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CHAPTER IV—DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER.
Now, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannot do
better than to transcribe here a passage from one of Mademoiselle
Baptistine's letters to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversation
between the convict and the Bishop is described with ingenious minuteness.
". . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of
a starving man. However, after supper he said:
"'Monsieur le Cur� of the good God, all this is far too good for me; but I
must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them keep a
better table than you do.'
"Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:—
"'They are more fatigued than I.'
"'No,' returned the man, 'they have more money. You are poor; I see that
plainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a cure? Ah, if the
good God were but just, you certainly ought to be a cure!'
"'The good God is more than just,' said my brother.
"A moment later he added:—
"'Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going?'
"'With my road marked out for me.'
"I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:—
"'I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If the
nights are cold, the days are hot.'
"'You are going to a good country,' said my brother. 'During the
Revolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comte at first,
and there I lived for some time by the toil of my hands. My will was good.
I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose. There are paper
mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil factories, watch factories on a large
scale, steel mills, copper works, twenty iron foundries at least, four of
which, situated at Lods, at Chatillon, at Audincourt, and at Beure, are
"I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which my
brother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me:—
"'Have we not some relatives in those parts, my dear sister?'
"'We did have some; among others, M. de Lucenet, who was captain of the
gates at Pontarlier under the old regime.'
"'Yes,' resumed my brother; 'but in '93, one had no longer any relatives,
one had only one's arms. I worked. They have, in the country of
Pontarlier, whither you are going, Monsieur Valjean, a truly patriarchal
and truly charming industry, my sister. It is their cheese-dairies, which
they call fruitieres.'
"Then my brother, while urging the man to eat, explained to him, with
great minuteness, what these fruitieres of Pontarlier were; that they were
divided into two classes: the big barns which belong to the rich, and
where there are forty or fifty cows which produce from seven to eight
thousand cheeses each summer, and the associated fruitieres, which belong
to the poor; these are the peasants of mid-mountain, who hold their cows
in common, and share the proceeds. 'They engage the services of a
cheese-maker, whom they call the grurin; the grurin receives the milk of
the associates three times a day, and marks the quantity on a double
tally. It is towards the end of April that the work of the cheese-dairies
begins; it is towards the middle of June that the cheese-makers drive
their cows to the mountains.'
"The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him drink that
good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself, because he says that
wine is expensive. My brother imparted all these details with that easy
gayety of his with which you are acquainted, interspersing his words with
graceful attentions to me. He recurred frequently to that comfortable
trade of grurin, as though he wished the man to understand, without
advising him directly and harshly, that this would afford him a refuge.
One thing struck me. This man was what I have told you. Well, neither
during supper, nor during the entire evening, did my brother utter a
single word, with the exception of a few words about Jesus when he
entered, which could remind the man of what he was, nor of what my brother
was. To all appearances, it was an occasion for preaching him a little
sermon, and of impressing the Bishop on the convict, so that a mark of the
passage might remain behind. This might have appeared to any one else who
had this, unfortunate man in his hands to afford a chance to nourish his
soul as well as his body, and to bestow upon him some reproach, seasoned
with moralizing and advice, or a little commiseration, with an exhortation
to conduct himself better in the future. My brother did not even ask him
from what country he came, nor what was his history. For in his history
there is a fault, and my brother seemed to avoid everything which could
remind him of it. To such a point did he carry it, that at one time, when
my brother was speaking of the mountaineers of Pontarlier, who exercise a
gentle labor near heaven, and who, he added, are happy because they are
innocent, he stopped short, fearing lest in this remark there might have
escaped him something which might wound the man. By dint of reflection, I
think I have comprehended what was passing in my brother's heart. He was
thinking, no doubt, that this man, whose name is Jean Valjean, had his
misfortune only too vividly present in his mind; that the best thing was
to divert him from it, and to make him believe, if only momentarily, that
he was a person like any other, by treating him just in his ordinary way.
Is not this indeed, to understand charity well? Is there not, dear Madame,
something truly evangelical in this delicacy which abstains from sermon,
from moralizing, from allusions? and is not the truest pity, when a man
has a sore point, not to touch it at all? It has seemed to me that this
might have been my brother's private thought. In any case, what I can say
is that, if he entertained all these ideas, he gave no sign of them; from
beginning to end, even to me he was the same as he is every evening, and
he supped with this Jean Valjean with the same air and in the same manner
in which he would have supped with M. Gedeon le Provost, or with the
curate of the parish.
"Towards the end, when he had reached the figs, there came a knock at the
door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little one in her arms. My brother
kissed the child on the brow, and borrowed fifteen sous which I had about
me to give to Mother Gerbaud. The man was not paying much heed to anything
then. He was no longer talking, and he seemed very much fatigued. After
poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure, my brother said grace; then he
turned to the man and said to him, 'You must be in great need of your
bed.' Madame Magloire cleared the table very promptly. I understood that
we must retire, in order to allow this traveller to go to sleep, and we
both went up stairs. Nevertheless, I sent Madame Magloire down a moment
later, to carry to the man's bed a goat skin from the Black Forest, which
was in my room. The nights are frigid, and that keeps one warm. It is a
pity that this skin is old; all the hair is falling out. My brother bought
it while he was in Germany, at Tottlingen, near the sources of the Danube,
as well as the little ivory-handled knife which I use at table.
"Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in the
drawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired to our
own chambers, without saying a word to each other."