by Victor Hugo
Meanwhile the hour, the place, the darkness, the preoccupation of Jean Valjean, his singular actions, his going to and fro, all this began to disturb Cosette. Any other child would have uttered loud cries long before. She contented herself with pulling Jean Valjean by the skirt of his coat. The sound of the approaching patrol was constantly becoming more and more distinct.
“Father,” said she, in a whisper, “I am afraid. Who is it that is coming?”
“Hush!” answered the unhappy man, “it is the Thénardiess.”
Cosette shuddered. He added:
“Don’t say a word; I’ll take care of her. If you cry, if you make any noise, the Thénardiess will hear you. She is coming to catch you.”
Then, without any haste, but without doing anything a second time, with a firm and rapid decisiveness, so much the more remarkable at such a moment when the patrol and Javert might come upon him at any instant, he took off his cravat, passed it around Cosette’s body under the arms, taking care that it should not hurt the child, attached this cravat to an end of the rope by means of the knot which seamen call a swallow-knot, took the other end of the rope in his teeth, took off his shoes and stockings and threw them over the wall, climbed upon the pile of masonry and began to raise himself in the angle of the wall and the gable with as much solidity and certainty as if he had the rounds of a ladder under his heels and his elbows. Half a minute had not passed before he was on his knees on the wall.
Cosette watched him, stupefied, without saying a word. Jean Valjean’s charge and the name of the Thénardiess had made her dumb.
All at once, she heard Jean Valjean’s voice calling to her in a low whisper:
“Put your back against the wall.”
She obeyed.
“Don’t speak, and don’t be afraid,” added Jean Valjean.
And she felt herself lifted from the ground.
Before she had time to think where she was she was at the top of the wall.
Jean Valjean seized her, put her on his back, took her two little hands in his left hand, lay down flat and crawled along the top of the wall as far as the cut-off comer. As he had supposed, there was a building there, the roof of which sloped from the top of the wooden casing we have mentioned very nearly to the ground, with a gentle inclination, and just reaching to the lime-tree.
A fortunate circumstance, for the wall was much higher on this side than on the street. Jean Valjean saw the ground beneath him at a great depth.
He had just reached the inclined plane of the roof, and had not yet left the crest of the wall, when a violent uproar proclaimed the arrival of the patrol. He heard the thundering voice of Javert:
“Search the cul-de-sac! The Rue Droit Mur is guarded, the Petite Rue Picpus also. I’ll bet he’s in the cul-de-sac.”
The soldiers rushed into the Cul-de-sac Genrot.
Jean Valjean slid down the roof, keeping hold of Cosette, reached the lime-tree, and jumped to the ground. Whether from terror, or from courage, Cosette had not uttered a whisper. Her hands were a little scraped.
6
A MYSTERY BEGINS
JEAN VALJEAN found himself in a sort of garden, very large and of a singular appearance; one of those gloomy gardens which seem made to be seen in the winter and at night. This garden was oblong, with a row of tall poplars at the far end, some tall forest trees in the corners, and a clear space in the centre, where stood a very large isolated tree, then a few fruit trees, contorted and shaggy, like big bushes, some vegetable plots, a melon patch the glass covers of which shone in the moonlight, and an old well. There were here and there stone benches which seemed black with moss. The walks were bordered with sorry little shrubs perfectly straight. The grass covered half of them, and a green moss covered the rest.
Jean Valjean had on one side the building, down the roof of which he had come, a wood-pile, and behind the wood, against the wall, a stone statue, the mutilated face of which was now nothing but a shapeless mask which was seen dimly through the darkness.
The building was in ruins, but some unfurnished rooms could be distinguished in it, one of which was cluttered, and appeared to serve as a shed.
Jean Valjean’s first care had been to find his shoes, and put them on; then he entered the shed with Cosette. A man trying to escape never thinks himself sufficiently concealed. The child, thinking constantly of the Thénardiess, shared his instinct, and cowered down as low as she could.
Cosette trembled, and pressed closely to his side. They heard the tumultuous clamour of the patrol ransacking the cul-de-sac and the street, the clatter of their muskets against the stones, the calls of Javert to the watchmen he had stationed, and his curses mingled with words which they could not distinguish.
At the end of a quarter of an hour it seemed as though this stormy rumbling began to recede. Jean Valjean did not breathe.
He had placed his hand gently upon Cosette’s mouth.
But the solitude about him was so strangely calm that that frightful din, so furious and so near, did not even cast over it a shadow of disturbance. It seemed as if these walls were built of the deaf stones spoken of in Scripture.
Suddenly, in the midst of this deep calm, a new sound arose; a celestial, divine, ineffable sound, as ravishing as the other was horrible. It was a hymn which came forth from the darkness, a bewildering mingling of prayer and harmony in the obscure and fearful silence of the night; voices of women, but voices with the pure accents of virgins, and artless accents of children; those voices which are not of earth, and which resemble those that the newborn still hear, and the dying hear already. This song came from the gloomy building which overlooked the garden. At the moment when the uproar of the demons receded, one would have said, it was a choir of angels approaching in the darkness.
Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees.
They knew not what it was; they knew not where they were; but they both felt, the man and the child, the penitent and the innocent, that they ought to be on their knees.
These voices had this strange effect; they did not prevent the building from appearing deserted. It was like a supernatural song in an uninhabited dwelling.
While these voices were singing Jean Valjean was entirely absorbed in them. He no longer saw the night, he saw a blue sky. He seemed to feel the spreading of these wings which we all have within us.
The chant ceased. Perhaps it had lasted a long time. Jean Valjean could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.
All had again relapsed into silence. There was nothing more in the street, nothing more in the garden. That which threatened, that which reassured, all had vanished. The wind rattled the dry grass on the top of the wall, which made a low, soft, and mournful noise.
7
THE MYSTERY CONTINUED
THE COLD NIGHT WIND had risen, which indicated that it must be between one and two o‘clock in the morning. Poor Cosette did not speak. As she had sat down at his side and leaned her head on him, Jean Valjean thought that she was asleep. He bent over and looked at her. Her eyes were wide open, and she had a thoughtful look that gave Jean Valjean pain.
She was still trembling.
“Are you sleepy?” said Jean Valjean.
“I am very cold,” she answered.
A moment after she added:
“Is she there yet?”
“Who?” said Jean Valjean.
“Madame Thénardier.”
Jean Valjean had already forgotten the means he had employed to secure Cosette’s silence.
“Oh!” said he. “She has gone. Don’t be afraid any longer.”
The child sighed as if a weight were lifted from her breast.
The ground was damp, the shed open on all sides, the wind freshened every moment. The goodman took off his coat and wrapped Cosette in it.
“Are you warmer, so?”
“Oh! yes, father!”
“Well, wait here a moment for me. I shall soon be back.”
He went out of the ruin, an
d along by the large building, in search of some better shelter. He found doors, but they were all closed. All the windows of the ground-floor were barred.
Where was he? who would ever have imagined anything equal to this species of sepulchre in the midst of Paris? what was this strange house? A building full of nocturnal mystery, calling to souls in the shade with the voice of angels, and, when they came, abruptly presenting to them this frightful vision—promising to open the radiant gate of Heaven and opening the horrible door of the tomb. And that was in fact a building, a house which had its number in a street? It was not a dream? He had to touch the walls to believe it.
The cold, the anxiety, the agitation, the anguish of the night, were giving him a veritable fever, and all his ideas were jostling in his brain.
He went to Cosette. She was sleeping.
8
THE MYSTERY REDOUBLES
THE CHILD had laid her head upon a stone and gone to sleep.
He sat down near her and looked at her. Little by little, as he beheld her, he grew calm, and regained possession of his clearness of mind.
He plainly perceived this truth, the basis of his life henceforth, that so long as she should be alive, so long as he should have her with him, he should need nothing except for her, and fear nothing save on her account. He did not even realise that he was very cold, having taken off his coat to cover her.
Meanwhile, through the reverie into which he had fallen, he had heard for some time a singular noise. It sounded like a little bell that some one was shaking. This noise was in the garden. It was heard distinctly though feebly. It resembled the dimly heard tinkling of cow-bells in the pastures at night.
This noise made Jean Valjean turn.
He looked, and saw that there was some one in the garden.
Something which resembled a man was walking among the glass covers of the melon patch, rising up, stooping down, stopping, with a regular motion, as if he were drawing or stretching something upon the ground. This being appeared to limp.
Jean Valjean shuddered with the continual tremor of the outcast. To them everything is hostile and suspicious. They distrust the day because it helps to reveal them, and the night because it helps others to catch them. A moment ago he was shuddering because the garden was empty, now he shuddered because there was some one in it.
He fell again from chimerical terrors into real terrors. He said to himself that perhaps Javert and his spies had not gone away, that they had doubtless left somebody on the watch in the street; that, if this man should discover him in the garden, he would cry thief, and would deliver him up. He took the sleeping Cosette gently in his arms and carried her into the furthest corner of the shed behind a heap of old furniture that was out of use. Cosette did not stir.
From there he watched the strange motions of the man in the melon patch. It seemed very singular, but the sound of the bell followed every movement of the man. When the man approached, the sound approached; when he moved away, the sound moved away; if he made some sudden motion, a trill accompanied the motion; when he stopped, the noise ceased. It seemed evident that the bell was fastened to this man; but then what could that mean? what was this man to whom a bell was hung as to a ram or a cow?
While he was resolving these questions, he touched Cosette’s hands. They were icy.
“Oh! God!” said he.
He called to her in a low voice:
“Cosette!”
She did not open her eyes.
He shook her smartly.
She did not wake.
“Could she be dead?” said he, and he sprang up, shuddering from head to foot.
The most frightful thoughts rushed through his mind in confusion. There are moments when hideous suppositions besiege us like a throng of furies and violently force the portals of our brain. When those whom we love are in danger, our solicitude invents all sorts of crazy ideas. He remembered that sleep may be fatal in the open air in a cold night.
