You, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me. You will say that I might have handed in my resignation, but that does not suffice. Handing in one’s resignation is honorable. I have failed in my duty; I ought to be punished; I must be turned out. Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly. Be so to-day, with justice.


Come, now! Why? What nonsense is this? What is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of towards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs with regard to me? You accuse yourself; you wish to be superseded—


Turned out,


Turned out; so it be, then. That is well. I do not understand.


You shall understand, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman, I was furious, and I informed against you.


Informed against me!


At the Prefecture of Police in Paris.


As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police?


As an ex-convict. I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time; a resemblance; inquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverolles; the strength of your loins; the adventure with old Fauchelevant; your skill in marksmanship; your leg, which you drag a little;—I hardly know what all,—absurdities! But, at all events, I took you for a certain Jean Valjean.


A certain—What did you say the name was?


Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing twenty years ago, when I was adjutant-guard of convicts at Toulon. On leaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop; then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence, on a public highway on the person of a little Savoyard. He disappeared eight years ago, no one knows how, and he has been sought, I fancied. In short, I did this thing! Wrath impelled me; I denounced you at the Prefecture!


And what reply did you receive?


That I was mad.


Well?


Well, they were right.


It is lucky that you recognize the fact.


I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found.


Ah!


This is the way it is, Mr. Mayor. It seems that there was in the neighborhood near Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher an old fellow who was called Father Champmathieu. He was a very wretched creature. No one paid any attention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on. Lately, last autumn, Father Champmathieu was arrested for the theft of some cider apples from—Well, no matter, a theft had been committed, a wall scaled, branches of trees broken. My Champmathieu was arrested. He still had the branch of apple-tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up. Up to this point it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is where Providence intervened. “The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it convenient to transfer Champmathieu to Arras, where the departmental prison is situated. In this prison at Arras there is an ex-convict named Brevet, who is detained for I know not what, and who has been appointed turnkey of the house, because of good behavior. Mr. Mayor, no sooner had Champmathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims: ‘Eh! Why, I know that man! He is a fagot!4 Take a good look at me, my good man! You are Jean Valjean!’ ‘Jean Valjean! who’s Jean Valjean?’ Champmathieu feigns astonishment. ‘Don’t play the innocent dodge,’ says Brevet. ‘You are Jean Valjean! You have been in the galleys of Toulon; it was twenty years ago; we were there together.’ Champmathieu denies it. Parbleu! You understand. The case is investigated. The thing was well ventilated for me. This is what they discovered: This Champmathieu had been, thirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at Faverolles. There all trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who was a laundress; but that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles. Another fact. This Valjean’s Christian name was Jean, and his mother’s surname was Mathieu. What more natural to suppose than that, on emerging from the galleys, he should have taken his mother’s name for the purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean Mathieu? He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns Jean into Chan—he is called Chan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition, and behold him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me, do you not? Inquiries were made at Faverolles. The family of Jean Valjean is no longer there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among those classes a family often disappears. Search was made, and nothing was found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as the beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer any one at Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at Toulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean; they are Cochepaille and Chenildieu, and are sentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the pretended Champmathieu. They do not hesitate; he is Jean Valjean for them as well as for Brevet. The same age,—he is fifty-four,—the same height, the same air, the same man; in short, it is he. It was precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the Prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason, and that Jean Valjean is at Arras, in the power of the authorities. You can imagine whether this surprised me, when I thought that I had that same Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge; he sends for me; Champmathieu is conducted to me—


Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry; but that man is Jean Valjean. I recognized him also.


You are sure?


O! Sure! And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor.


And what does this man say?


Ah! Indeed, Mr. Mayor, it’s a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a branch, to purloin apples, is a mischievous trick in a child; for a man it is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a crime. Robbing and housebreaking—it is all there. It is no longer a question of correctional police; it is a matter for the Court of Assizes. It is no longer a matter of a few days in prison; it is the galleys for life. And then, there is the affair with the little Savoyard, who will return, I hope. The deuce! there is plenty to dispute in the matter, is there not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly dog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt that things were getting hot for him; he would struggle, he would cry out—the kettle sings before the fire; he would not be Jean Valjean, et cetera. But he has not the appearance of understanding; he says, ‘I am Champmathieu, and I won’t depart from that!’ He has an astonished air, he pretends to be stupid; it is far better. Oh! the rogue is clever! But it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been recognized by four persons; the old scamp will be condemned. The case has been taken to the Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my testimony. I have been summoned.


That will do, Javert. In truth, all these details interest me but little. We are wasting our time, and we have pressing business on hand. Javert, you will betake yourself at once to the house of the woman Buseaupied, who sells herbs at the corner of the Rue Saint-Saulve. You will tell her that she must enter her complaint against carter Pierre Chesnelong. The man is a brute, who came near crushing this woman and her child. He must be punished. You will then go to M. Charcellay, Rue Montre-de-Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the adjoining house which discharges rain-water on his premises, and is undermining the foundations of his house. After that, you will verify the infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in the Rue Guibourg, at Widow Doris’s, and Rue du Garraud-Blanc, at Madame Renée le Bossé’s, and you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a great deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that you were going to Arras on that matter in a week or ten days?


Sooner than that, Mr. Mayor.


On what day, then?


Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case was to be tried to-morrow, and that I am to set out by diligence to-night.


And how long will the case last?


One day, at the most. The judgment will be pronounced to-morrow evening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is certain; I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken.


That is well,


Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,


What is it now?


Mr. Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you.


What is it?


That I must be dismissed.


Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me. Javert, you deserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish you to retain your post.


Mr. Mayor, I cannot grant you that.


I repeat, that the matter concerns me.


So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is the way I reason: I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is our right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed above ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you as a convict, you, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate! That is serious, very serious. I have insulted authority in your person, I, an agent of the authorities! If one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I should have declared him unworthy of the service, and have expelled him. Well? Stop, Mr. Mayor; one word more. I have often been severe in the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have done would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others? No! What! I should be good for nothing but to chastise others, and not myself! Why, I should be a blackguard! Those who say, ‘That blackguard of a Javert!’ would be in the right. Mr. Mayor, I do not desire that you should treat me kindly; your kindness roused sufficient bad blood in me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a citizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness. That is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God! it is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just. Come! if you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to you, not I! You would have seen! Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself, ‘If you flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest at your ease!’ I have flinched, I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse! Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled! That is well. I have arms. I will till the soil; it makes no difference to me. Mr. Mayor, the good of the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of Inspector Javert.


We shall see,


Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his hand to a police spy. A police spy, yes; from the moment when I have misused the police. I am no more than a police spy. Mr. Mayor. I shall continue to serve until I am superseded.


I only live when Monsieur le Maire is here. And Cosette?


Soon.


She is losing ground fast.


Master Scaufflaire, have you a good horse?


Mr. Mayor, all my horses are good. What do you mean by a good horse?


I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day.


The deuce! Twenty leagues!


Yes.


Hitched to a cabriolet?


And how long can he rest at the end of his journey?


He must be able to set out again on the next day if necessary.


