CHAPTER I--THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING

  Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, aman who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D----The fewinhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at themoment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It wasdifficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He wasa 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 adrooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned bysun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellowlinen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted a viewof his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string; trousers ofblue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and torn on theother; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows witha bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed soldierknapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormous,knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; ashaved head and a long beard.

  The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know notwhat 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 tohave been cut for some time.

  No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence camehe? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entranceinto D---- by the same street which, seven months previously, hadwitnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannesto Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very muchfatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is situated belowthe 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. Hemust have been very thirsty: for the children who followed him saw himstop again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain inthe 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 outa quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on thestone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to readto the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D----the proclamationof the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted thegendarme.

  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 ofColbas_. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a manof consideration in the town on account of his relationship to anotherLabarre, who kept the inn of the _Three Dauphins_ in Grenoble, and hadserved in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor's landing, many rumorshad circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the_Three Dauphins_. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as acarter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, andthat he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfulsof gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor enteredGrenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of theprefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, _"I am going to the houseof a brave man of my acquaintance";_ and he had betaken himself to the_Three Dauphins_. This glory of the Labarre of the _Three Dauphins_ wasreflected upon the Labarre of the _Cross of Colbas_, at a distance offive and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, _"That is thecousin of the man of Grenoble."_

  The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in thecountry-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with thestreet. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in thefireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from onestew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinnerdesigned for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, andlaughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who hastravelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer thanwagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks,was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge carpsfrom 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, "Bypaying for it."

  The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse, andanswered, "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 fromhis back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in hishand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D---- is inthe 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 backturned, 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 smalltable near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two,folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper toa child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion andlackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion's ear, and thechild 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 iteagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read itattentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment.Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared tobe 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 youin 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 ofstraw. We will see about that after dinner."

  "I cannot give you any dinner."

  This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the strangeras grave. He rose.

  "Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. Ihave 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 thestoves: "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 amat an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain."

  Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made himstart, "Go away!"

  At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting somebrands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turnedquickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazedsteadily at him and added, still in a low voice: "Stop! there's enoughof that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name isJean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw youcome in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was thereply that was sent to me. Can you read?"

  So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper whichhad just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hallto the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after apause.

  "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 depositedon 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 notturn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host ofthe _Cross of Colbas_ standing on his threshold, surrounded by allthe guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talkingvivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the glancesof terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined that hisarrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.

  He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behindthem. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.

  Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversingat 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 pangsof hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to seewhether he could not discover some shelter.

  The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humblepublic house, some hovel, however lowly.

  Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branchsuspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white skyof the twilight. He proceeded thither.

  It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is inthe Rue de Chaffaut.

  The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into theinterior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by asmall lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men wereengaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An ironpot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.

  The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is bytwo doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filledwith manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slippedinto the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and openedthe 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 lampilluminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examinedhim for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.

  The host said to him, "There is the fire. The supper is cooking in thepot. Come and warm yourself, comrade."

  He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out hisfeet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor wasemitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face, beneathhis cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearanceof comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitualsuffering bestows.

  It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. Thisphysiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, andended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a firebeneath 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 tostable his horse at Labarre's. It chanced that he had that very morningencountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Brasd'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, hadrequested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger hadmade no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had beena member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded JacquinLabarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of themorning to the people at the _Cross of Colbas_. From where he sat hemade an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper wentto him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had againbecome absorbed in his reflections.

  The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly onthe 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 ofColbas_, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones athim. 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 toa bell. He rang.

  The wicket opened.

  "Turnkey," said he, removing his cap politely, "will you have thekindness 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 beadmitted."

  The wicket closed again.

  He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some ofthem are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to thestreet. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of asmall house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. Hepeered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was alarge whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff, anda cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled gunhanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room. Acopper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewterjug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smokingsoup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry andopen countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close bya 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 revery before this tender and calmingspectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could havetold. It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would behospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, hewould 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 isknocking."

  "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 ahuge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which ahammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objectswhich were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out. Hecarried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and turnedback, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick eyelashes,enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of his facelike 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 ofpayment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in thegarden, 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 allday long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?--if I pay?"

  "I would not refuse," said the peasant, "to lodge any respectable manwho 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 beento Labarre?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know. He did notreceive me."

  "Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?"

  The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He did notreceive me either."

  The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyedthe newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort ofshudder:--

  "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, hadclasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitatelybehind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosomuncovered, 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 toone's self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as onescrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door andsaid:--

  "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 largebolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the sound of abar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.

  Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By thelight of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardenswhich bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to bebuilt of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and foundhimself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of avery low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings whichroad-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thoughtwithout doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; hewas suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelterfrom 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 warmthere, 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, sofatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in his way, andas it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he set aboutunbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious growl becameaudible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined inthe 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 thebest way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his rags.

  He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, inorder to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manouvre withhis stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as _la rosecouverte_.

  When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and foundhimself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without shelter,without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of straw andfrom that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on astone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim, "I am not evena 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 affordhim shelter.

  He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he felthimself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazedsearchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of thoselow hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the harvest,resemble shaved heads.

  The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity ofnight; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to restupon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the wholesky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was stillfloating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, theseclouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence agleam of light fell upon the earth.

  The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces aparticularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor andmean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The wholeeffect 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 ofintelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysteriousaspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky,in that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundlydesolate, that after a moment of immobility and revery he turned backabruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.

  He retraced his steps; the gates of D---- were closed. D----, which hadsustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surroundedin 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have beendemolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again.

  It might have been eight o'clock in the evening. As he was notacquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.

  In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As hepassed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.

  At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It isthere that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guardto the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleonhimself, were printed for the first time.

  Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay downon 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 manstretched out in the shadow. "What are you doing there, my friend?" saidshe.

  He answered harshly and angrily: "As you see, my good woman, I amsleeping." The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, wasthe 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 cannotobtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It isimpossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, nodoubt. 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 theother side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside theBishop's palace.

  "You have knocked at all doors?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you knocked at that one?"

  "No."

  "Knock there."