Cosette was pallid; she had fallen prostrate on the ground at his feet, making no sign.
He listened for her breathing; she was breathing; but with a respiration that appeared feeble and about to stop.
How should he get her warm again? how rouse her? All else was banished from his thoughts. He rushed desperately out of the ruin.
It was absolutely necessary that in less than a quarter of an hour Cosette should be in bed and before a fire.
9
THE MAN WITH THE BELL
HE WALKED straight to the man whom he saw in the garden. He had taken in his hand the roll of money which was in his vest-pocket.
This man had his head down, and did not see him coming. A few strides, Jean Valjean was at his side.
Jean Valjean approached him, exclaiming:
“A hundred francs!”
The man started and raised his eyes.
“A hundred francs for you,” continued Jean Valjean, “if you will give me refuge to-night.”
The moon shone full in Jean Valjean’s bewildered face.
“What, it is you, Father Madeleine!” said the man.
This name, thus pronounced, at this dark hour, in this unknown place, by this unknown man, made Jean Valjean start back.
He was ready for anything but that. The speaker was an old man, bent and lame, dressed much like a peasant, who had on his left knee a leather knee-cap from which hung a rather large bell. His face was in the shade, and could not be distinguished.
Meanwhile the goodman had taken off his cap, and was exclaiming, tremulously:
“Ah! my God! how did you come here, Father Madeleine? How did you get in, O Lord? Did you fall from the sky? There is no doubt, if you ever do fall, you will fall from there. And what has happened to you? You have no cravat, you have no hat, you have no coat? Do you know that you would have frightened anybody who did not know you? No coat? Merciful heavens! are the saints all crazy now? But how did you get in?”
One word did not wait for another. The old man spoke with a rustic volubility in which there was nothing disquieting. All this was said with a mixture of astonishment, and frank good nature.
“Who are you? and what is this house!” asked Jean Valjean.
“Oh! indeed, that is good now,” exclaimed the old man. “I am the one you got the place for here, and this house is the one you got me the place in. What! you don’t remember me?”
“No,” said Jean Valjean. “And how does it happen that you know me?”
“You saved my life,” said the man.
He turned, a ray of the moon lighted up his side face, and Jean Valjean recognised old Fauchelevent.
“Ah!” said Jean Valjean, “it is you? yes, I remember you.”
“That is very fortunate!” said the old man, in a reproachful tone.
“And what are you doing here?” added Jean Valjean.
“Oh! I am covering my melons.”
Old Fauchelevent had in his hand, indeed, at the moment when Jean Valjean accosted him, the end of a piece of awning which he was stretching out over the melon patch. He had already spread out several in this way during the hour he had been in the garden. It was this work which made him go through the peculiar motions observed by Jean Valjean from the shed.
He continued:
“I said to myself: the moon is bright, there is going to be a frost. Suppose I put their jackets on my melons? And,” added he, looking at Jean Valjean, with a loud laugh, “you would have done well to do as much for yourself? but how did you come here?”
Jean Valjean, finding that he was known by this man, at least under his name of Madeleine, went no further with his precautions. He multiplied questions. Oddly enough their parts seemed reversed. It was he, the intruder, who put questions.
“And what is this bell you have on your knee?”
“That!” answered Fauchelevent, “that is so that they may keep away from me.”
“How! keep away from you?”
Old Fauchelevent winked in an indescribable manner.
“Ah! Bless me! there’s nothing but women in this house; plenty of young girls. It seems that I am dangerous to meet. The bell warns them. When I come they go away.”
“What is this house?”
“Why, you know very well.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why, you got me this place here as gardener.”
“Answer me as if I didn’t know.”
“Well, it is the Convent of the Petit Picpus, then.”
Jean Valjean remembered. Chance, that is to say, Providence, had thrown him precisely into this convent of the Quartier Saint Antoine, to which old Fauchelevent, crippled by his fall from his cart, had been admitted, upon his recommendation, two years before. He repeated as if he were talking to himself:
“The Convent of the Petit Picpus!”
“But now, really,” resumed Fauchelevent, “how the deuce did you manage to get in, you, Father Madeleine? It is no use for you to be a saint, you are a man; and no men come in here.”
“But you are here.”
“There is none but me.”
“But,” resumed Jean Valjean, “I must stay here.”
“Oh! my God,” exclaimed Fauchelevent.
Jean Valjean approached the old man, and said to him in a grave voice:
“Father Fauchelevent, I saved your life.”
“I was first to remember it,” answered Fauchelevent.
“Well, you can now do for me what I once did for you.”
Fauchelevent grasped in his old wrinkled and trembling hands the robust hands of Jean Valjean, and it was some seconds before he could speak; at last he exclaimed:
“Oh! that would be a blessing of God if I could do something for you, in return for that! I save your life! Monsieur Mayor, the old man is at your disposal.”
A wonderful joy had, as it were, transfigured the old gardener. A radiance seemed to shine forth from his face.bl
“What do you want me to do?” he added.
“I will explain. You have a room?”
