, in the appearance at least, of Jean Valjean. He had lost his parcnta when very young. His mother died of malpractice in a milk-lever: hi.x father, a pruner before him, waw killed by a fall from a tree. Jean Valjean. now had but one rela- tive left, his hister, a widow with seven children, girls and boys. , This bister had brought up Jean A'aljtan, and, as long aft her husband lived, hhe had taken care of her young brother. Her husband died, leaving llio eldest of these children eight, the youngest one year old. Jean Valjean had just reached his twenty-fifth year : he took the father's pljiec, and, in his turn, supported the. bister who reared him. This ho did iKiturally, as a duty, and even with a .sort of moroscness on his part. His yduth was spent in rough and ill-recompensed labor: he never was known to have a sweetheart; he had not time to be iu love. At night he came in weary, and ate his soup without saying a word. •PANTINE. . 61 While be was eating, \ns sister, iMire Jeanne, frequently took fioui liis porringer the best of his mciil ; a bit of meat, a slice of pork, the hear; of the cabbage, to give to one of hor children. He went on eating, his head bent down nearly into the soup, his long hair falling over his dish, ^ hiding hi^; eyes ; he did not seem to notice anything that was doae.. Al Faverolles, not far from the house of the Valjeans, there was on the other side of the road a fanner's wife named INIarie Claude; the Valjeau children, who were always fimished, sometimes we«t in their mother's name to borrow a pint of milk, which they would drink behind a hedge,' or in some corner of the lane, snatching away the pitcher so greedily one from another, that the little girls would spill it upon their aprons and their necks; if their mother had known of this exploit she would have punished the delinquents severely. Jeau Valjean, rough aad grumbler as he was, paid Marie Claude; their uiotlicr never knew it-^ and so the children escaped. He earned in the pruning season eighteen sous a day : after that he hired out as a reaper, workman, teamster, or laborer. He did whatever «he cauld find to do. Hi-t sister worked also, but what could she do with seven littTo children? It was a sad group, which misery ^\;as grasping and closing upon, little by little. There was a very severe winter ; Jean had no work, the family had no bread; literally no bread, and teven children. One Sunday night, Maubert Isnbcau, the baker on the Place de I'Eglise, ill Faverolles, was just going to bed wheu he heard a vioknt blow against the barred window of his .shop. He got down in time to see an arm thrust througli the aperfure made by the blow of a fist on the glass. •The arm seized a loaf of broad and took it out. Isabeaa rushed out; the thief used his logs valiantly; Isabeaa pursjjed him and caught him. The thief had thrown away the bread, but his arm was Btill bleeding. It was Jean Valjean. All that happened in 1795. Jean Valjean' was brought before the tribunals of the time for " burglary at night, in an inhabited house," , He had a gun which he used as well as any mnrksman in the world, and was something of a poacher, which hurt him, there being a natural pre- judice againf^t poachers. The poachcj', like the smuggler^ approache? very nearly to the brigand. Jean Valjean was found guilty : the terms of the Code were explicit; in oui* civilization there are fearful hours: such are those wheu the criminRl law pronounces shipwreck upon a man. What a nmurnful moment is that in which society withdraws itself and gives up a think- ing being for ever. Jean Valjean was sentenced to live years iu th'3 galleys. On (he 22d April, 1706, there was announced in Paris the vict. ry of, Montenotte, achieved by the Commanding-General of the Army of Italy, whom th(! message of the Directory, to the Five Hundred^ of the second Floreal, year IV., called K(mapartc; that same day a great chain was riveted at the Bicetre. Jean Valjean was a part of this chain. An old turnkey of the prison, now nearly ninety, well remembers this mis- erable man, who was ironed at the end of the fourth plinth in the north angle of the court. Sitting on the ground like the rest, he sccifled to comprehend nothing of his position, except its horror: probably there (2 LES MI6KRABLES. «••) hiso tuinglcd with the vafsuc ideas of a poor igujoraiat man a uolion ih :.t tlierc waii w.iiietbing cxctssivc in the j^ciinlty. While t\wy were fri h htnvy httmuier ^irt/kcs bchiud bis head rivctiuji the bi»it of hiiii iioa c !i I, lie waA wct-ping. The (tars" cbuked bis wqid.«, and ho only suo- c<-ul<)D, at which place he had arrived after a jour- roy of (wcniy-seven days, on a cart, the chain hlill about bis neek. At Toul n, be was drt^sed in u red blouse, all bis pa»t life was effaced, eveo to his uaiuo. lie was no longer Jean Valjean : be was Number 24,001. "What became of the lister? What became^ of the pcven children? "Who troubled bim,>^elf about that'' What becomes of the handful of le«v»'(* of the young tree whcu ti is eawii at the trunk ? It is the old fitory. Tb(:-ec poor little lives, these creatures of God, honcrfoitb witliout huju^ort, or guide, or. asylum; they j)as«ed away. »heuvcr thauet' led, who knows even? Kadi. took a differeirt path, it may be, and Mink little by little into the chilling daik which engulfn •olitaiy dchtiiiies; that Hullen glctoui where are lost so many ill fated fcuu!- in (be ponibro advaoee of (he human race. They left that region; the church «.f wliat had been thi-ir village forgot them ; the stile of what liHil l/ci-n (lieii field forgot them; alter a few years in the galleys, even JeAi \'aljean forgot them. In that heart, in which there had been a wound, (hero was a sear; that w.-t!) all. Lluring the time he was at Toulon, he beard but ooue of bis sister; that was, I think, a^thc end of the fiurth j^ar of his eonfineinent. I do not know how the news reaebe^d liini ; bonic one who had known him at home had seen bis sister. She Xiws in I'aris, living in a poor street near Saint ^ulpicc, the liue du Ceindrc She bad with her but one child, tbf youngest, a little boy. Vhiie were the other six? She did not know herself, perha|is. Every tuorning ^be W( nt to a bindery, No. o Kue du Siibot,. where she was ein- |)1 -ytd as n folder and book-siilcber. She had to be there by six in the •iturning, long before the dawn in the winter. In (he same building with (he bindery (hcri- was a school, where she sent her little boy, seven £cai« old. As the sch(Hd did not o|.en till seven, and she must he at er work nt hfx, her b y hid to wail in the yard au hour, uirtil tb« •cboul opmid- au hour of 'cold and darkness in the winltr. They would not 111 (he child w.iit iu (he bindery, because he wa.s trouble.^oine, they s.iid The workmen, as they passed in the morning, saw the poor little f" liow s'lniclimi'S sitting on the pavement uoddint: with wearincsS} and ofifu, sKvping lu (he dark, crou..bed Jind bent 'over his basket. When it rained, un old woman, (he porlercss, te»ok pity on him : she let l.'rn come into lier lo.lge, the furniture of whieh wa.-» only a. pallet bed, a •pinning wheel and two wooden cb.iirbj and the little one slept theie in % c friier, hugging the cat to keep himself w:irm Al seven o'clock tho Aeho .1 op.'ii«.-d and he went iu. That is what was told Jean ^'aljean. It w,i^ as if a windviw had been suddenly opened, looking upon the des- Iniy of those be had Ijved, and then all was closevl again, and he heard •olhiu^ luore forever. Nothing more came to him; he had not seen PANTINE. - 03 them, never will ho see them agaiu ! and through the remainder of thia sad history we Khali not meet theni again Near the end of this fourth year, his chance of lihorty"came to Jean Valjean. His comrades helped him as they always do in tliat dreary place, atrd he ^scapod. Ho wandered two days in freedom throujih th« fields; if it is freedom to be hunted, to turn your head each mnnient, to tremble at the least noise, to be afraid of every thing — of the siunk« of a chimney, the passing of a man, the baying of a dog. the gallup q£ a horse, the striking of a cluck, of the day becauj?c you see, and of th« night because you do not ; of tiie road, of" the path, the bush, of sleep. During the evening of the second day ho was retaken; he had neiihor eaten nor slept for thirty six himrs. The maritime tribunal ext' tided his sentence three years for this attem^)!, which mnde eight. In the pixth year his turn of escape came again ; he tried it, but failed again. ' He did ^ot answer at roll-call, and the alarni cannon was fired At ni'ifht the people of the vicinity di"-x*overcd him hidden beneath the keal ■of a vessel on the stocks; he resisted the galley guard which SLized liiiia. Escape nnd resistance. This the provisions of the special code punished by an addition of five years, two with the double chain. Thirteea years. The tenth year his turn came round again ; he made another .attempt with no better success. Three .years for this new attempt. Sixtoeri yeaj^. And finally, I fliink it was in the thirteenth year. li» made yet another, and wis retaken after an absence of only four hiura. Three years for these four hours. Nineteen years. In October, LS15, ho was set at large; ho had entered iu 1700 for having bi»kcn a pan« of glass, and taken a louf of bread. This is a place for a short parenthesis. This is the sooond time, in his stu(lies on the penal question and on the sentences of the- law, that the author of this book has met with the theft of a loaf of bread as tb« starting point of the ruin of a destiny. Cbmle (iueux stole a loaf of fcroad ; Jean Valjean stole a loaf of bre id ; English statistics show that in London starvation is the'immediato cause of four thefts out of five. Jean V:djean entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering: he went out-hardened; he entered iu despair: he went aut sullen. What had been the life of this soul ? VII. TUE DEPTHS OF DESPAIR. Tict us endeavor to tell It is an imperative necessity that society should look into these things; they are its own work. He was, as wc have said, ignorant ; but he was not imbecile. Th« natural light was enkindled in him. Misfortune, which has also its illiunination, added lo the few rays that he had in his mif.d. Under th« whip, under the chain, in the (cll, in fatigue, under the burning sun of the galleys, upon the convict's bed of plank, he turned to his own co»- ftciencc, and he reflected. 64 LBS MISKRABLES. lie coD»Ututcinis.hod. He «rknowlod}ri(l that he had comniitfcd an exirenre and a bl.im:ible •cti'in ; that the loaf pcrliaps would not have been refused hinf, had he ai>ked for. it ;» that at all events it would have been better in wiiit, either- for pi'v, or for work ; lliat. it is not altogflher an unanswerable reply to gjy — "could I wait when I w.is hungry?" (hat, in the lipet plaee, it is ▼ery rare that any one dies of actual iiufiger ; and that, forlun itely or nnforlonatcly, man is so made that he can suiTer long and niuih, morally and jpliysically, without dying; that he jihouid, therefore, have had pa- tienc ; that that would have been better oven for those poor little ones. Tlnni he asked himself: . If he were the ojily one who hail done wrong in the cn\irse of his faUd history ? If, in the first plauo, it were not a grievous thitigi that he, a workman, should have been in want of work ; that he, an industrious man, should have lacked bread. If, n)oreovcr, the /ault having been oommitled and avowed, the punishment had not been savairo and ex- 0CJ>sivc. If the penalty, taken in connexion with it.' successive exten- sions for hia altempts to escape, had not at last conic to be a sort of. put- rapj of the stronger on the weaker, a crime of .six-iety towards the indi- vidual, a crime whieh was comruilted afresh every day, a 4U'ime which bad endured for nineteen years. . Thexe questions asked and decided^ he coudeuincd society and sen- tenced it. • He sentenced it to his hatred. He made it responsible for the doom which ho had nndersroae, and promi.sed hlm.'^clf that he, purhaps, would nut. hesitate some day to call It to an account. He concluded, in short, that his punishnjiut was not, really, an injustice, but that beyond all doubt it was an ini(|uity. Anger may be foolish and absurd, and one may be irritated when in the wrong; but a man never feels outraged unless in some respect he is at bottom right. Jean Valjean felt outraged. And then, human society had done him nithing but injury ; never had he seen any thing of her, but this wrathful face which .she calls juslic', and whieh she shows to those whom she strikes down. No man bad ever touched him but to brui>e him. All his contact with men had been by blows. Never,. since his infaiiQ^', since his mother, since his sister, never had he bi-en preete I with a fiifn»oii. At harciwork, at twisting a cable, or turning a windlass, Jean Valjean waa equal to four men. He would sometimes' lift and hold enormous weights on hi.s back, and would occasionally act the part of what is called ixjack, or what was called in old French an oryutil, whence came GG LBS MISKRABLES. ^ llic natno, wc may piy l»y tlio w;iy, of the Iluo Mootorpncil near tho Hall- M of I'arin. 'Hin comrades liail nickuaiiud liiiii .Juh«ii was uiider- fr ,\o•^'ible heighl.s, ho distinguislie I some proup, some detail vividly i;liar, here the jailer with his .-lati", th"re HiQ gendarme w\v\\ his sword, yonder the mitred arehbi.shop ; and on high, iu a H 'rt of blaze of glory, the emperor crowned and res[ikMident It fcemed to him that ihe.-c distant splendors, far from dis-ipaiiug Ills uight, tnudo it blacker and more (L-aihly. In such a ^ituatjou Jean Valjcan mused, anl what could be the nii- ture of his reflections ? , • ' If a millet Hctd uidcr a oiillstoui haJ thoughts, doubtless it would think what Jean Valjean thougl.t. All these things, realities fn'l of spectres, phantasmagoria fidl of realitiiH, had at lust produced within him a condition which was almost inexpl('^^ible .Suinetinie< in the u)iiport. .•\ijd alnugVith that there were many bitter experiences. lie had palculatcd that his .savings, during his stay at the galleys, would amount to a imndrcd ancl sevenly-one francs. It is proper to say \\\-*l he' had foigott(n to take into accouut the compulsory rest on Sundays and h(di- d.iys, which, in nineteen years, required a deduction of about twenty-four i'ranus However that might be, his savintis had been redu'-ed, by various local charges, to the sum of a hundred ami nine francs and fifteen sous, which wad counted out to him on his departure. i; G8 LES MISERABLES. He understood nolliing of this, and thought himself wronjred, or, to ppcak plainly, ruhlK-d, The day afuT his liberation, he saw belore the door of an orange flower distillery at (Jnisse, sonic men who were unloading bags. He offcPfd bin services. They were ill -need ol' help and accepted them. He «?1 at work. He was intelligent, robust and bandy; be did bis best; the foreman appeared to be satisfied While he was at work, a geus- I'arnic pas-'^cd, noticed him, and asked for his papers. He was com- >rlled to show the yellow passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed is work. A little while before, be had asked one of the laborers how UMich they were paid per day Tor this work, and the rejily was, thirty fius. At night, as luv was obliged to have the town next moining, ho went to the foreman of tlie dislillery, and a.>^ked for his pay. The fore- man did not say a word, bnt handid biiii fifteen son* He remonstrated. TIk^ n»in replied : '^Thnt is ijood fiiou;/h /oryaii." He in>isted. The f(^( man looked him in the eyes and s^iid : ^^ Louie out fur the lockup!" There again ho thiught himself robbid. Society, the State, in rtdu<'ing his savings, bad robbed bim by wliolc- Fale Niiw it was the hirn (d' the individual, who was robbing bim by retail. Liberation is not deliverance. A convict may leave the gidleys be- hind, but not his condemnation. Tiiis was what befel bim at Grasse. We have seen how he was received at D . IX. THE M.\N AWAKKS. As the cathedral clock struck two, Jean Valjean awoke. What awakened him was, too good a bed. For nearly twenty years he bad not s.'ept in a bod, and, although he lia 1 not undressed, the sen- Mlion was too novel nyt to disturb bis sleep. He had slept something more than four hours. His fatigue had parsed away He was not accustomed to give many hours to npose. • He opened his eyes, and looked for a moment into the ob.-^curily about bim, then he closed them to go to sK>cp again. When uiary diverse Sensations have di.-turbed the day. wlien the mind is pre-oeiupied, w«' can fall asleep once, but not a second time. S'eep comes at liist njindi more roudily than it comes again. Such wis the ( ase with Jean \'uljean. He could not get to sleep again, and .so lie Scgan t(» think. • He was in one of those inoods in which the ideas we have in our minds are perturbed. There was a kintl of vague ebb and How in his brain. His oldest and bis latest memories floated about pcll-mf'!l, and crossed each other cMifuscdly, losing their own shapes, swelling beyf>nd measure, then disappearing all at once, as if in u muddy and troubled Stream. iMany thoughts came to him, but there was one%hieh conlin- ualljr presented itself, aud which drove away all others. What that • FANTINE. • 69 thouglit was wc sliuH toll direclly. lie had .notiocJ the six silver plates and the large ladle that Mrs Magloirc had put on the table. Those six silver pjates took possession of hiui. There they were, within a few steps. At the very moment that he passed through the middle room to reach the one he was now in, the old servant was pla(;;ing them in a little cupboard at the head of the bed. Ilc'had marked that cupboard well : on the right, coming from the dining room. They were solid, and old silver. JVith the big ladle, they would bring at least two hundred fiancs : double what ho had got i'or nineteen years'* labor. True; he would have got more if the '\(jovernment" had not " fobbed " hini, Ilis mind wavered a whole hour, and a long one, in fluctuation and "in struggle. The clock struck three. He opened 'his eyes, rose up hastily in bed, reached out his arm ant once he ptooped down, took off his shoes, and put them softly upon the mat in front of the bed, then he resumed hi.> thinking posture, and was still again. In that hideous meditation, the ideas, which we have been pointing out, troubled his brain without ceasing, entered, dejiaited, returned, and became a sort of weight upon him; and then he thought, too, he knew not why, and with that mechanical obstinacy that belongs to reverie, of a convict nanjod 1^'evet, whom he had known iu the galleys, and whose trowsers were only held up b}' a single knit cotton suspender. The checked pattern of that suspender came continually before his mind. He continued in this situation, and would perhaps have remained there until daybreak, '*( the clock had not struck the quarter or the half- hour. The clock seemed to say to him : " Come along ! " He rose to his feet, hesitated for a moment longer and listened^ all was still in the house ; he walked straight and cautiously towards the window, which he could discern. The night was not very Jark ; there was a full mooD, across which large clouds were driving before the wind. This produced alternations of light and sliade, out-of-doors eclipses and illuminations, artd in-doors a kind of glimmer. This glimmer, enough to enable him to find his way, changing with the passing clouds, resem- bled that sort of livid light which falls through the window of a dungeon before which men arc passing and repa.'^sing. On reaching the window, Jeau Valje.'in examined it. It had no bars, opened into the garden, and was fastened, according to tbc fashion of the country, with a little wcdgo only. He opened it; but as the cold, keen air rushed into the room, he closed it again immediately. He looked into the gariien with that ab- sorbed look which studies rather than sees. The garden was inclosed with a white wall, quite low, and readily scaled. ]>eyond, against the sky, he distinguished the top.? of trees at equal distances apart, which showed that this wall separated the garden from an avenue or a lane planted with 'trees. 70* LES MISKRABLES. WIktj lie had taken lhi« ob««ervation, ho turned like ri tnan whoso n)iii'l is made tip, went to his alcove, took his havor'^ack, op.^ned it, f'Pi'hled in i', t; swunj; it upon his h!i<.u'-lcrs, put on his cip, and pulK'd -llic vizor down over his eyes, felt for his (.lick, nnd wen' aud put it in tha corner of the window, then re- turned to thi; bed, and res'duudy t«H>k up the ohj-Kt which he had laid on it. It Idoked like a short iron bar, pointer! atop.** end like a spear. It wuuM Ii:ive b(!en hurd to distiiigui>h in the dnrknoHS for what use this piece of iron hud been iinde. Could it he a lever? Could it be a cluhi' . In the dny-tinie, it wf)uld have Soon seen to bo nothing but a ntiner'g drill. At that time, the convicts were somctiuics iMnpl>y<'d in (|uarry-' in;r stone <>n the lij^h liills that surround Toulon, and they nftcn had njiners' tools in their posscs>ion. .Miners' drills are of solid iron, termi- natin;jj at the lower end in a point, by inoan-- -if which they are punk into tlic roek He took tlic drill in hi.s ri^'ht hand, and lioldin;^ hi.s* breath, with stealthy steps, he moved towards the door of the next room, which was the bixiiop's, as we know. Oh reachio;; the door, he found it uulutchod. The bishop had not closed it. X. Mil AT in: DOES. Jean Valjean listened. Not a .sqund. He pushed the door. He pushed it Ii;;htly ^ith the end of his fin;^'^r, with the pfealtliy nnd tiutorons carefulness of a cat. Tlie door yiidtled to the pre^j^ure with a ftilenf, imperceptible movement, -which made the npcning ii little wider. Hi' w:iited a moment, and then pu'rrihle life; and that it was barking liko-a dog to warn evorybosi'|y, and a ray of moonlight, crossing the high window, suddenly lighted u-p the bishop's pnle face. He slept tran- quilly. IJe was almost entirely dressed, though in bed, on account of the cold nights of the lower Alps, with a dark woollen garment which covered bis arjns to the wrists. His head had fallen on the pillow ia the unstudied attiude of slumber; over the .«ide of (he bed hung his hand, ornamented with the pastoral ring, and which h;id done so many good deeds, so many pious acts. His entire coujitenancc was lit up with a vague cxpre.'-sion of contctit, hope and happiness I( was more tlian a Bmi'e and almost a radiance. On his forehead rested the inJesoril able refl "ction of &n unseen light Tho souls of the upright in sleep have visions r)f a in3'sterio.us bc^iven. A reflection from this heaven shone upon the bishop. But it was also a luminous transparency, for this heaven was within him ; this heaven was hit? conseie'.'.ce. ^ At the instant when the moonbeam overlay, so to speak, (his inward radiance, (he sleeping bishop appeared as if in a halo I'ut it was very mild and veiled in an ineffable twilight. The moon in the sky, nature drowsing, the garden without a pulse, (he qui« t hiii.sp, the hour, tho moment, the silence, added something strangely solemn and unutterable to the vene.rable repose of this man, and enveloped bis white locks and his clo.sed eyes with a serene and majestic gb»ry, (bi.<» face whure all waji hope and confidence — {his old man's i»cad and infant's sluiuber. , 72 LES miSerables. There was somcthiDg of diviuity almost in this man, thus uncon- 6ciovi>l}' aupust. • Jc4in Vali« au was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect, tnotionloM^, icrrificd, nt this r;ij left hand slowly to his forehead and took off his hat; then, letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean Valje^in resumed .4iis contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in his ri;:lit, and his hair bristling on His fierce-looking head Under this fiightrul^azc the bish 'p still slept in {trofoundest peace. The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moon- light, apparently extending its arms towards both, with a benediction for the one and a pardon for the other. Suddenly Jtan Valjcau put on his cap, then pas.«ed quickly, without looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard winch ho perceived near its head; he rai.