CHAPTER I.
THE CLOSE OF A DAY'S MARCH.
At the beginning of October, 1815, and about an hour before sunset,a man travelling on foot entered the little town of D----. The fewinhabitants, who were at the moment at their windows or doors, regardedthis traveller with a species of inquietude. It would be difficult tomeet a wayfarer of more wretched appearance; he was a man of middleheight, muscular and robust, and in the full vigor of life. He might beforty-six to forty-eight years of age. A cap with a leather peak partlyconcealed his sunburnt face, down which the perspiration streamed. Hisshirt of coarse yellow calico, fastened at the neck by a small silveranchor, allowed his hairy chest to be seen; he had on a neck-clothtwisted like a rope, trousers of blue ticking worn and threadbare,white at one knee and torn at the other; an old gray ragged blousepatched at one elbow with a rag of green cloth; on his back a largenew well-filled and well-buckled knapsack, and a large knotty stick inhis hand. His stockingless feet were thrust into iron-shod shoes, hishair was clipped, and his beard long. Perspiration, heat, travelling onfoot, and the dust, added something sordid to his wretched appearance.His hair was cut close and yet was bristling, for it was beginning togrow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time.
No one knew him; he was evidently passing through the town. Wheredid he come from? The South perhaps, the sea-board, for he made hisentrance into D---- by the same road Napoleon had driven along sevenmonths previously when going from Cannes to Paris. The man must havebeen walking all day, for he seemed very tired. Some women in theold suburb at the lower part of the town had seen him halt under thetrees on the Gassendi Boulevard, and drink from the fountain at theend of the walk. He must have been very thirsty, for the childrenthat followed him saw him stop and drink again at the fountain on theMarket-place. On reaching the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turnedto the left and proceeded to the Mayor's office. He went in and cameout again a quarter of an hour after. A gendarme was sitting on thestone bench near the door, on which General Drouot had mounted on March4th, to read to the startled town-folk of D---- the proclamation of thegulf of Juan. The man doffed his cap and bowed humbly to the gendarme;the latter, without returning his salute, looked at him attentively,and then entered the office.
There was at that time at D---- a capital inn, with the sign of theCross of Colbas. This inn was kept by a certain Jacquin Labarre, a manhighly respected in the town for his relationship to another Labarre,who kept the Three Dolphins at Grenoble, and had served in the Guides.When the Emperor landed, many rumors were current in the countryabout the Three Dolphins; it was said that General Bertrand, in thedisguise of a wagoner, had stopped there several times in the month ofJanuary, and distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers, and handsfulof napoleons to the towns-people. The fact was that the Emperor onentering Grenoble refused to take up his quarters at the Prefecture; hethanked the Mayor, and said, "I am going to a worthy man whom I know,"and he went to the Three Dolphins. The glory of the Grenoble Labarrewas reflected for a distance of five-and-twenty leagues on the Labarreof the Cross of Colbas. The towns-people said of him, "He is cousin tothe one at Grenoble."
The man proceeded to this inn, which was the best in the town, andentered the kitchen, the door of which opened on the street. All theovens were heated, and a large fire blazed cheerily in the chimney.The host, who was at the same time head-cook, went from the hearthto the stew-pans, very busy in attending to a dinner intended forthe carriers, who could be heard singing and talking noisily in anadjoining room. Any one who has travelled knows that no people feed sowell as carriers. A fat marmot, flanked by white-legged partridges andgrouse, was turning on a long spit before the fire; while two largecarp from Lake Lauzet and an Alloz trout were baking in the ovens. Thelandlord, on hearing the door open and a stranger enter, said, withoutraising his eyes from his stew-pans,--
"What do you want, sir?"
"Supper and a bed," the man replied.
"Nothing easier," said mine host. At this moment he looked up, took inthe stranger's appearance at a glance, and added, "On paying."
The man drew a heavy leathern purse from the pocket of his blouse, andreplied,--
"I have money."
"In that case I am at your service," said the host.
The man returned the purse to his pocket, took off his knapsack, placedit on the ground near the door, kept his stick in his hand, and satdown on a low stool near the fire. D---- is in the mountains, and theevenings there are cold in October. While going backwards and forwardsthe landlord still inspected his guest.
"Will supper be ready soon?" the man asked.
"Directly."
