Les Miserables (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Victor Hugo

“Something to eat and lodging.”

  “Nothing more easy,” said mine host, but on turning his head and taking an observation of the traveller, he added, “for pay.”

  The man drew from his pocket a large leather purse, and answered,

  “I have money.”

  “Then,” said mine host, “I am at your service.”

  The man put his purse back into his pocket, took off his knapsack and put it down hard by the door, and holding his stick in his hand, sat down on a low stool by the fire. D—being in the mountains, the evenings of October are cold there.

  However, as the host passed backwards and forwards, he kept a careful eye on the traveller.

  “Is dinner almost ready?” said the man.

  “Directly,” said mine host.

  While the new-comer was warming himself with his back turned, the worthy innkeeper, Jacquin Labarre, took a pencil from his pocket, and then tore off the corner of an old paper which he pulled from a little table near the window. On the margin he wrote a line or two, folded it, and handed the scrap of paper to a child, who appeared to serve him as lackey and scullion at the same time. The innkeeper whispered a word to the boy and he ran off in the direction of the mayor’s office.

  The traveller saw nothing of this.

  He asked a second time: “Is dinner ready?”

  “Yes; in a few moments,” said the host.

  The boy came back with the paper. The host unfolded it hurriedly, as one who is expecting an answer. He seemed to read with attention, then throwing his head on one side, thought for a moment. Then he took a step towards the traveller, who seemed drowned in disturbing thoughts.

  “Monsieur,” said he, “I cannot receive you.”

  The traveller half rose from his seat.

  “Why? Are you afraid I shall not pay you, or do you want me to pay in advance? I have money, I tell you.”

  “It is not that.”

  “What then?”

  “You have money—”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “And I,” said the host; “I have no room.”

  “Well, put me in the stable,” quietly replied the man.

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the horses take all the room.”

  “Well,” responded the man, “a corner in the garret; a truss of straw: we will see about that after dinner.”

  “I cannot give you any dinner.”

  This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, appeared serious to the traveller. He got up.

  “Ah, bah! but I am dying with hunger. I have walked since sunrise; I have travelled twelve leagues. I will pay, and I want something to eat.”

  “I have nothing,” said the host.

  The man burst into a laugh, and turned towards the fireplace and the ranges.

  “Nothing! and all that?”

  “All that is reserved.”

  “By whom?”

  “By those persons, the wagoners.”

  “How many are there of them?”

  “Twelve.”

  “There is enough there for twenty.”

  “They have ordered and paid for it all in advance.”

  The man sat down again and said, without raising his voice: “I am at an inn. I am hungry, and I shall stay.”

  The host bent down his ear, and said in a voice which made him tremble:

  “Go away!”

  At these words the traveller, who was bent over, poking some embers in the fire with the iron-shod end of his stick, turned suddenly around, and opened his mouth, as if to reply, when the host looking steadily at him, added in the same low tone: “Stop, no more of that. Shall I tell you your name? your name is Jean Valjean, now shall I tell you who you are? When I saw you enter, I suspected something. I sent to the mayor’s office, and here is the reply. Can you read?” So saying, he held towards him the open paper, which had just come from the mayor. The man cast a look upon it; the innkeeper, after a short silence, said: “It is my custom to be polite to all: Go!”

  The man bowed his head, picked up his knapsack, and went out.

  He took the main street; he walked at random, slinking near the houses like a sad and humiliated man: he did not once turn around. If he had turned, he would have seen the innkeeper of the Croix de Colbas, standing in his doorway with all his guests, and the passers-by gathered about him, speaking excitedly, and pointing him out; and from the looks of fear and distrust which were exchanged, he would have guessed that before long his arrival would be the talk of the whole town.

  He saw nothing of all this: people overwhelmed with trouble do not look behind; they know only too well that misfortune follows them.

  Jean Valjean wanders until he finds another tavern, but word of his criminal history has spread, and he is turned away there too. He asks to sleep in the prison, but is refused; he is driven from a private home at gunpoint, and refused even a glass of water. As night falls, he takes refuge in a small hut, but it proves to be a dog kennel, and when the dog returns, it bites and scratches him. Finally he meets an old woman in front of the church, and she directs him to Bishop Myriel by saying simply, “Knock at that door there.”

  It was about eight o‘clock in the evening: as he did not know the streets, he walked at random.

  So he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary; on passing by the Cathedral square, he shook his fist at the church.

  At the corner of this square stands a printing-office; there were first printed the proclamations of the emperor, and the Imperial Guard to the army, brought from the island of Elba, and dictated by Napoleon himself.

  Exhausted with fatigue, and hoping for nothing better, he lay down on a stone bench in front of this printing-office.

