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JEAN VALJEAN
Victor Hugo
Early in the month of October 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France.
It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of a more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, which, burned and tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped his stockingless feet.
No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless, he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the country-side) and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove.
"What is it this morning?"
"Food and lodging."
"Nothing easier—by paying for it."
"I have money, I can pay."
"In that case, we are at your service."
"When will dinner be ready?"
"Immediately."
While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the margin, and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a few moments, he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it attentively, remained silent a moment, and then took a step in the direction of the traveler.
"I cannot receive you, sir!"
"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money—I can pay."
"You have money, but I have no room."
"Well, put me in the stable."
"The horses occupy all the space there."
"In the loft then—But come, we can settle that after dinner."
"I cannot give you your dinner."
"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat."
"Well, I have nothing."
"Nothing—and all that?"
"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,—twelve of them."
"There's enough food there for twenty."
"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance."
"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain."
"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are—you are Jean Valjean—Go!"
The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack, and took his departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door.
"Come in—"
The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he cried out—"See here—My name is Jean Valjean. I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said "Be gone." I went to prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should remain?"
"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place."
"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave—a convict—Here's my yellow passport, read that, but no—I can read, I learned in the galleys. [Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He—is—a very—dangerous—man'—There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?"
"Madame Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove—Now sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your bed will be prepared while we are supping."
"What, you call me sir—You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,—what is your name?"
"I am only an old priest who lives here."
"Then you will not demand my money from me?"
"No—keep your money. How much have you?"
"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."
"How long did it take you to earn that?"
"Nineteen years."
"Nineteen years! Madame Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."
"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am."
"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me."
"What! You knew what I was called?"
"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"
"Oh—stop! I—was very hungry when I came in here, but now—my—my hunger is all gone. Oh—you are—so—good—to me."
"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place—but listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace and goodwill, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us you must drink a cup of warm milk."
"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do you know that I am not a murderer?"
"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night."
Finish