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 enter, nevertheless.
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 presented itself.
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
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 possibilities.
A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.
lt 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 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 resolution.
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 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, be 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 inward laughter.
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
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
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
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 speaking aloud.
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
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 window.
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_ excepted, the _I_ effaced, the _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
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
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,
"Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another
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
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.
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
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
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 terrible thing.
"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, wretch!"
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 voice continued:--
"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 position.
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 position!
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 stars.