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CHAPTER VI—JEAN VALJEAN
Towards the middle of the night Jean Valjean woke.
Jean Valjean came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He had not learned
to read in his childhood. When he reached man's estate, he became a
tree-pruner at Faverolles. His mother was named Jeanne Mathieu; his father
was called Jean Valjean or Vlajean, probably a sobriquet, and a
contraction of viola Jean, "here's Jean."
Jean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposition which
constitutes the peculiarity of affectionate natures. On the whole,
however, there was something decidedly sluggish and insignificant about
Jean Valjean in appearance, at least. He had lost his father and mother at
a very early age. His mother had died of a milk fever, which had not been
properly attended to. His father, a tree-pruner, like himself, had been
killed by a fall from a tree. All that remained to Jean Valjean was a
sister older than himself,—a widow with seven children, boys and
girls. This sister had brought up Jean Valjean, and so long as she had a
husband she lodged and fed her young brother.
The husband died. The eldest of the seven children was eight years old.
The youngest, one.
Jean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took the father's
place, and, in his turn, supported the sister who had brought him up. This
was done simply as a duty and even a little churlishly on the part of Jean
Valjean. Thus his youth had been spent in rude and ill-paid toil. He had
never known a "kind woman friend" in his native parts. He had not had the
time to fall in love.
He returned at night weary, and ate his broth without uttering a word. His
sister, mother Jeanne, often took the best part of his repast from his
bowl while he was eating,—a bit of meat, a slice of bacon, the heart
of the cabbage,—to give to one of her children. As he went on
eating, with his head bent over the table and almost into his soup, his
long hair falling about his bowl and concealing his eyes, he had the air
of perceiving nothing and allowing it. There was at Faverolles, not far
from the Valjean thatched cottage, on the other side of the lane, a
farmer's wife named Marie-Claude; the Valjean children, habitually
famished, sometimes went to borrow from Marie-Claude a pint of milk, in
their mother's name, which they drank behind a hedge or in some alley
corner, snatching the jug from each other so hastily that the little girls
spilled it on their aprons and down their necks. If their mother had known
of this marauding, she would have punished the delinquents severely. Jean
Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie-Claude for the pint of milk
behind their mother's back, and the children were not punished.
In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out as a
hay-maker, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did
whatever he could. His sister worked also but what could she do with seven
little children? It was a sad group enveloped in misery, which was being
gradually annihilated. A very hard winter came. Jean had no work. The
family had no bread. No bread literally. Seven children!
One Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker on the Church Square at
Faverolles, was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a violent blow on
the grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed
through a hole made by a blow from a fist, through the grating and the
glass. The arm seized a loaf of bread and carried it off. Isabeau ran out
in haste; the robber fled at the full speed of his legs. Isabeau ran after
him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but his arm was
still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean.
This took place in 1795. Jean Valjean was taken before the tribunals of
the time for theft and breaking and entering an inhabited house at night.
He had a gun which he used better than any one else in the world, he was a
bit of a poacher, and this injured his case. There exists a legitimate
prejudice against poachers. The poacher, like the smuggler, smacks too
strongly of the brigand. Nevertheless, we will remark cursorily, there is
still an abyss between these races of men and the hideous assassin of the
towns. The poacher lives in the forest, the smuggler lives in the
mountains or on the sea. The cities make ferocious men because they make
corrupt men. The mountain, the sea, the forest, make savage men; they
develop the fierce side, but often without destroying the humane side.
Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Code were explicit.
There occur formidable hours in our civilization; there are moments when
the penal laws decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minute is that in which
society draws back and consummates the irreparable abandonment of a
sentient being! Jean Valjean was condemned to five years in the galleys.
On the 22d of April, 1796, the victory of Montenotte, won by the
general-in-chief of the army of Italy, whom the message of the Directory
to the Five Hundred, of the 2d of Floreal, year IV., calls Buona-Parte,
was announced in Paris; on that same day a great gang of galley-slaves was
put in chains at Bic�tre. Jean Valjean formed a part of that gang. An old
turnkey of the prison, who is now nearly eighty years old, still recalls
perfectly that unfortunate wretch who was chained to the end of the fourth
line, in the north angle of the courtyard. He was seated on the ground
like the others. He did not seem to comprehend his position, except that
it was horrible. It is probable that he, also, was disentangling from amid
the vague ideas of a poor man, ignorant of everything, something
excessive. While the bolt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his
head with heavy blows from the hammer, he wept, his tears stifled him,
they impeded his speech; he only managed to say from time to time, "I was
a tree-pruner at Faverolles." Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand
and lowered it gradually seven times, as though he were touching in
succession seven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was
divined that the thing which he had done, whatever it was, he had done for
the sake of clothing and nourishing seven little children.