To traverse the same road?


The deuce! the deuce! And it is twenty leagues?


You see, total, nineteen and a half; as well say twenty leagues.


Mr. Mayor. I have just what you want. My little white horse—you may have seen him pass occasionally; he is a small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared, he kicked, he laid everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage. That is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl; he goes like the wind. Ah! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas to be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition. ‘Draw? Yes. Carry? No.’ We must suppose that is what he said to himself.


And he will accomplish the trip?


Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours. But here are the conditions.


State them.


In the first place, you will give him half an hour’s breathing spell midway of the road; he will eat; and some one must be by while he is eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats; for I have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable men than eaten by the horses.


Some one will be by.


In the second place—is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire?


Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive?


Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage, in order not to overload the horse?


Agreed.


But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen.


That is understood.


I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for also—not a farthing less; and the beast’s food to be at Monsieur le Maire’s expense.


Here is the pay for two days in advance.


Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little tilbury that I own.


I consent to that.


It is light, but it has no cover.


That makes no difference to me.


Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter? That it is very cold? That it may rain?


The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to-morrow morning at half-past four o’clock.


Of course, Monsieur le Maire. But this is what I am thinking of now: Monsieur le Maire has not told me where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going?


Are your horse’s forelegs good?


Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down hill. Are there many descends between here and the place whither you are going?


Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o’clock to-morrow morning. Monsieur Scaufflaire, at what sum do you estimate the value of the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me,—the one bearing the other?


The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire,


So be it. Well?


Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me?


No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and cabriolet?


Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire.


Here it is.


Where the devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?


He is going to Paris,


I don’t believe it,


I have found out.


What?


It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol, eight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras.


Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air.


Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that Champmathieu be? So he resembles me! Is it possible? When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far from suspecting anything! What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done?


Well,


that, at this moment, he had a substitute; that it appeared that a certain Champmathieu had that ill luck, and that, as regards himself, being present in the galleys in the person of that Champmathieu, present in society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the head of that Champmathieu this stone of infamy which, like the stone of the sepulchre, falls once, never to rise again. Well, what then? what am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe; all is over. I had but one partly open door through which my past might invade my life, and behold that door is walled up forever! That Javert, who has been annoying me so long; that terrible instinct which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me—good God! and which followed me everywhere; that frightful hunting-dog, always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail: henceforth he is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he has his Jean Valjean. Who knows? it is even probable that he will wish to leave town! And all this has been brought about without any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it! Ah! but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honor, people would think, to see me, that some catastrophe had happened to me! After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not my fault in the least: it is Providence which has done it all; it is because it wishes it so to be, evidently. Have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now? Why should I meddle? It does not concern me; what! I am not satisfied: but what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream of my nights, the object of my prayers to Heaven,—security,—I have now attained; it is God who wills it; I can do nothing against the will of God, and why does God will it? In order that I may continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at last, that a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone, and to that virtue to which I have returned. Really, I do not understand why I was afraid, a little while ago, to enter the house of that good curé, and to ask his advice; this is evidently what he would have said to me: It is settled; let things take their course; let the good God do as he likes! Come, let us think no more about it; my resolve is taken!


Think!


March on!


settled resolve.


to let things take their course, to let the good God do as he liked,


My object is attained!


let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us save this man.


Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself!


If this man has, indeed, stolen a few apples, that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys. And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of Jean Valjean overwhelms him, and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not the attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict.


Ah! yes. I had resolved to inform against myself. Hold! and what about that poor woman?


Ah! but I have hitherto considered no one but myself; it is proper for me to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an infamous and venerable convict; it is I, it is always I and nothing but I: but, good God! all this is egotism; these are diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a little about others? The highest holiness is to think of others; come, let us examine the matter. The I excepted, the I effaced, the I forgotten, what would be the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested; this Champmathieu is released; I am put back in the galleys; that is well—and what then? What is going on here? Ah! here is a country, a town, here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women, aged grandsires, children, poor people! All this I have created; all these I provide with their living; everywhere where there is a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the pot; I have created ease, circulation, credit; before me there was nothing; I have elevated, vivified, informed with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole country-side; lacking me, the soul is lacking; I take myself off, everything dies: and this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite of her fall; the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been! And that child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her mother; do I not also owe something to this woman, in reparation for the evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies; the child becomes what it can; that is what will take place, if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself? come, let us see how it will be if I do not denounce myself.


Well, this man is going to the galleys; it is true, but what the deuce! he has stolen! There is no use in my saying that he has not been guilty of theft, for he has! I remain here; I go on: in ten years I shall have made ten millions; I scatter them over the country; I have nothing of my own; what is that to me? It is not for myself that I am doing it; the prosperity of all goes on augmenting; industries are aroused and animated; factories and shops are multiplied; families, a hundred families, a thousand families, are happy; the district becomes populated; villages spring up where there were only farms before; farms rise where there was nothing; wretchedness disappears, and with wretchedness debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder; all vices disappear, all crimes: and this poor mother rears her child; and behold a whole country rich and honest! Ah! I was a fool! I was absurd! what was that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about anything. What! because it would have pleased me to play the grand and generous; this is melodrama, after all; because I should have thought of no one but myself, the idea! for the sake of saving from a punishment, a trifle exaggerated, perhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom, a thief, a good-for-nothing, evidently, a whole country-side must perish! a poor woman must die in the hospital! a poor little girl must die in the street! like dogs; ah, this is abominable! And without the mother even having seen her child once more, almost without the child’s having known her mother; and all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple-thief who, most assuredly, has deserved the galleys for something else, if not for that; fine scruples, indeed, which save a guilty man and sacrifice the innocent, which save an old vagabond who has only a few years to live at most, and who will not 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 in the world but me, and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment in the den of those Thénardiers; those peoples are rascals; and I was going to neglect my duty towards all these poor creatures; and I was going off to denounce myself; and I was about to commit that unspeakable folly! Let us put it at the worst: suppose that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it some day, to accept, for the good of others, these reproaches which weigh only on myself; this evil action which compromises my soul alone; in that lies self-sacrifice; in that alone there is virtue.


Yes,


this is right; I am on the right road; I have the solution; I must end by holding fast to something; my resolve is taken; let things take their course; let us no longer vacillate; let us no longer hang back; this is for the interest of all, not for my own; I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean! I am no longer he; I do not know that man; I no longer know anything; it turns out that some one is Jean Valjean at the present moment; let him look out for himself; that does not concern me; it is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night; if it halts and descends on a head, so much the worse for that head.


Hold!


it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man now.


Come!


I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the resolution which I have once adopted; there are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean; they must be broken; in this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear witness against me; it is settled; all these things must disappear.


Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!


Yes, that’s it! finish!


Complete what you are about! Destroy these candlesticks! Annihilate this souvenir! Forget the Bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieu, do! That is right! Applaud yourself! So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed: here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has, perhaps, done nothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and horror. That is good! Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire; remain honorable and honored; enrich the town; nourish the indigent; rear the orphan; live happy, virtuous, and admired; and, during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch!


Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices, which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark. Well! listen, infamous man! All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God.


Is there any one here?


How stupid I am! There can be no one!


The Dream I had that Night.


I was in a plain; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night. I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the brother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly remember. We were conversing and we met some passers-by. We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window. There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.


Let us take to the hollow road.


There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke: I perceived that my brother was no longer with me.


I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be Romainville. (Why Romainville?)5


The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street. Behind the angle formed by the two streets, a man was standing erect against the wall. I said to this man:—


What country is this? Where am I?


The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, ‘Whose house is this? Where am I?’ The man replied not.


The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man, ‘What garden is this? Where am I?’ The man did not answer.


I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass.


I left the town and began to ramble about the fields.


After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue.


Whither are you going! Do you not know that you have been dead this long time?


I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near me.


Hold!


there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now.


What vehicle is this?


Who is coming here so early in the morning?


Who is there?


I, Monsieur le Maire.


Well!


what is it?


Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o’clock in the morning.


What is that to me?


The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.


What cabriolet?


The tilbury.


What tilbury?


Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?


No,


The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire.


What coachman?


M. Scaufflaire’s coachman.


M. Scaufflaire?


Ah! yes,


M. Scaufflaire!


What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?


Say that it is well, and that I am coming down.


That man is in a devilish hurry!


Are you going far in this condition?


Why?


Have you come from a great distance?


Five leagues.


Ah!


Why do you say, ‘Ah?’


Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league.


What is that you say, my friend?


I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here!


Can you repair this wheel immediately?


Yes, sir.


When can I set out again?


To-morrow.


To-morrow!


I will pay whatever you ask.


Impossible.


Well, in two hours, then.


Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.


The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?


How so?


You are a wheelwright?


Certainly, sir.


Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once.


A spare wheel?


Yes.


I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.


In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.


Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.


Try, nevertheless.


It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but a poor country here.


Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?


You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, I would not let it to you!


Well, sell it to me, then.


I have none.


What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see.


We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,


an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month—never, that is to say. I might let that to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it pass—and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses.


I will take two post-horses.


Where is Monsieur going?


To Arras.


And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?


Yes, of course.


By taking two post-horses?


Why not?


Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o’clock to-morrow morning?


Certainly not.


There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses—Monsieur has his passport?


Yes.


Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before to-morrow. We are on a crossroad. The relays are badly served, the horses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginning; heavy teams are required, and horses are seized upon everywhere, from the post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or four hours at the least at every relay. And, then, they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend.


Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Some one can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood.


Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?


That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it.


But I can surely hire a horse in the village?


A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch?


That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You would have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But you will not find one for sale nor to let, for five hundred francs, or for a thousand.


What am I to do?


The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man, and set out on your journey to-morrow.


To-morrow will be too late.


The deuce!


Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass?


To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well as the one coming.


What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel?


A day, and a good long one.


If you set two men to work?


If I set ten men to work.


What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?


That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub; and the felly is in a bad state, too.


Is there any one in this village who lets out teams?


No.


Is there another wheelwright?


Monsieur, my boy tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet.


Yes, my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire.


But there is none in the place.


Certainly there is,


Where?


At my house,


It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs; the rain came into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture; it would not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle old stage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it,


Stop! Stop! Monsieur, it was I who got the cart for you.


Well?


You have not given me anything.


Ah! it’s you, you scamp?


you shall have nothing.


Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?


Come, that is true; I even have a good appetite.


Make haste!


I must start again; I am in a hurry.


Why is their bread so bitter here?


That horse is very much fatigued.


Are you going to Arras?


Yes.


If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early.


How far is it from here to Arras?


Nearly seven good leagues.


How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter.


Ah! so you don’t know that the road is under repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on; there is no way to proceed further.


Really?


You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will cross the river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right; that is the road to Mont-Saint-Éloy which leads to Arras.


But it is night, and I shall lose my way.


You do not belong in these parts?


No.


And, besides, it is all crossroads; stop! sir, shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired; return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can reach Arras to-morrow.


I must be there this evening.


That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an extra horse; the stable-boy will guide you through the crossroads.


Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee.


There’s the whiffle-tree broken, sir. I don’t know how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; if you wish to return and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras early to-morrow morning.


Have you a bit of rope and a knife?


Yes, sir.


What time is it?


Seven o’clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but three leagues still to go.


Well. I should like to see M. Madeleine.


What time is it, sister?


He is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away to-morrow. Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through. Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, corn-flowers are blue. Yestere’en the Virgin Mary came near my stove, in a broidered mantle clad, and said to me, ‘Here, hide ’neath my veil the child whom you one day begged from me. Haste to the city, buy linen, buy a needle, buy thread.’ Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through. Dear Holy Virgin, beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star; I prefer the child thou hast granted me. ‘Madame, what shall I do with this linen fine?’—‘Make of it clothes for thy new-born babe.’ Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, and corn-flowers are blue. Wash this linen.’—‘Where?’—‘In the stream. Make of it, soiling not, spoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will embroider and fill with flowers.’—‘Madame, the child is no longer here; what is to be done?’—‘Then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury me. Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through, Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.


You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come? Answer me!


The portress told me that he could not come to-day.


Be calm, my child, lie down again.


He cannot come? Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering it to each other there. I want to know it.


Say that he is busy with the city council.


Monsieur le Maire has gone away.


Gone! he has gone to get Cosette. Sister. I am willing to lie down again; I will do anything you wish; I was naughty just now; I beg your pardon for having spoken so loud; it is very wrong to talk loudly; I know that well, my good sister, but, you see, I am very happy: the good God is good; M. Madeleine is good; just think! he has gone to Montfermeil to get my little Cosette.


My child, try to rest now, and do not talk any more.


He set out this morning for Paris; in fact, he need not even go through Paris; Montfermeil is a little to the left as you come thence. Do you remember how he said to me yesterday, when I spoke to him of Cosette, Soon, soon? He wants to give me a surprise, you know! he made me sign a letter so that she could be taken from the Thénardiers; they cannot say anything, can they? they will give back Cosette, for they have been paid; the authorities will not allow them to keep the child since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that I must not talk, sister! I am extremely happy; I am doing well; I am not ill at all any more; I am going to see Cosette again; I am even quite hungry; it is nearly five years since I saw her last; you cannot imagine how much attached one gets to children, and then, she will be so pretty; you will see! If you only knew what pretty little rosy fingers she had! In the first place, she will have very beautiful hands; she had ridiculous hands when she was only a year old; like this! she must be a big girl now; she is seven years old; she is quite a young lady; I call her Cosette, but her name is really Euphrasie. Stop! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece, and I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see Cosette again soon. Mon Dieu! how wrong it is not to see one’s children for years! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good M. le Maire is to go! it is very cold! it is true; he had on his cloak, at least? he will be here to-morrow, will he not? to-morrow will be a festival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montfermeil is! I took that journey on foot once; it was very long for me, but the diligences go very quickly! he will be here to-morrow with Cosette: how far is it from here to Montfermeil?


Oh, I think that he will be here to-morrow.


