Chapter Chapter 16 · THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING

Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man

who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D—— The few

inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the

moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was

difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a

man of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the prime of life. He

might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a

drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by

sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse

yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted

a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string;

trousers of blue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and

torn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the

elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed

soldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an

enormous, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless

feet; a shaved head and a long beard.

The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not

what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely

cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem

to have been cut for some time.

No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came

he? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his

entrance into D—— by the same street which, seven months previously,

had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from

Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed

very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is

situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the

boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end

of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who

followed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further

on, at the fountain in the market-place.

On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left,

and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out

a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the

stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to

read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D—— the

proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly

saluted the gendarme.

The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at

him, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the

town-hall.

There then existed at D—— a fine inn at the sign of the _Cross of

Colbas_. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man

of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another

Labarre, who kept the inn of the _Three Dauphins_ in Grenoble, and had

served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor’s landing, many rumors

had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the

_Three Dauphins_. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a

carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and

that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls

of gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered

Grenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the

prefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, _“I am going to the house

of a brave man of my acquaintance”;_ and he had betaken himself to the

_Three Dauphins_. This glory of the Labarre of the _Three Dauphins_ was

reflected upon the Labarre of the _Cross of Colbas_, at a distance of

five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, _“That is the

cousin of the man of Grenoble.”_

The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the

country-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the

street. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the

fireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one

stew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinner

designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and

laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has

travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than

wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks,

was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge

carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking.

The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said,

without raising his eyes from his stoves:—

“What do you wish, sir?”

“Food and lodging,” said the man.

“Nothing easier,” replied the host. At that moment he turned his head,

took in the traveller’s appearance with a single glance, and added, “By

paying for it.”

The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse, and

answered, “I have money.”

“In that case, we are at your service,” said the host.

The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his

back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his

hand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D—— is in

the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.

But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.

“Will dinner be ready soon?” said the man.

“Immediately,” replied the landlord.

While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back

turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his

pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on

a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or

two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper

to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and

lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion’s ear, and the

child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.

The traveller saw nothing of all this.

Once more he inquired, “Will dinner be ready soon?”

“Immediately,” responded the host.

The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it

eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it

attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a

moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who

appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.

“I cannot receive you, sir,” said he.

The man half rose.

“What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay

you in advance? I have money, I tell you.”

“It is not that.”

“What then?”

“You have money—”

“Yes,” said the man.

“And I,” said the host, “have no room.”

The man resumed tranquilly, “Put me in the stable.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“The horses take up all the space.”

“Very well!” retorted the man; “a corner of the loft then, a truss of

straw. We will see about that after dinner.”

“I cannot give you any dinner.”

This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger

as grave. He rose.

“Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise.

I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat.”

“I have nothing,” said the landlord.

The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the

stoves: “Nothing! and all that?”

“All that is engaged.”

“By whom?”

“By messieurs the wagoners.”

“How many are there of them?”

“Twelve.”

“There is enough food there for twenty.”

“They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance.”

The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, “I

am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain.”

Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him

start, “Go away!”

At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some

brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned

quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed

steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: “Stop! there’s enough

of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name

is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw

you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this

was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?”

So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which

had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the

town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord

resumed after a pause.

“I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away!”

The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited

on the ground, and took his departure.

He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture,

keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not

turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host

of the _Cross of Colbas_ standing on his threshold, surrounded by all

the guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talking

vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the

glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined

that his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.

He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind

them. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.

Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing

at random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue,

as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs

of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to see

whether he could not discover some shelter.

The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble

public house, some hovel, however lowly.

Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch

suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky

of the twilight. He proceeded thither.

It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in

the Rue de Chaffaut.

The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into

the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated

by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men

were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An

iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.

The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is

by two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard

filled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He

slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and

opened the door.

“Who goes there?” said the master.

“Some one who wants supper and bed.”

“Good. We furnish supper and bed here.”

He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp

illuminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined

him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.

The host said to him, “There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the

pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade.”

He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his

feet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was

emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face,

beneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance

of comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual

suffering bestows.

It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This

physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and

ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire

beneath brushwood.

One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who,

before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to

stable his horse at Labarre’s. It chanced that he had that very morning

encountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras

d’Asse and—I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escoublon. Now,

when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary, had

requested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had

made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a

member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin

Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the

morning to the people at the _Cross of Colbas_. From where he sat he

made an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went

to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again

become absorbed in his reflections.

