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CHAPTER III—A TEMPEST IN A SKULL
The reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine is no other
than Jean Valjean.
We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience; the moment has
now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without
emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than
this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more
dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself on no
other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious,
and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea; it is
heaven: there is a spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost
recesses of the soul.
To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference to a
single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to
blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic. Conscience is the
chaos of chimeras, of lusts, and of temptations; the furnace of dreams;
the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed; it is the pandemonium of
sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate, at certain
hours, past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection,
and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There,
beneath that external silence, battles of giants, like those recorded in
Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of
phantoms, as in Milton; visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn
thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he
measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of
Alighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before which he
hesitated. Here is one before us, upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let us
We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had
happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with Little Gervais. From
that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What
the Bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was more
than a transformation; it was a transfiguration.
He succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop's silver, reserving only the
candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France,
came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which we have mentioned,
accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe
from seizure and inaccessible, and, thenceforth, established at M. sur M.,
happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first half of
his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and
hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts,—to conceal his name
and to sanctify his life; to escape men and to return to God.
These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they
formed but a single one there; both were equally absorbing and imperative
and ruled his slightest actions. In general, they conspired to regulate
the conduct of his life; they turned him towards the gloom; they rendered
him kindly and simple; they counselled him to the same things. Sometimes,
however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will remember, the
man whom all the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did not hesitate
to sacrifice the first to the second—his security to his virtue.
Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved
the Bishop's candlesticks, worn mourning for him, summoned and
interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that way, collected
information regarding the families at Faverolles, and saved old
Fauchelevent's life, despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert. It
seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought, following the
example of all those who have been wise, holy, and just, that his first
duty was not towards himself.
At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet
Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we
are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this
confusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert,
when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name, which he
had buried beneath so many layers, was so strangely articulated, he was
struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister
eccentricity of his destiny; and through this stupor he felt that shudder
which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a
storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He felt shadows
filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his head. As he
listened to Javert, the first thought which occurred to him was to go, to
run and denounce himself, to take that Champmathieu out of prison and
place himself there; this was as painful and as poignant as an incision in
the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, "We will
see! We will see!" He repressed this first, generous instinct, and
recoiled before heroism.
It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop's holy words, after so
many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence
admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the
presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the
same step towards this yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay
heaven; that would have been beautiful; but it was not thus. We must
render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and we can
only tell what there was there. He was carried away, at first, by the
instinct of self-preservation; he rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled
his emotions, took into consideration Javert's presence, that great
danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off
thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior
picks up his buckler.
He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within,
a profound tranquillity without. He took no "preservative measures," as
they may be called. Everything was still confused, and jostling together
in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form
of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about himself,
except that he had received a great blow.
He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged his
visit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave
thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged
to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to
go to Arras; and without having the least in the world made up his mind to
this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was, beyond the shadow of
any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to
what was to take place, and he engaged the tilbury from Scaufflaire in
order to be prepared in any event.
He dined with a good deal of appetite.
On returning to his room, he communed with himself.
He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented; so unprecedented
that in the midst of his revery he rose from his chair, moved by some
inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest
something more should enter. He was barricading himself against
A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.
It seemed to him as though he might be seen.
Alas! That on which he desired to close the door had already entered; that
which he desired to blind was staring him in the face,—his
His conscience; that is to say, God.
Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling of security
and of solitude; the bolt once drawn, he thought himself impregnable; the
candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he took possession of
himself: he set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand, and
began to meditate in the dark.
"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?"
This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its
power of retaining ideas; they passed like waves, and he clutched his brow
in both hands to arrest them.
Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which overwhelmed
his will and his reason, and from which he sought to draw proof and
His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open. There
were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the table.
The first hour passed in this manner.
Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix
themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch a glimpse with
precision of the reality,—not the whole situation, but some of the
details. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary
as was this situation, he was completely master of it.
This only caused an increase of his stupor.
Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned to his
actions, all that he had made up to that day had been nothing but a hole
in which to bury his name. That which he had always feared most of all in
his hours of self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to ever hear
that name pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would be the end
of all things for him; that on the day when that name made its
reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him, and—who
knows?—perhaps even his new soul within him, also. He shuddered at
the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if any one had said to
him at such moments that the hour would come when that name would ring in
his ears, when the hideous words, Jean Valjean, would suddenly emerge from
the darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light, capable
of dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself, would
suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name would not menace
him, that that light would but produce an obscurity more dense, that this
rent veil would but increase the mystery, that this earthquake would
solidify his edifice, that this prodigious incident would have no other
result, so far as he was concerned, if so it seemed good to him, than that
of rendering his existence at once clearer and more impenetrable, and
that, out of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good
and worthy citizen Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored, more
peaceful, and more respected than ever—if any one had told him that,
he would have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman.
Well, all this was precisely what had just come to pass; all that
accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these
wild fancies to become real things!
His revery continued to grow clearer. He came more and more to an
understanding of his position.
It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable
dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the middle
of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the very
brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a
man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and whom she was
thrusting into the gulf in his stead; in order that the gulf might close
once more, it was necessary that some one, himself or that other man,
should fall into it: he had only let things take their course.
The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself: That his
place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would, it was still
awaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to it;
that this vacant place would await him, and draw him on until he filled
it; that this was inevitable and fatal; and then he said to himself,
"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."
All this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly took place in
him that indescribable movement, which no man feels more than two or three
times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the conscience
which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart, which is composed
of irony, of joy, and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of
He hastily relighted his candle.
"Well, what then?" he said to himself; "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 cure, 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!"
Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience, bending
over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his chair, and began
to pace the room: "Come," said he, "let us think no more about it; my
resolve is taken!" but he felt no joy.
Quite the reverse.
One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can the
sea from returning to the shore: the sailor calls it the tide; the guilty
man calls it remorse; God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean.
After the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he resumed the
gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he who listened, saying
that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listened to that which
he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that mysterious power
which said to him: "Think!" as it said to another condemned man, two
thousand years ago, "March on!"
Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully
understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation.
It is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is no living being
who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is never a more
magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a
man, and when it returns from conscience to thought; it is in this sense
only that the words so often employed in this chapter, he said, he
exclaimed, must be understood; one speaks to one's self, talks to one's
self, exclaims to one's self without breaking the external silence; there
is a great tumult; everything about us talks except the mouth. The
realities of the soul are none the less realities because they are not
visible and palpable.
So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that
"settled resolve." He confessed to himself that all that he had just
arranged in his mind was monstrous, that "to let things take their course,
to let the good God do as he liked," was simply horrible; to allow this
error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it, to lend
himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short, was to do
everything! that this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree! that
it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime!
For the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just tasted the
bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.
He spit it out with disgust.
He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had
meant by this, "My object is attained!" He declared to himself that his
life really had an object; but what object? To conceal his name? To
deceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that
he had done? Had he not another and a grand object, which was the true one—to
save, not his person, but his soul; to become honest and good once more;
to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that alone, which he had
always desired, which the Bishop had enjoined upon him—to shut the
door on his past? But he was not shutting it! great God! he was re-opening
it by committing an infamous action! He was becoming a thief once more,
and the most odious of thieves! He was robbing another of his existence,
his life, his peace, his place in the sunshine. He was becoming an
assassin. He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man. He was
inflicting on him that frightful living death, that death beneath the open
sky, which is called the galleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself
to save that man, struck down with so melancholy an error, to resume his
own name, to become once more, out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that
was, in truth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever that hell
whence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance was to escape
from it in reality. This must be done! He had done nothing if he did not
do all this; his whole life was useless; all his penitence was wasted.
There was no longer any need of saying, "What is the use?" He felt that
the Bishop was there, that the Bishop was present all the more because he
was dead, that the Bishop was gazing fixedly at him, that henceforth Mayor
Madeleine, with all his virtues, would be abominable to him, and that the
convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight; that men
beheld his mask, but that the Bishop saw his face; that men saw his life,
but that the Bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver
the false Jean Valjean, and denounce the real one. Alas! that was the
greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant of victories, the last step to
take; but it must be done. Sad fate! he would enter into sanctity only in
the eyes of God when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.