-iod the drill to force the lock; the key was in it ; he opened it ; the lirst thing he saw was the basket of silver, he took it, cros.sed I he room with hasty stride, careless of noiso, reached fhe door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran aiios: the garden, leaped over the wall like u tiger, uud fled. . XL THK BISHOP AT WORK. The next day at t-unrise, my lord Hienvenu was walking in the gar- den, Mrs. Magloire ran towards him (juite beside lierself " My lord, my lord," cried she, docs your greatness know where the silver basket \if" " Ves," said the bishop. " (lod be praised I" said she; "I did not know what had become of it." FANTINE. 78 The bishop had just found the basket on a flower-bed. He gave it to Mrs. Magloire, and said : " There it is." " Yes," said she; " but there i,s nothing in it. The silver?" "Ah !" said fhc bishop, "it is the silver then that troubles you. I do not know where that is." " Good heavens ! it is stolen. That man who came last night stole it." And in the twinkling of an eye, with all the agility of which her a^e was capable, Mrs. Muglcire ran to the oratory, went into the alcove, and came back to the bishop. The bishop was bending with some sadness over a cochlearia des Guillons, which the basket had broken in falling, lie looked up at Mrs. Magloirc's cr}'. : " My lord, the man is gone ! the silver is stolen !" _ While she was uttering this exclamation, her eyofl fell on an angle of the garden where she saw traces of an escalade. A capstone of the staII had been thrown down. , "See, there is w^iere he got out; ho jumped into Cochefilet lane. The abominable f«llow ! he has sdSlon our silver !" . The bishop was silent for a moment, then raising his serious eyes, he sail! mildly to Mrs. Magloire : . . "Now, first, did this silver belong to us?" Mrs. Magloire "did not answer. After a moment, the bishop con- tinued : ' "Mrs. Magloire, 1 Have for a long time wrongfully withheld this silver; it belonged to the poor. "Who was this man? A poor man evidently." ' * "Alas! alas!" returned Mrs. Magloire. "It is -not on my account or Miss Baptistine's; it is all the same to ift. But it is yours, my lord. What is my lord going to cat from now ?"■ The bishop looked at her with amazement : • " How so ! have we no tin plates ? " Mrs. Magloire shrugged her shoulders. "Tin smells." "Well, then, iron plates." Mrs. Magloire made an expressive gesture. " Iron tastes." "Well," said the bishop, "tlien, wooden plates." In a few minutes he was breakfasting at the same table at which Jean Valjean sat the night before. While breakfasting, My Lord Bienvenu pleasantly remarked to bis sister, who said nothing, and Mrs. Magloire, who was grumbling to herself, that there was really no need even of a wooden spoon or fork to dip a piece of bread into a cup of milk." "Was there ever such ap idea?" said Mrs. Magloire to herself, as she went backwards and forwards, "to take in a man like that, and to give him a bed beside him ; and yet what a blessing it was that he did nothing but steal ! Oh, my stars \ it nuikes the chills run over me whoa •I think of it!" Just as the brother and si-stcr were rising from the table, there was a knock at the door. " Come in," said the bishop. The do6r opened. A strange, fierce group appeared on the threshold. 6 74 LE3 MTsfiRABLES. « Three meh wire holding a fourth by the collar. The lliroc men were gendarmes; tlie f^«urtli Joan Vnljoan. A bri"Bdier "f Rond:»rmos, who appeared to head the firoup, was near the door? He ndvnncod towards the bishop, giving a" military salute. " My lord," said he — •At this word Jean Valjean, who was pullcn and seemed lentirely ca*t down, raised his head with a stupefiod air — " My lord !" he murmured, " then it is not the ctiralo I " ** Silence I " said a gendarme ; " it i.s my lord, the bishop." In the meantime l^Iy Lord liienvenu had approached as quickly a.s hi^ great age permitted : "Ah, t!iofe you arc!" siid he, looking towards Jean A''aljoan ; "1 •m glad to see yoif. l?ut I pave you the candleslioks also,' which arc Htlvcr like the rest, and would bring two hundred francs. WJiy.did you not take thoin along with your plates?" Jean Valjean opened hi.s eyes, and lo^cd at the "bishop with an. cx- prcBsion which no human tongue could dc?crihc. ^' My lord," paid the brigaoor. Mr. Curate, he is a little fellow^ about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a hurdygurdy. Ift went this way. One of these Savoyards, you know?" " I have not seen him." " Petit Gervais ? is his vill^ near here ? can you tell me ? " 78 LRS MI5ERABLES. " If it bo as yciu say, my friend, the little fellow i^a foreigner. They roam about this country. Nobody knows them." Jean ^'aljcan lia.stily took out two more live-franc piece.<5, and gave Ibem to the priest. " For your poor," said he. Then he added wildly : " Mr. Curate, have me arretted. ^ I am a robber." The priest put .«pur.s to his horse, and fled in great fear. Jean V'aljeaii began to ruu agaiu in the dircclioa which he had first L.kcn. ^ lie went on in this wise, for a considerable distance, looking around, calliiip; and shouting, but met nobody else. Two or three limes, he left the path to*K)ok at what nccmcd to be somebody lying down or crouch- ing; it was only low bu.«hcs or rocks. Finally, at a place where three paths met, ho stopped. The moon had ri.seu. He strained his eyes in the distance, and called out once more: "Petit Gervais! l*eliw Ger- vais ! Petit Gervais!" His cries died away into the miat, without even awakening an echo. Again ho murmured : "Petit GcyvaisI" but with H feeble, and almost iuartieulate voice. 'J'hat was his last effort; his knees guildenly bent under him, as if an invisible power overwhelmed Urn at a blow, with the weiglit of his bad conscience; he fell exiiausted upon a great stone, hi.s hands clenched in his hair, and his face on his knees, and exclaimed : " What a wretch I am I " Then his heart swelled, and he burst into leans. It was the firat time Le had wept for nineteen years. When Jean Valjcan left tlie bishop's hou.so^ as wc have seen, hismood was one that he had never known before. He could-understand nolhirig, of what was pas.'^iug within him. He set himself stubbornly in opposi- tion to the angelic deeds and the gentle words of the old man, "you have promised mc to become an honest man. I am purcha.sing your eoul, 1 withdraw it from the spirit of perver.^ity, and I give it to God Almighty." This came back to him incessantly. '1\) this celestial tenderness, he oppcsed pride, which is the fortress of evil in man. He felt dindy that the pardon of this priest was tho hardest a.^sauU, and the most formidable attack which ho had yet sustained; that his hard- ness of heart would be complete if it resisted this kindness; that if he Jrieldcd, he mu.st renounce that hatred with which the acts of other men lad for so many years fdled bin soul, anil in which he found satisfaction; that, this time, he must* conquer or be conijuerod, and that the struggle, a gigantic and decisive struggle, had begun between his own wickedness and the goodness of this man. • In view of all these*thit!gs, ho moved Irlce a drunken man. While' thus walking on with haggard look, had he a distinct perception of what might bo to him the result of his adventure at i.) 'f ll4d he Jiear those mysterious murmurs which warn or entreat the spirit at ecr- tiin monjcnts of life? Did a voice whisp-r in his ear that he had just pish 1 through the decisive hour of his destiny ; that there was no longer H middle course for hia^; that if, thereafter, he should not be the best of men, he would be tho wor&t; tliat he mui-t now, so to speak, mount kigher than the bishop, or fall lower thaH the galley slave; that, if ho FANTINE. . 79 would become good, be must become an angel ; that, if he would remain wicked, he must become a monster? Here we fnust again ask those questions, which we have already pro- posed elsewhere : was some confused sshadow of all this formed in his mind ? Certainly, misfortune, we have said, draws out the intelligence; it is doubtful, however, if Jean Valjean was in a condition to discern all that wo here point out. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught a glimpse, lie«did not see; and the only effect was to throw him into an inexpressible and distressing co'nfusion. Being just out of that misshapen and gloomy thing which is called the galleys, the bishop had hurt his soul, as a too vivid light would have hurt his eyes on coming out of |he dark. The future life, the possible life that was offered to him thcucefortli, all pure and radiant, filled him with trembling and anxiety. lie no "longer knew really where he was. LTke an owl who frhould see the sun suddenly rise, the con-rtct had been dazzled and blinded by virtue. One thing was certain, nor did he himself doubt it, that he was no Ijnger the same man, that all was changed in him, that it was no longer in his power to prevent the bishop from having talked to him and hav- ing touched him. In this frame of mind, he had met Petit Gervais, and stolen his forty sons. Why ? lie could not have explained it, surely; was it the linal effect, the final effort of the evil thoughts he had brought from the gal- leys, a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in physics ,ir of nankeen pantaloons, cut in the clc[(harkt-leg fashicm, with uniler stockings. of copper-coloured bAid ; he had a huge mtfan, worth two hundred francs, in his hand, and, ns ho denied himsejf nothing, a strange thine called a cigar in his niouth. Nothing being sacred to him, he was smoking. "This, Tholomyt''s, is astonishing," said the others, with veneration. " What pantaloons ! what energy!" As to Fanzine, she was joy itscdf. Uer splendid teeth had evidently been endowed by Cod with one"funclion-^tliat of laughing. She carried in her hand.ra(l\,cr than on her head, her little hat of sowed straw, with long white strings. Her thick bloiid tresses, inclined to wave, ^nd easily escaping from their conliiiement, obliging her to fasten tl.ciu con- tinually, seemed designed for the flii^ht of Calatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled with enchantment. The corners of her mouth, turned up voluptuously like the antique masks of Frigone, eeemed to encourag.' audacity; but her long, shah And here i-s the proof, svn'n-ns; like wine measure, like jieo- pic The arroba of Ca.Hfilc contains sixteen litres, the cautaro of Ali- cante twelve, the alnnidu of the (.'antiries twenty-five, the cuartin of the BiikMres twenty-six, and the boot of Czar Tetjr thirty. ]i0ng live the ozir, who was great, and long live his boot, whjch was still «^reatcr ! liadirs, a friendly counsel ! deceive your miglibois, if it eeems good to you. The characteristic of love is to rove. Love was not niadcr to cower and crouch like an English housemaid who.>=e knees arc ealluscd with scrubbing. Gentle lovo was made'but to rove gaily! It has been Baid to err is human ; I say, to orr is loving • Ladies, I idolize yo\i all. O Zrphiiie, or Josephine, with face more thiin vsrinkl»jJ, you would bo chiirming if you w^n:^' not cro.ss. As* to Favourite, oh, nymphs and muses, f.ne day, as Hlachevillo was cros>ing the Hue Gucrin-HoiirHeau, ho saw a beautiful girl with white, well-gartered stockings, who was show- ing tlicm The prologue pleased him, and Hlfeheville loved. She whom he loved was Favourite. (Hj, Favounitc ! '1 hou hast Ionian lips. Tlierc was a (iirej;k jiiinter, Kuphorion, who was surnamed painter of lips This Greitk alono would have been worthy to paint thy moiiih Lir^tcn ! before thee, there was no creature worthy the name. Thou weri made to receive thf apple like Veiiu^, or to eat it like Fvc. Ikauiy b«';:iiis with thee. Thou deserv«'st the patent for the invention of biaiiiiful women. Oh. Favourite, I c«':«se to thou you, for I pass fmiii poi'try In prose. You spoke just now of my name. It mgved i«e ; but whatever we do let ms udI trust to names, 'hey maybe deceitful. I am called Felix, I am not happy Oh, Faiitine, know this: I, Tholo- ni3e-i.am an illusion — but she do^s not (vc:i hi ar me -the fair daughter of cliimeras! Nevertheless, everylhing on her is freshness, gentleness, y"Uili. Btfi. matiiial eiearnrs.s. Oh, Fantiiie, wortliy to be called Mar- gU' lite or Pearl, you aie a jewel of the purest water. Ladies, a second OO'iU'cl, do not marry; marriage is a graft; it may take well or ill. FANTINE. 91 Slum tlie risk. But 'what do I pay? I am wa.sting my worJa. - Wo- men are incurable on the subject of weddin;:8, and all that ^sc wise men can say will not hinder vest-makers and paiter-bindcrs from dr^iaming about husbands loaded with diamonds. Well, be it so; but, beauties, remember this : you cat too much sugar. You have but one fault, oh, wojncn ! it is that of nibbling sugar.. Oh, consuming sex, the pretty, little white teeth adore sugar. Now, listen attentively ! Sugar i.«< a salt. Every .salt is desiccating^ Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts. It sucks up the liquids from the blood through the veins; thence comee the coagulation, then the solidification of the blood; thence tubercles itt the lungs; thence death. And this is why diabetes borders on con* sumption. Orunch no sugar, tliercforc, and you shall live! I "turn to- wards the men : gcntjemen, make conquests. Hob each other without remorse of your beloved. Chassez and cross over. There aro no friends in love. VVherever there i.s a pretty woman, hostility is open. No quarter ; war to the knife ! A pretty woman is a casus beW ; a pretty woman is a Jirtjraus (hh\[um. All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats. Woman is the right of man. Romulus car- ried off the Sabine women; William carried oflf the Saxoa women j Caesar carried off the Roman women. The man who is not loved hovers like a vulture over the s^veetheart of others; and for my part, to all un- fortunate widowers, I issue the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of Italy, " Soldiers, you lack for everything. The enem^ has everytliing." * Tiiolomyes checked himself, "Take breath, Tholomytisf' said Blachcville. At the same time, Blachcville, aided by tiistolier and Fameui), with an air of lament^ition hummed one of those studio songs, made up of the first words that came, rhyming richly and not at all, void of eenf-e as the movement of the tre6s and the sound of the winds, and which are borne from the smoke of the pipes, and dissipate and take flight with it. This was not. likely to calm the inspiration of Tholomy^j ho cmp- tieil his glass, filled it, and again began : *' Down with wisdom ! forget all that I have said. Let us be ncithcT prudes, nur prudent, nor prud'hommcs ! I drink to jollity; let us.be jolly. Let us finish our course of stutly by fully and prating. Indiges- tion and the Digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Festivity the fe- male There is joy in the abysses BehoM, oh, creation ! The world is a huge diamond! I am happy. The birds are marvellous. Wli.it a fesiiviil everywiiere ! The niglitingale is an Elleviou gratis. Slimmer, I salute tht'e. Oh, Luxembourg ! Oh, Georgics of Ihe Rue JIadame, and the Allee do TObservatoire ! Oh, entranced dreamers I The pampas of America would deli>;ht me, if I had not the arcades of the O'lc'iu. My .-^onl gues out towards virgin forests and savannahs. Kv( rythiuL' is be:mtit'i>l ; the flies hum in the sunbeams. The humming- birds whizz in the suuKJiine. Kiss u>c, Fantinc !" Andj'by inistake, h«; kissed Favourite. 92 LES MISKRADLES. VI. DKATn OK A nORSE. "The dinners are better at EJou's thau at Bombarda's, exclaimed Ji6pliinc. •, ♦•I like liombarda better than Edon," said Blachevillo. "There is more luxury. It ia more Asiatic. Sec the lower hall. Tlierc are U)ir- rors on the walls " "Look at the knives. The handbs are silver at Bomlianla'.s, and bone at E'Iod's. Now, silver is more precious than bono." " Except when it is on the chin," observed Tholomyil's. lie looked out at this moment at the dome of the Invalides, which was vi.y(>s, now that he was started, would have been stopped with difhculty, had not a horse fallen down at this moment on the quai. The fcbock stopped slutrt both the cart and the orator. It was an old, nicagro marc, worthy of the ](nacker, harnes'cd to a very heavy cart. Oivrcacb- * FANTINE. ' 93 ing Bombarcla's, the beast, worn and exhausted, had refused to go fur- ther. This incident attracted a crowd. Scarcely had the carman, Bwearing and indignant, had time to utter with fitting energ}' the deci- eive word, '■^ mCdin !" backed by a terrible stroke of the whip, when the hack fell, to rise no more. " Poor horse ! " sighed Fantine. , Dahlia exclaimed : " Hero is Fantine pitying horses ! Was there ever anything so absurd?" At this moment, Favourite, crossing her arms and turning round her head, looked fixedly at Tl)oloniy6s and said : "Come! the surprise?" '•'Precisely. The moment has con>c," replied Tholomy^s. "Gen- tlemen, the hour has come for surprising these ladies. Ladies, wait for us a moment." "It begins with a kiss," said Blachcville. "Cn the forehead," added Tholomyiis. Each one gravel}' placed a kiss on the fordicad of his mistress, after which they directed their steps towards the door, all four in file, laying their fingers on their lips. Favouiite clapped her hands as they went out. " It is amu.>;ing already," said she. " Do not be t(K) long," murmured Fantine. " We arc waiting for you." • VII. JOYOUS END OF JOY. " The girls, left alone, leaned their elbows on the window sills in cou- ples, and chattered together, bending thqir heads and speaking from one window to the other. They .saw the young men go out of Bombarda's, arm in arm ; thry turned round, made signals to them laughingly, then disappeared in the dusty Sunday crowd which takes possession of the Champs-Elysees once a week. , " Do not be long !" cried Fantine. " What are they going to bring us?"j^id Z<5phine. "Surely something pretty," said Dahlia. " I hope it will be of gold," resumed Favourite. They .were soon di.stracted by the stir on the water's edge, which they distinguished through the bnmches of the tall trees, and which diverted" them greatly. It was the hour for the departure of the mails and diligences. -Almost all the stage-coaches to the south and we.st, passed at tlyit time by the (Jhamps-Ely^ei^s. The greater part followed the quai and went out through the Darriorc Passy. Every minute some huge vehicle, painted yelhtw and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, distorted with trunks, awnings, and valises, full of heads that weie con- stantly disappearing, grinding the curb-stones, taming the pavcmentg 04 LKS MIPKRABLES. * int'^flinlK, runlicd through the crowd, throwing eut pparks like a forge, wiih duHt for hiiioke, and nn air of fury. This hubbub delighted the juuo;! pirU. I''«vouri^c exclaimed : " What an uproar; one would any that heaps of chains were taking It no happcnqd that one of these vehicles which could be distinpjuishcd with difficulty through the obscurity of the elms, .stopped for a moment, Chen net out again on a gallop. This .surpri.-^ed rantino. " It ii Hininge," said Hhc, " I thought the diligences never stopped." Favourite bhruggcd her shoulders : *'Thi.s Fantiue is surprising; I look at her with curio-sity. She won- ders al the mo3t simple thing.s. Supposi; that I am a traveller, and say to the diligence, " I- am going on ; you can take, me up on the quat in fjafising." The diligence pas.ses, sees rae, stops and takes \\k up. This i;ip[)ens every day. You know nothing of life, my dear." Ktime lime passed in this muuner. Suddenly Favourite sUirtcd as. if from sleep. •' Well ! " saitl she, "and the surprise?" " Yc«," returned i)ahlia, " the famous 8urpri.sc." '' They are very long !" said riutiue. As I'iintine iioished the sigh, the boy who had waited at dinner en-, tcrod. lie iiad in his hand something that looked like a letter «' What is that?" a^ked Favourite. • *' I^ is n p.tper that the gentlemen left for these ladies," he replied. " Why did you .m-t bring it at once ? " *' IJccuuHe the geniltincn ordered me not to give it to t4ie ladies before an liour," returned the boy. Favourite snatched the paper from his hands. It was really a letter " Stop ! " eaid she. " There is no address ; but see what is written On.it:" ... "this 18 THE SURPRIgE." « 8lio hastily unsealed the letter, opened it, and read (she knew how to read ) : ♦' Oh, our beloved ! *' Ktjow that we have parents. Parents — you scarcely know the incaniu;; of the word, tliey are what ure called fathers aud mt'tlier? in (lie civil code, simple but honest. Now^the^e parents bemoan us, these oM men claim us, these gooj^en and women call us prodigal sous, do- Bire our iiturn and offer to kill for us the fatted calf We obey them, Leing viriu tus. At the motnont when ycju read this, (ive metflesomo Lorses will be bearing us back to our papas aud mammas. We are vauishiug, iiH ]{ossuet says Wo are going, we are gone. We lly in the arms of Laflilte, and on the wings of (!ailliard.='= The Toulouse dil- igence snafchiB us from the abyss, and ycm are this abyss, our beautiful darlings ! We arc returning to society, to duly aud order, ou a full tioi, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is accessary to the coua- • Tbb diliyfncet or mail-coaclies were llicn run by the firm q[ Luffillc et Cailtuird. FANTINE. 95 try that we become, like everybody else, prefects, fathers of funiilios, rural guards, and councillors of state. Venerate us. Wo sacrifice ourselves. jVIoura for us rapidly, and replace us speedily. If this Ici- l# rends you, rend it in turn. Adieu. " For nearly two years we have made you happy. Bear us no ill will fur it." "Signed: Ulachevillk, Fameuil, LisroLiKR, Felix Tuolomyes. " P. S. The dinner is paid for. " ' The four girls gazed at each other. Favourite was the first to break silence. " Well ! " said slic, " ir is a good farce, all the same." " It is very droll," said Z<'*phine " It must have b?cu Bhichyville that had the idea," resumed Fa- vourite. " This makes me in iove with him. Soon loved, soon gone. That is the story " . " No," said Dahlia, "it is an idea of Tholomyfis. That is clear " "In that case," returned Favourite, "down with Blacheville, and long live Tholomy^sl" " Long live Tholomytis ! " cried Dahlia and Zephine. And they burst into laughter. Fantine laughed like the rest. An hiiur afterwards, wiicn she had re-entered her chaniber, ."^ho wept. It waslier (irst love, as we have said ; she had given herself tt thb Thalomy(>s as to a hu.sband, and the poor girl had a child. TO ENTRUST IS h^OMETIMES TO ABANDON. I. ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER. There wa.«!, during the fir.^t qmirter of the present century, at Mnnt- formiel, near Paris, a sort of eliophouse : it is not there now. It was kept by a man and his wife, named Thcnanlier, and was situiied in the lane IJiiulanger. Abnve the dnor, ilniled flat against the will, was a board, upon which something wa< painted that looked like a man carry- ing on hi-< back another man wearing tlie heavy epaulettes of a general, gilt an 1 with large silver stirs red blotches typified blood; the remainder of the picture was smoke, and probably rcpieseuted a battle. Deucath wa-i this iascription : To the Sergea.nt of Waterloo. 90 LES MISKRAULES. N(iiliin7 is commonor llian a cart or wagon bt-fore iho door of an iun ; ncv«rtIicle-8 the vehicle, or m'«rc pr«»perl>' siK-akinp, the frapim nt of a vehiultf whivh obstructrd the .street in front of the Sergeant of Waterloo one ovenini: in the spring of 181.'), cer'aiiilv would have attracted ^y its bulk the attention of any painter who Mii;.'lit have been pas>iiig. It was the fiircearriagc of one nf' those drays for carrying heav^ntarti- clec, used in wooded countries for transp .rting joists and trunks of trees: it ei>«si.>ted of a nias.sivc iron axle-tree witb a pivot, to which a heavy pole was attached, anhe had the appearance . of a working womaii who is seeking to reiuin to the liJc of a peasant. She was young, — and pretty ?