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

by Victor Hugo

  After putting this question, he stopped; for a moment he hesitated and trembled; but that moment was brief, and he answered with calmness:

  “Well, this man goes to the galleys, it is true, but, what of that? He has stolen! It is useless for me to say he has not stolen, he has stolen! As for me, I remain here, I go on. In ten years I shall have made ten millions; I scatter it over the country, I keep nothing for myself; what is it to me? What I am doing is not for myself. The prosperity of all goes on increasing, industry is quickened and excited, manufactories and workshops are multipled, families, a hundred families, a thousand families, are happy; the country becomes populous; villages spring up where there were only farms, farms spring up where there was nothing; poverty disappears, and with poverty disappear debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder, all vices, all crimes! And this poor mother brings up her child! and the whole country is rich and honest! Ah, yes! How foolish how absurd I was! What was I speaking of in denouncing myself? This demands reflection, surely, and nothing must be precipitate. What! because it would have pleased me to do the grand and the generous! That is melodramatic after all! Because I only thought of myself of myself alone, what! to save from a punishment perhaps a little too severe, but in reality just, nobody knows who, a thief, a scoundrel at any rate. Must an entire region be let go to ruin! must a poor hapless woman perish in the hospital! must a poor little girl perish on the street! like dogs! Ah! that would be abominable! And the mother not even see her child again! and the child hardly have known her mother! And all for this old rascal of an apple-thief who, beyond all doubt, deserves the galleys for something else, if not for this. Fine scruples these, which save an old vagabond who has, after all, only a few years to live, and who will hardly be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children! This poor little Cosette who has no one but me in the world, and who is doubtless at this moment all blue with cold in the hut of these Thénardiers! They too are miserable scoundrels! And I should fail in my duty towards all these poor beings! And I should go away and denounce myself! And I should commit this silly blunder! Consider the worst possible case. Suppose there were a misdeed for me in this, and that my conscience should someday reproach me; the acceptance for the good of others of these reproaches which weigh only upon me, of this misdeed which affects only my own soul, why, that is devotion, that is virtue.”

  He arose and resumed his walk. This time it seemed to him that he was satisfied.

  Suddenly his eyes fell upon the two silver candlesticks on the mantel, which were glistening dimly in the reflection.

  “Stop!” thought he, “all Jean Valjean is contained in them too. They also must be destroyed.”

  He took the two candlesticks.

  There was fire enough to melt them quickly into an unrecognisable ingot.

  He bent over the fire and warmed himself a moment. It felt really comfortable to him. “The pleasant warmth!” said he.

  He stirred the embers with one of the candlesticks.

  A minute more, and they would have been in the fire.

  At that moment, it seemed to him that he heard a voice crying within him: “Jean Valjean!” “Jean Valjean!”

  His hair stood on end; he was like a man who hears some terrible thing.

  “Yes! that is it, finish!” said the voice, “complete what you are doing! destroy these candlesticks! annihilate this memorial! forget the bishop! forget all! ruin this Champmathieu, yes! very well. Applaud yourself! So it is arranged, it is determined, it is done. Behold a man, a greybeard who knows not what he is accused of, who has done nothing, it may be, an innocent man, whose misfortune is caused by your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime who will be taken instead of you; will be condemned, will end his days in abjection and in horror! very well. Be an honoured man yourself. Remain, Monsieur Mayor, remain honourable and honoured, enrich the city, feed the poor, bring up the orphans, live happy, virtuous, and admired, and all this time while you are here in joy and in the light, there shall be a man wearing your red smock, bearing your name in ignominy, and dragging your chain in the galleys! Yes! this is a fine arrangement! Oh, wretch!”

  The sweat rolled off his forehead. He looked upon the candlesticks with haggard eyes. Meanwhile the voice which spoke within him had not ended. It continued:

  “Jean Valjean! there shall be about you many voices which will make great noise, which will speak very loud, and which will bless you; and one only which nobody shall hear, and which will curse you in the darkness. Well, listen, vile sinner! all these blessings shall fall before they reach Heaven; only the curse shall mount into the presence of God!”

  This voice, at first quite feeble, and which was raised from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had become by degrees loud and formidable, and he heard it now at his ear. It seemed to him that it had emerged from himself, and that it was speaking now from without. He thought he heard the last words so distinctly that he looked about the room with a kind of terror.

  “Is there anybody here?” asked he, aloud and in a startled voice.

  Then he continued with a laugh, which was like the laugh of an idiot:

  “What a fool I am! there cannot be anybody here.”

  There was One; but He who was there was not of such as the human eye can see.

  He put the candlesticks on the mantel.