To-morrow! to-morrow! I shall see Cosette to-morrow! you see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill; I am mad; I could dance if any one wished it.


Well, now that you are happy, mind me, and do not talk any more.


Yes, lie down again; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister Simplice is right; every one here is right.


She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed, will she not, sir? See! there is just room. You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good morning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can hear her asleep; her little gentle breathing will do me good.


Give me your hand,


Ah, hold! in truth, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will arrive to-morrow. Doctor, did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has gone to get that mite of a child?


She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should actually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises so astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all those things are such mysteries: we may be able to save her.


Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper?


Monsieur’s horse is extremely fatigued.


Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow morning?


Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least.


Is not the posting-station located here?


Yes, sir.


Monsieur, do not fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o’clock in the morning.


Monsieur, where is the court-house, if you please.


You do not belong in town, sir? well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the court-house, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the prefecture.


Is it there that the Assizes are held?


Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop’s palace before the Revolution. M. de Conzié, who was bishop in ’82, built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is held. If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings generally close at six o’clock. Upon my word, sir, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness?


I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers.


That is different. Stop, sir; here is the door where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase.


What stage have they reached, sir?


It is finished,


Finished!


Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative?


No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced?


Of course. Nothing else was possible.


To penal servitude?


For life.


Then his identity was established?


What identity? There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child; the infanticide was proved; the jury threw out the question of premeditation, and she was condemned for life.


So it was a woman?


Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking?


Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still lighted?


For another case, which was begun about two hours ago.


What other case?


Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a man arrested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don’t know his name exactly. There’s a bandit’s phiz for you! I’d send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone.


Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?


I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you might make an effort.


Where is the entrance?


Through yonder large door.


Will the door be opened soon, sir?


It will not be opened at all,


What! It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing suspended?


The hearing has just been begun again, but the door will not be opened again.


Why?


Because the hall is full.


What! There is not room for one more?


Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now. There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Monsieur le Président, but Monsieur le Président only admits public functionaries to them.


Take this to Monsieur le Président.


The gentleman desires to be present at the trial,


Admit him.


Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?


The President of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M. Madeleine.


Monsieur, you are now in the council-chamber; you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself in the court-room, behind the President’s chair.


Pardieu! who compels me to this?


Alas!


Good God! shall I become like that again?


Never!


We have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an old offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous description, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoyard named Little Gervais; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity shall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh theft; it is a case of a second offence; condemn him for the fresh deed; later on he will be judged for the old crime.


That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup.


Have you anything to add to your defence?


This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade. In the wheelwright’s trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, under sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops, because space is required, you see. In winter one gets so cold that one beats one’s arms together to warm one’s self; but the masters don’t like it; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving-stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly. One is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty-three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean! When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but an old bird, old beast! I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. They paid me as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my age—and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She earned a little also. It sufficed for us two. She had trouble, also; all day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow. When the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same; you must still wash. There are people who have not much linen, and wait until late; if you do not wash, you lose your custom. The planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from everywhere; you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants-Rouges, where the water comes through faucets. You are not in the tub there; you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in a basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold; but there is that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes. She came home at seven o’clock in the evening, and went to bed at once, she was so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very happy. She was a good girl, who did not go to the ball, and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tuesday when she went to bed at eight o’clock. There, I am telling the truth; you have only to ask. Ah, yes! how stupid I am! Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Champmathieu there? But M. Baloup does, I tell you. Go see at M. Baloup’s; and after all, I don’t know what is wanted of me.


the sieur Baloup, formerly a master-wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he had served, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt, and was not to be found. You are in a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon you, and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Pierron orchard, break the branch, and steal the apples; that is to say, commit the crime of breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the discharged convict, Jean Valjean—yes or no?


In the first place—


Prisoner, pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Champmathieu; that you are the convict, Jean Valjean, concealed first under the name of Jean Mathieu, which was the name of his mother; that you went to Auvergne; that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees. It is evident that you have been guilty of entering, and of the theft of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury will form their own opinion.


You are very wicked; that you are! This what I wanted to say; I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly; I was walking through the country after a shower, which had made the whole country yellow: even the ponds were overflowed, and nothing sprang from the sand any more but the little blades of grass at the wayside. I found a broken branch with apples on the ground; I picked up the branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison, and they have been dragging me about for the last three months; more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell me, ‘Answer!’ The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and says to me in a low voice, ‘Come, answer!’ I don’t know how to explain; I have no education; I am a poor man; that is where they wrong me, because they do not see this. I have not stolen; I picked up from the ground things that were lying there. You say, Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu! I don’t know those persons; they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de l’Hôpital; my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born; I don’t know myself: it’s not everybody who has a house in which to come into the world; that would be too convenient. I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along the highways; I know nothing different. When I was a child, they called me young fellow; now they call me old Fellow; those are my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne; I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! can’t a man have been in Auvergne, or at Faverolles, without having been in the galleys? I tell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu; I have been with M. Baloup; I have had a settled residence. You worry me with your nonsense, there! Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously?


Monsieur le Président, in view of the confused but exceedingly clever denials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing,—we shall attend to that,—we demand that it shall please you and that it shall please the court to summon once more into this place the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenildieu, and Police-Inspector Javert, and question them for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean.


I would remind the district-attorney that Police-Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital of a neighboring arrondissement, left the court-room and the town as soon as he had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission, with the consent of the district-attorney and of the counsel for the prisoner.


That is true, Mr. President. In the absence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentlemen of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable man, who does honor by his rigorous and strict probity to inferior but important functions. These are the terms of his deposition: ‘I do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisoner’s denial. I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champmathieu; he is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and is very vicious and much to be feared. It is only with extreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his term. He underwent nineteen years of penal servitude for theft. He made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from the Pierron orchard, I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of His Grace the late Bishop of D—— I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of the galley-guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I recognize him perfectly.’


Brevet, you have undergone an ignominious sentence, and you cannot take an oath. Nevertheless, even in the man whom the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour. If it still exists in you,—and I hope it does,—reflect before replying to me: consider on the one hand, this man, whom a word from you may ruin; on the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten. The instant is solemn; there is still time to retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on your soul and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?


Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it; that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now; but it must be because age has brutalized him; he was sly at the galleys: I recognize him positively.


Take your seat. Prisoner, remain standing.


Pardieu, as if I didn’t recognize him! We were attached to the same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow? Go take your seat.


He is Jean Valjean. He was even called Jean-the-Screw, because he was so strong.


Ah, well, he’s a nice one! Good! Famous!


Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?


I say, ‘Famous!’


Ushers, enforce silence! I am going to sum up the arguments.


Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!


M. Madeleine!


Do you not recognize me? Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Mr. President, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search of; it is I: I am Jean Valjean.


Is there a physician present?


Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a sentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by reputation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M.; if there is a physician in the audience, we join the President in requesting him to attend to M. Madeleine, and to conduct him to his home.


