Still, Fauchelevent did not recoil before this almost chimerical
attempt; this poor Picard peasant, who had no other ladder but his
devotion, his good-will, and a small stock of old rustic craft,
this time turned to a generous purpose, undertook to scale the
impossibilities of the convent, and the rough escarpments of the rule
of St. Benedict. Fauchelevent was an old man, who had been during
life selfish, and who, at the end of his days, limping, infirm, and
taking no interest in the world, found it pleasant to be grateful, and
seeing a virtuous action to be done, he flung himself upon it like a
man who, on the point of death, lays his hand on a glass of good wine
which he had never tasted, and eagerly drinks it off. We may add, that
the air which he had been breathing for some years in this convent
had destroyed his personality, and had eventually rendered some good
deed a necessity for him. He, therefore, formed the resolution of
devoting himself for M. Madeleine. We have just called him a "poor
Picard peasant;" the qualification is correct but incomplete. At the
present stage of our story a little physiological examination of
Father Fauchelevent becomes useful. He was a peasant, but he had been
a notary, which added chicanery to his cunning and penetration to his
simplicity. Having, through various reasons, failed in his business, he
descended from a notary to be a carter and day-laborer; but in spite
of the oaths and lashes necessary for horses, as it seems, something
of the notary had clung to him. He had some natural wit; he did not
say "I are" or "I has;" he could converse, which was a rare thing in a
village, and the other peasants used to say of him, "He talks exactly
like a gentleman in a hat." Fauchelevent in fact belonged to that
species which the impertinent and light vocabulary of the last century
qualified as "a bit of a rustic and a bit of a townsman, pepper and
salt." Fauchelevent, though sorely tried, and much worn by fate, a
sort of poor old threadbare soul, was still a man to act on the first
impulse, and spontaneously,--a precious quality which prevents a man
from ever being wicked. His defects and vices, for he had such, were
on the surface, and altogether his physiognomy was one of those which
please the observer. His old face had none of those ugly wrinkles on
the top of the forehead which signify wickedness or stupidity. At
daybreak, after thinking enormously, Father Fauchelevent opened his
eyes and saw M. Madeleine sitting on his truss of straw, and looking at
the sleeping Cosette; Fauchelevent sat up too, and said,--
"Now that you are here, how will you manage to get in?" This remark
summed up the situation, and aroused Jean Valjean from his reverie. The
two men held counsel.
"In the first place," said Fauchelevent, "you must begin by not setting
foot outside this cottage, neither you nor the little one. One step in
the garden, and we are done."
"That is true."
"Monsieur Madeleine," Fauchelevent continued, "you have arrived at a
very lucky moment, I ought to say a very unhappy one, for one of our
ladies is dangerously ill. In consequence of this, folk will not look
much this way. It seems that she is dying, and the forty hours' prayers
are being said. The whole community is aroused, and that occupies
them. The person who is on the point of going off is a saint. In fact,
though, we are all saints here; the only difference between them and me
is that they say 'our cell,' and I say 'my cottage.' There will be a
service for the dying, and then the service for the dead. For to-day
we shall be all quiet here; but I do not answer for to-morrow."
"Still," Jean Valjean observed, "this cottage is retired; it is hidden
by a sort of ruin; there are trees, and it cannot be seen from the
convent."
"And I may add that the nuns never approach it."
"Well?" Jean Valjean asked.
The interrogation that marked this "well" signified "I fancy that we
can remain concealed here," and it was to this interrogation that
Fauchelevent replied:
"There are the little ones."
"What little ones?" Jean Valjean asked.
As Fauchelevent opened his mouth to answer, a stroke rang out from a
bell.
"The nun is dead," he said, "that is the knell."
And he made Jean Valjean a sign to listen. A second stroke rang out.
"It is the passing bell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will go on so
minute after minute for twenty-four hours, till the body leaves the
church. You see they play about; at recreations they need only lose a
ball, and in spite of the prohibition, they will come and look for it
here and ransack everything. Those cherubs are little devils."
"Who?" Jean Valjean asked.
"The little ones; I can tell you that you would soon be discovered.
They would cry out, 'Why, it's a man!' But there is no danger to-day,
for there will be no recreation. The day will be spent in prayer. You
hear the bell, as I told you, one stroke a minute;--it is the knell."
"I understand, Father Fauchelevent, they are boarders."
And Jean Valjean thought to himself:
"It is a chance for educating Cosette."
Fauchelevent exclaimed,--
"By Job, I should think they are boarders! They would sniff around you,
and then run away. To be a man here is to have the plague, as you can
see; a bell is fastened to my paw as if I were a wild beast."
Jean Valjean reflected more and more deeply. "This convent would save
us," he muttered, and then added aloud,--
"Yes, the difficulty is to remain."
"No," said Fauchelevent, "it is to go out."
Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.
"Go out?"
"Yes, Monsieur Madeleine, in order to come in, you must go out."
And, after waiting till a knell had died out in air, Fauchelevent
continued,--
"You must not be found here like that. Where do you come from? For me,
you fall from heaven because I know you, but the nuns require that
people should come in by the front door."
All at once a complicated ringing of another bell could be heard.
"Ah!" said Fauchelevent, "the vocal mothers are being summoned to
a Chapter,--a Chapter is always held when any one dies. She died
at daybreak, and they generally die at daybreak. But can't you go
out by the way that you came in? Come,--I don't want to ask you a
question,--but where did you come in?"