• It was possible, but iu that garb beauty could cot be displayed. Her hair, one blonde mesh of whieh had fallen, seemed very thick, but it was severely fastened up bcnejith an ugly, close, narrow nun's head-dress, tied under the chin. lianghing show.s fine teeth when one his them, but she did*not laugh. Her eyes, seemed not to have been tearless for a long tinjc. She was pale, and looked very weary, and somewhat siik. She gazed upon her child, sleeping in her arms, with that peculiar liok which only a mother possesses who nurses her own child. Her form was clumsily masked by a large blue hand- kerchief folded across her bosom. Mcr hands were tanned and spotted with freckles, the forefinger hardened and pricked with the ucedle ; she wore a coarse brown delaine mantle, a calico dress, and large heavy shoes. It was Fantine. Yes, Fantine Hard to recognize, yet, on looking altojitively, you saw that she still retained her beauty. A sad line, such as is formed by irony, hyd marked her right cheek A» to her toilette — that airy toilette of mu.slin and ribbons whieh seemed as if made c)f gaiety, fol'y and music, fu'l of baubles and perfumed with lilacs — that had vanished like the beautiful spiukling hoar-frost, which we take for diamonds in the sud ; they melt, and leave the braueh dreary and black. Ten months had slipped aw?iy bince " the good farce." I 98 LE8 MIS^RADLES. WliiiJ had pafiscJ Juiin^ tiicse ten montliK? Wc can pliops. Aflcr reckU'.sMiu.-;*. Ir. ubie. Faiiliiu- liml loxt sijxht of Kavourito, Zo- pluuc und D.ilili-t ; the tie, bntkcn on ilic part of the uicn, \v;ifi unloosed on the part of the women ; they wnuKl liavc been astonished if any one bad said a rorinij;ht afterwards th:il they were friends; tliey had no longer cause to be so* Fanliiie was left alone The father of her child gone — iilas ! such par'ings are irrevocable — .'*hc found herself absolutely isitlati'd, with the habif of labor li>sf, und the taste for plea>urc »e(|uired. I^id by licr liaison with 'J hii|nni36.s t(» disdain the small business that sho knew how to do, she had ue;:lucled her (ipporluniiies, they were nil gone. » No resource." raniiiie could scarcely read, and did nut know how lo write. She had fiuly been taught in chiidhooii how ro .-ij:n her name. She had a letter written by a public letter-writer to Thulom^es, then a second, then a third. Thulnniyi's hud replied to none of them. One day, F.iu- tine heard ,sonie old wiyneu sayini:, a< they saw her child : " Do people ever take such chiMreu to heart';' They only sluuj: their shoulders at 8ucli children!" Then she thoiifiht of 'J'hnlnin^es, who shruggid his bh'iuldcrs at his child, and who did not take the innocent child lo heart, " and her heart became dark in the place that wan hi.s. What should she do? She had no one to ask. t^hc had committed a fault; but, in the depih.s of her nature, we know dwelt modesty and viriue. She had a vague feeling that bhe was on the eve ol' faflini; into distress, of slip- ing into tlie street. She must have courage; she had it, and bore up ravely. The idea occurred to her of returning to her native vi'Iago M Bur M .there perhaps some one woiTld know lier, and give her work. Yes, but she must hide her fault. And she had a confu.sed glimp.se of the possible uece.ssit/of a separation still more paintui tiian ^he iirst. Her heart ached, but hhe took her rcsolu'ion. It will be seen that Fautine possessed the stern courage of life. She had already valiantly renounced her finery, was draped in calico, and put all her Bilks, her gewgaws, her ribbons and lacCs on her daught.'r — the only vanity ihat remained, and that a holy one. She sold a'l she had, which gave her twir hundred francs; when her little debts were paid, she had but about eighty left. At twenty-two years of age, on a 6nc spring niorniiijf, she leli J'j^ris, carrying her child on hei- back. He who had seen the two passing, must haVe pitied ihein. The woman had nothing iq the world but this child, and this child had nothing in the world but this Woman. Fantine had nurseil her child; that liad weakemd her chest soni' wh.it, and she coughed slightly. ' We shall have no further need to speak of M. Felix Tholomyes Wo will only say here, that twen'y years later, undel" King Louis I'liilippe, he was a fat provincial attorni y, rich andinfluential, a wise elector and rigid juryman ; always, however, a man of pleasure. Toward.s noon, after having, for the sake of rest, travelled from time to time j«i aeost of three or four cents a league, in what they called then the IV'tites Voitures of the envir<)ns of Paris, Famine reached Mont- fermeil, uud stood in Houlungcr lane. As she was pa<.-ing by tl e Ther.ardier chop house, the two little chil- dren sitting in delight on their nionstr us swing, had a sort of dazzling ' cffeel upon her, and she paused before this joyous vi.-ion. There are charms. These two littlegirls were one for this tuother. FANTIXK. 99 She beheld thom with emotion. The presence of angels is a heriild of pararlise. She thought she sav^ above this inu the mysterious " HEKE" of l*rovidtnco. Thi'se children were e\'idently happy: she gazed upon them, .she admired them, so mneh affected, that at the moment when the mother wa? taking breath HlFtweeu the verses of her song, .she could uot help saying what we \^■^\•^ been reading, " You have two pretty children rfhere, madam " The most fcrocrous animals are di.sarmed by caresses to their young. TI>o mother raised her head aild" thanked her, and made the "stranger sit down on tho st:lit. This new comi-r was very sprightly : the froodncss of the mother is writirn in the gaiety of the cliiM ; .she had taken a splintcf uf wood, which she used as a spade, and was stiHtly digixinj^ a hole fit fur a fly. The gtave-digger's fork is charming whcu^one by a child. U'lu" t *() women continued lo cliat. . " Wliat do you call your brati* " " Cusetle " For"(\)io. ,But t^B nu^fher had n;«de Cosettc out of it. by that pweet and charming iDHtiifi^f mothers and of the pcple, who cliange Jtl'sefa into J'cpitu, and Kranrse «?iiliout ceaj»inp, and bccoiiiiDg Biecp''d iixirc ant, W'c fiavc- only i'> look at Homc-mcn to disirust them, tor we feel the darkness of tlu-ir souls in two ways. Thc\ arc rostle.>»s n-j to what is behind them, and threatining an to wii.it is before ihcro. They are fu!W>f mystery. We can no more :inswcr for what they have done than for what thiy will do. The (-hudow in tlu-ir locks denouoc-cs ihun. If we bear theni utter a word, or see tlicm make a gf.slure, we catch •:liinp*c8 of uuilly 8('cret.s iu their paf^t, and dal-k mysteries in their future. Tlii8 Tiienardier, if wu may believe him, had been a mildier, a Bcrj^iant he said; he prob.ibly had n)ade the campaij^n of I8I0, and hail even borne himself bravely according to all that iipponrod Wc shall sec berea-fter in what hi.s bravery ccmsisttd. The ^ijin of his inn was an allusion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it himself, for he knew liow to do a little of e-verythin;;— badly. It was the time when the antique clast-ioal romance, which, after having been Cttlie, sank to L'tdo'inki, always noble, but becoming more and tnore vulgar, fulling froui Mdlle. dc ^!cuderi to Madam*'. Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame dc Lifayettc to Madame Harih(M-. eniy-lladot, was firing the lovinji souls of the porlre^srs of Paris, and making some ravag's even in the fubutbs. Madame Theuardier was just intellig nt enough to read that sort of fcooks. She fed on them. Siie ilrowued what little braitushe had in them; and that had given her, while she was yet young, and even iu later life, a kind of ptisivo 'altitude. She was twelve or lifteen jears younger than her hu.-hand. At a later period, when the hair of the romantic weepers began to grow grey, when .^le^erc parted company with Pamela, Madame Thenardier was only a gross bad woman wlu» hud relished ^tupi(^ novels. Now, people do not. read s'upiuiiies with impunity. The result was that her eldest child was named Epouiue, ami the youngest, who hud just es- caped being called (Julnare, owed to some happy diversion made by a novel of Uucray Duminil, the mitigation i>f Az«'lma. However, let us say by the way, all things are not ridiculous and superficial in this singular epoch to which we allmle, and which might be termed the anarchy of baptismal. names. Hesidcs this romantic elo- ment which \wo have noticed, there is the social symptom. To day it i.s not unfr»(|uent to hce h' rdnboys named Arthur, Allied, and Alphonso, and viscounts— if there be any rcumining— named Thomas, Peter or James. This change, which places the "elegant" name on the plebeian and the country ap|K;llation on the aristocrat, ia only an eddy in the tide of e'juality. IIP THK I,.VUIt. To be wicked doe.s not insure prosperity — for the inn did not succeed well. Thanks to Funtine's fifty-seven franco* Tbenardicr bad been able to FANTINE. 103 avoid a protest and to honor bis sigjiature. The next month tlioy were still in need of money, and the woman carried Cosette's wardnibe to Pari.s and pawned it for sixty fiaiu'S. When this sum was spoit, the Tlionardiers began to look upon the little girl as a child which they shel- foied for charity, and treated her as puch. Ilcr clo'thes being gone," thiy dressed her in the cast off garments of the liltle Thenardicrs, that is in rags. They fod her on the odds and ends, a lutle bLtter than the dog, and a lit'le worse than the cat The dog ar.d cat were her messmates, Cosette ate with thetn under the tub]o, in a wooden dish like theirs Her moklier, as we shall see hereaficr, who h-id found a place at M sur M , wrote, or rather had some one write for her, every mnnfh, incjuiring for news of her chjld. The Thenardicrs replied invariably : " (^osette is doing wonderfully well." The six months passed awa^ : the mother sent j^cven francs for the seventh month, afld continued to send this sum regularly month after mouth. The year was not ended bcforo Tlienanliers said : "A pretty price that is. What does she expect us to do for her seven francs?" And ho wrote demanding twelve francs. The mother, whom hv por- FUadcd that her child was h;ippy and~ doing well, assented, and for- warded the twelve francs ■ There are certain natures which cannot have fove on one side wiihoat hatred on. the other. This Thenardier mother passionately loved her own little ones : this made her detest the joung stranger. It is sad to think that a another's love can have such a dark side. Little as was. the place Cosette occupied in the house, it seemed to her that this little was taken from her children, and that the little one lessened the air hers bnathcd. This woman, like many women of her lind, had a cer- tain aint)unt of caresses and blows, an! hard words to dispense ea-h (hiy. If she had not had Cosette, it is certain that her daughters, ido.izcd as tht-y were, would have received all, but the little stranger did them the servivie to attract the blows to herself^ her children had only th-- caresses. (\)S(tte could not stir that she did nnt draw down upon herself a hail- storm of undeserved and severe chastisements. ■ A weak, soft little one who knew nothing of tliis world, or of Cod, continually ill-tn ated, scolded, punished, beaten, she saw beside her two other young things liki- III iself, who lived in a hnio of glory ! f The wonian was unkind to Cosette ; Kponine and Azelma were un- kind ;dso. Children at that age are onjy copies of the mother; the .MZi- is reduced, that is all. « A year passed and then another. IVdph: used to s.iy in the village : . " U hat good people tliest- Th nardiers are! They arc not rit;h^ end yet :hey brirg up a poor chili, that has been left with them." Tli»y thought Ci>setfc was forgotten by her nmther. Meantime Thenardier, having learned in some obscure way that the child vviis |>r(ib:«bly illegilim.tic, and that its mother couM not acknow- ledge if, demanded fifteen francs a month, saying "that the 'creature' was grc.wing and eating," and thieatcning to send her aw;^. " She won't huiubUj: uie," be exclaimed j " I will confound her wiCh the brat ia 104 LES MISKRABLES. the midst of her concealiftcut. I must have more money." The mother paid the Bftccn francs. From jcar to your the child grew, and her misery also. iSo Ion" as Co.settc was very small, she was the scapegoat of the two other children ; as soon as she began to grow a little, th;i.t is to say, befcre .she was five years old, she became the servant of the house. . Five years old, ifwill be said, that is improbable. Alas I it is true, social suffering begins at all ages. Have we not seen lately the trial of Diimollard, an orphan become^a bandit, who, from the age of five, say the official documents, being alone in the world, *' worked for his living and stole ! " . • - • * Cosette was made to run of errands, sweep the rooms, the yar-d, the street, wash the dishes, and even carry burdens. The Thenaidiers felt doiAly authorized to treat her thus, as the mother, who still remained at M pur M , began to be remiss in her payments. Some months remained due. Had this mother returned to Montfermiel at the end of these three years she would not have known her child; Cosette, so fresh and pretty .when she came to that house, was now thinnorable deput}', for he also established two beds at the hospital, which made twelve. At length, in 1810, it was reported in the city one morning, thafr upon the recommen4ation of the prefect, and in consideration of the services he had rendered to the country. Father Madeleine had been appointed by the king, mayor of M sur M-^ . Those who had pronounced the new-comer " an ambitious man," eagerly seized this opportunity, which all men desire, to exclaim : ^ " There ! what did I tell you ? " ?I sur M was filled with the rumor,, and the report proved to be well-founded, for, a few days afterwards, the notnination appeared in the MunUciir. The next day Father Madeleine declined. In the same year, 1819, the results of the new process invented by Madeleine had a place in' the Industrial Exhibition, and, upon the report of the jury, the king named' the inventor a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Here jpas a new rumor for the little city. " Well ! it was the Cross of the Legion of Honor that he wanted." Father Madeleine declined the cross. Decidedly this man was an enigma, and the good people gave up the' field, saying, "After all, be is a sort of adventurer." As we have Seen, the eountrj' owed a great deal to this man, and the poor owed him everything ; he was so useful that all were compelled to honor him, and so kind .that none could help loving him; his wnrkaiea in particular adored him, and he received their adoration with a sort of melancholy gravity. After he became rich, those who constituted "society" bowed to him as they met, and, in the city, ho began to be wiled 5lr. Madeleine ; — but his w;)rkmen and the children continued ta call him Father 3fafortune of others attracted him, becau.sc of his great gentleness ; he mingled with friends who were in mourning, with families dressed in black, with the priests who were .singing around a corpse. lie seemed glad to take as a text for hi* thoughts the.se funereal psalms, full of the vision of another world. With bis eyc,5 raised to heaven, he listened with a .sort of aspiration towards all the n)ysteries of the Infinite, to these sad voices, whicb sing upon the brink of the dark abyss of death. He did a multitude of good deeds 8s secretly as bad ones are usually done. He would steal into bouses in the evening, and furtively mount the stairs. A poor devil, on returning to his garret, would find that his door had been opened, sometimes even forced, during his absence. The poor man would cry out: "Some thief ha%beon here!" When he goli in, the first thing that he would sec would be a piece of gold lying on the table. "The tbief," who had been there, was Father ^Jadcleinc. 110 LES MISERABLES. He was affable and sad. The people used <,o say : " There is a rich Djan who docs not show pride. There is a fortunate man who does not appear contented." Some pretended that he-was a mysterious |»ersonage, and declared that no one ever went into his room, which was a true anohnrite's cell, fur- nished with hour-glasses, and enlivened with death's-heads and cross- bones. So much was "said of this kind th&t pouie of the more mischievous of the elegant young ladies of M sur M called on him one day and said : " Mr Mayor, will you show us your room ? We have heard (hat it is a grotto." He smiled, and introduced them on the spot to this "grotto." They were well punished ^r their curiosity. It was a room very well fitted up with mahogany furniture, ugly as all furniture of that kind is, and the walls covered with shilling paper. They could see nothing but two candlesticks of antique form that stood on the man- tel, and appeared to be silver, "for they were marked," a remark full of the spirit of these little towns. But none the less did it continue to be said that nobody ever went into that chamber, and that it was a hermitis cave, a place of dreams, a hole, a tomb. It was also fr. Chabouillct, the Secre- tary f'f the Minister of State, Count Anir^ds, then profeut of poHco at I'aris. When Javert arrived at M sur M , the firtune of the great nianuCitclurer had been made alrcaiy, and Father Madeleine had bceome Mr. Madeleine. Ct^itaia police officers have a peculiar physiognomy in which can be travel an air of meanness mingled with an air ot aulhority. Javert had this physiognomy, without nieinness. It is our convictiui), that if sou.'s were visible to the eye, we should distinctly see this strange fact, that each individual of the human species corresponds to some one of the species of t!ie animal creation ; and wo should clearly recognize the truth, hardly perceived by tluLkcrs, that, from the oyster to Ihe eagle, from the swine to the tiger, all animals aie in man, and that each of tlicm is iu a muu ; sometimes, even, several of them at a time. Now, if we admit for a moment that there is iu every inan some one of the species of the ai)imal creation, it will be easy for us to describe the tiuardian of tlic peace, Javert The peasants of the Asturias believe that in every litter of wolves thofe is one dog, which is killed by the mother, lest on growing up it should devour the otj^er little ones. (jive a human face to this dog son of a wt.lf, nud you will have Javert. Javert was born in a prison. His mother was a fortune teller, whose husband was in the galleys. He grew up to think himstilf with.»ut the pale of s'ociety, and despaired of ever eutcring it. Ho noticed that society closed its doors, without pity, on two classes of men — those who nttack it and those who guard it; he could choose between these two classes only ; at the same time he felt that he had an indescribable basi.< of rectitude, order and honesty, it.ssocialcd with an irreprcstible hatred for that gypsy race to which htj belonged. He entered the police. Ho succeeded. At forty he was an inspector. In his youth he h.d been stationed in tho galleys at the South. IKTore going furthei*, Kt us understand whnt we mean by thi; words human face, which we have just nnw applied to Javert. The huuiiin face of Javert consisted of a snut> ne)se, with two deep nostrils, which were bordered by large bushy whiskers that covere:t for all who had once overstepped the bounds of the law. He .was ab.solutc, and admitted n# exceptions. ' On the one hand he said : "A public officer cannot be deceived ; a magistrate never docs wrong!" Aiid on the other he said: "They are irremediably lost; no good can cftmc cut of them" lie shared fully the opinion of those extremists who attribute to human laws an indescribable power of making, or, if you will, of di-termining, demons, and who place a Styx at the bottom of society. He was stoiial, serious, austere; a droaner of stern dreams; humble and haughty, like all fanatics, lli.s stare wa.s cold and a,s piercing as^ gimltt. His who'c life was contained in these two words — waking and watching. He marked out a f-traight path through the most (ortuo.us thing in the world ; his con.'^cience was bound up in his utility, his religion in his duties, and he was a spy as others are priests. Woe to hini who sho.uld fall into his hands! He jwould have alTcsted his father if escaping from the galleys, and de- nounced his mother for violating her ticket of leave. ,Aiid he would have done it with that sort of interior .satisfaction that springs from virtue. * His life was a life of privations, isolation, sclfdehial, and chastity — never any amuseqicnt. It was impla^ble duty, absojjbed in the police as the Spartans were absorbed in Sparti, a pitiless detecti.ve, a fierce. honesty, a marble hearted informer, Hrutus united with Vidocrj. The whole person of Javert expressed the spy and the informer. The mystic school of Joseph Dc Maistre, which at that time enlivened what were called the ultra journals with high sounding cosmogonies, would have said that Javcrt was a symbol. You could not see hrs forehead which disappeared under his h.if, you could not see his eyes which were lost under his brows, you could not see his chin which was buried in his cravat, you could not see his hand'* whiidi were drawn up into his sleeves, you could not see his cane which he carried under his coat, l^nt when the time came, you would sec .<-pring all at once out of this shadow, as froiH an ambush, a steep* and narrow forehead, an ominDus look, a threatening chin, enormous hands, and a monstrous club. In his leisure moments, which wore rare, although he hated bfroks, he read ^ wheretbre he was not entirely ilirternte. •This was perceived also from a certain emphasis in his spcccli. ^ He was free from vice, wc have said. When he was satisfied with himself, he allowed himself a pinch of snuff. That proved that he was human. It will be easily understood that .Tavert was the terror of all that class which the annual sfatisiics of the IVliiii.-tcr of Ju.siice include under the hcutling : l^opfr. tcithmt a Jix"/ nhoje. To speak the name of Javcrt would put all such to flight ; the face of Javcrt petrified them. Such was this formidable man Javert was like an eye always fixed on Mr. Madeleine ; an eye full of suspicion and conjecture. Mr Madeleine finally noticed it, but seemed to consider it of no con.'cquencc. He asked no questions of Jivert j ho 114 LES MIS^RABLES. neither souolit liim nor i>liuuncd Lim; he endured this unpleasant and annojing stare without appearing to pay any attention to it. He treated Javert as he did every body else, with ease and with kindness. From soir.e words that Javert had dropped, it was guessed that he had eecretly hunted up, with that curiusiry which belongs to his race, and which is more a matter of instinct than of will, all the traces of his pre- vious life which Father Madelrino had left elsewhere. He appeared to know, and he said sometimes in a covert way, that somebody had gathered certain information in a certain region about a certain missing family. -Once he happened to say, speaking to himself: "I think I have got him!" Then for three days he remained moody without speaking a word. It appeared that the clue which he thought he had was broken. But, and iliis i^i the neees.sary corrective to what the meaning of cer- tain words may have presented in too absolute a sense, there can be nothing really infallible in a human creature, a^d the very peculiarity of instinct is that it can be disturbed, followed up and routed. Were this not so, it would be superior to intelligence, and the beast would be in po.sso! Javert was evidently so'iicwh^t disconcerted by the completely natural air and the tranquility of Mr. INJadeleine. » One day, hoyever, his strange manner appeared to makean impres- Bion upon Mr. Madeleine. The occasion was this: VI. FATHER I'AUCBELEVENT. Mr. Madeleine was walking one morning along one of the unpaved alleys of M sur M ; he heard a shouting and saw a crowd at a little distance. He went to the spot. An. old man, named Father Fauchelevent, had fallen under his cart, his horse being down.. This Fauchelevent was one of the few who were still enemies of ^\r. Madeleine at this time. When Madeleii\e anived iu the place, the bu.siness of Fauchelevent, who was a notary of long standing, and very well-rt^d for a rustic, was beginning to decline Fauchelevent had seen this mere artisan grow rich, while he himself, a professional man, had been going to ruin. This had tillel him with jealousy, and he had'done what lie could on all occasions to injure Madeleine, Then came bank- rujitcy, and the old man, having nuthing but a horse and cart, as he was without family, and without children, was compelled to earn Lis ITving as a carman. The hor.se had his thighs broken, and could not stir. The old man was caught between the wheels. Unluckily he had fallen so that the who'c weight rested upon his breast. The carl was heavily loaded. Father Fauchelevent was uttering doleful groans. Tiiey had tried to pull him out, hut in vain An unlucky effort, inexpert help, a false push,nnigl)t crush him. It was impossible to extricate him otherwise than by raising the wagon from beneath. Javert, who came up at the moment of the accident, had sent for a j-ick. PANTINE. 