Book123

    Free register and download UseNet downloader, then you can FREE Download from UseNet.

    Download without Limit " Les Miserables Volume 1 Fantine, BOOK SECOND.--THE FALL CHAPTER I THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING " from UseNet for FREE!

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 revery 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] .

[1] Patois of the French Alps: chat de maraude, rascally marauder. .

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 manoeuvre 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 revery 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." .

Rating:
2.5 out of 5 by Book123