While the new-comer had his back turned to warm himself, the worthylandlord took a pencil from his pocket, and then tore off the cornerof an old newspaper which lay on a small table near the window. On thewhite margin he wrote a line or two, folded up the paper, and handed itto a lad who seemed to serve both as turnspit and page. The landlordwhispered a word in the boy's ear, and he ran off in the direction ofthe Mayor's house. The traveller had seen nothing of all this, and heasked again whether supper would be ready soon. The boy came back withthe paper in his hand, and the landlord eagerly unfolded it, like aman who is expecting an answer. He read it carefully, then shook hishead, and remained thoughtful for a moment. At last he walked up to thetraveller, who seemed plunged in anything but a pleasant reverie.
"I cannot make room for you, sir," he said.
The man half turned on his stool.
"What do you mean? Are you afraid I shall bilk you? Do you want me topay you in advance? I have money, I tell you."
"It is not that"
"What is it, then?"
"You have money."
"Yes," said the man.
"But I have not a spare bed-room."
The man continued quietly: "Put me in the stables."
"I cannot."
"Why?"
"The horses take up all the room."
"Well," the man continued, "a corner in the loft and a truss of straw:we will see to that after supper."
"I cannot give you any supper."
This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, seemed to thestranger serious. He rose.
"Nonsense, I am dying of hunger. I have been on my legs since sunrise,and have walked twelve leagues. I can pay, and demand food."
"I have none," said the landlord.
The man burst into a laugh, and turned to the chimney and the oven.
"Nothing! Why, what is all this?"
"All this is ordered."
"By whom?"
"By the carriers."
"How many are there of them?"
"Twelve."
"There is enough food here for twenty."
The man sat down again, and said without raising his voice,--
"I am at an inn, I am hungry, and so shall remain."
The landlord then stooped down, and whispered with an accent which madehim start, "Be off with you!"
The stranger at this moment was thrusting some logs into the fire withthe ferule of his stick, but he turned quickly, and as he was openinghis mouth to reply, the landlord continued in the same low voice:"Come, enough of this. Do you wish me to tell you your name? It is JeanValjean. Now, do you wish me to tell you who you are? On seeing youcome in I suspected something, so I sent to the police office, and thisis the answer I received. Can you read?"
While saying this, he handed the stranger the paper which had travelledfrom the inn to the office and back again. The man took a glance at it,and mine host continued after a moment's silence,--
"I am accustomed to be polite with everybody. Be off."
The man stooped, picked up his knapsack, and went off. He walked alongthe high street hap-hazard, keeping close to the houses like a sad andhumiliated man. He did not look back once; had he done so he would haveseen the landlord of the Cross of Colbas in his doorway surrounded byall his guests and the passers-by, talking eagerly and pointing tohim: and judging fro
m the looks of suspicion and terror, he might haveguessed that ere long his arrival would be the event of the whole town.He saw nothing of all this, for men who are oppressed do not look back,as they know only too well that an evil destiny is following them.
He walked on thus for a long time, turning down streets he did notknow, and forgetting his fatigue, as happens in sorrow. All at once hewas sharply assailed by hunger: night was approaching, and he lookedround to see whether he could not discover a shelter. The best innwas closed against him, and he sought some very humble pot-house,some wretched den. At this moment a lamp was lit at the end of thestreet, and a fir-branch hanging from an iron bar stood out on thewhite twilight sky. He went towards it: it was really a pot-house. Thestranger stopped for a moment and looked through the window into thelow tap-room, which was lighted up by a small lamp on the table and alarge fire on the hearth. Some men were drinking, and the landlord waswarming himself; over the flames bubbled a caldron hanging from an ironhook. This pot-house, which is also a sort of inn, has two entrances,one on the street, the other opening on a small yard full of manure.The traveller did not dare enter by the street door: he slipped intothe yard, stopped once again, and then timidly raised the latch andopened the door.
"Who's there?" the landlord asked.
"Some one who wants a supper and bed."
"Very good. They are to be had here."
He went in, and all the topers turned to look at him; they examined himfor some time while he was taking off his knapsack. Said the landlordto him, "Here is a fire; supper is boiling in the pot: come and warmyourself, comrade."
