by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER II.
THE OBSCURITY WHICH A REVELATION MAY CONTAIN.
Marius was overwhelmed; the sort of estrangement which he had ever feltfor the man with whom he saw Cosette was henceforth explained. Therewas in this person something enigmatic, against which his instinctwarned him. This enigma was the most hideous of shames, the galleys.This M. Fauchelevent was Jean Valjean the convict. To find suddenlysuch a secret in the midst of his happiness is like discovering ascorpion in a turtle-dove's nest. Was the happiness of Marius andCosette in future condensed to this proximity? Was it an accomplishedfact? Did the acceptance of this man form part of the consummatedmarriage? Could nothing else be done? Had Marius also married theconvict? Although a man may be crowned with light and joy, though he beenjoying the grand hour of life's purple, happy love, such shocks wouldcompel even the archangel in his ecstasy, even the demi-god in hisglory, to shudder.
As ever happens in sudden transformation-scenes of this nature, Mariusasked himself whether he ought not to reproach himself? Had he failedin divination? Had he been deficient in prudence? Had he voluntarilybeen headstrong? Slightly so, perhaps. Had he entered upon thislove-adventure, which resulted in his marriage with Cosette, withouttaking sufficient precaution to throw light upon the surroundings? Heverified,--it is thus, by a series of verifications of ourselves onourselves, that life is gradually corrected,--he verified, we say,the visionary and chimerical side of his nature, a sort of internalcloud peculiar to many organizations, and which in the paroxysms ofpassion and grief expands, as the temperature of the soul changes,and invades the entire man to such an extent that he merely becomes aconscience enveloped in a fog. We have more than once indicated thischaracteristic element in Marius's individuality. He remembered thatduring the intoxication of his love in the Rue Plumet, during those sixor seven ecstatic weeks, he had not even spoken to Cosette about thedrama in the Gorbeau hovel, during which the victim was so strangelysilent both in the struggle and eventual escape. How was it that hehad not spoken to Cosette about it, and yet it was so close and sofrightful? How was it that he had not even mentioned the Thénardiers,and especially on the day when he met Éponine? He found almost adifficulty in explaining to himself now his silence at that period,but he was able to account for it. He remembered his confusion, hisintoxication for Cosette, his love absorbing everything, the carryingoff of one by the other into the ideal world, and perhaps, too, as theimperceptible amount of reason mingled with that violent and charmingstate of the mind, a vague and dull instinct to hide and efface fromhis memory that formidable adventure with which he feared contact, inwhich he wished to play no part, from which he stood aloof, and ofwhich he could not be narrator or witness without being an accuser.Moreover, these few weeks had been a lightning flash; he had not hadtime for anything except to love. In short, when all was revolved, andeverything examined, supposing that he had described the Gorbeau trapto Cosette, had mentioned the Thénardiers to her, what would have beenthe consequence, even if he had discovered that Jean Valjean was aconvict; would that have changed him, Marius, or his Cosette? Would hehave drawn back? Would he have loved her less? Would he have refusedto marry her? No. Would it have made any change in what had happened?No. There was nothing, therefore, to regret, nothing to reproach, andall was well. There is a God for those drunkards who are called lovers,and Marius had blindly followed the road which he had selected with hiseyes open. Love had bandaged his eyes to lead him whither? To paradise.
But this paradise was henceforth complicated by an infernal proximity,and the old estrangement of Marius for this man, for this Faucheleventwho had become Jean Valjean, was at present mingled with horror; butin this horror, let us say it, there was some pity, and even a certaindegree of surprise. This robber, this relapsed robber, had given upa deposit, and what deposit? Six hundred thousand francs. He aloneheld the secret of that deposit, he could have kept it all, but hegave it all up. Moreover, he had revealed his situation of his ownaccord, nothing compelled him to do so; and if he, Marius, knew whohe was it was through himself. There was in this confession more thanthe acceptance of humiliation; there was the acceptance of peril.For a condemned man a mask is not a mask but a shelter, and he hadrenounced that shelter. A false name is a security, and he had thrownaway that false name. He, the galley-slave, could conceal himselfforever in an honest family, and he had resisted that temptation, andfor what motive? Through scruples of conscience. He had explainedhimself with the irresistible accent of truth. In short, whoever thisJean Valjean might be, his was incontestably an awakened conscience.Some mysterious rehabilitation had been begun, and according to allappearances scruples had been master of this man for a long timepast. Such attacks of justice and honesty are not peculiar to vulgarnatures, and an awakening of the conscience is greatness of soul.Jean Valjean was sincere; and this sincerity, visible, palpable,irrefragable, and evident in the grief which it caused him, renderedhis statements valuable, and gave authority to all that this man said.Here, for Marius, was a strange inversion of situations. What issuedfrom M. Fauchelevent? Distrust. What was disengaged from Jean Valjean?Confidence. In the mysterious balance-sheet of this Jean Valjean whichMarius mentally drew up, he verified the credit, he verified the debit,and tried to arrive at a balance. But all this was as in a storm,Marius striving to form a distinct idea of this man, and pursuing JeanValjean, so to speak, to the bottom of his thoughts, lost him, andfound him again in a fatal mist.
