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CHAPTER V—VAGUE FLASHES ON THE HORIZON
Little by little, and in the course of time, all this opposition subsided.
There had at first been exercised against M. Madeleine, in virtue of a
sort of law which all those who rise must submit to, blackening and
calumnies; then they grew to be nothing more than ill-nature, then merely
malicious remarks, then even this entirely disappeared; respect became
complete, unanimous, cordial, and towards 1821 the moment arrived when the
word "Monsieur le Maire" was pronounced at M. sur M. with almost the same
accent as "Monseigneur the Bishop" had been pronounced in D——
in 1815. People came from a distance of ten leagues around to consult M.
Madeleine. He put an end to differences, he prevented lawsuits, he
reconciled enemies. Every one took him for the judge, and with good
reason. It seemed as though he had for a soul the book of the natural law.
It was like an epidemic of veneration, which in the course of six or seven
years gradually took possession of the whole district.
One single man in the town, in the arrondissement, absolutely escaped this
contagion, and, whatever Father Madeleine did, remained his opponent as
though a sort of incorruptible and imperturbable instinct kept him on the
alert and uneasy. It seems, in fact, as though there existed in certain
men a veritable bestial instinct, though pure and upright, like all
instincts, which creates antipathies and sympathies, which fatally
separates one nature from another nature, which does not hesitate, which
feels no disquiet, which does not hold its peace, and which never belies
itself, clear in its obscurity, infallible, imperious, intractable,
stubborn to all counsels of the intelligence and to all the dissolvents of
reason, and which, in whatever manner destinies are arranged, secretly
warns the man-dog of the presence of the man-cat, and the man-fox of the
presence of the man-lion.
It frequently happened that when M. Madeleine was passing along a street,
calm, affectionate, surrounded by the blessings of all, a man of lofty
stature, clad in an iron-gray frock-coat, armed with a heavy cane, and
wearing a battered hat, turned round abruptly behind him, and followed him
with his eyes until he disappeared, with folded arms and a slow shake of
the head, and his upper lip raised in company with his lower to his nose,
a sort of significant grimace which might be translated by: "What is that
man, after all? I certainly have seen him somewhere. In any case, I am not
This person, grave with a gravity which was almost menacing, was one of
those men who, even when only seen by a rapid glimpse, arrest the
His name was Javert, and he belonged to the police.
At M. sur M. he exercised the unpleasant but useful functions of an
inspector. He had not seen Madeleine's beginnings. Javert owed the post
which he occupied to the protection of M. Chabouillet, the secretary of
the Minister of State, Comte Angeles, then prefect of police at Paris.
When Javert arrived at M. sur M. the fortune of the great manufacturer was
already made, and Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine.
Certain police officers have a peculiar physiognomy, which is complicated
with an air of baseness mingled with an air of authority. Javert possessed
this physiognomy minus the baseness.
It is our conviction that if souls were visible to the eyes, we should be
able to see distinctly that strange thing that each one individual of the
human race corresponds to some one of the species of the animal creation;
and we could easily recognize this truth, hardly perceived by the thinker,
that from the oyster to the eagle, from the pig to the tiger, all animals
exist in man, and that each one of them is in a man. Sometimes even
several of them at a time.
Animals are nothing else than the figures of our virtues and our vices,
straying before our eyes, the visible phantoms of our souls. God shows
them to us in order to induce us to reflect. Only since animals are mere
shadows, God has not made them capable of education in the full sense of
the word; what is the use? On the contrary, our souls being realities and
having a goal which is appropriate to them, God has bestowed on them
intelligence; that is to say, the possibility of education. Social
education, when well done, can always draw from a soul, of whatever sort
it may be, the utility which it contains.
This, be it said, is of course from the restricted point of view of the
terrestrial life which is apparent, and without prejudging the profound
question of the anterior or ulterior personality of the beings which are
not man. The visible <i>I</i> in nowise authorizes the thinker to deny the
latent <i>I</i>. Having made this reservation, let us pass on.
Now, if the reader will admit, for a moment, with us, that in every man
there is one of the animal species of creation, it will be easy for us to
say what there was in Police Officer Javert.
The peasants of Asturias are convinced that in every litter of wolves
there is one dog, which is killed by the mother because, otherwise, as he
grew up, he would devour the other little ones.
Give to this dog-son of a wolf a human face, and the result will be
Javert had been born in prison, of a fortune-teller, whose husband was in
the galleys. As he grew up, he thought that he was outside the pale of
society, and he despaired of ever re-entering it. He observed that society
unpardoningly excludes two classes of men,—those who attack it and
those who guard it; he had no choice except between these two classes; at
the same time, he was conscious of an indescribable foundation of
rigidity, regularity, and probity, complicated with an inexpressible
hatred for the race of bohemians whence he was sprung. He entered the
police; he succeeded there. At forty years of age he was an inspector.
During his youth he had been employed in the convict establishments of the
Before proceeding further, let us come to an understanding as to the
words, "human face," which we have just applied to Javert.