I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see; you were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth. God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that suffices. You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best; I concealed myself under another name; I have become rich; I have become a mayor; I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I cannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you; you will hear it one of these days. I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true; it is true that I robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so greatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to Providence, nor any advice to give to society; but, you see, the infamy from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please. Before going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very little intelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change in me. I was stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood; I became a firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had ruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. You will find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the forty-sou piece which I stole, seven years ago, from Little Gervais. I have nothing farther to add; take me. Good God! the district-attorney shakes his head; you say, ‘M. Madeleine has gone mad!’ you do not believe me! that is distressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! these men do not recognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize me. Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet? Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which you wore in the galleys? Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of ‘Jenie-Dieu,’ your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn, because you one day laid your shoulder against the chafing-dish full of coals, in order to efface the three letters T. F. P., which are still visible, nevertheless; answer, is this true?


It is true,


Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped in blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing of the Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve! You see plainly, that I am Jean Valjean.


I do not wish to disturb the court further. I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do. The district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going; he can have me arrested when he likes. I am at your command, Mr. District-Attorney. All of you, all who are present—consider me worthy of pity, do you not? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur.


Is it you, Mr. Mayor?


How is that poor woman? All that is good, you were right not to undeceive her. God will inspire us,


Good God, sir!


what has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white!


White! Well! Can I see her?


Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her?


Of course; but it will take two or three days at least.


If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time,


she would not know that Monsieur le Maire had returned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience; and when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact a lie.


No, sister, I must see her. I may, perhaps, be in haste.


And Cosette?


Calm yourself, my child,


your child is here.


Oh!


bring her to me!


Not yet,


not just now. You still have some fever. The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be cured first.


But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!


You see,


how excited you become. So long as you are in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are reasonable, I will bring her to you myself.


I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like, but I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave as though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. She must have her child. Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were to go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten me by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those Thénardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh, how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le Maire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that diligence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the master; it could be so if you chose!


Cosette is beautiful. Cosette is well. You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the clothes, and that makes you cough.


Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thénardiers prosperous? There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a cook-shop. I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!


Oh! it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice. How wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that he has. How happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell. She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first communion? One, two, three, four—she is seven years old. In five years she will have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I think of my daughter’s first communion!


Good God! what ails you, Fantine?


Monsieur Madeleine, save me!


Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come. I know what you want.


Be quick about it!


See here now! Art thou coming?


Monsieur le Maire!


There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!


Javert—


Call me Mr. Inspector.


Monsieur. I should like to say a word to you in private.


Aloud! Say it aloud! people are in the habit of talking aloud to me.


I have a request to make of you—


I tell you to speak loud.


But you alone should hear it—


What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen.


Grant me three days’ grace! three days in which to go and fetch the child of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You shall accompany me if you choose.


You are making sport of me! Come now, I did not think you such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in which to run away! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature’s child! Ah! Ah! That’s good! That’s really capital!


My child! to go and fetch my child! She is not here, then! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire!


And now there’s the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy? It’s a pretty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates, and where women of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we are going to change all that; it is high time! I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is no Monsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean Valjean! And I have him in my grasp! That’s what there is!


You have murdered that woman.


Let’s have an end of this! I am not here to listen to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard is below; march on instantly, or you’ll get the thumb-screws!


I advise you not to disturb me at this moment.


Now. I am at your disposal.


You don’t know? He was a liberated convict!


Who?


The mayor.


Bah! M. Madeleine?


Yes.


Really?


His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name, Béjean, Bojean, Boujean.


Ah! Good God!


He has been arrested.


Arrested!


In prison, in the city prison, while waiting to be transferred.


Until he is transferred!


He is to be transferred!


Where is he to be taken?


He will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago.


Well! I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that.


I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!


Hold! My good God Jesus! And I hung his key on the nail! Good God, Monsieur le Maire. I thought you were—


In prison. I was there; I broke a bar of one of the windows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and here I am. I am going up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me. She is with that poor woman, no doubt.


These are the two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of Assizes,


Come in,


Sister. Sister, you will give this to Monsieur le Curé. You can read it. I beg Monsieur le Curé to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me. He will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial, and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor.


Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor, unhappy woman?


No. I am pursued; it would only end in their arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her.


My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the door.


But there is a light in that room, nevertheless.


Sister, are you alone in this room?


Yes.


Then, you will excuse me if I persist; it is my duty; you have not seen a certain person—a man—this evening? He has escaped; we are in search of him—that Jean Valjean; you have not seen him?


No.


Pardon me,


It was a French cannon-ball which made that. That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the hole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce the wood.


What is the name of this place?


Hougomont,


I was there. I was three years old. My sister, who was older, was terrified and wept. They carried us off to the woods. I went there in my mother’s arms. We glued our ears to the earth to hear. I imitated the cannon, and went boum! boum!


Monsieur, give me three francs, and if you like, I will explain to you the affair of Waterloo!


Napoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this.


belong rather to the biography of the regiments than to the history of the army.


Nassau! Brunswick! Never retreat!


My lord, what are your orders in case you are killed?


To do like me. To hold this spot to the last man. Boys, can retreat be thought of? Think of old England!


The beginning of retreat!


We are in accord. It is the rear-guard of the English getting under way for the purpose of decamping. I will take prisoners the six thousand English who have just arrived at Ostend. Well, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement already! That little Englishman needs a lesson,


So much the better! I prefer to overthrow them rather than to drive them back. A pretty checker-board. We have ninety chances out of a hundred.


The ball takes place to-day.


Wellington will not be so simple as to wait for Your Majesty.


He was fond of jesting,


A merry humor was at the foundation of his character,


He abounded in pleasantries, which were more peculiar than witty,


The Emperor did nothing but play pranks on us,


The Emperor is well.


Magnificent! Magnificent!


the figure of six V’s.


There are four and twenty handsome maids, General. It is a pity.


Fool, it is shameful! You’ll get yourself killed with a ball in the back.


They have altered my field of battle!


Thou wilt not dare.


Vive l’Empereur!


Sublime!


There are none, he must let himself be killed!


Infantry! Where does he expect me to get it? Does he think I can make it?


Alarm!


Blücher, or night!


The battle was lost.


I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be troops. Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint-Lambert?


Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy.


It is trees.


We must give air to the English army.


Up, Guards, and aim straight!


Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field of battle! Are you not going to get yourself killed? So there is nothing for me! Oh! I should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels!


Treachery!


Save yourselves who can!


Long live Marshal Ney!


Surrender, brave Frenchmen!


It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl!


Excrément!


Fire!


Go this way, and not that!


Napoleon is dead,


He dead! you don’t know him.


Come, it’s only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a gendarme. Well now, is that dead fellow alive? Let’s see.


Thanks. Who won the battle?


The English,


Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them.


There is nothing there.


I have been robbed. I am sorry for that. You should have had them.


Some one is coming,


You have saved my life. Who are you?


Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you. If they were to catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life. Now get out of the scrape yourself.


What is your rank? Sergeant. What is your name?


Thénardier.


I shall not forget that name, and do you remember mine. My name is Pontmercy.


It is clear that the devil has appeared. Boulatruelle has seen him, and is on the search. In sooth, he is cunning enough to pocket Lucifer’s hoard.