115 Mr. Madeleine came. The crowd fell back wifh respect. " Help," cried old Faucliele\-«nt. " Who is a good fellow to save an old mail ?" Mr* Madeleine turned towards the bj-standers : " Has any body a jack ? " "Th.ey have gone for one,'" replied a peasant. "How soon v^ill it be here?" " We sent to the nearest place, to Flachot I'lace, where there is a blacksmith; but it will take a good quarter of an hour at least." "A quarter of an hour?" exchumed Madeleine. It had rained ihe night before, the road was soft, the cart wns sinking deeper every moment,- and pressing more and more on the breast of the old carman. It was evident that in less than five minutes his ribs >vould be crushecl. *' We cannot wait a quarter of an hour," said Madeleine to the peasants •who were locking on. "We must !" " But it will be too late I Don't you see that the wngon is sinking all the while?" " It can't be helped." " liistcn," resumed Madeleine, " there is room cnt;ugh still undi r the wagon for a man to crawl in and lift it with his baek. In half a minute we will have the poor man out. Is there nobody here who has strength and courage? Five louisd'or for him !" Nobody stirred in the crowd. "Ten louis," said Madeleine. The bystanders dropped their eyes. One of them muttered : "He'd liave to be devilish stout And then he would risk getting crushed." "Come," said Madeleine, "twenty louis." The same silence. "It. is njt willingness which they lack,'' said a voice. Mr. Madeleine turned and saw Javert. Ho had not noticed him when he came. Javert continued : "It is strength. He must be a terrible man who can raise a wagon like that on his back." Then, looking fixedly at Mr. Madeleine, he wont on emphasising every word that he uttered : "Mr. Madeleine, I have known but one man capable of doing what you call for." Madeleine shuddered. Javert added, with an air of indifference, but without taking Lis eyes from Madeleine : " He was a convict." " Ah ! " said Madeleine. " In the galleys at Toulon." • Madeh ine became pale. ' Meanwhile the cart was slowlj settling duwn. Father Faucheleveat roared and screamed : " i am dying ! my ribs are breaking ! a jack ! anything ! oh I"" Madeleine looked around hiui : 116 LE3 MIsfiRABLES. " Is there n<>boJy, then, who wants to earn twenty louis and save this poor bid man's life," None of the bystanders moved. Javcrt resumed : ' . " I liarc known but one man who could take the place of a jack; that was that convict." " Oh ! how it crushes me ! " cried the old man. Madeleine raised his head, nut the falcon eye of Javcrt still fixed upon hitii, looked at the immovable peasant's, and smiled sadly. Then, without saying* word, he fell on his knees, and even beforo iho crowd bad time to utter a cry, he was under the cart. There was an awful moment of suspense and of silence. jMa»leleine, lying almost flat under the fearful weight, was twice seen to try in vain to bring his elbows and knees nearer togethtr They cried out to iiim : "Father Madeleine! come out from there!" Old Fauchelevent hi'mself said : "Mr. Madeleine !, go away! I must die, you see that ; leave me ! you will be crushed too." ^radelfine made no answer. The bystanders held their breath. The wheels were still sinking, and it had now become ahnost impossible for Madeleine to extricate himself. All at once the enormous mass starteJ, the cart rose slowly, the wheels ca,me half out of the rut.-r. .A smothered voice was heard, eying: " Quick ! help ! " It was Madeleine^ who had just made a final effort. They all rushed tp the work. The devotion of one man luid given strength and courage to all. The cart was lifted by twenty arras. Old' Fauchelevent was safe. Madeleine arose. He was very pale, though dripping with sweat. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. All wept. The old man kissed his knees and called him the good God. He himself wore on his face an indescribable expression of joyous and celestial suffering, and he looked with tranquil eye upon'Javert^who was still watching him. VII. FAUCHELEVENT BECOMES A GARDENER l.N PARIS. Fauchelevent had broken his knee-pan in his fall. Father Madeleine had him carried to an infirmary that he had established for his workmen in the same building with his factory, which was attended by two sisten^i of charity. The next morning, the old miu found a thousand franc bill upon the stand by the side of the bed, with this note in the handwriting of Father Madeleine: I hnve purchased i/nur horxe and carf. The cart was broken and the horse was dead. Fauchelevent got well, but lie had a stiff knee. Mr. Madeleine, through the recomnicndatioiis of tho sisters and the curate, got the old man a place as gardener at a convent, in the Quartier Saint Antoine lU Paris. , • Some time afterwards Mr. Madeleine was appointed mayor. The first time that Javert saw Mr. Madeleine clothed with the scarf which gave him full authority over the city, he felt the same sort of shudder which a bull dog would, feel who should scent a wolf in his master's clothes. FANTINE. 117 From that time he avoided him as much as he could. When (he neces- sities of the service imperiously demanded it, and he couKl not do other- wise than come in contact with Ihe mayor, he spoke to him with pro- found respect The prosperity which Father Madeleine had created at M sur M , in addition to the visible siirns that we h;i.ve pointed out, had another symptom which, aHiough not visible, was not the less signifi- cant. This never fails. When the population is suffering, when there is hick of work, when trade falls off, the tax-payer, constrained by pov- erty, resists taxation, exhausts and overruns the delays allowed by law, and the government is forced to incur large expend tures in the costs of* levy and collection.- When work is abundant, when the country is rich and happy, the tax is easily paid and costs the State but little to collect. It may be said that poverty and public wealth have an infallible thoi'- niomctor in the cost of the collection of the taxes. In seven years, the cost of the collection of the taxes had been reduced three-quarters in the district of M sur M , so that that district was frequently re-. ferred to specially by Mr. de Villele, tlieu Minister of Finance. kSueh was the situation of the country when Fantine returned. No one remembered her. Luckily the door of Mr. .3Iadeleine's factory tS'as. like the face of a friend. She presented herself there, and was adiiHtted into the workshop for women. The business was entirely new to Fan- tine, she could not be very expert in it, and consequently did not receive much for her day's work; but that little wa,s enough, the problem was solved ; she was earning her living. • » VIII. MRS. VICTUllNIEN SPENDS TIIIRTV FHANCS ON MORALITY. When Fantinc realized how she was living, sh(^ had a moment of "joy. To live honestly by her own labor; what a heavenly boon! The taste for labor returned to her, in truth. She bought a mirror, delighted her- self with the sight of her youth, her fine hair and her tine teeth, forgot many things, thought of nothing save Cosctta and the possibilities of the future, and was almost happy. She hired a sn)all room and fiirni:?hed it on the credit of her future labor — a remnant of her habits of disorder. Not being able to say that she was married, she took gocd care, as we have already intimated, not to speak of her little girl. At first, as we have seen, she paid the Thenardiers punctually. As she only knew how to sign her name, she was obliged to write through a public letter-writer. She wrote often; that was noticed. They began to whisper in the women's workshop that Fanfinc ." wrote letters," and that "she had airs." For prying into any human affairs, none are equal to those whom it docs not concern. " Why does this gentleman never come till dusk ?" •" Why does Mr. So-and so never hang his key on the nail oa Thursday?" "Why does he always takq the bystreets*" "Why does madam always leave her carriage before getting to the house?" 118 LEs mis£rablef. '' Whj does she send to buy a quire of writing paper when she has bor portfolio full of it?" etc etc. There are persons wlio, to folvc tbenu enigmas, which arc moreover perfic.tl^ imrfiiiterial to them, ^pend more niotiej, waste more time, and give tViiisolvcs more trouble than would •uffice for ten ^'ood deeds; and that gntuitously, and for the pleasure of it, without b'inir paid for the curiosity in any "ther way than by eurinhily. They will follow this man or that woman whole day?, ^land guard for hours at tho corners of the strccf, under th'^ entrance of a passafje way, at n'ghf, in the cold and in the rain, bribe messengers, get hack drivers ntid lackeys drunk, fee a chambermai I, or buy a porter. For what f fur nothing. Pure craving to Fee, to know, and !■> find out Pure itch- ing for scandal. And often these secrets made known, these mysteries published, these rniguias brought into the light of day, lead to catas- trophos, (0 du( I.«, to failures, to the ruin of familiei?, and make lives wn-tche<], tt) the great joy of those who have "discovered all" without any interest, and from pure instinct. A sad thing. Some proj^Ie arc malicious from tho mere necessity of talking. Tiicir conversation, tattling in the drawing room, gossip in the antechamber, is like those fireplaics tliat use up wood rapiily; they need a great deal of fuel ; tho fuel is their neighbor. 8q Famine was watched. lieyond thin, more than one wa.s jealous of her fair hair and of her . white teeth. It was reported that in tho shop, with all the rest about her, she often turned aside her head to wipe away a tear. Those were moments when she thought of her chilk of old age over her mask of ugliness. Her voice trembled, aud fhe was capricious. It seemed strange, but* this woman had been y mng. In her youth, in '93, fehe married a monk who had escaped from the cloister in a red cap, and passed from the I^crnardines to the Jacobins. She was dry, rough, sour, sharp, crab- bed, almost venomous ; never forgetting her monk, whose widow she Was, and who had ruled and curbed her harshly. She was a nettlg bruised by a frock. At the restoration, she became a bigot, and so en- ♦ trgetically, that the priests had pardoned her monk episode. She had little property, which she had bequeathed to a religious cemmunity with great flourish. She was in very good standing at the bishop's FANTINB. . 119 palace in Arras. This Mrs. Victumien then went to Montfcnncil, and returned, saying: "I have seen the child" All this look time; Fautine had been niore than a year at the factory, when one morning the overseer of the workshop handed her, on behalf of the mayor, fifty francs, paying that she was no loncjer wantid in the shop, and enjoining her, on behali' of tlio mayor, to leave the city- This was the very 8ame month in which the Thcnardierp, after iiaving asked twelve francs instead of six, had demanlol fifteen francs instead of twelve. Fantine was thunderstruck. She could not leave the city; she was in debtf)r her lodging and'her furniture. Fifty francs were not tnough fco clear off that debt. She faltered out some suppliant words. The overseer gave her to understand that she must leave the shop instantly. Fantine was, morcorcr, only a moderate worker. Ovcrwheluicd with fihamo even more than with despair, she kft the shop, and returned to her room. Ilcr fault then was now known to all ! She felt no streng'h to say a word. Sh<> w:is advised to see the mayor; she dared not. The mayor gave her fifty francs because he was kind, and sent her away because he was jmt. Slie biiwed to the decree. IX. SUCCESS OF .MRS. VICTURNIEX. The monk's willow was then good for something. Mr. Madeleine hafi known nothing of all this. These are combina- tions of events of which life is full. It was Mr. Madeleine's habit scarcely ever to enter the women's workshop. He had placed at the head of this shop an old spinster whom the curate had recommended to him, and he; had entire confidence in this overseer, a very respectable person, firm, just, upright, full of that char- ity which consists in giving, but not having to the .same extent th«t charity which consists in understanding and pardoning. Mr Made- leine Kft everything to her. The best men are often compelled to dele- gate their authority. Tt was in the cxerci^o of this full power, and with the conviction that she was doing right, (hat the overseer had frtimed the indictment, tried, convicted and executed Fantine. As to the fifty francs, she had given them from a fund that' Mr. Ma- deleine had entrusted her with for alms-^ivintj and aid to the work- IP women, and cff which she rendered no account. Fantine offered herself as .strvant in the neighborhood ; she went from one house to another. Nobody wanted her. She could not leave the city. The second-hand dealer to whom she was in debt fur her fur- niture, and such furniture I had .said to her : " If you go away I will have you arrested as a thief" The landlord, whom she owed for rent, paid to her: " You are young and pretty, you can pay '' She divided the fifty francs between the landlord and the dealer, nturned to the lat- ter three-quarters of his goods, k( pt only what was ncccBsary, and found herself without work, without position, having pothing but her bed, and owing «;till about a hundred francs. 120 LES HIS^RABLBS. She bogan to inako coarse shirts for the soldiers of the gnrrison, and oarDi"! twflvc scuis a day. Hot dau<;hter c^st her ten. It was at this tiinn that phc bepnu to ^et behindhand with the Thennrdiers. However, an old wnniao, who lit her candle for her when n]\o came home at iji;:ht, taught h^-r the art of livinj; in misery. Hidiind living on a Hit!<' lies (Fie nit of living nn nnihitig. They are two rooms; the Iir< history of Faiitiue ? Itjs society buying a slave. From whom ? From misery. From hungir, from cold, from loneliness, from abandonment, from privation. Melancholy barter. A soul for a bit of bread. Misery makes the offer, society accepts. The holy law of Jesus Christ gorerns our civilization, but it does not yet pernicate it ; it is said that slavery has disappeared from Euro- pean civilization. That is a mi.stake. It still exists; but it weighs now only upon woman, and it is called prostitution. It Weighs upon woman, that is to say, upon grace, upon feebleness, upon beauty, upon maternity. This is not one of the least of man's shamcB. • At the stage of this mourn fuFdrama at which we have now arrived, FANTINE. 125 Fantine lias nothing left of what she had formerly been. She has be- come marble in becoming corrupted. Whoever touches her feels a chill' She goes her ways; she wears a dishonored and severe face.^ Life and social order- have spoken their last word to her. All that can happen to her has happened. She has endured all, borne all, experienced all, suffered all, lost all, wept for all. She is resigned, with that resigna- tion that resembles indifference as death resembles sleep. She shuns nothing now. She fears nothing now. Every cloud falls upon her, and all the ocean sleeps over her ! What matters it to her ! the sponge is already drenched. She believed so at least, but it is a mistake to imagine that man can exhaust his destiny, or can roach the bottom of anything whatever. Alas ! what are all these destinies tfius driven pell-mell ? whither go they ? why are they so ? lie who knows that, sees all the shadow. He is alone. His name is God. xir. THE IDLENESS OF MONSIEUR BAMATABOIS. There is in all small cities, and there was at M sur M- particuiar, a set of young men who nibble their fifteen hundred livres of income in the country with the same air with which their fellows d^'our two hundred thousand francs a year at Paris. They are beings of the great neuter species ; geldings, parasites, nobodies, who have a little land, a little folly, and a little wit, who would be clowns in a drawing room, and think themselves gentlemen in a bar-room, who talk about " my fields, my woods, my peasants," hiss the actresses at the theatre to prove that they are persons of taste, quarrel with the officers of the garrison to show that they arc gallant, hunt, smoke, gape, drink, take ^nuff, play billiards, stare at passengers getting out of the coach, live at the cafe, hold fast to a sou, overdo the fashions, despise women, wear out their old boots, copy London as reflected from Paris, and Paris as reflected from Pont-a-Mousson, grow stupid as they grow old, do no work, do no good, and not much harm. If they were richer^ we should say : they are dandies; if they were poorer, we should say : they are vagabonds. They are simply idlers. Among these idlers there are some that are bores, some that are bored, some dreamers, and some jokers. Eight or ten months after what has been roIat<:d in the preceding pages, in the esMy part of Janu.iry, \^'l'.i, one evening when it had been snowing, one of these dandies, one of these idlers, very warmly wrapped in one of those large cloaks which completed the fashionable costume in cold weather, was amusing himself with tormenting a crcatAire who was walking back and forth before the window of the officers! cafi^, in a ball dress, with her neck and t.houldcr8 bare, and flowers upon fcer head. The dandy was smoking, for that was decidedly the fashion. Earcry time that the woman passed before hrm, he threw ou£ at her, 126 LES MIS^RABLES. » with a puff of smoke from bis cigar, some remark which he thought was witty and plcaFant, as: "How ugly you are I" Arc you tryiug • to hide?" Yuu have lost your teeth !" etc , etc. This gentleman's name was Mr. Bamatabois. The woman, a rueful, bedizened spectre, who was walking backwards and forwards upon the snow, did not answer him, did not even look at him, but continued her walk in pilcncc and with a dismal regularity that brought her under his sarcasm every five minutes, like the condemned soldier, who, at stated perioJs, returns under the rods. This failure to seture attention doubt- ^ less 'piqued the loafor, who, taking advantage of the moment whoa she ' turned, came up behind hor with a stealthy step, and stifling his laugh- ter, stooped down, .seized a handful of snow from the sidewalk, and threw it hastily into her back, between her naked shoulder.^. The girl roared with rage, turned, bounded like a panther, and rushed upon the man, burying her nails in his face, and using the most frightful words that ever fell from the off-scouring of a guard-house. These insults were thrown out in a voice roughened by brandy, from a htdeous mouth which lacked the two front teeth. It was Fantine. At the noi.se which this made, the officers came out of the caf6, Ik crowd gathered, and a large circle was formed, laughing, jeering and applauding, around this centre of attraction, composed of two beings who could hardly be recognized as a man and a woman, the man defend- ing "himself, his hat knocked oif, the wuman kicking and striking, her bead bare, shrieking, toothles.s, and without hair, livid with wrath, and horrible. Suddenly a tall mau advanced quickly from the crowd, seized -appointment of the curious crowd, who stood upon tiptoe aad stretched their necks before the dirty window of the guard-hou.se, in their cndcavora to see. Curiosity is a kind of glut- ton. To tee is to devours ♦ FANTINE. 127 On eulering, Fantine crouched down in a corner motionless and silent, like a frightened dog. The sergeant of the guard placed a lighted candle on the table. Ja- vert gat dovrn, drew from his pocket a sheet of stamped paper, and began to write. When he had finished, he signed his name, folded the paper, and handed it to the sergeant of the guard, 8a3ing: '•Take three men and carry this girl to jail." Then turning to l^intihe : " You are in for six months." • The hapless woman shuddered. "Six months! six months in prison !'' cried she. "Six months to earn seven sous a day ! but what will become of Cosette ? my daughter I my daughter ! Why, I still owe more than a hundred francs to the Thenardicrs, Mr. Inspector, do you know that?" ' She dragged herself along on the floor, dirtied by the muddy boots of all these men, without rising, clasping her hands, and moving rapidly on her knees. " Mr. Javert," said she, "I beg your pity. I assure you that I was not in the wrong. If you had seen the beginning, you would have seen. I swear to you by the good God that I was not in the wrong. That gentleman, whom I do not know, fhrcw snow in my back. Have they the right to throw snow into our backs when we -are going along quietly without doing any harm to anybody ? That made me wild. I am not very well, you see ! and then he had already been saying things to me for some time. ' You are homely !' ' You have no teeth !' I know too well that I have lost my teeth. I did not do anything; I thought : ' He is a gentlQman who is amusing himself.' I was not immodest witb- him ; I did not speak to. him. It was then that he threw the snow at me. Mr. Javert, my good Mr. Inspector! was there no one there who saw it and can tell you that this is true ? I perhaps did wrong to get angry. You know, at the first moment, we cannot master ourselves. We are excitable. And then, to have something so cold thrown into your back when you are not expecting it. I did wrong to spoil the gen- tleman's hat. Why has he gone away ? 1 would ask his pardon. Oh, I would beg his pardon ! Have pity on me now this once, Mr. Javert. Stop, you don't know how it is, in the prisons they only earn seven sous; that is not the fault of the government, but they earn seven sous, and just think that | have a hundred francs to pay, or else they will turn away my little one. O my God ! I cannot have her with nie. What I do is so vile I O my Cosette ! O my little angel of the good, blessed Virgin, what will she become, poor fami.shed child I I tell you the Thenardiers are innkeepers, boors; they have no consideration. They must have' money. Do not put me in prison ! Do you see, she is a little one that they will put out on the highway, to do what she can in the very heart of winter ; you must feel pity fur such a thing, good Mr. Javert. If she were older, she could earn her living, but she cannot at such an anc. I am not a bad woman at heart. It is not laziness and appetite that brought me to this. I have drunk brandy, but it was from mi-sery. I do not like it, but it stupefies. Have pity on me, Mr. Javert. 