  Alas! all his irresolutions were again upon him. He was no further advanced than when he began.

  So struggled beneath its anguish this unhappy soul. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious being, in whom are aggregated all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity, He also, while the olive trees were shivering in the fierce breath of the Infinite, had long put away from his hand the fearful chalice that appeared before him, dripping with shadow and running over with darkness, in the star-filled depths.

  3 (4)

  FORMS ASSUMED BY SUFFERING DURING SLEEP9

  THE CLOCK struck three. For five hours he had been walking thus, almost without interruption, when he dropped into his chair.

  Exhausted by emotional suffering, Jean Valjean falls asleep and has a nightmare, which he later writes down. He is walking with his long-lost brother in a barren field. They come to an abandoned city filled with motionless, silent men. Without knowing why, he thinks it is “Romainville” (probably through association with the vanished empire of Napoleon, which aped the Roman Empire, and his own industrial empire which conscience forces him to abandon). He realizes he is dead.

  He awoke. He was chilly. A wind as cold as the morning wind made the sashes of the still-open window swing on their hinges. The fire had gone out. The candle was low in the holder. The night was yet dark.

  He arose and went to the window. There were still no stars in the sky.

  From his window he could look into the court-yard and into the street. A harsh, rattling noise that suddenly resounded from the ground made him look down.

  He saw below him two red stars, whose rays danced back and forth grotesquely in the shadow.

  His mind was still half buried in the mist of his reverie: “Yes!” thought he, “there are none in the sky. They are on the earth now.”

  This confusion, however, faded away; a second noise like the first awakened him completely; he looked, and he saw that these two stars were the lamps of a carriage. By the light which they emitted, he could distinguish the form of a carriage. It was a tilbury drawn by a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the sound of the horse’s hoofs upon the pavement.

  “What carriage is that?” said he to himself. “Who is it that comes so early?”

  At that moment there was a low rap at the door of his room.

  He shuddered from head to foot and cried in a terrible voice:

  “Who is there?”

  Some one answered:

  “I, Monsieur Mayor.”

  He recognised the voice of the old woman, his portress.

&
nbsp; “Well,” said he, “what is it?”

  “Monsieur Mayor, it is just five o‘clock.”

  “What is that to me?”

  “Monsieur Mayor, it is the chaise.”

  “What chaise?”

  “The tilbury.”

  “What tilbury?”

  “Did not Monsieur the Mayor order a tilbury?”

  “No,” said he.

  “The driver says that he has come for Monsieur the Mayor.”

  “What driver?”

  “Monsieur Scaufflaire’s driver.”

  “Monsieur Scaufflaire?”

  That name startled him as if a flash had passed before his face.

  “Oh yes!” he said, “Monsieur Scauffiaire!”

  Could the old woman have seen him at that moment she would have been frightened.

  There was a long silence. He examined the flame of the candle with a dazed air, and took some of the melted wax from around the wick and rolled it in his fingers. The old woman was waiting. She ventured, however, to speak again:

  “Monsieur Mayor, what shall I say?”

  “Say that it is fine, and I am coming down.”

  4 (5)

  OBSTACLES10

  THE POSTAL SERVICE from Arras to M—sur M—was still performed at this time by the little mail waggons dating from the empire. These mail waggons were two-wheeled cabriolets lined with buckskin, hung upon jointed springs, and having but two seats, one for the driver, the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed with those long threatening hubs which keep other vehicles at a distance, and which are still seen upon the roads of Germany. The letters were carried in a huge oblong box placed behind the cabriolet and forming a part of it. This box was painted black and the cabriolet yellow.

  These vehicles, which nothing resembles today, were indescribably misshapen and clumsy, and when they were seen from a distance crawling along some road in the horizon, they were like those insects called, I think, termites, which with a slender body draw a great train behind. They went, however, very fast. The mail that left Arras every night at one o‘clock, after the passing of the dispatches from Paris, arrived at M—sur M—a little before five in the morning.

  That night the mail that came down into M—sur M—by the road from Hesdin, at the turn of a street just as it was entering the city, clipped a little tilbury drawn by a white horse, which was going in the opposite direction, and in which there was only one person, a man wrapped in a cloak. The wheel of the tilbury received a very severe blow. The courier cried out to the man to stop, but the traveller did not listen and kept on his way at a rapid trot.

  “There is a man in a devilish hurry!” said the courier.

  The man who was in such a hurry was he whom we have seen struggling in such pitiable convulsions.

  Where was he going? He could not have said. Why was he in haste? He did not know. He went forward as if randomly. Whither? To Arras, doubtless; but perhaps he was going elsewhere also. At moments he felt this, and he shuddered. He plunged into that darkness as into a yawning gulf. Something pushed him, something drew him on. What was happening within him, no one could describe, but all will understand. What man has not entered, at least once in his life, into this dark cavern of the unknown?