Will Boulatruelle catch the devil, or will the devil catch Boulatruelle?


He has been in the galleys. Eh! Good God! no one knows who has been there or will be there. Let us put him to the wine test,


It was moonlight.


You may be certain that the mender on the Gagny road did not take all that trouble for nothing; he was sure that the devil had come.


Let us return to the ship Orion.


Pardon for that man!


About Nanterre and Suresnes the vines have flourished greatly. When ten pieces were reckoned on there have been twelve. They have yielded a great deal of juice under the press.


But the grapes cannot be ripe?


In those parts the grapes should not be ripe; the wine turns oily as soon as spring comes.


Then it is very thin wine?


There are wines poorer even than these. The grapes must be gathered while green.


Are we responsible for what is in the sacks? We find in them a quantity of small seed which we cannot sift out, and which we are obliged to send through the mill-stones; there are tares, fennel, vetches, hempseed, fox-tail, and a host of other weeds, not to mention pebbles, which abound in certain wheat, especially in Breton wheat. I am not fond of grinding Breton wheat, any more than long-sawyers like to saw beams with nails in them. You can judge of the bad dust that makes in grinding. And then people complain of the flour. They are in the wrong. The flour is no fault of ours.


It does no harm to have the grass wet. It cuts better. Dew is a good thing, sir. It makes no difference with that grass. Your grass is young and very hard to cut still. It’s terribly tender. It yields before the iron.


she did not know why, the result of the cold,


Your son is squalling, do go and see what he wants.


Bah! he bothers me.


That is a woman.


That is a gendarme


That is a carter


That is the hangman.


a system. a general, who had been dangerously wounded.


some quibus,


There is the master of the house.


The duty of the inn-keeper, is to sell to the first comer, stews, repose, light, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile; to stop passers-by, to empty small purses, and to honestly lighten heavy ones; to shelter travelling families respectfully: to shave the man, to pluck the woman, to pick the child clean; to quote the window open, the window shut, the chimney-corner, the armchair, the chair, the ottoman, the stool, the feather-bed, the mattress and the truss of straw; to know how much the shadow uses up the mirror, and to put a price on it; and, by five hundred thousand devils, to make the traveller pay for everything, even for the flies which his dog eats!


Four new travellers had arrived.


How ugly she is with her fist-blow on her eye!


Well, there is no more water! Bah! this will be enough.


It’s as black as an oven! One must needs be a cat to go about the streets without a lantern at this hour!


My horse has not been watered.


Yes, it has,


I tell you that it has not,


Oh, yes, sir! the horse has had a drink; he drank out of a bucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who took the water to him, and I spoke to him.


There’s a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the house. I tell you that he has not been watered, you little jade! He has a way of blowing when he has had no water, which I know well.


And he drank heartily.


Come, this won’t do at all, let my horse be watered, and let that be the end of it!


In truth, that is fair! if the beast has not been watered, it must be. Well, now! Where’s that other beast? Are you coming? Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse.


But, Madame, there is no water.


Well, go and get some, then! There’s plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious creature as that. I think I should have done better to strain my onions. See here, Mam’selle Toad, on your way back, you will get a big loaf from the baker. Here’s a fifteen-sou piece. Get along with you!


a magical effect.


What, you silly jade! you have not gone? Wait! I’ll give it to you! I want to know what you are doing there! Get along, you little monster!


Where can that child be going? Is it a werewolf child? Well, it’s the Lark!


Bah! I will tell him that there was no more water!


O my God! my God!


At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all: a hand, which seemed to her enormous, had just seized the handle, and lifted it vigorously.


It is two o’clock; there he is returning to the Tuileries.


That big fellow yonder is the government.


Yonder is an evil-looking man.


Have you a place?


Only one—beside me on the box,


I will take it.


Climb up. Are you going as far as Lagny?


Yes,


I get down here,


There, is a man who does not belong here, for I do not know him. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he does not consider money; he pays to Lagny, and he goes only as far as Chelles. It is night; all the houses are shut; he does not enter the inn, and he is not to be found. So he has dived through the earth.


My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you.


Yes, sir.


Give it to me. I will carry it for you. It really is very heavy. How old are you, little one?


Eight, sir.


And have you come from far like this?


From the spring in the forest.


Are you going far?


A good quarter of an hour’s walk from here.


So you have no mother.


I don’t know. I don’t think so. Other people have mothers. I have none. I think that I never had any.


What is your name?


Cosette.


Where do you live, little one?


At Montfermeil, if you know where that is.


That is where we are going?


Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?


It was Madame Thénardier.


What does your Madame Thénardier do?


She is my mistress. She keeps the inn.


The inn? Well, I am going to lodge there to-night. Show me the way.


We are on the way there,


Is there no servant in Madame Thénardier’s house?


No, sir.


Are you alone there?


Yes, sir. That is to say, there are two little girls.


What little girls?


Ponine and Zelma.


Who are Ponine and Zelma?


They are Madame Thénardier’s young ladies; her daughters, as you would say.


And what do those girls do?


Oh! they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves.


All day long?


Yes, sir.


And you?


I? I work.


Yes, sir. Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself, too.


How do you amuse yourself?


In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many playthings. Ponine and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that.


And it will not cut?


Yes, sir, it cuts salad and the heads of flies.


So there is a fair going on here?


No, sir; it is Christmas. Monsieur?


What, my child?


We are quite near the house.


Well?


Will you let me take my bucket now?


Why?


If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me.


Ah! so it’s you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you’ve taken your time! The hussy has been amusing herself!


Madame, here’s a gentleman who wants a lodging.


This is the gentleman?


Yes, Madame,


Enter, my good man.


Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left.


Put me where you like, in the attic, in the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room.


Forty sous.


Forty sous; agreed.


Very well, then!


Forty sous! why, the charge is only twenty sous!


It is forty in his case. I don’t lodge poor folks for less.


That’s true, it ruins a house to have such people in it.


Have I the time? By the way, where’s that bread?


Madame, the baker’s shop was shut.


You should have knocked.


I did knock, Madame.


Well?


He did not open the door.


I’ll find out to-morrow whether that is true, and if you are telling me a lie, I’ll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece.


Ah, come now, did you hear me?


Have you lost that fifteen-sou piece? or do you want to rob me of it?


Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more!


Pardon me, Madame, but just now I caught sight of something which had fallen from this little one’s apron pocket, and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it.


Exactly; here it is,


Don’t let this ever happen again! By the way, would you like some supper?


Ah! there you are, you children! What frights they are!


Bah, Madame, let her play!


She must work, since she eats. I don’t feed her to do nothing.


What is she making?


Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls, who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now.


When will she have finished this pair of stockings?


She has at least three or four good days’ work on them still, the lazy creature!


And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has finished them?


Thirty sous at least.


Will you sell them for five francs?


Good heavens! five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls!


Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair of stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers. You must pay on the spot.


I will buy that pair of stockings, and I will pay for them.


Now I own your work; play, my child.


Is it true, Madame? May I play?


Play!


Thanks, Madame.