128 LES MIS^RABLfeS. She talked thus, bent double, shaken with sobs, blinded by t^^ars, her neck' bare, clcDcliin;; her hands, conghin-; with a dry and short cough, 8t«nimcring very feebly with an a<;oni2t'd voice. Great grief is a divine and terrible radiance which transfigures the wretched. At that moment Fantine had npain become beautiful. At certain moments she stopped and tenderl}' kissed tiie poiiceman's coat. She would have softened a heart of granite ; but you cannot soften a heart of wood. " Come," said Javcrt, " I have heard you. Haven't you got through ? March off at once I You have your six months ! The Eternal Father in person could do nothing for jjiu." At those solemn words, The Eternal Father in person could do no- thttuj /or i/oH, tihc undcri>tood that her sentence was fixed. She sank down, murmuring : " Mercy !" The soldiers seized her by the arms. A few minutes before a man had entered without being noticed. He had closed the door and stood with his back against it, and beard the despairing supplication of Fantine. When the soldiers put their hands upon the wretched being, who • would not rise, he stepped forward out of the shadow and said : " One mdmcut, if you please !'' Javcrt raised his eyes, and recognized Mr. Madeleine. He look off bis hat, and bowing with a sort of angry awkwardness : "Pardon, Mr. Mayor " This word, Mr. iMayor, had a strange effect upon Fantine. She sprang to her feet at once, like a spectre rising from the gniund, pushed back the soldiers with her arms, walked straight to Mr. Madeleine be- fore they could stop her, and gazing at him fixedly, with a wild look, she exclaimed : " Ah ! it is you then who arn what this woman was and what this mayor might be, and then lie perceived with horror .'iumetliing in- describably simple in this prodigious assault. But when he saw this mayor, this magistrate, wipe his face tiuiefl}' and say : get this iroman at I iberf//, he was stupefied with amazement; thought and speech alike failed him; the sum of possible astonishment bad been overpassed. He remained speechless. The mayor's words were not less strange a blow to Fantine. Site raised her bare arm and clung to the damper of the slove as if she were staggered. Meanwhile she looked all around, and began to talk in a low voice, as if speaking to herself: " At liberty I they let me go ! I am not to go to prison for six FANTINE. * 129 monlLs! Who was it said that? It is not possible that anybody said that. I misunderstood. That cannot be this monster of a mayor ! Was it you, my good Mr. Javert, who toh^ thcra to set mo at lib- erty? Oh! look now! I will tell you and you will let me go. This monster of a mnyor, this old whelp of a mayor, he is the cau.se of all this. Think of it, Mr. Javert, he turned mc away ! on account of a parcel of bejrgars who told stories in the workshop. Was not that horrible ! To turn away a poor girl who does her work hon- estly ! Since that I could not cam enough, and all the wretchedness has come. Mr. Javert, it is you who said that they must let mc go, is it not? Go and inquire: speak to my landlord; I pay my TCti^ and he will surely tell you that I am honest. Oh, dear, I beg your pardon, I have touched — I did not know it— the damper of the stove, and it smokes." Mr. Madeleine listened with profound attention. While she was talking, he had fumbled in his waistcoat, had taken out his purse and opened it. It was empty, lie had put it back into his pocket. lie said to Fantine : " How much did you say that you owed ?" Fantine, who had only looked at Javert, turned towards him : m " Who said anything to you ?" Then addressing herself to the soldiers : " Say now, did you see how I spit in his face ? Oh ! you old scoun- drel of a mayor, xyou come here to frighten me, but I am not afraid of you. I am afraid of Mr. Javert. I am afraid of my good Mr. Javert !" As she said thfs she turned again towards the inspector : " Now, you see, Mr. Inspector, you must be just. I know that you are just, IMr. Inspector; in fact, it is very simple, d man who jocosely throws a little snow into a woman's back, that ma'kes them laugh, the officers, they must divert themselves with something, and we poor things are only for their amusement. And then, you, you come, you are obliged to keep order, you arrest the woman who has done wrong, but on reflection, as you are good, you tell them to set me at liberty, that is for my little one, because six months in prison, that would prevent my supporting my child. Only never come back again, wretch ! Oh ! I will never come back again Mr. Javert! They may do any thing they like with me now, I will imt stir. Only, to day, you see, I cried out because that hurt me. I did not in the least expect that snow from that gentleman, and then, I have told you, I am not very well, I cough, I have something in my chest like a-balF which burns me, and the doctor tells me :*** be careful." Stop, feel, give mo your hand, don't be afraid, here it is." She wept no more ; her voice was caressing; she placed Ja vert's great coarse hand upon her white and delicate chest, and looked at him smil- ing. Suddenly she hastily adjusted the disorder of her garmeDt,<«, smon always the 'more frightful in proportion as power is vested in being.s of lower grade; ferocious io the wild beast, atrocious in the undeveloped man. "Sergeant," exclaimed he, "don't you see that this vagabond 18 going off? Who told jou to lot her goi'" " I," .'^aid iMadelciDC. • At the words of Javert, Fantine had trembled and dropped the latch, as a thiof who i.s cau;^'lit, (Lrops what he has stolen. When Madeleine spoke, she turned, and from that moment, without saying a word, with- out even daring to breathe freely, she looked by turns from Madeleine to Javert and from Javert to Madeleine, as the one or the other was speaking. It was dear that Javcrt must have been, as they say, " thrown off ^is balance," or he would not have allowed him.^elf to address the ser- geant as he did, after the direction of the mayor to set Fantine at li- berty. Had he forgotten the presence of the mayor? Had he finally decided wiihin himself that it was impossible for "an authority" to give such an ordorj and that very certainly the mayor must have said one thing when he meant another? Or, in view of the enormities which he had witnessed for the last two hours, did he say to himself that it was necessary to revert to extreme measures, that it was neces- sary for the little to make it.self groat, for the detedivc to transform himself into a magistrate, for tho polieeman to become a judge, and that in this fearful extremity, order, law, morality, govurnmeut, society as a ^hole, were personified in him, Javert? However this might be, when Mr. Madeleine pronounced that / which wo have just .heard, the Inspector of Police, Javert, turned to- wards the Mayor, pale, cold, with blue lips; a desperate look, his wholo body agitated with an iinperceptible tiemor, and, an unheard-of thing, said to him, wiili a downea.'^t look, but a firm voice : " Mr. Mayor, that cannot be done." '• "Why?" said Mr. iMadeleino. "This wret'.-hed woman has insulted a citizen." "Inspector Javert," replied Mr. Madeleine, in a conciliating and calm tone, 'listen. You are an honest man, and I have no objection to explain myself to you. The truth is this. I was passing through tho Square when you arrested this woman; tlu-re was a crowd still there; I learned the circumstances; I know all about it; it is the citi- zen who was in the wrong, aud who, by a faithful police, would have boon arrested." , Javert went on : * " Tliis wretch has just insulted tho Mayor." "That concern.^ me," said Mr. Madeleine. "The insult to me rests with my.self, perhaps. 1 can do what 1 please about it." PANTINB. 131 " I beg the Major's pardon. The insult rests not with him, it rests with justice." "Inspector Javert,' replied Mr. Madeleine, the highest justice is con- science. I have heard this woman. I know what I am doing." " And for my part, Mr. Mayor, I do not know what I am seeing." " Then content yourself with obeying." " I obey my duty. My duty requires that this woman spend six months in prison." • Mr. Madeleine answered mildly : " Listen to this. She shall not a day." • At these decisive words, Javert had the boldness to look the Mayor in the eye, and said, but still in a tone of profound respect : "I am very sorry to resist the Mayor; it is the first time in my life, but he will deign to permit me to observe that I am within the limits of my own authority. I will speak, since the Mayor desires it, on the matter of the citizen. I was there. This girl fell upon Mr. IJamata- bois, who is an elector and the owner of that fine house with a balcony, that stands at the corner of the esplanade, three stories high, and all of hewn stone. Indeed, there are some things in this world, which must be consi'ored. However that may be, Mr. Mayor, this matter belongs to the police*of the street; that concerns me, and I detain the woman Fantine." , At this Mr. Madeleine folded hia arms and said in a severe tone which nobody in the city had ever yet heard : " The matter of which you speak belongs to the municipal police. By the terms of articles nine, elevon, fifteen, and sixty-six of the code of criminal law, I am the judge of it. I order that tliis woman be set at liberty." Javert en leavored to make a last attempt. " But Mr. Ma^or " , " I refer you to the article eighty-one of the, law of December 1.3th, I799, upon illegal imprisonment." " Mr. Mayor, permit " " Not another word." " However " " Retire," said Nr. Madeleine. Javert received the blow, standing, in front, and with open breast like a Russian soldier, lie bowed to the ground before the Mayor, and went out. Fantine stood by the door and looked at him with stupor as he passed before her. Meanwhile she also was the subject of a strange revolution. She had seen herself somehow disputed about by two opposing powers. She had seou struggling before her very eyes two men who held in their hands hct^liberty, her life, her soul, her child; one of these men was drawing her to the side of darkness, the other was leading her towards the light. In this contest, seen with distortion through the magnifying power of fr%ht, these two men had appeared to her like two giants; one spoke as her demon, the other as hor good angel. The angel had vanquished the demon, and the thought of it made her shud- 182 LES UIsfiRABLES. der from head to foot ; this angel, this deliverer, was preciselj the man whom phe abhorred, this Ma^or whom ^ho had so long considered as the author of all her woes, this Madeleine ! and at the very moment when hhc had insulted him in a hideous fashion, he had 8aved her! Had she then been deceived 'i Ought she then to chanpo her whole heart? Fhc did not know, she trembled. She listened with dismay, she looked around with alarm, and at each word that Mr. Madeleine ut- tered, !^he felt the fearful darkness of her hatred molt within and flow away, while there was born in her heart an indescribable and unspeaka- ble warmth of joy, of confidence, and of love. WhoQ Javert was gone, Mr. Madeleine turned towards her, and saiJ* to her, speaking slowly and with difficulty, like a man who is struggling that he may not weep : ** I have hoard you. I knew nothing of what you have said. I be- lieve that it is true. I did not even know that you had left my work- Bhop. Why did you not apply to me? But now: I will pay your debts, I will have your child come to you, or you shall go to her. You shall live here, at Paris, or where you will. I take charge of your child and you. You shall do no more work, if you do not wish to. I will give you all the money that you need. You shall again become honest in again becoming happy. More than fhat, listen. I declare to you from this moment, if all is as you say, and I do not doubt it, that you have never ceased to find favor in the eyes of God. Oh, poor woman !" This was more than poor Fantine could bear. To hnve Cosette ! to leave this infamous life! to live free, rich, happy, houe.>—. It was di- rected to Paris and bore this address: "To Monsieur Chabouillet, Sec- retary of Monsieur the Prefect of Police." As the aflFair of the Bureau of Police had been noised about, the Postmistress and some others who saw the If'tter before it was sent, and who recognized Javert's handwriting in the address, thought he was sending in his resignation. Mr. Madeleine wrote immediately to the Thenardiers. Fantine owed them a hundred and twenty francs. He sent them three hundred francs, telling them to pay themselves out of it, and bring the child at once to M sur M , where her mother, who was sick, wanted her. This astonished Thenardier. "The Devil!" he said to his wife, "we won't let goof the child. It may be that this lark will become a milch-cow. I guess some silly fellow has been Binittcn by the mother." He replied by a bill of five hundred and some odd francs carefully drawn up. In this bill figured two indisputable items for upwards of three hundred funncs, one of a physician and thco'hcrof an apothcf^afy who had attended and supplied Kponino and Azcluia during two long illnesses. Cosette, as we have said, had not been ill. This was only 134 LES MIS^RABLBS. a plight substitution oT names. Thenardior wrote at the bottom of tbe bill: " Recriv^d on arcount three hundred francs." Mr. Madeleine immodiately sent three hundred francs more, aad wrote : "Make haste to bring Cosette." " The Devil !" said Thenardier, " we won't let go of the girl." Meanwhile Fantine had not recovered. She still remained in the in- firmary. It was not without some repugnance, at first, that the sisters received and cared for "this girK" But in a frw days Fantine had disarmed tliem. The motherly tenderness within her, with her soft and tnuohing words, moved them. One day the sisters heard her .«ay in her delirium : ** I have been a sinner, but when I shall have niy child with me, that will mean that God has pardoned me. While I was bad I would not have had my Cosette with me; I could not have borne her sad and sur- prised looks. It was for her I sinned, and that is why God forgives me. I shall feel this benediction when* Cosette comes. I shall gaze upon her ; the sight of her innocence will do me good. She knows no- thing of it all. She is an angel, you see, my Sisters. At her age the wings have not yet fallen." ■ Mr. Madeleine came to see her twi'-c a day, and at each visit phe asked bim : • "Shall J sec my Cosette soon ?" He answered : " IV-rliups to-morrow. I expecl her every moment." And t\^e mother's pale face would brighten. "Ah!" she would say, "how happy 1 shall be!" We have just said she did not recover: on the contrary, her condition seemed to become worse from week to week. That handful of snow applied to the naked !>kin between her shoulder-b]ades, had caused a sudden check of perspiration, in consequence of which the disease, which had been forming for some years, at l;»st attacked her violently. They were just at that time beginning in the diagnosis and treatment of luug diseases, to follow the fine theory of Laennec. The doctor Bounde'l her lungs and shook his head. Mr. Madeleine said to him : " Well ?" " Has she not a child she is anxious to see?" said the doctor. " Yes." " Well, then, make haste to bring her." Mr. Madeleine shuddered. Fantine asked him : " What did the doctor say?" • 1^1 r. .Madeleine tried to smile. " He told us to bring your child at on:e. That will restore your health." "Oh!" she cried, "he is right. But what is the matter with th(s^ Thenardiers tliat th^y keep my Cosette from me? Oh! she is (Toming! Here at last I see happiness near me." The Thenardiers, however, di- late tone, which gave an indescribably whimsical grandeur to this oddlj konest man. FANTINE. 141 " We will see," said Mr. Madoleiac. And he held out is hand to him. . Javert started back, and said fiercely : "Pardon, Mr. Mayor, that should not be. A mayor does not giv« his hand to a spy." He added between his teeth : " Spy, yes; from the moment I abused the power of my position, I have been nothing better than a spy ! " Then he bowed profoundly and went towards the door. There he turned arouni : his eyes yet d( wncast : ♦* Mr. Mayor, I will continue in the service until I am relieved." He went out. Mr, Madeleine sat musing, listening to his firm and resolute step as it died away along the corridor. I THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR. I. SISTER SIMPLIGE. The events which follow were never all known at M sur M— — . But the few which did leak outlhavo left such memories in that city, that U, would be a serious omission in this book if we did not relat« them in their minutest details. Among these details, th(? reader will meet with two or three improba- ble circumstances, which we preserve from respect for the truth. In the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to see Fantine as usual. Before going to Fantrne's room, he sent for Sister Simplice." Thc! two nuns who attended the infirmary, Lazarist.s, as all these sis- ters of charity are, were called Sister PerpC'tue and Sister Simplice. Sister Perp<5tue was an ordinary village girl, sunmiarily become a Sister of Charity, who entered the service of God as she would have entered service anywhere. She was a nun as olhers are cooks. Sister Simplice was white with a waxen clearness. In comparison -with Sister Perpetue, she was a sacramental taper by the side of a tallow candle. St. Vincent dp Paul has divinely drawn the figure of a Sister of Charity in these admirable words, ift which he unites «o much liberty with so much servitude : " Her only convent shall be the house of sick- ness ; her only cell a hired lodging ; her chapel the parish church ; her cloister the streets of the city, or the wards of the hospital ; her only wall obedience ; her grate the fear of God; her veil modesty." This ideal was made alive in Sister Simplice. No one could have told Sister 142 LES MIS^RABLBS. Sitnplice's age ; she had never been young, an4 Rccmed if she never should be old. She was a person — we dare not say a woman — gentlA, austore, companionable, cold, and who had never told a lie. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile; but, on the contrary, she was more endurio'^ than granite. She touched the unfortunate with charming fingers, delicate aud pure. There wa.", ?o to say, silence in her speech ; the said just what was necessary, and she had a tone of voice which would at the same time have cJified a confessional, and enchanted a drawinp-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge dress, findiriir in its harsh touch a continual reminder of Heaven and of God. Let us dwell upon one circumstance. Never to have lied, never to have spoken, for any purpose whatever, even careles-sly, a single word which was not the trush, tbe sauced truth, was the distinctive trait of Sister Simplice ; it was the marK of her virtue. She was almost cplebrated in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. There was not a spider's web, not a speck of dust upon the plass of that conscience. "NVhcn she took the vows of St. Vincent de Paul, she bad taken the name of Simplice by especial choice. Simplico of Sicily, it is well known, is that saint who preferred to have both her breasts torn out rather than answer, having been bot-n at Syracuse, that she was born at Segesta, a lie which would have saved her. This patron saint was fitting for this soul. . Sister Simplice, on entering the order, had two faults of which she corrected herself gradually: she had had a taste fuf delicacies, and loved to receive lett<,'rs. Now she read nothing but a prayer-book in large type and in Latin. She did not understand Latin, but she understood the book. This pious woman had conceived an affc^ction fof Fantine, perceiving in her probably some latent virtue, und had devoted herself almost ex- clusively to her care. * Mr. Madeleine took Sister Simplice aside and recommended Fantine to her with a singular emphasis, which the Sister remembered at a later day. On leaving the Sister, he approached Fantine. Fantine awaited each day the appearance of Mr. Madeleine as one awaits a ray of warmth and of joy She would say to the sisters: "1 live only when the Mayor is here." That day slu; had more fever. As soon as abo saw Mr. Madeleine, she asked him : • " Cosettc ?" lie answered, with a smile : " Very soon." Mr. Madeleine, while with Fantinr, seemoil as usual. Only he stayed an hour instead of half an hour, to tiie great satisfaq^tion of Fantine. lie made a thousand charges to eve.ybody that the sick woman might wi^nt for nothing. It was notice*! that at one moment his countenance became very sombre. But this was explained whon it was known that the doctor had, bending close to his ear, said to him : " She is sinking fast." Then ho returned to the Mayor's Oflice, and the office boy saw him examine attentively a road-map of France which hung in his room, lie made if few figures in pencil upon a piece of paper. FANTINB. 143 II. SHREWDNESS OP MASTER SCAUFFLAIRE. From the Mayor's Offite, be went to the outskirts of the city, to a Fleming's, -Master Scaufflaer, Frenchified into Scaufflaire, •who kept horses to let and " chaises if desired." IncCrder to go to Scaufilaire's, the nearest way was by a rarely fre- quented streot, on which was the parsonage of the parish, in which Mr. Madeleint^Jivcd. The curate was, it was said, a worthy and respectable man, and a good adviser. At the moment when Mr. Madeleine ar- rived in front of the parsonage, there was but one person passing in tho street, and he remarked this : the Mayor, after passing by the curate house, stopped, stood still a moment, then turned back and retraced his steps as far as the door of the parsonage, which was a large door, with an iron knocker. He seized the knocker quickly and raised it ; then he stopped anew, stood a short time as if in thought, and after a few seconds, instead of letting the knocker full smartly, he replaced it gently and resumed his walk with a sort of ' haste that he had not showa before. ]Mr. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home busy repairing a harness. ** Master Scaufflaire," he asked, " have you a good horse ?" "Mr. Mayor," said the Fleming, "all my horses are good. What do you understand by a good horse ?" " I understand a horse that can go twenty leagues in a day." "The devil !" said the Fleming, " twenty lea<:ues ! " " Yes." " Before a chaise ?" " Yes." _ . . . • " And how long will he rest after the journey ? " " He must be able to start again the next day in case of need." " To do the same thing again ? " "Yes," . ■ . . "The devil I and it is twenty leagues?" Mr. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pen- cilled the figures. lie showed them to the Fleming. They were the figures, 5, 6, 8 J. > , "You see," said he. "Total, nineteen and a half, that is to cay, twenty leagues." "Mr. Mayor," resumed the Fleming, "I have just what you want. My little white horse, you must have seen him sometimes passing; he is a little beast from Bas-Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They tried at first to make a saddle horse of him. Bah I he kicked, he threw every- body off. *Thoy thought he was vicious, they didb't know what to do. I bought hirh. I put him before a chaise; Sir, that is what he wanted ; he j^ as gentle as a girl, he goes like the wind. But, how- ever, it won't do to get on his back. It's not his idea to be a saddle horse. Everybody has his peculiar ambition. To draw, but not to carry : he must have said that to himself." " And he will make the trip ? " 144 LES MIS^RABLES. " Your twenty leagues, all the way at a full trot, and in less than eight bourn. I'lit there arc some conditions." « " Name them." •' Firhl, }uu uiust let him brcnhte nn hour when you are half way ; ho will eat, and somebody must be by while he eats to prevent the favera boy from .'^toaliug his oats; for I have noticed that at taverns, oats are oftencr drunk by the stable boys than eaten by the horses." % "Somebody shall be there." " Srcoudly— is the chaise for the Mayor ? " " Yes." " Tlie Mayor knows bow to drive?" '^ Yes," '< Well, the Mayor will travel alone and without baggage, so as not to oveiload the horse." " Agreed." " Hut the IMayor, having no one with him, will be obliged to take the trouble of seeing to the oats himself" "So said." " I must have thirty francs a day, the days he rests included. Not a penny less, and the fodder of the beast at the expense of the Mayor." Mr Madeleine took threo Napoleons f^om his purse and laid them on (he table. " Tliere is two days in advance." " Fourthly, for such a trip, a chai.se would be too heavy ; that would tire the horse. The ^layor must consent to travel in a little tilbury that I have." " I consent to that." " It is light, but it i^ open." "It is all the same to me." " Has the Mayor reflected that it is winter?" Mr. Madeleine did not answer; the Fleming went on : "Tlrat it is very cold?" Mr. Madeleine kept sifence. Master Seaufflaire continued: "That it may rain?"' ^Ir. .^ladeleinc raised his head and said: "The hijrso and the tilbury will be before my door to-morrow at half- past fnur in the murning." " That is understood, .Mr. Mayor," answered SenuHlaire, then scratch- ing a stain on the top of the table with his thumb nail, he resumed with that careless air that Flemings so well know how to associate with their shrewdness : " Why, I have jifst thought of it ! The mayor has not told me where he is going. ^^ here is the Mayor going ?" lie had thought of nothing else since the beginning of the con- versation, but without knowing why, he had not dared to ask the question. " Has your horse good fore legs?" said Mr. Madeleine. "Yes, Mr. Mayor. You will hold him up a little going down hill. Ib there much downhill between here and whero you are going ? " FANTINB. 