He set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of twenty-seven
days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he was clothed in the
red cassock. All that had constituted his life, even to his name, was
effaced; he was no longer even Jean Valjean; he was number 24,601. What
became of his sister? What became of the seven children? Who troubled
himself about that? What becomes of the handful of leaves from the young
tree which is sawed off at the root?
It is always the same story. These poor living beings, these creatures of
God, henceforth without support, without guide, without refuge, wandered
away at random,—who even knows?—each in his own direction
perhaps, and little by little buried themselves in that cold mist which
engulfs solitary destinies; gloomy shades, into which disappear in
succession so many unlucky heads, in the sombre march of the human race.
They quitted the country. The clock-tower of what had been their village
forgot them; the boundary line of what had been their field forgot them;
after a few years' residence in the galleys, Jean Valjean himself forgot
them. In that heart, where there had been a wound, there was a scar. That
is all. Only once, during all the time which he spent at Toulon, did he
hear his sister mentioned. This happened, I think, towards the end of the
fourth year of his captivity. I know not through what channels the news
reached him. Some one who had known them in their own country had seen his
sister. She was in Paris. She lived in a poor street Rear Saint-Sulpice,
in the Rue du Gindre. She had with her only one child, a little boy, the
youngest. Where were the other six? Perhaps she did not know herself.
Every morning she went to a printing office, No. 3 Rue du Sabot, where she
was a folder and stitcher. She was obliged to be there at six o'clock in
the morning—long before daylight in winter. In the same building
with the printing office there was a school, and to this school she took
her little boy, who was seven years old. But as she entered the printing
office at six, and the school only opened at seven, the child had to wait
in the courtyard, for the school to open, for an hour—one hour of a
winter night in the open air! They would not allow the child to come into
the printing office, because he was in the way, they said. When the
workmen passed in the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated
on the pavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast asleep in the
shadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained, an
old woman, the portress, took pity on him; she took him into her den,
where there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs, and the
little one slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the cat that
he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock the school opened, and he
entered. That is what was told to Jean Valjean.
They talked to him about it for one day; it was a moment, a flash, as
though a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of those things
whom he had loved; then all closed again. He heard nothing more forever.
Nothing from them ever reached him again; he never beheld them; he never
met them again; and in the continuation of this mournful history they will
not be met with any more.
Towards the end of this fourth year Jean Valjean's turn to escape arrived.
His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. He escaped.
He wandered for two days in the fields at liberty, if being at liberty is
to be hunted, to turn the head every instant, to quake at the slightest
noise, to be afraid of everything,—of a smoking roof, of a passing
man, of a barking dog, of a galloping horse, of a striking clock, of the
day because one can see, of the night because one cannot see, of the
highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On the evening of the second
day he was captured. He had neither eaten nor slept for thirty-six hours.
The maritime tribunal condemned him, for this crime, to a prolongation of
his term for three years, which made eight years. In the sixth year his
turn to escape occurred again; he availed himself of it, but could not
accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at roll-call. The cannon were
fired, and at night the patrol found him hidden under the keel of a vessel
in process of construction; he resisted the galley guards who seized him.
Escape and rebellion. This case, provided for by a special code, was
punished by an addition of five years, two of them in the double chain.
Thirteen years. In the tenth year his turn came round again; he again
profited by it; he succeeded no better. Three years for this fresh
attempt. Sixteen years. Finally, I think it was during his thirteenth
year, he made a last attempt, and only succeeded in getting retaken at the
end of four hours of absence. Three years for those four hours. Nineteen
years. In October, 1815, he was released; he had entered there in 1796,
for having broken a pane of glass and taken a loaf of bread.
Room for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time, during his studies
on the penal question and damnation by law, that the author of this book
has come across the theft of a loaf of bread as the point of departure for
the disaster of a destiny. Claude Gaux had stolen a loaf; Jean Valjean had
stolen a loaf. English statistics prove the fact that four thefts out of
five in London have hunger for their immediate cause.
Jean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged
impassive. He had entered in despair; he emerged gloomy.
What had taken place in that soul?