Who can this yellow man be? I have seen millionaires with coats like that.


You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists, she cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually, you will perceive her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will see her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you. And you will say to me, ‘Ah! Mon Dieu!’ and I will say to you: ‘Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that just at present.’


My husband is right Monsieur. You see, sir, I am willing that the child should play; I do not oppose it, but it is good for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing; she must needs work.


Then this child is not yours?


Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken in through charity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water on the brain; she has a large head, as you see. We do what we can for her, for we are not rich; we have written in vain to her native place, and have received no reply these six months. It must be that her mother is dead.


Ah!


Her mother didn’t amount to much; she abandoned her child.


My mother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead!


What does Monsieur wish?


Bread and cheese,


Look! sister.


Mother, look there!


Cosette! Cosette!


What is the matter?


Don’t you see?


Well, what of it?


That beggar, has permitted herself to touch the children’s doll!


All this noise for that! well, what if she did play with that doll?


She touched it with her dirty hands! with her frightful hands! Will you stop your noise?


Here; this is for you.


Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire? Perhaps he is both; that is to say, a thief. That machine costs at least thirty francs. No nonsense. Down on your belly before that man!


Well, Cosette, aren’t you going to take your doll?


The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette. Take it; it is yours.


May I, Madame?


Pardi! it is yours. The gentleman has given it to you.


Truly, sir? Is it true? Is the ‘lady’ mine? I shall call her Catherine. Madame,


Play, Cosette,


Oh! I am playing,


Old beast! What has he got in his belly, to come and upset us in this manner! To want that little monster to play! to give away forty-franc dolls to a jade that I would sell for forty sous, so I would! A little more and he will be saying Your Majesty to her, as though to the Duchesse de Berry! Is there any sense in it? Is he mad, then, that mysterious old fellow? Why! it is perfectly simple, if that amuses him! It amuses you to have the little one work; it amuses him to have her play. He’s all right. A traveller can do what he pleases when he pays for it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist, what is that to you? If he is an imbecile, it does not concern you. What are you worrying for, so long as he has money?


Is he going to pass the night in that fashion? I'm going to bed. Do as you like.


Is not Monsieur going to his repose?


Well! you are right. Where is your stable?


Sir! I will conduct you, sir.


What is this?


It is really our bridal chamber. My wife and I occupy another. This is only entered three or four times a year.


I should have liked the stable quite as well. And what is this?


That, sir, is my wife's wedding bonnet.


Do you know, I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow. How you do go on!


You will hand that bill to the man.


Up so early? is Monsieur leaving us already?


Yes, Madame, I am going.


So Monsieur has no business in Montfermeil?


No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you, Madame. Madame, is business good here in Montfermeil?


So so, Monsieur. Oh! Monsieur, times are so hard! and then, we have so few bourgeois in the neighborhood! All the people are poor, you see. If we had not, now and then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should not get along at all. We have so many expenses. Just see, that child is costing us our very eyes.


What child?


Why, the little one, you know! Cosette—the Lark, as she is called hereabouts!


Ah!


What if one were to rid you of her?


Who? Cosette? Ah! sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her away, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the blessings of the good holy Virgin and of all the saints of paradise be upon you!


Agreed.


Really! You will take her away?


I will take her away.


Immediately?


Immediately. Call the child.


Cosette!


In the meantime,


I will pay you what I owe you. How much is it?


Twenty-three francs!


Twenty-three francs?


Monsieur owes twenty-six sous.


Twenty-six sous!


Twenty sous for the chamber, and six sous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter a little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife. Sir, what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that child.


What child?


How strange it is, one grows attached. What money is that? Take back your hundred-sou piece. I adore the child.


Whom do you mean?


Eh! our little Cosette! Are you not intending to take her away from us? Well, I speak frankly; as true as you are an honest man, I will not consent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a tiny thing. It is true that she costs us money; it is true that she has her faults; it is true that we are not rich; it is true that I have paid out over four hundred francs for drugs for just one of her illnesses! But one must do something for the good God’s sake. She has neither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bread enough for her and for myself. In truth, I think a great deal of that child. You understand, one conceives an affection for a person; I am a good sort of a beast, I am; I do not reason; I love that little girl; my wife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just the same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the house. Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one’s child to a passer-by, like that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don’t say—you are rich; you have the air of a very good man,—if it were for her happiness. But one must find out that. You understand: suppose that I were to let her go and to sacrifice myself, I should like to know what becomes of her; I should not wish to lose sight of her; I should like to know with whom she is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time; so that she may know that her good foster-father is alive, that he is watching over her. In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not even know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say: ‘Well, and the Lark, what has become of her?’ One must, at least, see some petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know!


Monsieur Thénardier, one does not require a passport to travel five leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and that is the end of the matter. You will not know my name, you will not know my residence, you will not know where she is; and my intention is that she shall never set eyes on you again so long as she lives. I break the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit you? Yes or no?


Sir. I am in need of fifteen hundred francs.


Go and fetch Cosette.


Cosette,


come immediately.


My child,


take these, and go and dress yourself quickly.


Is that all?


You are right, in sooth. I am a fool. Give me my hat.


Pardon, excuse me, sir, but here are your fifteen hundred francs.


What is the meaning of this?


It means, sir, that I shall take back Cosette.


You are go-ing to take back Co-sette?


Yes, sir, I am. I will tell you; I have considered the matter. In fact, I have not the right to give her to you. I am an honest man, you see; this child does not belong to me; she belongs to her mother. It was her mother who confided her to me; I can only resign her to her mother. You will say to me, ‘But her mother is dead.’ Good; in that case I can only give the child up to the person who shall bring me a writing, signed by her mother, to the effect that I am to hand the child over to the person therein mentioned; that is clear. Good! let us hold firm; he is going to bribe me!


You are right; read!


M. SUR M., March 25, 1823. MONSIEUR THÉNARDIER:— You will deliver Cosette to this person. You will be paid for all the little things. I have the honor to salute you with respect, FANTINE.


You know that signature? You may keep this paper as your receipt.


This signature is fairly well imitated, however, let it go! It is well, sir, since you are the person, but I must be paid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me.


Monsieur Thénardier, in January last, the mother reckoned that she owed you one hundred and twenty francs. In February, you sent her a bill of five hundred francs; you received three hundred francs at the end of February, and three hundred francs at the beginning of March. Since then nine months have elapsed, at fifteen francs a month, the price agreed upon, which makes one hundred and thirty-five francs. You had received one hundred francs too much; that makes thirty-five still owing you. I have just given you fifteen hundred francs.


Who is this devil of a man? Monsieur-I-don’t-know-your-name. I shall take back Cosette if you do not give me a thousand crowns.


Come, Cosette.


I really must have been exceedingly stupid not to have thought to bring my gun, since I was going hunting! I want to know where he is going,


The deuce!


Yes, madame! here I am! here I am! Ah! mon Dieu, my broom! Ah! so it is true! Good morning, Monsieur. How pretty it is here! Must I sweep?


Play!


Where?


Bah! I am mad! I am dreaming! Impossible! Good day, my good man,


Thanks, my good sir.