145 " Don't forget to be at my door precisely at half-past four in the morning," answered Mr. Madeleine, and he went out. The P^leming was left "dumb-founded," aa he said himself soime time afterwards. ' The Mayor had been gone two or three minutes, when the door again opened; it was the Mayor. He had the same impassive and absent-minded air as ever. "Mr. ScaufHaire," said he, " at what sura do you vMue the horse and the tilbury that you furnish nie?" " Does the Mayor wish to buy them ?" " No, but at all events I wish to guarantee them to you. On my re- turn you can give me back the amount. At how much do you value horse and chaise ?" "Five hundred francs, Mr. Mayor !" v " Here it is " Mr. Madeleine placed a bank note on the table, then went out, and this time did not return. Master Scaufflaire regretted terribly that he had not said a thousand* francs. In fact, the horse and tilbury, in the lump, were worth a hun- dred crowns. The Fleming called his wife, ayd related the affair to her. Where the douce could the Mayor be going ? They talked it over. " He ia going to Paris," said the wife. "I don't believe it," said the husband. Mr. Madeleine had forgot the paper on which he had marked the figures, and left it on the mantel. The Fleming seized it and studied it. Five, six, eight and a half? this must mean the relays of the post. He turned to his wife : " I have found it out." "How?" "It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Ilesdin to Saint Pol, eight and a half from Saint Pol to Arras. He is g'^iug to Arras." Meanwhile Mr. Madeleine had reached home. To return from Mas- ter Scaufilaire's he had taken a longer road, as if the door of the par- sonage were a temptation to him, and he wished to avoid it. He went up to his room, and shut himself in, which was nothing remarkable, for he usually went to bed early. However, the janitress of the factory, who was at the same time Mr. Madeleine's only servant, observed that his light was out at half past eight,- and she mentioned it to the cashier who came in, adding: " Is the Mayor sick ? I thought that his manner was a little singular." The cashier occupied a room situated exactly beneath Mr. Madeleine's. He paid no attention to the portress's words, went to bed, and went to sleep. Towards midnight he suddenly awoke ; he had heard, in his sleep, a noise overhead. He listened. It was a step that went and came, as if some one were walking in the room above. He listened more attentively! and recognised Mr. Madeleine's step. That appeared strange to hira^ ordinarily no noise was made in Mr. J^Iadclcine's roou . before his hour of rising. A moment afterwards, the cashier beard something tbat sounded like the opening and the shutting of a ward- robe, thin a piece of furniture was moved, there was another silence, and the step began again. The cashier rose up in bed, threw off his drowsiness, looked out, and through his window-panes, saw upon an 146 LBS IflS^RABLES. opposite wall the niddy reflection of « lighted window. From the di- rection of the rays, it could onlj be the window of Mr. Madeleine's chatnlwr. The reflection trembled as it it came rather from a bri^zht Ore iban from a lifibt. The shadow of the 8ash could not be seen, which indicated that the window was wide open. Cold as it was, this open window was surprising. The casliier foil asleep again. An hour or two afterwards he awoke again. The same step, slow, and regular, was coming and going constantly oTcr his head. The reflection continued vinible upon the wall, but it was now pale and steady like the light from a lamp or a candle. The window was Btill open. Let us sec what was passing in Mr. Madeleine's room. III. > A TEMPEST IN A URAIN. The reader has doubtUss dirined that Mr. Madeleine is none other than Jean Valjean. We have a]rca the midst of a penitence admirably commenced, even in the presence of so terri- ble a dilemma, he had not faltered an instant, and had continued to march on with even pace towards that yawning pit at the bottom of which was heaven ; this would hate been fine, but this was not the case. Wo- must render an account of what took place in that soul, and we can relate only what was there. What first gained control was the instinct of self-preservation ; he collected his ideas hastily, stifled his emotioQ& 148 LES MISfiRABLES. ^ took into consideration the presence of Javert, the great danger, post- poned nny decision with the ftrmnesa of terror, banished from his mind all con.'idrraJion of the course he should pursue, and rcaumed his calm- ness as a gladiator retakes his buckler. For the rest of the day he was in this state, a tempest vrithin, a per- fect calm without; h« took only what mi have told nothing of himself, unless it were that ho had jnst received a terrible blow. He went according to his habit to the sick bed of Fantine, anti prolonged his visit, by an instinct of kindness, pay- ing to himself that he ought to do so, and recommend hcrearuestly to the sisters, in case it should happen that he would have to be absent. He felt vaguely that it would perhaps be necessary for him to go to Ar- ras ; and without having in the least decided upon this journey, he said to himself that, cntiruly free from suspicion as he was, there would be no difficulty in being a witness of what might pass, and ho engaged ScaufS;iire'8 tilbury, in order to be prepared for any emergency. Ho dined with a good appetite. Keturning to hi,s room he collected his thoughts. He examined the situation and found it an tiheard-of one; so un- heard-of that in the midst of his reverie, by some strange impulse of almost inexplicable anxiety, he rose from his chair, and bolt«d his door. He feared lest something might yet enter. He barricaded himself against all po.ssibilities. A moment afterwards ha blew out his light. It annoyed him. • It seemed to him that somebody could see him. Who ? Somebody T Alas! what he wanted to keep out of doors had entered; what he wanted to render blind was looking upon him. His conscience. His conscience, that is to say", God. At the first moment, however, he deluded himself; he had a feeling of safety and solitude; the bolt drawn, he believed himself impregna- ble; the candle put out, he felt himself invisible. Then he toik pos- session of himself; he placed his elbows on the table, rested his head on his hand, and set himself to meditating in the darkness. "Where am I? Am I not in a dream? What have I heard? Is it really true that I saw this Javert, and that he talked to me so? Who can this Champmathieu be? He resembles me then?. Is it possible 7 When I thirik that yesterday I was so calm, and lo far from suspecting anythini:! What was I doing yesterd ly at this time? What is there in this matter? How will it turn out? What is to be done?" Such was the torment he was in. His brain had losftlie power of retaining its ideas; they passed away like wares, and ho grasped his forehead with both hands to stay them. Out of this tumult, which overwhelmed his will and bis reason, and from which he sought to draw a certainty and a resolution, nothing came clearly forth but anguish. His brain was burning. He went to the window and threw it wido open. Not a star was in the sky. He returned and sat down by the table. FANTINE. 149 The first hour thus rolled away. Little' by little, however, vague outlines began to taVe form and to fix themselves in his meditation ; ho could perceive, with the precision of reality, not the whole of the situation, but a few details. He began by recognizing that, however extraordinary and critical the situation was, he w:is completely master of it. His stupor only became the deeper. Independently of the severe and religious aim that his actions had in •view, all that he had done up to this day was only a hole that he wa.e matter would have rested there, and it is probable that we should not have had to relate any of the events which follow, but that cnnver- eation occurred in the street. Every colloquy in the street inevitably gathers a circle. There are always people who ask nothing better than to be spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright, some of the passers by had stopped around them. After listening for a few luiiiutes, a young boy wiiom no one had notiqpd, had separated from the group and ran away. At the instant the traveller, after the internal deliberation which we have just indicated, was making up his mind to go back, this boy re- turned, lie was accompanied by an old woman. " Sir," said the wouian, " my boy tells me that you are anxious to hire a cabriolet." This simple speech, uttered by an old woman who was brought there by a boy, made the sweat pour down his back. He thought he saw the hand he was but now freed from, re-appear in the shadow behind him, all ready to seize him again. He answered : 'Yes, good woman, I am looking for a cabriolet to hire." And he hastened to add : •' But there is none in the place." " Yes, there is," said the dame. "Where is it then ?" broke in the wheelwright. " At my house," replied the dame. He shuddered. The fatal hand had closed upon him again. The old woman had, in fnct, under a shed,' a sort of willow carriole. The blacksmith and the boy at the inn,wered, in- variably : 12 170 LES MISBRADLES. "Well. I would like to sec Mr. Madeleine." A few months earlier, when Faniine had lost the last of her modesty, her Ust tiliaiue, and her la.st lrappiDe.s8, she was the shiidow of herself; now she WIS the spectre of herself. Physical sufrerinjj had coiupleted tho work of moral suffering. This creature of twenty-five years had a wrinkled forehoail, flabby checks, pinched nostrils, shrivelled gums, a Iwulcn complexion, a bony neck, protruding ftollar-boucs, skinny limbs, an earthy skin, and her f.iir hair was mixed with grey. Alas ! how sickness extemporises old age. At noon tho doctor came again, left a few prescriptions, inquirea if tho Mayor had been at the infirmary, and shook his head. Mr. Madeleine usually came at three o'clock to see the sick woman. As exactitude was kindness, he was exact. About half-past two, Famine began to be agitated. In the space of twenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times: " My sister, what time is it?" The clock struck three. " At the third stroke, Fantinc rose np in bed, (ordinarily she could hardly turn herself,) she joined her two shrnnken and yellow hands in a sort of convul-?ive clasp, and the nun heard from her one of those deep sighs which seem to uplift a great weiijht. Then Famine tarned and looked towards the door. Nobody came in ; the door did not open She sat so for a quarter of an hour, her eyes fixed upon tho door, mo- tionless, and as if bidding her breath. The Sister dared not speak. Tho church clock struck the (juartcr. Fantiac fell back upon her pillow. She said nothing, and again began to make folds in the sheet. A half-hour pissed, then an hour, but uo one came; every time the clock struck, Fautine rose and looked towards the door, then she fell back. Her thought could be clearly spcn, but she pronounced no name, she did not complain, she found no fault. She only coughed mournfully. One would have said that something ^ark was settling down upon her. Sha W'<8 livid, and her lips were blue. She smiled at times. The clock struck five. Then the sister hoard her speak very low and gently : <* IJjt since I am going away to-morrow, ho does wrong not to •come today I'' Sister Simplice herself was surprised at Mr. Madeleine's de^ay. Meanwhile, Fantine was looking at tho canopy of her bed. She Bccmed to bo seeking to recall something to her mind. All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeblo as a whimper. It was an old nursery song with which she once used to sing her little Cosette to sleep, and which had not occurred to her mind f -r the five years siuce she had had her chi'd with her. She sang it in a voice so Bsui, and to an air so sweet, that it could not but draw tears even from a nun. Tho Sister, accustomed to austerity as she was, felt a drop upon her «lieck. The clock struck six. Fantine did not appear to hear. She seemed no longer to pay attention to anything around her. Sidtor Simplice sent a girl to inquire of the portress of the factory if FANTINE. 171 the Mayor had come in, and if he would not very soon come to the in- firmary. The girl returned in a few minutes. . Fantine was still motionless, and appeared to bo absorbed ia her own thoughts. The servant related in a whisper to Sister SinrpHce that the Mayor had gone away that morning before six o'clock in a little tilbury drawn by a white horse, cold as the weather was; that he went alone, withqut even a driver, that no one knew the road he had taken, that some said he had been seen to turn off by the road to Arras, that others were sure they had met him on the road to Paris. That wiien he went away he Bcemed, as usual, very kind, and that he simply said to the portress that he need not bo expected that night. While the two women were whispering, with their backs turned to- ward? Fantine's bed, the Sister, questioning, the servant conjecturing, Fantine, with that feverish vivacity of certain organic diseases, which unites the free movement of health with the frightful exhaustion of death, had risen to her knees on the bed, her slirivelled hands resting on the bolster, and with her head passing through the opening of the curtains, she listened. All at once she exclaimed : "You are talking there of Mr. Madeleine! why do you talk so low? what has he done? why does he not come?" Her voice was so harsh and rough that the two women thought thej heard the voice of a man ; they turned towards her affrighted. " )y^hy don't you answer?" cried Fantine. The servant stamn)ered out: " The portress told me that he could not come to-day." " My child," said the Sister, "be calm, lie down again." Fantine, without changing her attitude, resumed with a loud voice, and in a tone at once piercing and imperious : " He cannot come. Why not ? You know the reason. You were whispering it there between you. I want to know." The servant whispered (juickly in the nun's ear: "Answer that he is busy with the City Council." Sister Simplice reddened slightly ; it was a lie that the servant had proposed to her. On the other hand, it did seem to her that to tell the truth to the sick woman would doubtless be a terrible blow, and that it was dangerous in the state in which Fantine was. This blush did not last long. The Sister turned her calm, sad eye upon Fantine, and said : «' The Mayor has gone away." Fantine sprang up and sat upon her feet. Her eyes sparkled. A marj^ellous joy spread over that mournful face. " Gone away !" she exclaimed. " He^has gone for Cosette !" Tben she stretched her hands towards ht-aven, and her whole counte- nance became ineffable. Her lips moved ; she was praying in a whisper. When her 'prayer was ended: "My sister," said she, "I am quite willing to lie down again, 1 will do whatever you wish j I was naughty just now, pardon me for having talked so loud ; it is very bad to talk loud ; 1 know it, my good sister, but see how happy I am. God is kind, Mr. Madeleine i<< good ; just think of it, that be bat gone to Montfer- meii for my little Cosette." ITS LES MIS^RABLES. 8be laj down again, helped the nun to arrange the pillow, and kissed ft little pilviT cross which she wore at her Deck, and which L^ibte^ Sim- plice had ^riTcn her. " My chilJ," said the Sister, " try to rest now, and do not talk any more" Fantino took the Sister's hand between hers; they were moist; the 8i»ter was pained to feel it. *• He 8t{irtod this inurniug for Paris. Indeed he need not even go through Paris. Montferiueil i« a little to the Kfi in coaiiug. You reiuem- ber what he said yestetday, whm I spoke to him uhout Cosette : Vtrysoon, VQ-j/ soon ! This is a .surprise he has for me. Ynu know he hud nie to ■ign a letter to take her away froui the Thenardicrs. They will have nothing to say, will they? They will give up Cusctte. liecauso thcj have their pny. The authorities would not let them keep a child whea tbey are paid. My t^i.stor, do not make siu'ns to me tliu; I must not talk. I am very hilppy, I am doing very well. I havo no paiu ut all, I am going to hee Cosette again, 1 otn hungry even. For almost five years I have not seen her. You do not, you cannot imagine what a hold children have upon you I And then the will be so haiid.suine, you will •eel If you knew, she has such pretty littio rosy fingers I Finst, she will have very beautiful hands. She must be large now. She is seven lears old. She is a little lady. I call her Colette, but her name is Euphrasic. Now, this morning I was looking ut the dust on the man- tel, and I had an idea that 1 should see (\)Sclto again very soon !^ Oh, dear! how wrong it is to be years without .seeing one's children ! We ought to remember that life is not eternal ! Oh ! how good it i-ier <»f God, I am well now. I am wildj I would dance, if anybody wanted me to." One who had seen her a (juartor of an hour before could not have un- derstood this. Now she was all rosy; she talked in a lively, natural tone ; her whole face was only a smile. At times she laughed f bile whispering to herself. A mother's joy is aluiosl like a child's. " Well," resumed tho nun," " now you aro happy, obey me — do not talk any more." Famine laid her head upon the pillow, and said in a low voice : " Ye8, lie down again; be prudent now that you aro going to have your child. Bieter Simplice is right. All here are right." And then, without moving, or turning her head, she began to look all about with her eyes wide open and a joyous air, and she said nothing more. The Sister closed the cartains, hoping that she would sleep. FANTKNE. 17t Between seven ami eight o'clock the doctor came. Hearing no sound, he supposed that Funtine was asleep, went in sofrly, and approached the bed on tiptoe. He drew the curtains aside, and by ibc gliiiiuicr of the twilight he saw Funtiuc's large calm eyes looking at hira. She said to him : •* Sir, you will let hef lie by my side in a little bed, won't you?" The doctor thought she was delirious. Sha added : . "Look, there is just vuoni." ^ The doctor took Sister Simplice aside, who explained the matter to him, that Mr. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that, not be- ing certain, they had not thought it best to undeceive the sick woman, who b lieved the Ma^'or had gone to Montfcrnieil; that it was possible, after all, that she guessed aright. The doctor approved of this. He returned to Fantine'H bed again, "and she continued : "Then you see, in the moruiug, when she wak( s, I can say gftoi morning to the poor kitten ; and at night, when I am awake, I can hear her sK'.op. Her little breathing is fo sweet it will do me good." "Give me your hani," said the doctor. She reached out her hand, and exclaimed with a laugh : "Oh, stop! Indeed, it is true you dou't know! but I am cured. Cosette is coming tomorrow." The doctor was surprised. She was better. Her languor was leag. Her pulse was stronger. A sort of new life was all at once re-animat- in^this poor exhausted being. " Doctor," she continued, " has the Sister told you that the Mayor has gone for the little thing?" The doctor recommended silence, and that she should avoid all pain- ful emotion. He prescribed an iufu.siou of pure quinine, and, in cast the fever should return in the night, a soothing potion. As he was go- ing away he said to the Sister: "She is better. If by good fortune tlie Mriyor should really come back to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are such astoni^^hing crises ; we have seen great jry in- stantly cure diseases; I am well aware that this is an organic disease, and fur advanced, l^ut this is all such a mystery ! We shall save her perhaps!" VII. * TQE TRAVELLER ARHIVES AND PBpVIDKS FOB DIS RETCRBT. It was nenrly eight o'clock in the evening when the carriole whicfc we left on the road drove into the yard of the Hotel de la Poste at Ar- ras. TItc man whom we have followed thus far, got out, answcnd the hospitalities of the inn's people v.ith an ab.sent-niindcd air, pent bsck the extra hor.>iifation, he determined to speak to this man, but not until ho bad looked bciore and behind, as if he were afraid that somebody might overhi.-ar tbe (juestion ho was about to Uiik. '•Sir," paid he, " the Court-IIouse, if you please?" " You are not a resident of tbe city, Sir," answered the citizen, who was an old man, " well, follow nic, I am going right by tbe Coyrt- House, that is tossy the City Hull. For they are repairing the Court House jiist now, and the Courts arc holding their sessions at the Citji Hull| temporarily." " Is it there," asked he, " that tke Assizes are held ?" "Certainly, Sir; you s^e, what is tbe City Hall to-day was the Bisb^ op's palace bufore the Revolution. Monsieur de Conzie, who was bish- op iu 'eighty-two, had a large hall built. The Court is held in that Cli." As they walked along, the citizen said to him : " If you wihb to sec a trial, you are rather late. Ordinarily the sea- iions close at six o'clock." However, when tiiey reached the great square, the citizen showed him four h)ng lighted windows on the front of a vast dark building. " Faith, Sir, you are in time, you arc fortunate. l)o you see those four windows? that is the Cpurt of Assizes. There is a light there. Then they have not finished. The case must have becu prolonged and they arc having an evening sos.siou. Arc you interested la this case? Is it a criminal trial? Are you u witnetiji?" . • He answered : " I have no btsiicss; I only wisk to. speak to a lawyer." "That's another thing," said the citizen. " Stop, Sir, here is ibo door. The doorkeeper is up there. Y^ou have only to go up the grand •tairway." He followed the citizen's instructions, and in a few minutes found FANTINB. 175 himself in a hall where there were manj people, and scattered groups of lawyers in their robes whispering here and there. It is always a chilling sight to see lliese gatherings of men clothed in black, talkinnj among themselves in a low voice on the threshold of the chamber of justice. It is rare that charily and pity can be found in their words. What are oftencst heard are sentences pronounced in ad- vance. All these groups seem to the observer, who passes musingly by, like so many gloomy hives where buzzing spirits are building iu com- mon all sorts of dark structures. This hall, which, (hough spacious, was lighted by single lamp, was an ancient hall of the Episcopal palace, and served as a waiting-room. A double folding door, which was now closed, separated it from the large room in which the Court of Assizes was in session. The obscurity was such that he felt no fear in addressing the first lawyer whom he met. *' Sir," said he, " how are they getting along?" '.'It is finished,'' said the lawyer. " Finished !' Thfi word was repeated in such a tone that the lawyer turned around. " Pardon me, Sir, you are a relative, perhaps?" "No. I know no one here And was there a sentence?" "Of course. It was hardly possible for it to be otherwise." " To hard labor '(" "For life." He continued in a voice so weak that it could hardly be heard : "The identity was established, then?" "What identity?" responded the lawyer. "There was no identity' to be established. It was a simple affair. This woman had killed her child, the infanticide was proven, the jury were not satisfied that ihero was any premeditation ; she was sentenced for life." " It is a woman, then ?" said he. "Certainly. The Linmsin girl. What else are you speaking of if' "Nothing, but if it is finished, why is the hall still lighted up?" " That is for the other case, which commenced nearly two hours ago." " What other ca.se?" "Oh! that is a clear one also. It is a sort of a thief, a second of- fender, a g-alley slave, a ca.so of robbery. I forget his name. lie looks like a bandit Were it for nothing but having such a face, I would send him to the galleys.". "Sir," asked he, "is there any mean.s of getting into the hall?" " I think not, really. There is a great cruwd. However, they are taking a recess. Some people have come out, and when the session is resumed, you can try." • " llo.w do you get in ?" "Through that large door." The lawyer left him.. In a few moments, he had undergone, almost at flie same^time, almost together, all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent man had aUcrnately pi« reed his heart like icicles and like flanjcs of fire. When he learned that it was not concluded, he drew breath ; but he could not have told whether what he felt was satisfac- tion or pain. 176 LES MIS^RABLES. lie krproacbcJ several groups and ii:itcucd to their talk. The onlen- dar of tho terra bcinj; very heavy, the judge had 8i't down two shurl, iiraplc casts fur that day. They iuid ltcj:uu with the infatitii-idc, and now were on the convict, the second ufftinlcr, tho "old stager." This man had stolen some apples, but that did not appear to be very well f)rovcn ; what was proven, was that he liad bct-n in the pallejs at Tou- on. Tlii.s wa.