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Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a very

hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented themselves to

him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the

whole morning, without having eaten anything and without feeling hungry. He was the prey

of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage; he did not know

against whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched or humiliated.

There came over him at moments a strange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed

the hardness acquired during the last twenty years of his life. This state of mind

fatigued him. He perceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice

of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what

would replace this. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison with the

gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in this way; it would have agitated

him less. Although the season was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late

flowers in the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his

march recalled to him memories of his childhood. These memories were almost intolerable to

him, it was so long since they had recurred to him. .

Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long. .

As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the soil from every

pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely

deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a

distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D----A path which

intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush. .

In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render

his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became

audible. .

He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the

path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his back, One of those

gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through

the holes in their trousers. .

Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and played at

knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand--his whole fortune, probably. .

Among this money there was one forty-sou piece. .

The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and tossed up his

handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on

the back of his hand. .

This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the brushwood until

it reached Jean Valjean. .

Jean Valjean set his foot upon it. .

In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of him. .

He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man. The spot was absolutely

solitary. As far as the eye could see there was not a person on the plain or on the path.

The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was

traversing the heavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to the

sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam the

savage face of Jean Valjean. .

"Sir," said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is

composed of ignorance and innocence, "my money." .

"What is your name?" said Jean Valjean. .

"Little Gervais, sir." .

"Go away," said Jean Valjean. .

"Sir," resumed the child, "give me back my money." .

Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply. .

The child began again, "My money, sir." .

Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth. .

"My piece of money!" cried the child, "my white piece! my silver!" .

It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar

of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big

iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure. .

"I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!" .

The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eyes were

troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretched out his hand

towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, "Who's there?" .

"I, sir," replied the child. "Little Gervais! I! Give me back my forty

sous, if you please! Take your foot away, sir, if you please!" .

Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing:-- .

"Come now, will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we'll see!" .

"Ah! It's still you!" said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his

foot still resting on the silver piece, he added:-- .

"Will you take yourself off!" .

The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, and after

a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top of his speed, without daring to

turn his neck or to utter a cry. .

Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance, and Jean

Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own revery. .

At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared. .

The sun had set. .

The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day; it is

probable that he was feverish. .

He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child's flight. The

breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve

paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an

ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he

shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening. .

He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and button his

blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel. .

At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground

into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received

a galvanic shock. "What is this?" he muttered between his teeth. He recoiled

three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his

foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in

the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him. .

At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver coin,

seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at

the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood there erect

and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge. .

He saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet

haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight. .

He said, "Ah!" and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had

disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing. .

Then he shouted with all his might:-- .

"Little Gervais! Little Gervais!" .

He paused and waited. .

There was no reply. .

The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space. There was nothing

around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost, and a silence which engulfed his

voice. .

An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort of lugubrious

life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One would have said

that they were threatening and pursuing some one. .

He set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from time to time he halted

and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was the most formidable and the most

disconsolate that it was possible to hear, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais!" .

Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and would have taken

good care not to show himself. But the child was no doubt already far away. .

He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said:-- .

"Monsieur le Cure, have you seen a child pass?" .

"No," said the priest. .

"One named Little Gervais?" .

"I have seen no one." .

He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed them to the priest. .

"Monsieur le Cure, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Cure, he was a little

lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those

Savoyards, you know?" .

"I have not seen him." .

"Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me?" .

"If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons pass

through these parts. We know nothing of them." .

Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence, and gave them to

the priest. .

"For your poor," he said. .

Then he added, wildly:-- .

"Monsieur l'Abbe, have me arrested. I am a thief." .

The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed. .

Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first taken. .

In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he

met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something which conveyed to

him the effect of a human being reclining or crouching down; it turned out to be nothing

but brushwood or rocks nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where three

paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the

distance and shouted for the last time, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais! Little

Gervais!" His shout died away in the mist, without even awakening an echo. He

murmured yet once more, "Little Gervais!" but in a feeble and almost

inarticulate voice. It was his last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as

though an invisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil

conscience; he fell exhausted, on a large stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his

face on his knees, and he cried, "I am a wretch!" .

Then his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that he had wept in

nineteen years. .

When Jean Valjean left the Bishop's house, he was, as we have seen, quite thrown out of

everything that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what

was going on within him. He hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle

words of the old man. "You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul.

I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to the good God." .

This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pride,

which is the fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that the pardon of

this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable attack which had moved him

yet; that his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if he

yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men

had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him; that this time it was

necessary to conquer or to be conquered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final

struggle, had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man. .

In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he

walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what might result to

him from his adventure at D----? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn

or importune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he

had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny; that there no longer remained a middle

course for him; that if he were not henceforth the best of men, he would be the worst;

that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than

the convict; that if he wished to become good be must become an angel; that if he wished

to remain evil, he must become a monster? .

Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves

elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused way?

Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does form the education of the intelligence;

nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all

that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of,

rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him into an unutterable and

almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is

called the galleys, the Bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his

eyes on emerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which offered itself to

him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors and anxiety. He no longer

knew where he really was. Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict

had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue. .

That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same

man, that everything about him was changed, that it was no longer in his power to make it

as though the Bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched him. .

In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed him of his

forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it; was this the last effect and

the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the

galleys,-- a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It

was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that. Let us say it simply, it was not

he who stole; it was not the man; it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply

placed his foot upon that money, while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel

and hitherto unheard-of thoughts besetting it. .

When intelligence re-awakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean

recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror. .

It was because,--strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the situation

in which he found himself,--in stealing the money from that child, he had done a thing of

which he was no longer capable. .

However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him; it abruptly

traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind, and dispersed it, placed on one side the

thick obscurity, and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which

it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating one

element and clarifying the other. .

First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, like one

who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return his money to him;

then, when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the

moment when he exclaimed "I am a wretch!" he had just perceived what he was, and

he was already separated from himself to such a degree, that he seemed to himself to be no

longer anything more than a phantom, and as if he had, there before him, in flesh and

blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips,

his knapsack filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage,

with his thoughts filled with abominable projects. .

Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a visionary.

This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean, that

sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man

was, and he was horrified by him. .

His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in

which revery is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beholds the object

which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from one's self, the figures which

one has in one's own mind. .

Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, athwart

this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light which he at first

took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more

attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a human form and that this torch was

the Bishop. .

His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it,-- the Bishop and

Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second. By one of

those singular effects, which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his

revery continued, as the Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean

Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a

shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone remained; he filled the whole soul of

this wretched man with a magnificent radiance. .

Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more weakness

than a woman, with more fright than a child. .

As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul; an extraordinary

light; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long

expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty,

rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had happened to him at the Bishop's, the

last thing that he had done, that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime all the more

cowardly, and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's pardon,--all

this recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had

never hitherto witnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his soul,

and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and

this soul. It seemed to him that he beheld Satan by the light of Paradise. .

How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept? Whither did he go!

No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night

the carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, and who arrived at D---- about three

o'clock in the morning, saw, as he traversed the street in which the Bishop's residence

was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on the pavement in the shadow, in

front of the door of Monseigneur Welcome. .

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