Bab Bab 58 · 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 chimæras, 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 his life!

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 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 reverie 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.

It seemed to him as though he might be seen.

By whom?

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.

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

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 reverie 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 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

curé, 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 nonetheless 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 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 reverie 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 neighbour_, 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 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 reverie, 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 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 Thénardiers; 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 said:—

“Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man

now.”

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.

[Illustration: Candlesticks 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 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

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 reverie: “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.