The honest restoration of the trust-money and the probity of theconfession were good, and formed as it were a break in the cloud;but then the cloud became black again. However confused Marius'sreminiscences might be, some shadows still returned to him. What, afterall, was that adventure in the Jondrette garret? Why, on the arrival ofthe police, did that man, instead of complaining, escape? Here Mariusfound the answer,--because this man was a convict who had broken hisban. Another question, Why did this man come to the barricade? For atpresent Marius distinctly saw again that recollection, which reappearedin his emotions like sympathetic ink before the fire. This man wasat the barricade and did not fight; what did he want there? Beforethis question a spectre rose and gave the answer,--Javert. Mariusperfectly remembered now the mournful vision of Jean Valjean draggingthe bound Javert out of the barricade, and heard again behind theangle of the little Mondétour Lane the frightful pistol-shot. Therewas probably a hatred between this spy and this galley-slave, andone annoyed the other. Jean Valjean went to the barricade to revengehimself; he arrived late, and was probably aware that Javert was aprisoner there. Corsican Vendetta has penetrated certain lower strataof society, and is the law with them; it is so simple that it does notastonish minds which have half returned to virtue, and their heartsare so constituted that a criminal, when on the path of repentance,may be scrupulous as to a robbery and not so as to a vengeance. JeanValjean had killed Javert, or at least that seemed evident. The lastquestion of all admitted of no reply, and this question Marius feltlike a pair of pincers. How was it that the existence of Jean Valjeanhad so long brushed against that of Cosette? What was this gloomy sportof Providence which had brought this man and this child in contact?Are there chains for two forged in heaven, and does God take pleasurein coupling the angel with the demon? A crime and an innocence can,then, be chamber companions in the mysterious hulks of misery? In thatdefile of condemned men which is called human destiny, two foreheadsmay pass along side by side, one simple, the other formidable,--oneall bathed in the divine whiteness of dawn, the other eternallybranded? Who can have determined this inexplicable approximation? Inwhat way, in consequence of what prodigy, could a community of lifehave been established between this celestial child and this condemnedold man? Who could have attached the lamb to the wolf, and even moreincomprehensible still, the wolf to the lamb? For the wolf loved thelamb, the ferocious being adored the weak being, and for nine yearsthe angel had leaned on the monster for support. The childhood andmaidenhood of Cosette and her virgin growth toward life and light hadbeen protected by this deformed
devotion. Here questions exfoliatedthemselves, if we may employ the expression, into countless enigmas;abysses opened at the bottom of abysses, and Marius could no longerbend over Jean Valjean without feeling a dizziness: what could thisman-precipice be? The old genesiacal symbols are eternal: in humansociety, such as it now exists until a greater light shall change it,there are ever two men,--one superior, the other subterranean; the onewho holds to good is Abel, the one who holds to bad is Cain. What wasthis tender Cain? What was this bandit religiously absorbed in theadoration of a virgin, watching over her, bringing her up, guardingher, dignifying her, and though himself impure, surrounding her withpurity? What was this cloaca which had venerated this innocence sogreatly as not to leave a spot upon it? What was this Valjean carryingon the education of Cosette? What was this figure of darkness, whosesole care it was to preserve from every shadow and every cloud therising of a star?