"Well," said he, "let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us save
this man." He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was
He took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He flung in the
fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed
tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might have
been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment, To
Monsieur Laffitte, Banker, Rue d'Artois, Paris. He drew from his secretary
a pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the passport of which
he had made use that same year when he went to the elections.
Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts, into
which there entered such grave thought, would have had no suspicion of
what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his lips move; at
other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the
wall, as though there existed at that point something which he wished to
elucidate or interrogate.
When he had finished the letter to M. Laffitte, he put it into his pocket,
together with the pocket-book, and began his walk once more.
His revery had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his duty
clearly, written in luminous letters, which flamed before his eyes and
changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance:—
"Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself!"
In the same way he beheld, as though they had passed before him in visible
forms, the two ideas which had, up to that time, formed the double rule of
his soul,—the concealment of his name, the sanctification of his
life. For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct, and
he perceived the distance which separated them. He recognized the fact
that one of these ideas was, necessarily, good, while the other might
become bad; that the first was self-devotion, and that the other was
personality; that the one said, my neighbor, and that the other said,
myself; that one emanated from the light, and the other from darkness.
They were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion as he
meditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit. They had now attained
colossal statures, and it seemed to him that he beheld within himself, in
that infinity of which we were recently speaking, in the midst of the
darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending.
He was filled with terror; but it seemed to him that the good thought was
getting the upper hand.
He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his
conscience and of his destiny; that the Bishop had marked the first phase
of his new life, and that Champmathieu marked the second. After the grand
crisis, the grand test.
But the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of
him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to fortify
him in his resolution.
One moment he said to himself that he was, perhaps, taking the matter too
keenly; that, after all, this Champmathieu was not interesting, and that
he had actually been guilty of theft.
He answered himself: "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."
In another instant the thought had occurred to him that, when he denounced
himself, the heroism of his deed might, perhaps, be taken into
consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years, and what he
had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on him.
But this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he
remembered that the theft of the forty sous from little Gervais put him in
the position of a man guilty of a second offence after conviction, that
this affair would certainly come up, and, according to the precise terms
of the law, would render him liable to penal servitude for life.
He turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from
earth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself that
he must do his duty; that perhaps he should not be more unhappy after
doing his duty than after having avoided it; that if he allowed things to
take their own course, if he remained at M. sur M., his consideration, his
good name, his good works, the deference and veneration paid to him, his
charity, his wealth, his popularity, his virtue, would be seasoned with a
crime. And what would be the taste of all these holy things when bound up
with this hideous thing? while, if he accomplished his sacrifice, a
celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys, the post, the iron
necklet, the green cap, unceasing toil, and pitiless shame.
At length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus
allotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on
high, that, in any case, he must make his choice: virtue without and
abomination within, or holiness within and infamy without.
The stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to
fail, but his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things, of
indifferent matters, in spite of himself.
The veins in his temples throbbed violently; he still paced to and fro;
midnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town-hall; he
counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks, and compared the sounds of
the two bells; he recalled in this connection the fact that, a few days
previously, he had seen in an ironmonger's shop an ancient clock for sale,
upon which was written the name, Antoine-Albin de Romainville.
He was cold; he lighted a small fire; it did not occur to him to close the
In the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor; he was obliged to make a
tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his
thoughts before midnight had struck; he finally succeeded in doing this.
"Ah! yes," he said to himself, "I had resolved to inform against myself."
And then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine.
"Hold!" said he, "and what about that poor woman?"
Here a fresh crisis declared itself.
Fantine, by appearing thus abruptly in his revery, produced the effect of
an unexpected ray of light; it seemed to him as though everything about
him were undergoing a change of aspect: he exclaimed:—
"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>I</i> excepted, the <i>I</i> effaced, the <i>I</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."
After putting this question to himself, he paused; he seemed to undergo a
momentary hesitation and trepidation; but it did not last long, and he
answered himself calmly:—
"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 Thenardiers;
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."
He rose and resumed his march; this time, he seemed to be content.
Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth; truths are found
only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him, that, after having
descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of
these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these
truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was dazzled as he
gazed upon it.
"Yes," he thought, "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."
He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney-piece, and
"Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man
He proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short.
"Come!" he said, "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."