  Just then an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man lying there in the dark and said:

  “What are you doing there, my friend?”

  He replied harshly, and with anger in his tone:

  “You see, my good woman, I am going to sleep.”

  The good woman, who really merited the name, was Madame la Mar quise de R—.

  “Upon the bench?” said she.

  “For nineteen years I have had a wooden mattress,” said the man; “to-night I have a stone one.”

  “You have been a soldier?”

  “Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”

  “Why don’t you go to the inn?”

  “Because I have no money.”

  “Alas!” said Madame de R—, “I have only four sous in my purse.”

  “Give them then.” The man took the four sous, and Madame de R—continued:

  “You cannot find lodging for so little in an inn. But have you tried? You cannot pass the night so. You must be cold and hungry. They should give you lodging for charity.”

  “I have knocked at every door.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Everybody has driven me away.”

  The good woman touched the man’s arm and pointed out to him on the other side of the square, a little low house beside the bishop’s palace.

  “You have knocked at every door?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you knocked at that one there?”

  “No.”

  “Knock there.”

  2

  PRUDENCE COMMENDED TO WISDOM

  THAT EVENING, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D—remained quite late in his room. He was busy with his great work on Duty, which unfortunately remains incomplete.

  At eight o‘clock he was still at work, writing with some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on his knees, when Madame Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from the cupboard near the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and went into the dining-room.

  This dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, and with a door upon the street, as we have said, and a window opening into
the garden.

  Madame Magloire had just finished setting the table.

  While she was arranging the table, she was talking with Mademoiselle Baptistine.

  The lamp was on the table, which was near the fireplace, where a good fire was burning.

  One can readily fancy these two women, both past their sixtieth year: Madame Magloire, small, fat, and quick in her movements; Mademoiselle Baptistine, sweet, thin, fragile, a little taller than her brother, wore a silk puce colour dress, in the style of 1806, which she had bought at that time in Paris, and which still lasted her. To borrow a common mode of expression, which has the merit of saying in a single word what a page would hardly express, Madame Magloire had the air of a peasant, and Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a lady. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, clever, and kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and the upper lip projecting beyond the under one, gave something morose and imperious to her expression. So long as monseigneur was silent, she talked to him without reserve, and with a mingled respect and freedom; but from the time that he opened his mouth as we have seen, she implicitly obeyed like mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Baptistine, however, did not speak. She confined herself to obeying, and endeavouring to please. Even when she was young, she was not pretty; she had large and very prominent blue eyes, and a long pinched nose, but her whole face and person, as we said in the outset, breathed an ineffable goodness. She had been fore-ordained to meekness, but faith, charity, hope, these three virtues which gently warm the heart, had gradually sublimated this meekness into sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb; religion had made her an angel. Poor, sainted woman! gentle, but lost memory.

  Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often related what occurred at the bishop’s house that evening, that many persons are still living who can recall the minutest details.

  Just as the bishop entered, Madame Magloire was speaking with some warmth. She was talking to Mademoiselle upon a familiar subject, and one to which the bishop was quite accustomed. It was a discussion on the means of fastening the front door.

  It seems that while Madame Magloire was out making provision for supper, she had heard the news in sundry places. There was talk that an ill-favoured runaway, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived and was lurking somewhere in the town, and that some unpleasant adventures might befall those who should come home late that night; besides, that the surveillance was very unreliable, as the prefect and the mayor did not like one another, and were hoping to injure each other by provoking untoward events; that it was the part of wise people to be their own police, and to protect their own persons; and that every one ought to be careful to shut up, bolt, and bar his house properly, and secure his door thoroughly.

  Madame Magloire dwelt upon these last words; but the bishop having come from a cold room, seated himself before the fire and began to warm himself, and then, he was thinking of something else. He did not hear a word of what was let fall by Madame Magloire, and she repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine, endeavouring to satisfy Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother, ventured to say timidly:

  “Brother, do you hear what Madame Magloire says?”

  “I heard something of it indistinctly,” said the bishop. Then turning his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and raising towards the old servant his cordial and good-humoured face which the firelight shone upon, he said: “Well, well! what is the matter? Are we in any great danger?”

  Then Madame Magloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerating it a little. It appeared that a gipsy tramp, a sort of dangerous beggar, was in the town. He had gone for lodging to Jacquin Labarre, who had refused to receive him; he had been seen to enter the town by the boulevard Gassendi, and to roam through the street at dusk. A man with a knapsack and a rope, and a terrible-looking face.

  “Indeed!” said the bishop.