That was Jean Valjean's secret; that was also God's secret, and Mariusrecoiled before this double secret. The one, to some extent, reassuredhim about the other, for God was as visible in this adventure as wasJean Valjean. God has his instruments, and employs whom he likes astool, and is not responsible to him. Do we know how God sets to work?Jean Valjean had labored on Cosette, and had to some extent formedher mind; that was incontestable. Well, what then? The workman washorrible, but the work was admirable, and God produces his miraclesas he thinks proper. He had constructed that charming Cosette, andemployed Jean Valjean on the job, and it had pleased him to choosethis strange assistant. What explanation have we to ask of him? Is itthe first time that manure has helped spring to produce the rose?Marius gave himself these answers, and declared to himself that theywere good. On all the points which we have indicated he had not daredto press Jean Valjean, though he did not confess to himself thathe dared not. He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette; Cosette wassplendidly pure, and that was sufficient for him. What enlightenmentdid he require when Cosette was a light? Does light need illumination?He had everything; what more could he desire? Is not everythingenough? Jean Valjean's personal affairs in no way concerned him, andin bending down over the fatal shadow of this wretched man he clung tohis solemn declaration, "I am nothing to Cosette; ten years ago I didnot know that she existed." Jean Valjean was a passer-by; he had saidso himself. Well, then, he passed, and whoever he might be, his partwas played out. Henceforth Marius would have to perform the functionsof Providence toward Cosette; she had found again in ether her equal,her lover, her husband, her celestial male. In flying away, Cosette,winged and transfigured, left behind her on earth her empty and hideouschrysalis, Jean Valjean. In whatever circle of ideas Marius might turn,he always came back to a certain horror of Jean Valjean; a sacredhorror, perhaps, for, as we have stated, he felt a _quid divinum_ inthis man. But though it was so, and whatever extenuating circumstanceshe might seek, he was always compelled to fall back on this: he was aconvict, that is to say, a being who has not even a place on the socialladder, being beneath the lowest rung. After the last of men comesthe convict, who is no longer, so to speak, in the likeness of hisfellow-men. The law has deprived him of the entire amount of humanitywhich it can strip off a man. Marius, in penal matters, democratthough he was, was still of the inexorable system, and he entertainedall the ideas of the law about those whom the law strikes. He had notyet made every progress, we are forced to say; he had not yet learnedto distinguish between what is written by man and what is written byGod,--between the law and the right. He had examined and weighed theclaim which man sets up to dispose of the irrevocable, the irreparable,and the word _vindicta_ was not repulsive to him. He considered itsimple that certain breaches of the written law should be followed byeternal penalties, and he accepted social condemnation as a civilizingprocess. He was still at this point, though infallibly certain toadvance at a later date, for his nature was good, and entirely composedof latent progress.
In this medium of ideas Jean Valjean appeared to him deformed andrepelling, for he was the punished man, the convict. This word wasto him like the sound of the trumpet of the last Judgment, and afterregarding Jean Valjean for a long time his last gesture was to turnaway his head--_vade retro._ Marius,--we must recognize the factand lay a stress on it,--while questioning Jean Valjean to such anextent that Jean Valjean himself said, "You are shriving me," had not,however, asked him two or three important questions. It was not thatthey had not presented themselves to his mind, but he had been afraidof them. The Jondrette garret? The barricade? Javert? Who knew wherethe revelations might have stopped? Jean Valjean did not seem the manto recoil, and who knows whether Marius, after urging him on, mightnot have wished to check him? In certain supreme conjunctures has itnot happened to all of us that after asking a question we have stoppedour ears in order not to hear the answer? A man is specially guilty ofsuch an act of cowardice when he is in love. It is not wise to drivesinister situations into a corner, especially when the indissolubleside of our own life is fatally mixed up with them. What a frightfullight might issue from Jean Valjean's desperate explanations, and whoknows whether that hideous brightness might not have been reflectedon Cosette? Who knows whether a sort of infernal gleam might not haveremained on that angel's brow? Fatality knows such complications,in which innocence itself is branded with crime by the fatal law ofcoloring reflections, and the purest faces may retain forever theimpression of a horrible vicinity. Whether rightly or wrongly, Mariuswas terrified, for he already knew too much, and he tried rather todeafen than to enlighten himself. He wildly bore off Cosette in hisarms, closing his eyes upon Jean Valjean. This man belonged to thenight, the living and terrible night; how could he dare to seek itsfoundation? It is a horrible thing to question the shadow, for whoknows what it will answer? The dawn might be eternally blackened by it.In this state of mind it was a crushing perplexity for Marius to thinkthat henceforth this man would have any contact with Cosette; and henow almost reproached himself for not having asked these formidablequestions before which he had recoiled, and from which an implacableand definitive decision might have issued. He considered himself tookind, too gentle, and, let us say it, too weak; and the weaknesshad led him to make a fatal concession. He had allowed himself tobe affected, and had done wrong. He ought simply and purely to haverejected Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean was an incendiary, and he oughtto have freed his house from the presence of this man. He was angrywith himself; he was angry with that whirlwind of emotions which haddeafened, blinded, and carried him away. He was dissatisfied withhimself.
What was he to do now? The visits of Jean Valjean were most deeplyrepulsive to him. Of what use was it that this man should come tohis house? What did he want here? Here he refused to investigate thematter; he refused to study, and he was unwilling to probe his ownheart. He had promised; he had allowed himself to be drawn into apromise. Jean Valjean held that promise, and he must keep his word evenwith a convict,--above all with a convict. Still, his first duty wastoward Cosette. On the whole, a repulsion, which overcame everythingelse, caused him a loathing. Marius confusedly revolved all these ideasin his mind, passing from one to the other, and shaken by all. Hencearose a deep trouble which it was not easy to conceal from Cosette;but love is a talent, and Marius succeeded in doing it. However, heasked, without any apparent motive, some questions of Cosette, who wasas candid as a dove is white, and suspected nothing. He spoke to herof her childhood and her youth, and he convinced himself more and morethat this convict had been to Cosette as good, paternal, and respectfulas a man can be. Everything which Marius had imagined and supposed, hefound to be real: this sinister nettle had loved and protected thislily.
BOOK VIII.
TWILIGHT DECLINES.