He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a
small key; he inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be
seen, so hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the design which
covered the wall-paper; a secret receptacle opened, a sort of false
cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the chimney-piece;
in this hiding-place there were some rags—a blue linen blouse, an
old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel shod with
iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he
passed through D——in October, 1815, could easily have
recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit.
He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks, in
order to remind himself continually of his starting-point, but he had
concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the
candlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen.
He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it
would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it; then, with a quick and
abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without bestowing
so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so
perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all, rags, cudgel,
knapsack, into the fire.
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He closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled precautions,
henceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door
behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it.
After the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were
lighted up with a fierce, red, tremulous glow. Everything was on fire; the
thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle of the chamber.
As the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it
contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending
over, one could have readily recognized a coin,—no doubt the
forty-sou piece stolen from the little Savoyard.
He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step.
All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone
vaguely on the chimney-piece, through the glow.
"Hold!" he thought; "the whole of Jean Valjean is still in them. They must
be destroyed also."
He seized the two candlesticks.
There was still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape, and
converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal.
He bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a sense
of real comfort. "How good warmth is!" said he.
He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks.
A minute more, and they were both in the fire.
At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting:
"Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!"
His hair rose upright: he became like a man who is listening to some
"Yes, that's it! finish!" said the voice. "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,
The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the
candlesticks. But that within him which had spoken had not finished. The
"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."
This voice, feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most obscure
depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable,
and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached
itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought
that he heard the last words so distinctly, that he glanced around the
room in a sort of terror.
"Is there any one here?" he demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.
Then he resumed, with a laugh which resembled that of an idiot:—
"How stupid I am! There can be no one!"
There was some one; but the person who was there was of those whom the
human eye cannot see.
He placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece.
Then he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the
dreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke him with a start.
This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him. It
sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for
the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter by
change of place. After the lapse of a few minutes he no longer knew his
He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he
had arrived in turn. The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him
equally fatal. What a fatality! What conjunction that that Champmathieu
should have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed by precisely the means
which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen his
There was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself,
great God! Deliver himself up! With immense despair he faced all that he
should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once
more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence which was so good,
so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty. He
should never more stroll in the fields; he should never more hear the
birds sing in the month of May; he should never more bestow alms on the
little children; he should never more experience the sweetness of having
glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he should quit that house
which he had built, that little chamber! Everything seemed charming to him
at that moment. Never again should he read those books; never more should
he write on that little table of white wood; his old portress, the only
servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the
morning. Great God! instead of that, the convict gang, the iron necklet,
the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed
all those horrors which he knew so well! At his age, after having been
what he was! If he were only young again! but to be addressed in his old
age as "thou" by any one who pleased; to be searched by the convict-guard;
to receive the galley-sergeant's cudgellings; to wear iron-bound shoes on
his bare feet; to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the
hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang; to submit to the curiosity of
strangers, who would be told: "That man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean,
who was mayor of M. sur M."; and at night, dripping with perspiration,
overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their eyes, to
remount, two by two, the ladder staircase of the galleys beneath the
sergeant's whip. Oh, what misery! Can destiny, then, be as malicious as an
intelligent being, and become as monstrous as the human heart?
And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heartrending dilemma
which lay at the foundation of his revery: "Should he remain in paradise
and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an angel?"
What was to be done? Great God! what was to be done?
The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was
unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more;
they assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar
to despair. The name of Romainville recurred incessantly to his mind, with
the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past. He thought that
Romainville was a little grove near Paris, where young lovers go to pluck
lilacs in the month of April.
He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child
who is permitted to toddle alone.
At intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover
the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself, for the last time,
and definitely, the problem over which he had, in a manner, fallen
prostrate with fatigue: Ought he to denounce himself? Ought he to hold his
peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects
of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his
meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into smoke. He
only felt that, to whatever course of action he made up his mind,
something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being
able to escape the fact; that he was entering a sepulchre on the right
hand as much as on the left; that he was passing through a death agony,—the
agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue.
Alas! all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no
further advanced than at the beginning.
Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred years
before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being in whom are summed up
all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity had also long thrust
aside with his hand, while the olive-trees quivered in the wild wind of
the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to Him dripping with
darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths all studded with