He sat down in the ingle and stretched out his feet, which were swollenwith fatigue. A pleasant smell issued from the caldron. All thatcould be distinguished of his face under his cap-peak assumed a vagueappearance of comfort blended with the other wretched appearance whichthe habit of suffering produces. It was, moreover, a firm, energetic,and sad profile; the face was strangely composed, for it began byappearing humble and ended by becoming severe. His eyes gleamed underhis brows, like a fire under brushwood. One of the men seated at thetable was a fishmonger, who, before entering the pot-house, had goneto put up his horse in Labarre's stables. Accident willed it, thaton the same morning he had met this ill-looking stranger walkingbetween Bras d'Asse and--(I have forgotten the name, but I fancy it isEscoublon). Now, on meeting him, the man, who appeared very fatigued,had asked the fishmonger to give him a lift, which had only made himgo the faster. This fishmonger had been half an hour previously oneof the party surrounding Jacquin Labarre, and had told his unpleasantencounter in the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas. He madean imperceptible sign to the landlord from his seat, and the latterwent up to him, and they exchanged a few whispered words. The man hadfallen back into his reverie.
The landlord went up to the chimney, laid his hand sharply on the man'sshoulder, and said to him,--
"You must be off from here."
The stranger turned and replied gently, "Ah, you know?"
"Yes."
"I was turned out of the other inn."
"And so you will be out of this."
"Where would you have me go?"
"Somewhere else."
The man took his knapsack and stick and went away. As he stepped out,some boys who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas, and seemed tohave been waiting for him, threw stones at him. He turned savagely,and threatened them with his stick, and the boys dispersed like aflock of birds. He passed in front of the prison, and pulled the ironbell-handle; a wicket was opened.
"Mr. Jailer," he said, as he humbly doffed his cap, "would you be kindenough to open the door and give me a nights lodging?"
A voice answered, "A prison is not an inn; get yourself arrested, andthen I will open the door."
The man entered a small street, in which there are numerous gardens,some of them being merely enclosed with hedges, which enliven thestreet. Among these gardens and hedges he saw a single-storeyed house,whose window was illuminated, and he looked through the panes as he haddone at the pot-house. It was a large white-washed room, with a bedwith printed chintz curtains, and a cradle in a corner, a few chairs,and a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was laid forsupper in the middle of the room; a copper lamp lit up the coarse whitecloth, the tin mug glistening like silver and full of wine, and thebrown smoking soup-tureen. At this table was seated a man of aboutforty years of age, with a hearty, open face, who was riding a child onhis knee. By his side a woman, still young, was suckling another child.The father was laughing, the children were laughing, and the motherwas smiling. The stranger stood for a moment pensively before thisgentle and calming spectacle; what was going on within him? It would beimpossible to say, but it is probable that he thought that this joyoushouse would prove hospitable, and that where he saw so much happinesshe might find a little pity. He tapped very slightly on a window pane,but was not heard; he tapped a second time, and he heard the woman say,"Husband, I fancy I can hear some one knocking."
"No," the husband answered.
He tapped a third time. The husband rose, took the lamp, and walkedto the front door. He was a tall man, half peasant, half artisan; hewore a huge, leathern apron, which came up to his left shoulder, and onwhich he carried a hammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-flask, and allsorts of things, which his belt held like a pocket. As he threw backhis head, his turned-down shirt-collar displayed his full neck, whiteand bare. He had thick eye-brows, enormous black whiskers, eyes flushwith his head, a bull-dog lower jaw, and over all this that air ofbeing at home, which is inexpressible.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the traveller said, "but would you, forpayment, give me a plateful of soup and a corner to sleep in in yourgarden outhouse?"
"Who are you?" the owner of the cottage asked.
The man answered, "I have come from Puy Moisson, I have walked thewhole day. Could you do it,--for payment of course?"
"I would not refuse," the peasant answered, "to lodge any respectableperson who paid. But why do you not go to the inn?"
"There is no room there."
"Nonsense! that is impossible; it is neither market nor fair day. Haveyou been to Labarre's?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
The traveller continued, with some hesitation, "I do not know why, buthe refused to take me in."
"Have you been to what is his name, in the Rue de Chauffaut?"
The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He would nottake me in either."
The peasant's face assumed a suspicious look, he surveyed the new comerfrom head to foot, and all at once exclaimed with a sort of shudder,--
"Can you be the man?..."
He took another look at the stranger, placed the lamp on the table, andtook down his gun. On hearing the peasant say "Can you be the man?"his wife had risen, taken her two children in her arms, and hurriedlysought refuge behind her husband, and looked in horror at the strangeras she muttered, "The villain!" All this took place in less time thanis needed to imagine it. After examining the man for some minutes asif he had been a viper, the peasant returned to the door and said: "Beoff!"
"For mercy's sake," the man continued,--"a glass of water."
"A charge of shot!" the peasant said.