How the deuce could I have thought that I saw Javert there? Am I going to lose my eyesight now?


Get into bed very softly


Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night?


That is true, by the way. Who was it?


It was a new lodger who has come into the house,


And what is his name?


I don’t know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort.


And who is this Monsieur Dumont?


A gentleman of property, like yourself.


Come.


Come, child,


It is two sous. You are carrying a child who can walk. Pay for two.


Father. I am afraid. Who is coming yonder?


Hush! it is Madame Thénardier. Say nothing. Don’t interfere with me. If you cry out, if you weep, the Thénardier is lying in wait for you. She is coming to take you back.


Put your back against the wall. Don’t say a word, and don’t be alarmed,


Search the blind alley! The Rue Droit-Mur is guarded! so is the Rue Petit-Picpus. I’ll answer for it that he is in the blind alley.


Are you sleepy?


I am very cold. Is she still there?


Who?


Madame Thénardier.


Ah! she is gone. You need fear nothing further. Are you less cold now?


Oh, yes, father.


Well, wait for me a moment. I will soon be back.


Ah! good God! Cosette! Is she dead?


One hundred francs! You can earn a hundred francs, if you will grant me shelter for this night.


What! so it is you, Father Madeleine!


Ah, good God! How come you here, Father Madeleine? Where did you enter? Dieu-Jésus! Did you fall from heaven? There is no trouble about that: if ever you do fall, it will be from there. And what a state you are in! You have no cravat; you have no hat; you have no coat! Do you know, you would have frightened any one who did not know you? No coat! Lord God! Are the saints going mad nowadays? But how did you get in here?


Who are you? and what house is this?


Ah! pardieu, this is too much! I am the person for whom you got the place here, and this house is the one where you had me placed. What! You don’t recognize me?


No, and how happens it that you know me?


You saved my life,


Ah! so it is you? Yes, I recollect you.


That is very lucky,


And what are you doing here?


Why, I am covering my melons, of course! The moon is bright: it is going to freeze. What if I were to put my melons into their greatcoats? pardieu! you ought to have done the same! But how do you come here?


And what is this bell which you wear on your knee?


This, is so that I may be avoided.


What! so that you may be avoided?


Ah, goodness! there are only women in this house—many young girls. It appears that I should be a dangerous person to meet. The bell gives them warning. When I come, they go.


What house is this?


Come, you know well enough.


But I do not.


Not when you got me the place here as gardener?


Answer me as though I knew nothing.


Well, then, this is the Petit-Picpus convent.


The Petit-Picpus convent.


Exactly. But to come to the point, how the deuce did you manage to get in here, you, Father Madeleine? No matter if you are a saint; you are a man as well, and no man enters here.


You certainly are here.


There is no one but me.


Still. I must stay here.


Ah, good God!


Father Fauchelevent, I saved your life.


I was the first to recall it,


Well, you can do to-day for me that which I did for you in the olden days.


Oh! that would be a blessing from the good God, if I could make you some little return for that! Save your life! Monsieur le Maire, dispose of the old man! What do you wish me to do?


That I will explain to you. You have a chamber?


I have an isolated hovel yonder, behind the ruins of the old convent, in a corner which no one ever looks into. There are three rooms in it.


Good. Now I am going to ask two things of you.


What are they, Mr. Mayor?


In the first place, you are not to tell any one what you know about me. In the second, you are not to try to find out anything more.


As you please. I know that you can do nothing that is not honest, that you have always been a man after the good God’s heart. And then, moreover, you it was who placed me here. That concerns you. I am at your service.


That is settled then. Now, come with me. We will go and get the child.


Ah! so there is a child?


Ah! Father Madeleine! You did not recognize me immediately; you save people’s lives, and then you forget them! That is bad! But they remember you! You are an ingrate!


That’s a good entry.


He is a wealthy farmer. I saw his passport. I think his name was M. Guillaume Lambert.


Jean Valjean is certainly dead, and I am a ninny.


Have you seen a man with a little girl? I made him pay two sous,


Who is there?


Enter on the right.


I am here. What do you wish with me?


Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly attached.


Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not enter our order!


Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar! Forever.


Forever!


forever Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.


Ave Maria. Gratia plena.


At five o’clock and at all hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar! At eight o’clock and at all hours!


At this hour and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!


Jesus-Marie-Joseph.


The prayers of the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still worse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still worse.


Our sister is dead Our sister is alive in Jesus Christ!


The sight of the street pavement made me shudder from head to foot.


forever!


Good; here come the children!


Mother! one of the big girls has just told me that I have only nine years and ten months longer to remain here. What happiness!


Why are you weeping, my child?


I told Alix that I knew my French history. She says that I do not know it, but I do.


No; she does not know it.


How is that, my child?


She told me to open the book at random and to ask her any question in the book, and she would answer it.


Well?


She did not answer it.


Let us see about it. What did you ask her?


I opened the book at random, as she proposed, and I put the first question that I came across.


And what was the question?


It was, ‘What happened after that?’


How well bred! it eats the top of the slice of bread and butter just like a person!


Father, I accuse myself of having been avaricious.


Father, I accuse myself of having been an adulteress.


Father, I accuse myself of having raised my eyes to the gentlemen.


There were three little cocks who owned a country where there were a great many flowers. They plucked the flowers and put them in their pockets. After that they plucked the leaves and put them in their playthings. There was a wolf in that country; there was a great deal of forest; and the wolf was in the forest; and he ate the little cocks.


There came a blow with a stick.


It was Punchinello who bestowed it on the cat.


It was not good for her; it hurt her.


Then a lady put Punchinello in prison.


As for me, my mother was not there when I was born!


Who is that?


She is a spider, Monseigneur.


Bah! And that one yonder?


She is a cricket.


And that one?


She is a caterpillar.


Really! and yourself?


I am a wood-louse, Monseigneur.


Who is a virgin?


You are a virgin, but I am not.


Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said, which God placed in paradise. In the evening, when I went to bed, I found three angels sitting on my bed, one at the foot, two at the head, the good Virgin Mary in the middle, who told me to lie down without hesitation. The good God is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three apostles are my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters. The shirt in which God was born envelopes my body; Saint Margaret’s cross is written on my breast. Madame the Virgin was walking through the meadows, weeping for God, when she met M. Saint John. ‘Monsieur Saint John, whence come you?’ ‘I come from Ave Salus.’ ‘You have not seen the good God; where is he?’ ‘He is on the tree of the Cross, his feet hanging, his hands nailed, a little cap of white thorns on his head.’ Whoever shall say this thrice at eventide, thrice in the morning, shall win paradise at the last.


One hides one’s pear or one’s apple as best one may. When one goes upstairs to put the veil on the bed before supper, one stuffs them under one’s pillow and at night one eats them in bed, and when one cannot do that, one eats them in the closet.


Monseigneur, a day’s leave of absence.


What, my dear child, a day’s leave of absence! Three days if you like. I grant you three days.


She passes for a dead woman. Perhaps she is one,


Ah! Auguste!


C’est le diable a quatre,