The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on

the shoulder of the man, and said to him:—

“You are going to get out of here.”

The stranger turned round and replied gently, “Ah! You know?—”

“Yes.”

“I was sent away from the other inn.”

“And you are to be turned out of this one.”

“Where would you have me go?”

“Elsewhere.”

The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed.

As he went out, some children who had followed him from the _Cross of

Colbas_, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at

him. He retraced his steps in anger, and threatened them with his

stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.

He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to

a bell. He rang.

The wicket opened.

“Turnkey,” said he, removing his cap politely, “will you have the

kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?”

A voice replied:—

“The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be

admitted.”

The wicket closed again.

He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of

them are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the

street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a

small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He

peered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was

a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff,

and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled

gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room.

A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the

pewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown,

smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a

merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his

knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The

father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.

The stranger paused a moment in reverie before this tender and calming

spectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told.

It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be

hospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he

would find perhaps a little pity.

He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.

They did not hear him.

He tapped again.

He heard the woman say, “It seems to me, husband, that some one is

knocking.”

“No,” replied the husband.

He tapped a third time.

The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened.

He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a

huge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a

hammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects

which were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out.

He carried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and

turned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick

eyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of

his face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his

own ground, which is indescribable.

“Pardon me, sir,” said the wayfarer, “Could you, in consideration of

payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in

the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?”

“Who are you?” demanded the master of the house.

The man replied: “I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all

day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?—if I pay?”

“I would not refuse,” said the peasant, “to lodge any respectable man

who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?”

“There is no room.”

“Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you

been to Labarre?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

The traveller replied with embarrassment: “I do not know. He did not

receive me.”

“Have you been to What’s-his-name’s, in the Rue Chaffaut?”

The stranger’s embarrassment increased; he stammered, “He did not

receive me either.”

The peasant’s countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he

surveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a

sort of shudder:—

“Are you the man?—”

He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards,

placed the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.

Meanwhile, at the words, _Are you the man?_ the woman had risen, had

clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge

precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger,

with her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in

a low tone, _“Tso-maraude.”_1

All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to

one’s self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as

one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door

and said:—

“Clear out!”

“For pity’s sake, a glass of water,” said the man.

“A shot from my gun!” said the peasant.

Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two

large bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the

sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.

Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the

light of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens

which bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be

built of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and found

himself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of a

very low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings which

road-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought

without doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he

was suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter

from the cold. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night.

He threw himself flat on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was

warm there, and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay, for a

moment, stretched out on this bed, without the power to make a

movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in

his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he

set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious

growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog

was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.

It was a dog’s kennel.

He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his

staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the

kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his

rags.

He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in

order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manœuvre

with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as _la

rose couverte_.

When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found

himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without

shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of

straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated

himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim,

“I am not even a dog!”

He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town,

hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford

him shelter.

He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he

felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and

gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of

those low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the

harvest, resemble shaved heads.

The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of

night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest

upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole

sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still

floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these

clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a

gleam of light fell upon the earth.

The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a

particularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and

mean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole

effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.

There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree,

which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.

This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of

intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious

aspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in

that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly

desolate, that after a moment of immobility and reverie he turned back

abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.

He retraced his steps; the gates of D—— were closed. D——, which had

sustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in

1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been

demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town

again.

It might have been eight o’clock in the evening. As he was not

acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.

In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he

passed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.

At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is

there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard

to the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon

himself, were printed for the first time.

Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down

on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.

At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man

stretched out in the shadow. “What are you doing there, my friend?”

said she.

He answered harshly and angrily: “As you see, my good woman, I am

sleeping.” The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was

the Marquise de R——

“On this bench?” she went on.

“I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years,” said the man;

“to-day I have a mattress of stone.”

“You have been a soldier?”

“Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”

“Why do you not go to the inn?”

“Because I have no money.”

“Alas!” said Madame de R——, “I have only four sous in my purse.”

“Give it to me all the same.”

The man took the four sous. Madame de R—— continued: “You cannot obtain

lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is

impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no

doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity.”

“I have knocked at all doors.”

“Well?”

“I have been driven away everywhere.”

The “good woman” touched the man’s arm, and pointed out to him on the

other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the

Bishop’s palace.

“You have knocked at all doors?”

“Yes.”

“Have you knocked at that one?”

“No.”

“Knock there.”