The human face of Javert consisted of a flat nose, with two deep nostrils,
towards which enormous whiskers ascended on his cheeks. One felt ill at
ease when he saw these two forests and these two caverns for the first
time. When Javert laughed,—and his laugh was rare and terrible,—his
thin lips parted and revealed to view not only his teeth, but his gums,
and around his nose there formed a flattened and savage fold, as on the
muzzle of a wild beast. Javert, serious, was a watchdog; when he laughed,
he was a tiger. As for the rest, he had very little skull and a great deal
of jaw; his hair concealed his forehead and fell over his eyebrows;
between his eyes there was a permanent, central frown, like an imprint of
wrath; his gaze was obscure; his mouth pursed up and terrible; his air
that of ferocious command.
This man was composed of two very simple and two very good sentiments,
comparatively; but he rendered them almost bad, by dint of exaggerating
them,—respect for authority, hatred of rebellion; and in his eyes,
murder, robbery, all crimes, are only forms of rebellion. He enveloped in
a blind and profound faith every one who had a function in the state, from
the prime minister to the rural policeman. He covered with scorn,
aversion, and disgust every one who had once crossed the legal threshold
of evil. He was absolute, and admitted no exceptions. On the one hand, he
said, "The functionary can make no mistake; the magistrate is never the
wrong." On the other hand, he said, "These men are irremediably lost.
Nothing good can come from them." He fully shared the opinion of those
extreme minds which attribute to human law I know not what power of
making, or, if the reader will have it so, of authenticating, demons, and
who place a Styx at the base of society. He was stoical, serious, austere;
a melancholy dreamer, humble and haughty, like fanatics. His glance was
like a gimlet, cold and piercing. His whole life hung on these two words:
watchfulness and supervision. He had introduced a straight line into what
is the most crooked thing in the world; he possessed the conscience of his
usefulness, the religion of his functions, and he was a spy as other men
are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands! He would have
arrested his own father, if the latter had escaped from the galleys, and
would have denounced his mother, if she had broken her ban. And he would
have done it with that sort of inward satisfaction which is conferred by
virtue. And, withal, a life of privation, isolation, abnegation, chastity,
with never a diversion. It was implacable duty; the police understood, as
the Spartans understood Sparta, a pitiless lying in wait, a ferocious
honesty, a marble informer, Brutus in Vidocq.
Javert's whole person was expressive of the man who spies and who
withdraws himself from observation. The mystical school of Joseph de
Maistre, which at that epoch seasoned with lofty cosmogony those things
which were called the ultra newspapers, would not have failed to declare
that Javert was a symbol. His brow was not visible; it disappeared beneath
his hat: his eyes were not visible, since they were lost under his
eyebrows: his chin was not visible, for it was plunged in his cravat: his
hands were not visible; they were drawn up in his sleeves: and his cane
was not visible; he carried it under his coat. But when the occasion
presented itself, there was suddenly seen to emerge from all this shadow,
as from an ambuscade, a narrow and angular forehead, a baleful glance, a
threatening chin, enormous hands, and a monstrous cudgel.
In his leisure moments, which were far from frequent, he read, although he
hated books; this caused him to be not wholly illiterate. This could be
recognized by some emphasis in his speech.
As we have said, he had no vices. When he was pleased with himself, he
permitted himself a pinch of snuff. Therein lay his connection with
The reader will have no difficulty in understanding that Javert was the
terror of that whole class which the annual statistics of the Ministry of
Justice designates under the rubric, Vagrants. The name of Javert routed
them by its mere utterance; the face of Javert petrified them at sight.
Such was this formidable man.
Javert was like an eye constantly fixed on M. Madeleine. An eye full of
suspicion and conjecture. M. Madeleine had finally perceived the fact; but
it seemed to be of no importance to him. He did not even put a question to
Javert; he neither sought nor avoided him; he bore that embarrassing and
almost oppressive gaze without appearing to notice it. He treated Javert
with ease and courtesy, as he did all the rest of the world.
It was divined, from some words which escaped Javert, that he had secretly
investigated, with that curiosity which belongs to the race, and into
which there enters as much instinct as will, all the anterior traces which
Father Madeleine might have left elsewhere. He seemed to know, and he
sometimes said in covert words, that some one had gleaned certain
information in a certain district about a family which had disappeared.
Once he chanced to say, as he was talking to himself, "I think I have
him!" Then he remained pensive for three days, and uttered not a word. It
seemed that the thread which he thought he held had broken.
Moreover, and this furnishes the necessary corrective for the too absolute
sense which certain words might present, there can be nothing really
infallible in a human creature, and the peculiarity of instinct is that it
can become confused, thrown off the track, and defeated. Otherwise, it
would be superior to intelligence, and the beast would be found to be
provided with a better light than man.
Javert was evidently somewhat disconcerted by the perfect naturalness and
tranquillity of M. Madeleine.
One day, nevertheless, his strange manner appeared to produce an
impression on M. Madeleine. It was on the following occasion.