  But he had resolved upon nothing, decided nothing, determined nothing, done nothing. None of the acts of his conscience had been final. He was more than ever as if at the first moment.

  Why was he going to Arras?

  He repeated what he had already said to himself when he engaged the cabriolet of Scaufflaire, that, whatever might be the result, there could be no objection to seeing with his own eyes, and judging of the circumstances for himself; that it was even prudent, that he ought to know what took place; that he could decide nothing without having observed and scrutinised; that in the distance every little thing seems a mountain; that after all, when he should have seen this Champmathieu, some wretch probably, his conscience would be very much reconciled to letting him go to the galleys in his place; that it was true that Javert would be there, and Brevet, Chenildieu, Cochepaille, former convicts who had known him; but surely they would not recognise him; bah! what an idea! that Javert was a hundred miles off the track; that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed upon this Champmathieu, and that nothing is so stubborn as suppositions and conjectures; that there was, therefore, no danger.

  That it was no doubt a dark hour, but that he should get through it; that after all he held his destiny, evil as it might be, in his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to that thought.

  In reality, to tell the truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras.

  Still he was on the way.

  Although absorbed in thought, he whipped up his horse, which trotted away at that regular and sure full trot that gets over seven miles an hour.

  Progressively as the tilbury went forward, he felt something within him which shrank back.

  At daybreak he was in the open country, the city of M—sur M—was a long way behind. He saw the horizon growing lighter; he beheld, without seeing them, all the frozen figures of a winter dawn pass before his eyes. Morning as well as evening has its spectres. He did not see them, but, unawares, and by a kind of insight which was almost physical, those black outlines of trees and hills added to the tumultuous state of his soul an indescribable gloom and apprehension.

  Every time he passed one of the isolated houses that stood here and there by the side of the road, he said to himself: “But yet, there are people there who are sleeping!”

  The trotting of the horse, the rattling of the harness, the wheels upon the pavement, made a gentle, monotonous sound. These things are charming when one is joyful, and mournful when one is sad.

  It was broad day when he arrived at Hesdin. He stopped before an inn to let his horse breathe and to have some oats given him.

  This horse was, as Scaufflaire had said, of that small breed of the Boulonnais which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck, but which has an open chest, a large rump, fine and slender legs, and a firm foot, a homely race, but strong and sound. The excellent animal had made twelve miles in two hours, without breaking a sweat.

  He did not get out of the tilbury. The stable-boy who brought the oats stooped down suddenly and examined the left wheel.

  “Have you gone far so?” said the man.

  He answered, almost without breaking up his train of thought:

  “Why?”

  “Have you come far?” said the boy.

  “Twelve miles from here.”

  “Ah!”

  “Why do you say: ah?”

  The boy stooped down again, was silent a moment, with his eye fixed on the wheel, then he rose up saying:

  “To think that this wheel has just come twelve miles, that is possible, but it is very sure that it won’t go a half mile now.”

  He sprang down from the tilbury.

  “What are you saying, my friend?”

  “I say that it is a miracle that you have come twelve miles without tumbling, you and your horse, into some ditch on the way. Look for yourself.”

  The wheel in fact was badly damaged. The collision with the mail waggon had broken two spokes and loosened the hub so that the nut no longer held.

  “My friend,” said he to the stable-boy, “is there a wheelwright here?”

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  “Do me the favour to go for him.”

  “There he is, close by. Hallo, Master Bourgaillard!”

  Master Bourgaillard the wheelwright was on his own door-step. He came and examined the wheel, and made such a grimace as a surgeon makes at the sight of a broken leg.

  “Can you mend that wheel on the spot?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “When can I start again?”

  “To-morrow.”

  “To-morrow!”

  “It is a good day’s work. Is monsieur in a great hurry?”

  “A very great hurry. I must leave in an
hour at the latest.”

  “Impossible, monsieur.”

  “I will pay whatever you like.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Well! in two hours.”

  “Impossible to-day. There are two spokes and a hub to be repaired. Monsieur cannot start again before to-morrow.”

  He felt an immense joy.

  It was evident that Providence was involved. It was Providence that had broken the wheel of the tilbury and stopped him on his way. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had made all possible efforts to continue his journey; he had faithfully and scrupulously exhausted every means, he had shrunk neither before the season, nor from fatigue, nor from expense; he had nothing for which to reproach himself. If he went no further, it no longer concerned him. It was now not his fault; it was, not the act of his conscience, but the act of Providence.ap