  This readiness to question her encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed to indicate that the bishop was really well-nigh alarmed. She continued triumphantly: “Yes, monseigneur; it is true. Something bad will happen to-night in the town: everybody says so. The surveillance is so badly organised (a convenient repetition). To live in this mountainous country, and not even to have street lamps! If one goes out, it is dark as an oven. And I say, monseigneur, and mademoiselle says also—”

  “Me?” interrupted the sister; “I say nothing. Whatever my brother does is well done.”

  Madame Magloire went on as if she had not heard this protest:

  “We say that this house is not safe at all; and if monseigneur will permit me, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and put the old bolts in the door again; they are there, and it will take but a minute. I say we must have bolts, were it only for to-night; for I say that a door which opens by a latch on the outside to the first comer, nothing could be more horrible: and then monseigneur has the habit of always saying ‘Come in,’ even at midnight. But, my goodness! there is no need even to ask leave—”

  At this moment there was a violent knock on the door.

  “Come in!” said the bishop.

  3

  THE HEROISM OF PASSIVE OBEDIENCE

  THE DOOR OPENED.

  It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly and with energy.

  A man entered.

  That man, we know already; it was the traveller we have seen wandering about in search of a lodging.

  He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand, and a rough, bold, tired, and fierce look in his eyes, as seen by the firelight. He was hideous. It was an apparition of ill omen.

  Madame Magloire had not even the strength to scream. She stood trembling with her mouth open.

  Mademoiselle Baptistine turned, saw the man enter, and started up half alarmed; then, slowly turning back again towards the fire, she looked at her brother, and her face resumed its usual calmness and serenity.

  The bishop looked upon the man with a tranquil eye.

  As he was opening his mouth to speak, doubtless to ask the stranger what he wanted, the man, leaning with both hands on his staff, glanced from one to another in turn, and without waiting for the bishop to speak, said in a loud voice:

  “See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and started for Pontarlier, which is my destination; during those four days I have walked from Toulon. To-day I have walked thirty miles. When I reached this place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on account of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the mayor’s office, as was necessary. I went to another inn, they said: ‘Get out!’ It was the same with one as with another; nobody would have me. I went to the prison, and the turnkey would not let me in. I crept into a dog-kennel, the dog bit me, and drove me away as if he had been a man; you would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields to sleep beneath the stars: there were no stars; I thought it would rain, and there was no good God to stop the drops, so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some doorway. There in the square I lay down upon a stone, a good woman showed me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is this place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous which I have earned in the galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very tired—thirty miles on foot, and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”

  “Madame Magloire,” said the bishop, “set another place.”

  The man took three steps, and came near the lamp which stood on the table. “Stop,” he exclaimed; as if he had not been understood, “not that, did you understand me? I am a galley-slave—a convict—I am just from the galleys.” He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. “There is my passport, yellow as you see. That is enough to have me kicked out wherever I go. Will you read it? I know how to read, I do. I learned in the galleys. There is a s
chool there for those who care for it. See, here is what they have put in the passport: ‘Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, native of’—, you don’t care about that, ‘has been nineteen years in the galleys; five years for burglary; fourteen years for having attempted four times to escape. This man is very dangerous.’ There you have it! Everybody has thrust me out; will you take me in? Is this an inn? Can you give me something to eat, and a place to sleep? Have you a stable?”

  “Madame Magloire,” said the bishop, “put some sheets on the bed in the alcove.”

  We have already described the kind of obedience yielded by these two women.

  Madame Magloire went out to fulfil her orders.

  The bishop turned to the man:

  “Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself: we are going to take supper presently, and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”

  At last the man quite understood; his face, the expression of which till then had been gloomy and hard, now expressed stupefaction, doubt, and joy, and became absolutely wonderful. He began to stutter like a madman.

  “True? What! You will keep me? You won’t drive me away? A convict! You call me Monsieur and don’t say ‘Get out, dog!’ as everybody else does. I thought that you would send me away, so I told first off who I am. Oh! The fine woman who sent me here! I shall have a supper! A bed like other people with mattress and sheets—a bed! It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed. You are really willing that I should stay? You are good people! Besides I have money: I will pay well. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Innkeeper, what is your name? I will pay all you say. You are a fine man. You are an innkeeper, an’t you?”

  “I am a priest who lives here,” said the bishop.

  “A priest,” said the man. “Oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask any money? You are the cure, an’t you? the cure of this big church? Yes, that’s it. How stupid I am, I didn’t notice your skull cap.”

  While he was talking, the bishop shut the door, which he had left wide open.

  Madame Magloire brought in an extra place setting.

  “Madame Magloire,” said the bishop, “put this plate as near the fire as you can.” Then turning towards his guest, he added: “The night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”