Then he violently closed the door, and the stranger heard two boltsfastened. A moment after the window shutters were closed, and thesound of the iron bar being put in reached his ear. Night was comingon apace: the cold wind of the Alps was blowing. By the light of theexpiring day the stranger noticed in one of the gardens a sort of hutwhich seemed to him to be made of sods of turf. He boldly clamberedover a railing and found himself in the garden; he approached the hut,which had as entrance a narrow, extremely low door, and resembled thetenements which road-menders construct by the side of the highway. Hedoubtless thought it was such: he was suffering from cold and hunger,and though he had made up his mind to starve, it was at any rate ashelter against the cold. As this sort of residence is not usuallyoccupi
ed at night, he lay down on his stomach and crawled into the hut:it was warm, and he found a rather good straw litter in it. He lay fora moment motionless on this bed as his fatigue was so great: but as hisknapsack hurt his back and was a ready-made pillow, he began unbucklingone of the thongs. At this moment a hoarse growl was audible: he raisedhis eyes, and the head of an enormous mastiff stood out in the shadowat the opening of the hut, which was its kennel. The dog itself wasstrong and formidable, hence he raised his stick, employed his knapsackas a shield, and left the kennel as he best could, though not withoutenlarging the rents in his rags.
He also left the garden, but backwards, and compelled to twirl hisstick in order to keep the dog at a respectful distance. When he, notwithout difficulty, had leaped the fence again, and found himselfonce more in the street, alone, without a bed, roof, or shelter, andexpelled even from the bed of straw and the kennel, he fell rather thansat on a stone, and a passer-by heard him exclaim, "I am not even adog." He soon rose and recommenced his walk. He left the town hoping tofind some tree or mill in the fields which would afford him shelter. Hewalked on thus for some time with hanging head; when he found himselffar from all human habitations, he raised his eyes and looked aroundhim. He was in a field, and had in front of him one of those low hillswith close-cut stubble, which after harvest resemble cropped heads. Thehorizon was perfectly black, but it was not solely the gloom of night,but low clouds, which seemed to be resting on the hill itself, rose andfilled the whole sky. Still, as the moon was about to rise shortly, anda remnant of twilight still hovered in the zenith, these clouds formeda species of whitish vault whence a gleam of light was thrown on theearth.
The ground was therefore more illumined than the sky, which producesa peculiarly sinister effect, and the hill with its paltry outlinesstood out vaguely and dully on the gloomy horizon. The whole scene washideous, mean, mournful, and confined; there was nothing in the fieldor on the hill but a stunted tree, which writhed and trembled a fewyards from the traveller. This man was evidently far from possessingthose delicate habits of mind which render persons sensible of themysterious aspects of things, still there was in the sky, this hill,this plain, and this tree, something so profoundly desolate, that afterstanding motionless and thoughtful for a while he suddenly turned back.There are instants in which nature seems to be hostile.
He went back and found the gates of the town closed. D----, whichsustained sieges in the religious wars, was still begirt in 1815 byold walls flanked by square towers, which have since been demolished.He passed through a breach, and re-entered the town. It might be abouteight o'clock in the evening, and as he did not know the streets hewandered about without purpose. He thus reached the prefecture and thenthe seminary; on passing through the Cathedral Square he shook his fistat the church. There is at the corner of this Square a printing-office,where the proclamations of the Emperor and the Imperial Guard to thearmy, brought from Elba, and drawn up by Napoleon himself, were firstprinted. Worn out with fatigue, and hopeless, he sat down on the stonebench at the door of this printing-office. An old lady who was leavingthe church at the moment saw the man stretched out in the darkness.
"What are you doing there, my friend?" she said.
He answered, harshly and savagely, "You can see, my good woman, that Iam going to sleep."
The good woman, who was really worthy of the name, was the Marchionessde R----.
"On that bench?" she continued.
"I have had for nineteen years a wooden mattress," the man said, "andnow I have a stone one."
"Have you been a soldier?"
"Yes, my good woman."
"Why do you not go to the inn?"
"Because I have no money."
"Alas!" said Madame de R----, "I have only two-pence in my purse."
"You can give them to me all the same."
The man took the money, and Madame de R---- continued, "You cannotlodge at an inn for so small a sum, still you should make the attempt,for you cannot possibly spend the night here. Doubtless you are coldand hungry, and some one might take you in for charity."
"I have knocked at every door."
"Well?"
"And was turned away at all."
The "good woman" touched the man's arm and pointed to a small housenext to the Bishop's Palace.
"You have," she continued, "knocked at every door. Have you done sothere?"
"No."
"Then do it."