<< what, ruined his case. The examiuution of tjic man had been (Ini.shed, and the testimony of tlm witnesses had been taken; but there yet remained the arfiuuieiit of ilie counsel, and the summing up of his prosecuting attorney ; it' would hardly be fini-hod before midnight. The man woul}i probably bo condemned; the prosecuting attorney waa •?ery good, and never /ailed with his piiaouera; Le was a fellow of tal- ent, who wrote poetry. An ofTieer ^tood near the door whiob opened into the court-room. lie asked this officer: "Sir, will the door bo opened soon?" " It will not be opened," said the officer. " How ! it will not be opened when the session ia resumed? is there not a rc'cess?" "The session has just been resumed," answered the officer, "but the door will not be opened again." " Why uol?" "Kecause the hall is full." "What ! there are no more scats?" "Not a bingic one. The door is closed. No one can enter." The officer added, after a sileuoe : *= There aro indeed two or throe places still behind his Honor the Judge, but he admitd none but public functionaries to them." So sayitig, the officer turned his back. He retired with his head bowed down, crossed tho antechamber, and walkeJ slowly down the staircase, seeming 'to hesitate at every step. It i§ probable tliat he wa.s holding couns(?l with himself. The violent com- bat that had bcca going on within him since tho previous evouins: was not litii.shcil ; and, every moment, he loll upon some new turn. When he reached ;lio turn of the stairwy, he leaned against tho railing and folded his arms. Suddenly ho opc^ned his coat, drew out his pocket- book, took out a pencil, tore out a sheet, and wrote rapidly upon that sheet, by the glimmering light, this line: Mr. Madt/einr., Moi/nr of M .s//r M ; then he went up the htairs agiun rapidly, passed through the crowd, walked straigh'. to the officer, handi'd hiiu the paper, and said to him with authority : " (^arry that to his Honor the Judge." The officer took the paper, cast his eyes upon it, and obeyed. VIII. ADMISSION BY FAVOTl. Without himself suspecting it, the Mayor of M sur had a certain celebrity. For ecvcd years the reputation of his virtue had been extending throughout Bas-Boulonnais ; it had finally crossed tho PANTINE. 177 bounclarie9 of the little counfy, and had spread into the two or three nci^^hboring departments. Besides the considerable service that he had rendered to the chief town bv reviving the manufacture of jet-work, there was not one of the hundred and forly-one communes of the dis- trict of 1\I sur M which was not indebted to liini for some benefit. He had even in case of need ailed and quickened the business of the other districts. Thus he had, in time of need, sustained with his credit and with his own I'unds the fnlle factory at BoulDgne, the flux- spinning factory at Fi event, and the linen factory at lioubers-sur-Can- che, Everywhere the name of Mr. Madeleine was spoken with vnera- tion. Arras and Douai envied the lucky little city of M sur ]\I its mayor. • The Ju'ige of the Roynl Court of Douai, who was holding this term of the Assizfs at Arras, was familiar, as well as everybody else, with this name so profountlly and so universally honored. When the ofl!icer, quietly openina: the door which led from the counsel cimmber to the courtroom, bent behind the judge's chair and handed him the p^per, on which was written the line we have just read, adding: " Thi'x t/en- tlevian. desires to wi'Uiess (he trial;" the judge made a hagty movement of deference, seized a pen, wrote a few words at the bottom of the pa- per and handed it back to the officer, saying to him : " Let him enter." The unhappy man, whose history we are relating, had remained near the door nf the hall, in the same place and the same attitude ss when the f'fficer left him. He heard, through his thoughts, some one saying to him : " Will you do me the honor to ful'ow me?" ,.Tt was the same officer who had turned his back upon him the minute before, and who now bowed fjpwn to the earth befnrc him. The officer at the same timo handed him the piper. He unfolded it, and, as he happened to be near the lamp, he could read : •'The Judge of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to Mr. Madeleine." He crushed the paper in his hands, as if those few words had left some stran'je and bit'er taste behind. He fiiUowcd the officer. In a few minutes he. found himself alone in a kind of panelled cabi- net, of a severe appearance, lighted by two wax candles placed upon a table covered with green cloth, The last words of the officer wiio had left hiiu still rang in his ear: "Sir, you are now in the counsel cham- ber; you have but to turn the brass knob of that door and y(»u will find yourself in the court-room, behind the Judge's chair." These worJs wero associated in his thoughts with a vague remembrance of the narrow corridors and dark stairways through whieh he hud just pa.ssed. The officer had left him alone. The deci.-ive moment had arrived. He endeavored to collect his thoughts, but did not succeed. At thogo hours especially when we have Hore.'rupsof sweat started out from his head, and roIUd down over his temples. At one moment, he made, with a kind of authority united to rebel- lion, that inisiant judges, soldiers and ppeetators. Hut above the head of the judge was a crueilix, a thing whieh did not appear in courtrooms at the time of his sentence. When ho was tried, God was not there. A chair was behind him; he sank into it, terrified at the idea that ho might be observed. When seated, be took advantage of a pile of pa- pers on the judgts' desk to bide bis face from the whole room Ho could now see without being seen. Ho entered fully into the .«pirit of the reality ; by degrees he recovored his composure, and arrived at that degree of calmness at whieh it is possible to listen. Mr. IJamat.ibois was one of the jurors. He looked fir Javtrt, but did not see him. The witnefses' seat was bidden from him by the clerk's table. And then, as we have just eaid, the hall was very dimly lighted. At the moment of his entrance, the counsel for the prisoner was fin- ishing bis plea. The attention of all was excited to the highest degree; the tiial bad been in progress for throe hours. During thfso threo hours, the spectators bad teen a man, an unknown, wretched being, thorough'y stupid or thoroughly artful, gradually bending beneath the weight of a terrible probability. This man, as is already known, was. a vagrant who had been fouud in a field, carrying off a braueh, laden with ripe apple.*, which had been' broken from u tree in a nefghboring close, called the I*ierron inclo.sure. Who was this man ^ An examination had been held, witnesses had been heard, they had been uiwinimou.s, light hud been elicited from every portion of the tiial. The prosecu- tion said: "We hare here not merely a fruit thief, a niaraurler; wo liave here, in our hands, a bandit, an outlaw who has broken his ban, an old convict, u most dangerous wretch, u malefactor, called Jean Val- jeun, of whom justice has been long in pursuit, and who, e'ght years ago, on leaving the galleys at Toulon, committed u highway robbery, with force ami arms, upon the person of a youth of Savoy. Petit Gor- ▼ais by name, a cri(uo which is specific^ in Artiulo 383 of the Penal PANTINK. 181 Code, and for which we reserve the right of further prosecution when his identity shall be judicially established. He has now committed a new theft. If. is a case of second offence. Convict hina for the new crime; he will be tried hereafter for the previous one." Btfore this accusation, before the unanimity of the witnesses, the principal emotion evinced by the accu.sed was astonishment. He made cesfurcs and sisna which signified denial, or he gazed at the ceiling. lie spoke with difS- culfy, and answered with embjf'rrassmeut, but from head to foot, his whole person denied the charge. He seemed like an idiut in tiie pre- sence of all these intellects ranged in battle around him, and like a stranger in the midst of this society by whom he had been seizfd. Nevertheless, a most thre.itcning future await^-d him ;' probabi ities increa.sed every tnoniont; and every spectator was looking with more anxiety than himself for the calamitous sentence which seemed to bo hanging over his head with ever increasing surety. One contingency even gave a glimpse of the possibility, beyond the galleys, of a capital penalty .".houhJ his identity be established, and the Petit (lervais affair result iu his conviction. Who was this man '{ What wa.s the nature of his apathy? Was it imbecility or artifice? Did he know too much or# nothing at all ? These were questions upon which the spectators took sides, and which seemed to affict the jury. There was Something fear- ful and !«ometliing mysterious in tho trial; the drama was not merely gloomy, but it was obscure. The cimnsel for the defence had mad^ a very good plea in that pro- vincial language which long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was forn)crly employed by all lawyers, at i'aris as well as at llo- morantin or Montbrison, but which, having now become classic, is u.scd by few except the offi^'ial orators of the bar, to whom it is suited by its solemn rotundity and majestic periods; a language in wliich husband and wife are called sponsfx, Paris, the centre of arts and civiizntion, the king, the monnixh, a bishop, a h"Ji/ pontiff, the prosecuting attor- ney, the el- q lien t inft-rprrter "f th" vfnij< unce of the lair, arguments, fhr^ accenln tchirh we have just hrard, the time of Louis XIV., tlie il/ustn'- ous uf/c, a theatre, the tmij^le of ^Idpomfne, the reigning family, the aiKju t bldoil of our /cinj/s, a concert, n musical solemnity, the general in command, the illustrious warrior who, etc., studeut.s of theology, those t.e, but the defendant had obstinately refused, expecting probably to escape punishment entirely,, by admitting nothing, it was a mistake, but must not the poverty of his intellect be «taken into consideration ? The man was evidently imbecile. Long suf- fering in the galleys, long suffering out of the galleys, had brutalized him, etc , etc.; if he made a bad defence, was this a reason for convict- ing him ? As to the Petit Gervais affair, the counsel had nothing to say, it was not in the case. He concluded by entreating the jury ancl court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared evident to them, to ap- ply to him the police penalties prescribed for the breaking of ban, and not the fearful punishment decreed to the convict found guilty of a sec- ond offence. The prosecuting attorney replied to the counsel for the defence. Ho was violent and flowery, like most prosecuting attorneys. ■ He complimented the counsel for his "frankness," of which he jjhrewdly took advantage. He attacked the accu.sed through all the concessions which his counsol had made. The coun.scl seemed to admit that the accused was Jean Valjean. He accepted the admission. This man then was Jean Valjean. This fact was conceded to the prosecution, • and could be no longer contested. Who was Jean Vuljt?anll* Descrip- tion of Jean Valjean : a monster vomited, etc. The model of all sucb descriptions may be found in the story of Tlierameno, which as tragedy is useless, but which does gn»it service in judicial 'eloquence every day. The auditory aning to say. He opened ilia mouth, turned towards tho presiding judge, and said : FANTINB. . 186 " In tlie first place Tiien he looked at his cap, looked up at the ceiling, and was silenk. "Prisoner," resumed the prosecuting attorney, in an austere tone, "give attention. You have replied to nothing that has been asked you. Your agitation condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Champmathieu, but that you are the convict, Jean Valjean, disguised under the naue at first, of Jean Mathieu, which was that of his mother; that you have lived in Auvcrgne ; that you were born at FaveroUes, where you were a pruner. It is evident that you have stolen' ripe ap- ples from the I'ierron close, with the addition of breaking into the iu- closure. The gentlemen of the jury will consider this." The accused had at last resumed his seat; he rose abruptly when the prosecuting attorney had ended, and exclaimed : "You are a very bad man, you, I mean. This is what I wanted to say. I couldn't think of it at first. I never stole anything. I am » niiin who don't get something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly, walking alone lifter a shower, which had made the ground all yellow with mud, so that the ponds wore running over, and you only saw little sprigs of grass stickin^out of the sand along the road, and I found a broken branch on the. ground with apples on it; and I picked it up not knowing what trouble it would give me. It is three monthg that I have been in prison, being knocked about. More'n that, I can't tell. You talk against me and tell nic 'answer!' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and whispers, ' answer now.' I can't ejjplain myself; I never studied; I am a poor man. You arc all wrong not to see that I didn't steal. I picked up off the ground things that were there. You talk about Jcau Valjean, Jean Mathieu— ^I don't know any such people. They must be villagera. I have worked for Mr. Baloup, Boulevard de THopital. My name is Champmathieu. You must be very sharp to tell me where I was born. I don't know myself. Every body can't have bouses to be born in ; that would be too handy. I think my father and mother were strollers, but I don't know. When I wag a child they called me Little One; now, they call me Old Man. They're my Christian names. Take them as you like. I have been in Auvergne, I have been at Faverolles. Bless me ! can't a man have been in Auvergne and Faverolles without having been at the galleys? I tell you I never'stnle, and that I am Father Champma- thieu. I Jjave been at Mr. Baloup's; I livCd in his house. I am tired of your everlasting nonsense. What is every body after me for like a mad dog ?" The prosecuting attorney was still standing ; be addressed the judge : " Sir, in the presence of the confused but very adroit dcnegatiou.s of the accused, who endeavcuting attorney and the counsel of the acrusi-d." "True," replied the prosrcuting attorney; "in the ahsence of Mr. Jarert, [ think it a duty to recall to the gfnilemen of the jury what be •aid here a few huui.s ago. Javert is an estimable man, who dots honor to inft-rior but important functions, by hi.s rigorous and strict probity. These are the terms in wliuh he testified : ' I do not »von noed moral preyuojptions and material proof;) to contradict the denials of the ac- ca>t'd. I recognize him pcrfm-t'y. Thi.>^ man's name is not Chauipma- tbi» u ; he is a convict, Jean Valji'an, very hard, and much feared He was liberated at the expiration of bis tern), but with extien)e regret. He cerveJ out nineteen years at hard labor for burglary ; five or sir times he attempted to escape. Besides the Petit Oervais and IMerron robberies, I suspect him also of a robbrry committed on his highness, the lute liishop of D . I often saw him when 1 was adjutant of the galley guard at Toulon. 1 repeat it; I recognize him perfectly'" This deelaratitm, in terms so precise, appeared to produce a strong impression «rpon the public and jury. The prosecuting attorney con- cluded by insisting that, in the ab-ciu^ of Javert, the three witnesses,' Brevet, Chenildieu and Coehepaille, should be he beard anew, and sol- emnly interrogated. The judge gave an order to an officer, and a moment afterwards the door of the witness-room opened, and the officer, accompanhd by a gen- darme ready to lend asf'istaoce, led in the convict Brevet The audience was in breathless suspense, and all hearts palpitated as if they coniaincd but a single soul. The old convict Brevet wa.s clad in the black and grey jacket of the central prisons Brevet was about sixty years \i may enlighten. The moment U a solemn one, and there is still time to retract if you think yourself mistak< n. Prisoner, rise. Brevet, look well upon the pri- aooer ; collect your remembrances, and say, on your soul and conscience, whether you still recognize this man as your former comrade in the gal- leys, Jean Valjean." Brevet looked at the pris'^nor, then turned again to the court. •• Yes, your honor, I was first, to recognize him, and still do so. This Ban u Jeao Valjean, who came to TouloD in 1796, and left in 1815. I FANTINB. 187 kft a year after. He looks like a brute now, but he must have grown Btupid wirh age; at the galleys he was Bullen. I recognize him now, positively." "Sit down," said the judge. Prisoner, remain stafiding." Clu-nildieu was brought in, a convict for life, as w.is shown by his red cloak and grctMi cap. lie was undergoing hi.s puni^bment in the galleys of Toulon, whence he had boen brouglit fur this occasion. He was a little man, about fifty }'ears old, active, wrinkled, lean, yellow, brazen, restless, with a sort of sickly feeb'eness in his limbs and whole punson, and immense force in his eye. Ills companions in the galleys had nick- named hiin Je-nie-DifU * The judge addressed nearly the same words to him as to Brevet. When he reminded him that his infamy had deprived him of the right to take an oath, Chonildivu raised his head and looked the spectators ib the face. The judge requested him to collect his thoughts, and asked him, as he had Brevet, whether he still recognized the prisoner. ( htnildicu burst out laughing. ."Gad! do I recognize him! we were five yearp cfh the Sftuie chain. You're sulky with me, are yi^^^ld boy?" "Sitdiiwn," said the judjre^ The officer brought in Oochepaillc ; this other convict fof life, brought from the galleys and dressed in red like Cheuildieu, was a peasant fiom Lourdes, and a semi bear of the Pyrenees. He had tended flocks in the mountains, and from a shepherd had glided into a biigand. Coche- paille was not less uncnuth than the accused, and appeared still giore Btupid. . He was one of those unfortunate men whom nature turns out as wild boasts, and society -finishes up into galley slaves. The judge attempted to move him by a few serious and palhetio words, and asktcT him, as he had the otheis, whether he still recognized without hesitation or difficulty th^ man standing before him. " It is Jean Valjean," said Cochepaille. " The same they called Jean-the Jack, he was so strong." E'lch of the affirmations of these three men, evidently sincere and in good fuith, had excited in the audience a murmur of evil augury f^r the accused — avUiUKmur which increased in force and continuiinoe, every time a new dechiratiou was added to the preciding one. The prisoner himself listened^ to them wiih that astonished countenan -e which, ac- cording to 'he prosecution, was his principal means of deK.nce At the first, tlie gendarmes by his tide heard him mutter between hi.s teeth; " Ah, Will ! there is one of them 1" After the second, he ."-aid in a lou'ler tone, with atl air almost of satisfaction: "Good !" At the third, he exclaimed, "Famous!" The judge addressed bim : " Prisoner, you have listened. What have you to say ?" He replied : ** [ say — famous !" A buzz ran through the crowd and lAmost inyaded the jury. It waa evident that the man was lost. "Officers," said the judge, " enforce order. J am about to sum dp the cifte." * Jt nit-iitu, ID French, ncana: I deny Ood,' 188 LES MISKRABL88. At this iDomcot there was a movement near the judge. A Toice was beard ezclaimiDg : " Brevet, Chonildieu, Cocbepaille, look (bis way I" So lamentable %pd terrible was this voice, that those who heard it, felt iheir blood run cold. All eyes turned towards the spot whence it O&me. A man, who had been sitting among the privibgcd epeCtatora behind the court, had riwen, pushed open the low door which separated the tribunal from the bar, and was standing in the centre of the hall. The judge, the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Bamatubois, twenty persona recognized him, and exclaimed at once : " Mr. Madeleine I" XI. CnAMP.MATBIEU MOUE AND MORE ASTONISHED. It was hft, indeed. The clerk's lamp lighted up his face. He held kis hat in hand; there was no disordeji^^ bis dress; his overcoat was carefully buttoned. He wa.s very pa^^rad trembled slightly. His hair, already grey when he came to Arras, was now perfectly white. It kad becouio so b Petit Gervais — that is true. They were right in telling yoa that Jean Valjean wfts a wicked wretch. 13ut all the blame may not belong to him. Listen, your Honors: a man so abased as I, has no re- monstrance to make with Providence, nor advice to give to .society; but, mark you, the infamy from which I have sought to rise is perni- cious to men. The galleys make the galley-slave. Receive this in tindness, if you will. Before thp galleys, I was a poor peasant, unin- telligent, a species of idiot; the galleys 'changed me. I was stupid, I became wicked ; I was a log, I became a firebrand. Later, I wos saved by indulgence and kindness, as I had been lost by severity. But, par- don, you cannot ^comprehend what I say. You will find in my house, among the ashes of the fife-place, the forty-sous piece of which, eeveo years ago, I robbed Petit Gervais. I have nothing more to add Take me. Great God! the pro.secuting attorney shakes his head. You say, 'Mr. Madeleine has gone mad;' you do not believe me! This is hard to be bornp. Do not condemn that man, at leasts What I these men do not know me I Would that Javert were here. lie would .recogniae me!" Nothing could express the kindly yet terrible melancholy of the toD4 which accompanied these words. He tnrned to the three convicts : " Well ! I recognize you. Brevet, do you remember — " He paused, hesitated a moment, and said : " Do you remember those checkered, knit suFpendcrs that you bad in the galleys?" Bievet started as if struck with surprise, and gazed wildly at bim from Iiead to foot. He continued : 190 ' LE8 MIS^RABLKS. *'Chenildieu, purnamed bj vourself Je-nie-DIcu, the whole of your left shoulder Las been burntd deeply, from lijing it one day on a cha- fiog-dirh full of embers, to efface the three letters T. F. P , which yet are etill to be ««< en there. Answer me, is this true?" " It is true!" said Chenildieu. He turned to Cochepaille: • •* Cochcpaiile, you have on your left arm, near where you have been bled, a date put in blue letters wiih burnt powder. It i§ the date of the lai'ding of the Emperor at Cannes, March 1st, 1815. Lift up your eleevc" CochepaiMe lifted up his sleeve ; all eyes around hiiu were turned to his naked arm. A gendarme brou5ht a lamp ; the date was there. The unhappy man turn'.'d towards the audience anil the court with a smile, the thought of which still rends the hearts of those who wit- nessed it. It was the smile of triumph ; it was also the smile of despair. " You sec clearly," says he, "that I am Jean Valjean." There were no longer either judges, or accusers, or gendarmes in the hall; there were only 6xed eyes uiii^^M^ng hearts. N<>body remem- bered longer the part which he had^|Hlay ; the prosecuting attorney forgot that he was (here to prosecute, tne judge that he was t^ere to S reside, the counsel fur the defence that he was there to defend, trangc to say no question was put, no authority intervened It is the peculiarity of sublime spectacles tluit they take possession yf every soul, and make of every witness a spectator. Nobody, perhaps, was posi- tively conscious of what, he experienced; and,* undoubtedly, n 'body said to hini'jelf that hj there. beheld the effu'gence of a great ligbt, yet all fi-lt dazzled at heart It was evident that Jean Valjran was before thc'ir eyes. That fact ehone forth. The appearance of this man hadi been enough fully to clear up the case, so obscure a moment before. Without need of any further explanation, the multitude, as by a sort of electric revelation, ooniprehended instantly, and at^a single glance, this simple and mafjnifi- cent story of a man' giving himself up that another might not be con- demned in his place. . The details, the hesitation, the ^slight reluctance possible were lost in this imnien>ie, luminous'fact. It was an impicK.>iun which quickly passed over, but for the moment it was irresistible. ♦' I will not disturb the proceeding further," continued Jean A'^aljean. "I am going, since I" am not arrested. 1 have many things to do. The pro.seciititig attorney knows where I am going, and will have me arrested when he ciiooses." He walked towards the outer door. Not a voice was raised, not ap arm Rtretched olit to prevent him. All stood aside. There was at this moment an indescribable divinity within him which makes iIk' multi- tude fall back- and make way before a man. He passed through the throng with hIow steps. It was never known who opeueil the door, but it is certain that the door was open when he came to it. On reaching it ' he turned and said : ** Mr. Prosecuting Attorney, T remain at your di.sposal." He then addressed himself to the auditory : FANTINE. 191 "You all, who are here, think mo worthy of pity, do you no^? Groat God! when I think of ^flhat I have been on ihe point of doinor, I tliiok myself w.rthy of envy. Still, wouIlI that all this had not happened T lie went out, and the door closed as it had opened, for those who do deeds sovereignly great are always sure of being served by aoinebody in« the multitude. Less than an hour afterwards, the verdict of the jury discharged from all accusation the man called Chanjpinatliieu ; and Cfiainpmiithieu, set at liberty firtliwitli, went his way stupuhed, thinking all men mad, and un- derstaoding nothing of this vision. is It IBiQfjtf). COUNTER-STROKE. mi- IN Wn.\T MIRROR MR. MADELEINE LOOKS AT III8 HAIR. Day began to d'lwn. Faufine had had a feverish and sleepless night, yet full of happy visions; she fvll ash'cp at daybreak. Sister Simplice, who had watohvd with her, took advantage of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of quinine The good sister had been for a few ni.nnents in tiie laboratory of the infirmary, binding over her vials and drugs, looking at them very closely on account of the mist which tbtt dawn casts- over all objects, when suddenly she turned her h'ad, and ut- tered a faint cry. Mr. .>Jadeleinc stood before her. He had just come in silentlv. "You, Mr. Mayor!" she exclaimed. "How is this poor wou)an T' he answered in a low voice. "Better just now. But we have been vt^ry anxious indeed." She explaini^d what had happened, that Fautine had beeu very ill th« night before, b»it was now better, because slfe believed that the Mayor had gone to Montftrmeil for her child * The sister dared not (|uestiott the Mayor, buc she saw cleanly from his manner that he had not com* from that place. "That is well," said he. "You did right not to deceive her." "Yes," returned the sister, " but you, Mr. Mayor, when she sees you without her child, what shall we tell herr' He reflected fur a moment, then aaid : *.*God will inspire us." " But wc cannot tell her a lie," murmured the sister, in a smothered tone. The broad daylight streamct^ into the room, and lighted up the fao* of Mr. Madeleine. The si.st'-r happened to raise her oyea. • "Oh heaven, Mr. Mudoleine," bhe exclaimed. "What has befallen you? Your hair is all white! ' 192 LE8 MIsfiRABLBS. "White!" Hoid he. "Sister Siroplice had no mirror; she rumraagod in a case of instru- iBenf.", and found ti little plass which the physician of the infirmary ased to discover whether the breath had ld*t the body of a patient. Mr. ■ Madeleine took the gla.«8, looked at his hair in it, and said, " Indeed !" He spoke the word with indiffironce, as if thinking of something e\se. The sister felt chilled by an unknown something, of which she caught A glimpse in all this. He a.owed her head. "Sir, 1 ask your p-irdnn. I sincerely ask your pardon. One^ I would not- have spoken as I have now, but so many misfortunes hrnc befallen me that somethnes I do not know what I am saying.* I un-lur stand, you fear excitement; I will wait as long as you wish, but I am sure that it will not harm me to «ee my daughter. I see her now, 1 have not. taken my eyes from her since last night Let ihem bring her to me now, and I will just speak to her very gently That is all. Is it not very natural that I shdiild wish to see my child, when they have been to !^lontfcrmeil on purpose to bring her to mcf I am not aogry. 194 LES MIS^RABLRS. I know that I am pnJng to be very happy. All oifrht, I saw fijrurcs io whiii', (;iiiilin^ on me As soon us the diKJtnr pleases, he can bring ('o- setle My lever is gone, for I uiu cured; I feel ttiat (here is warcely anything the mutter with nie ; but I will aut as if I were ill, and not Mir S'» as to please the ladies here When they sec that I alu calm, they will say: "^You must, give her the child.' " Mr. .Madeleine w-a.s .•^itriiig in a tli.iir l>y the piile of the bed. She tarnc i tow.nds him, and made visible effurts to uppi-ar calm and "very good," as she >t every word. She did not murmur; she feared that by too eager entreaties she had weakened the confidence which she wished to inspire, and began to talk about indifferent subjects • " Montfermeil is a pretty place, is it not? In summer people po there on pleasure parties. Do the Thenardiers do a good bu>iness? Not many great people pass through that country. Their inn is a kind of chop-house." Mr. Madeleine Kfill held hor hand, and looked at her with anxiety. It was evident that, ho had cime to tell her things-before wl»ii-h his mind now hisitated. The pliysiei m had made his visit and retired. Sister Simplicc alone remained with ihent. IJuf in the midst of the silence Fantinc cried out: " I hear her! Oh, darling! I hear her!" Then; was a cl.ild playing in 'the court — the child of the portreps or some workwi^uian. It was one of tho.se chances which are always met with, and which seem to make part of the my>ferious reprcsentaiion of tragic events. The child, whith was a little \:\r\, was running up and down to keep herself warm, singing and laughing in a loud voice. Alas! with what are UQt the plays of children mingled! Fantiue had heard this little girl hinging. " Oh !" sai J fche, " it is my Cosetto ! T know her voice !" The child departed as she had come, and the voice died awqy. Fan- ^ * FANTINE. 195 tine listened for some time. A sIkiHow came over her face, and Mr. Madrlu'ine lieard lier \vlii«per, '' How wicked it is of that doctor not to let me soe my cliild ! Tiiat uian has a bad face !" l>ut yet her Iiipiiy train of thought returucd. With her head on the pillow she continued to talk to hirself. " llow hap[iy wo shall bel AVe will have a little garden in the tirst place; Mr. Mank like a little lady. Oh, my good si.ster, you do not know how foolis-h I am; here I am. thinking of my child's first couiosunioa !" And she began to laugh. lie had let go the hand of Fantinc lie listened to the word's as one listens to the wind that bluws, his eves on the ground, and his mind plungid into untathomable nfl(-c lions Suddenly, she ceased speaking, and raised her head mechanically. Fantine had become appalling. She did not f;pcak ; she did not -breathe ; she half raised hirsclf in the bed, the covering fell frou) her cmaeiiited shoulders : her counte- nance, raJiant a moment before, became livid, and her eyes, dilated with terror, seemed to fasten on something before her at the other end of the room. • "Good God !" fexclaimed h*>. " What is the matter. Famine?" She did not answer; she led with the defence; and the jury, after a few moments' consultation, acquitted ChMmpmathieu. ]}ut jet rlie prosecuting attorney must have a Jean Valjcan, and hav- ing lo>^t ('hampmatliicu he took Madeleine. Immediately upon the discharge of Chjimpmathieu the prosecuting attorney closeted himself with the judge. The subject of their confer- ence was, "Of the necessity of the arrest of tUe person of the Mayor of M sur — '■ — '." This sentence, in which there is a great deal of of, is the prosecuting attorney's, written by his own hand, on the min- utes of his report to the attorney-general. The first sensation being over, the judge made few obji?ctions. Jus- tice must take its course. Then, to confess the truth, although the judge was a kind man, and really intelligent, he was at tlie sanic time a strong, almost a ze&lou« royalist, and had been shocked when the Mayor of M sur M , in speaking of the debarkation at Cannes, s^id the Emperor, instead of Haonnpartc. The order of arrest was therefore granted. The prosecuting attorney sent it to M suf M by a courier, at full speed, to police inspec- tor Javert. It will be remembered that Javert had returned to M sur M , immediately after giving his testimony. Javert was just ri^ing when the courier brought him the warrant and order of arrest. The courier l^imself was a policeman, and an intelligent man ; who, in three words, acquainted Javcjrt with what had happened at Arras. Tile order of arrest, signed by the prosecuting attorney, was couched in these terms : *' luspcetor Javert will seize the body of Mr. Madeleine, Mayor of M sur M , who has this day been identified in court as the dis- charged convict Jean Valjean." ■ , One who diil not know Javert, on seeing him as he entered the hall of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what was going on, and would have thought his manner the most natural imaginable. He was cool, calm, grave; his grey hair lay perfectly smooth over his temples, and he had jiscended the stairway with his customary deliberation. But one who knew him thoroughly and examined him with attention, would have shuddered. The buckle of his leather cravat, instead of being on the back of his neck, was under'his left ear. This denoted an unheard- of agitation. Javert was a complete character, without a wrinkle in his duty or his uniform, melhndieal with villains, rigid with the buttons of his coat. • For him to misplace the buckle of his cravat, he must have received one of thnse shocks whiih may well bo called the earihquakes of the soul. lie came unostentatiously, had taken a corporal and four soldiers from FANTINE. 197 a station-house near by, had left the soldiers in the court, and had been shown to Fantine's chamber by the portress, ^vithout suspicion, accus- tomed as she was to see armed men asking "for the Mayor. On reaching the room of Fantine, Javert turned the key, pushed open the door with the gentleness of a sick nursB," or a police spy, and entered. Properly speaking, he did not enter. He remained standing in the half-opentd door, bis hat on his head, and Iiis left hand in his overcoat, which was buttoned to the chin. . In the bend of his elbow might be seen the leaden* head of his enormous cane, which disappeared behind him. He remained thus for nearly a minute, unperceived. Suddenly, Fan- tine raised her eyes, saw him, and caused Mr. Madeleine to turn round. At the moment when the glance of Madeleine 'encountered that of Javert, Javert, without stirring, without moving, without approaching, became terrible. -No human feeling can ever be so appalling as joy. It was the face of a demon who had again found his victim. The certainty that he had caught Jean Valjean at last, brought forth upon his countenance all that was in his soul. The disturbed depths rose to the surface. The humiliation of having loSt the scent for a lit- tle while, of having been mistaken for a few moments concerning Champ»- raathieu, was. lost in the prid« of having divined so well at first, and having so long retained a true instinct. The sati.'^faction of Javert shone forth in his commanding attitude. The deformity of triumph spread over his narrow forehead. It was the fullest development of horror that a gratified face can show. Javert was at this moment in heaven. Without clearly defining his own feelings, yet notwithstanding with a coiW^used intuition of his ne- cessity and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light and truth, in their celestial function as destroyers of evil. He was surrounded and supported by infinite depths of authority, reason, precedent, legal conscience, the vengeance of the law, all the stars in the firmament; he prot-ected order, he hurled forth the thunder of the law, he avenged society, he lent aid to the absolute; he stood erect in a halo of glory; there was in his victory a reminder of defiance and combat; standing haughty, resplendent, he displayed in full glory the superhuman bru- tality of a ferocious archangel ; the fearful shallow of the deed which he was accomplishing, made visible in his clenched fist, the uncertain flashes of the social sword ; happy and indignant, he had set his heel on crime, vice, rebellion, perdition and iiell, he was radiant, exterminating, smiling; there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous St. Michael. Javert, though hideous, was not ignoble. Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the idea of duty, are things which^ mistaken, may become hideous, but which, even though hideous, remain great; their majesty, peculiar (o the human conscience, contin- ues in all their horror; they are virtues with a singllj vice — error. The pitiless, sincere joy of a fanatic in an act of atrocity preserves an inde- scribably mournful radiance which inspires us with veneration. With- out suspecting it, Javert,. in his fear-inspiring happiness, was pitiable, like every ignorant man who wins a triumpii. Nothing could be more 1P8 LBS MIsfiRABLBS. pain^il and terrible tban this face, which revealed what wc may call all the evil of good. IV. ALXnORITY RESUMES ITS SWAY. Fantine had not seen Javert >ince th-- day the Mayor had wrested her from i.iiu. Her hick brain atcou'ted for noibiii/i, onlv shf wa» t-ure that ho liad eonie for her. t^hi- e.ouW uut li : ""Mr iMadeleine, save me !" Jeau Valjtan, we shall call him by no other name henceforth, had risen. He t^aid to Fantine in lii.s gentlest and cahnest tone : •' Be cninpiLSid ; it i.s not for you that he comes." He then luined to Javert. and baid : '♦1 know what you want." • Javert answered: I " Hurr) along." Th«;re was iu the manner in which th^c two word-j were uttered, an iDexpicsiibie something which reminded ynu of a wild b»ast and of a madman Javert did nut say " Hurry ahmg !" -he said " Ilurr'long !" No urthngraphy can expre.'-s the tone in which this was pronounced j it, ceased to be iiuman s|)eech ; it wiw a howl. He did not go through the usual ceremony; he used no words; he showed no warrant. To kim Jean Valjian wasa sort of mysierious and intangible antagonist, a shadowy wrestler with whtmi he had been strug- gling t'lr tive years, without being able to throw jiiin. This arrest wae not a beginning, but an end. He only said : " Hurry along !" While spealying thus, he did not stir a step, but cast upon Jean Vul- jean a Iook like a noose, with which he was accustomed to draw the wreichid t'l him by force. It was the same look which Fantine had felt penetrate to the very marrow of her bones, two months before. At the exclamaimn of Javert, Fantine had opened her eyes again. But the- Mayor was there, what could she fear? Javert advanced to the middle of the chamber, exclaiming: "Hey, till re; are you coming ?"• The unhappy woman looktd around hor. There was no ore hut the nun and tlic Ma) or To whom could this contemptuous familiarity be ad II me that you are going for this girl's child ^ Ila, ha, that's good! That ia good !" • Fantine shivered. " My eWild !" she exclaimed, "going for my child ! Then she is not here! Sister, tell me, where ik Cosette ? 1 want my child! Mr. Madeleine, Mr Mayor!" Javert stamped his foot. "There is ihe other 'now! Hold your tongue, hussy I Miserable country, where galley slaves are magi^trates and women of the town are nursed like countesses! Ila, but all this will be changed; it wag time!" He gazed steadily at Fantine. and added, grasping anew the cravat, shirt and coat collar of Jean Valjean : " I tell you that there is no Mr. Madeleine, and that there is no Mr. Mayor. I'ljere is a robber, there is a brigand, there is a convict called Jean V;iljean, and I have got him 1 That is what there is !" Famine started upriuht, supporting herself by her rigid arms and hands; she looked at Jean Valjean, then at Javert, and then at the nun; she opened her 'mouth as if to speak; a tattle came from ber throat, her teeth strUek together, she stretched out her arms in anguish, convulsively opening her h.mds, and groping about her like one who is drowning; then s^'tik suddenly back upon the pillow. Her head struck the head of the bed and fell forward on her breast, the mouth gaping, the eyes open Jtod glazed. She Was dead Jean Valjean put his hand on that of Javcrt which held him, and opened it as'he would have opened the hand of a child ; then he said : "You have killed this woman " "Have done with thi- !" cried Javert, furiou<>, "I am not here tS listen to srrmons ; stop all that; the guard is below; cotiie right aloag, or the handcuftsl" There stoi«d in a corner of the room an old iron bedstead id » dilapi- dated cooditioD, which the sisters used a.x a camp bed whc-o they Watched. 200 LE6 MISERABLES. Jean Valjean went to the bed, wrenched out "the rickety bead bar, a thing easy fur muscles like his — in the twiuklinc: of an eye, and with the bar in his clenched fist, looked at Javert. Javcrt recoiled towards the door. Jean Valjean, his iron bar in hand, walked slowly towards the bed of Fantine. On reaching it, he turned and said to Javcrt in a voice that could scarcely be heard : " I advi. poor." .The sister attempted to speak, but could scarcely stammer but a few iaarticUlate sounds. She succeeded, however, in saying: FANTINE. ■ 203 <'' Does not the M*ayor wish to see this poor unfortunate again for the last time ?"• * • <'No," paid he, "lam pursued* I should only be arrested in her chanrber ; it would disturb her'." He had scarcely fiaished when there was a loud noise on the staircase. They heard a tumult of steps ascending, and the old portress exclaiming in her loudest and most piercing tones : " My good sir, I swear to you iri the name of. God, that nobody has come in^here the whole day, and the whole evening; ^hat I have not even once left my door." A man replied : "But yet, there is a'lightin this room." They recognized the voice of Javcrt. The chamber was so arranged that' the door in opening covered the corner of the wall to the right. Jean Valjean blew out the taper, aud placed himself in this "corner. Si.ster Simplice fell on her knees near the table. Th^door opened. Javert entered. • The whispering of several men, and the protestations of the portres.n were heard in the hall. The nun did not raii?e her eyes. Shf was praying. • The candle was on the mantel, and gave' but a dim light. Javert perceived the sister, and stopped abashed. It will be remembered 'that the very foundation of Javert, hi.<5 ele- vac'^t, the medium in which he breathed, was veneratio_p for all autho- rity. He was perfectly homogeneous, and admitted of no objection or abridgment. To him, be it understood, ecclesiastical authority was the highest of all; he was devout, superficial and correct, upon this point &.« upon all others. In bis eyes, a priest was a spirit who was never distakeu, and a nun was a being who never sinned. They were soul.s walled in from this world, with a single door frhich never opened but for the exit of truth. On perceiving the sister, his first impulse was to retire. But there was also another duty which held him, and which urged him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second impulse was to remain, and to venture at least one question. This was the Sister Simplice, who had never lied in her life. Javert knew this, and venerated her especially on account of it. "Sister," said he, "are you alone in this room?" There \yas a fearful instant during which the poor portress felt her Hmbe faller beneath her. The sister raised her eyes, and replied: "Yes." Then continued Javert— " Excu.sc me if I persist, it is my duty — you have not seen this evening a person, a man — he has escaped, and we are in search of him — Jean Valjean — you have not seen him?" The sister answered — " No." She lied. Two lies in succession, one upon another, without hesita- tion, quickly, as if she were an adopt in it. "Your pardon I" said Javejt, and he withdrfw, bowing reverently. Oh, holy maiden ! for many years thou hast been no more in thi? 2C4 LSe MISKRABLEfi. wor.vi, iuj.. ua!:'. joioed tbc eisterfl, the virgins, anJ tby brethren, the iJieels, in glory; may this falaohood be rimeoibered to the* in Paradise. "^'■^ .flirmaiioQ of the pistcr was fo Javert aometbing t^o decif^ive that, . t even notice the singularity of this taper, just blown out, and fcEJCK-iu;; on the table. An hour afterwards, a man was walking rapidly in the darkness be- neath the trees from M sur M , in the direction of Paris. This man was Jean Valjoan. It has befeo established, by the testimony of two or three wagoners who met him, that be carried a bundle, and was dressed in a blouse. Where did he get this blouse? It was never known, Neverthelcfis, urJ old artisan had died in the iafirroary of the factory a few days before, leaving nothing but his- blouse. This might Lave been the one. A lafct word in regard to Fantine. We have all one mother-^the earth. JPantine was restored to this E other. The curate thought best, and did well perhaps, to reserve out o^ what Jean Valjean had left, the larp^t amount possible for the poor. After all, who were in quedtion ? — a convict and a woman of the town. This was why he simpliGed the burial .of Fantine, and reduced it to that bare neceefiit^ called the Potter's fieMI. And fo Fantine was buried in the ccfmraon grave of the cemetery, which is for everybody and for all, and in which the poor are lost. *IIappiIy, God know.s where to find the soul. Fantine waa laid away in the durkness with bodies which had no name; she suffered the promis- cuity of dust*. She was thrown ijjto the public pit. Her tomb Mfus like \itr hill. FN£) 01' FANTINE. ita^ai^aMaMa^. Oua Publications aro for sale by nearly all Booksellers "m the Confede- rate States. We send tbem by mail, to any address, post-paid, upon the receipt of the advertised price. • ^ WEST & JOHNSTON'S X.XST OX"-* NEW PUBLICATIONS! FANTINE— First number of Lks Miskuahlf.s. By Victor Hugo. $2 00. lli;SOURri;sbp TIIE SOUTIIT-RN FIKLDS and POIIESTS— ny IVancisr. I'orchcr, Surgeon V. A. 0. S., pp. COl. ."510. THK AMERICAN UNION— Its effect on Nntlonal Chnrnctcr and Policy- I3y James Speuce. First American from the fourth English edition. $2. CHIEF POINTS IN THE LAWS OF WAR AND NEUTRALITY, SpARCH AND BLOCK.'VDF. — With the changes of 185G, and those now proposed — By J. F. Macmjoen, E.-sq. Si 50. THE STONEWALL SONG BOOK— Being a collection nf Prttnotic, Sentimental and Comic Songs, a't cts. THE SOUTHERN PICTORIAL PRIMER. Designed for tic use of Schools and Families. 50 cts. THE ROVAL .\Pi;. .\ humorous Dramatic Poem. By a distinguished South- ern Gentloiiimi. $1 OO. NO NAME. By Wukie Collins' A Novel of thrilling interest, not at all inferior to -"The Woman in White." Si 00. THE ROMANCE OE A I'OOR YOUNG MAN— Translnfed from the French of OcTAVK FniiiLLKr. "E Ull.i, l:K HKAUV lUI'.INM iTIi: MMMVIl. I, THE SECOND YEAR OF THE WAR. V.y K. A 1' .it.n :. . II. MISTRESS AND MAID. By Mi«s Mii.oni, auihorei^s of ".Jolin Halifax. III. - AL'RORA FLOYD. By M. E. BrvunoN, aiith* of "Lndy Audlcy d Secret. IV. It DOWN I.\ THE WORLD. A ' ' Till. <;"NKI;;DLKATE r.K'.Ell'T BOOK. All nnnluabic lU|ic 1 tiuiCf. VT. THE BOLD ?0LI»IEK UOY SONG BUOW. HaT Liberal Discounts made to Dealers, "^a WEST & JOHNSTON, 145 Main Street, Richmond. ^'Y=v:;-:^^ ;;^l!^> ill!! i :it'!i' , : ,\(i' ;Mi'"^i='