Jean Valjean turned pale: the mere idea of going back to that
formidable street made him tremble. Come out of a forest full of
tigers, and once out of it just imagine a friend advising you to go
in again. Jean Valjean figured to himself the police still searching
in the quarter, the agents watching, vedettes everywhere, frightful
fists stretched out toward his collar, and Javert, perhaps, in a corner
lurking for his prey.
"Impossible!" he said. "Suppose, Father Fauchelevent, that I really
fell from above."
"Why, I believe it," Fauchelevent continued; "you need not tell me
so. Well, there is another peal; it is to tell the porter to go and
warn the municipal authorities that they should send and inform the
physician of the dead, so that he may come and see there is a dead
woman here. All that is the ceremony of dying. The good ladies are not
very fond of such visits, for a doctor believes in nothing; he raises
the veil, and sometimes raises something else. What a hurry they have
been in to warn the doctor this time! What is up, I wonder? Your little
girl is still asleep; what is her name?"
"Cosette."
"Is she your daughter? I mean, are you her grandfather?"
"Yes."
"To get her out will be easy. I have my special door, which opens into
the yard; I knock, the porter opens. I have my basket on my back, with
the little girl in it, and go out. You will tell her to be very quiet,
and she will be under the hood. I will leave her for the necessary time
with an old Mend of mine, a fruiteress in the Rue du Chemin Vert, who
is deaf, and where there is a little bed. I will shout in her ear that
it is my niece, and bid her keep her for me till to-morrow; then the
little one will come in with you, for I mean to bring you in again. But
how will you manage to get out?"
Jean Valjean shook his head.
"The great point is that no one sees me, Father Fauchelevent. Find
means to get me out in the same way as Cosette."
Fauchelevent scratched the tip of his ear with the middle finger of
his left hand, which was a sign of serious embarrassment. A third peal
caused a diversion.
"That is the doctor going away," said Fauchelevent. "He has had a look
and said, 'She is dead, all right.' When the doctor has countersigned
the passport for Paradise, the undertakers send a coffin. If it is a
mother, the mothers put her in it; if a sister, the sisters; and after
that, I nail up. That is part of my gardening, for a gardener is a
bit of a grave-digger. The coffin is placed in the vestry room which
communicates with the street, and which no man is allowed to enter but
the doctor, for I don't count the undertakers and myself as men. It
is in this room that I nail up the coffin; the undertakers fetch it,
and then--Gee-up, driver--that's the way people go to heaven. A box
is brought, in which there is nothing, and it is carried off with
something in it; and that's what a burial is. _De Profundis._"
A horizontal sunbeam illumined the face of the sleeping Cosette, who
opened her lips and looked like an angel imbibing light. Jean Valjean
was gazing at her again, and no longer listened to Fauchelevent. Not to
be heard is no reason why a man should hold his tongue, so the worthy
old gardener quickly continued his chatter,--
"The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery; people say that it is
going to be shut up. It is an old cemetery, which has no uniform, and
is going on half-pay; it is a pity, for it is convenient. I have a
friend there, Father Mestrenne, the grave-digger. The nuns of this
house possess the privilege of being carried to that cemetery at
nightfall; they have a decree of the prefecture expressly for them. But
what events since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father
Madeleine--"
"Is buried," Jean Valjean said, with a sad smile.
Fauchelevent echoed the word.
"Well, if you were here altogether it would be a real burial."
A fourth peal rang out. Fauchelevent quickly took down his knee-cap and
put it on.
"This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. There, I have
pricked myself with the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don't
stir, but wait for me. There is something up; if you are hungry, there
is bread, wine, and cheese."
And he left the cottage, saying, "Coming, coming."
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as rapidly as his
leg would allow, while taking a side glance at his melon frames. Less
than ten minutes after, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell routed all the
nuns as he passed, tapped gently at a door, and a soft voice answered,
"Forever, forever," that is to say, "Come in." It was the door of the
parlor reserved expressly for the gardener, and adjoining the Chapter
room. The prioress, seated on the only chair in the room, was waiting
for Fauchelevent.
CHAPTER II.
FAUCHELEVENT FACES THE DIFFICULTY.
To have an agitated and serious air is peculiar, on Critical occasions,
to certain characters and professions, and notably to priests and
monks. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of
preoccupation was imprinted on the face of the prioress, who was that
charming and learned Mademoiselle de Blémeur, or Mother Innocent, who
was usually so cheerful. The gardener gave a timid bow, and remained
in the door-way of the cell; the prioress, who was telling her beads,
raised her eyes, and said,--
"Oh, it is you, Father Fauvent?"
This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent. Fauchelevent began
his bows again.
"Father Fauvent, I summoned you."
"Here I am, Reverend Mother."
"I wish to speak with you."
"And I, on my side," said Fauchelevent, with a boldness which made him
tremble inwardly, "have something to say to the Most Reverend Mother."
The prioress looked at him.
"Ah! you have a communication to make to me?"
"A request."
"Well, speak."
Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to that class of peasants who
possess coolness. A certain skilful ignorance is a strength; people do
not suspect it, and you have them. During the two years Fauchelevent
had lived in the convent, he had made a success in the community, and
while alone and attending to his gardening, he had nothing else to
do than be curious. Remote as he was from all these veiled women, he
saw nothing before him but an agitation of shadows; but by constant
attention and penetration, he had succeeded in putting flesh on these
phantoms, and these dead lived for him. He was like a deaf man whose
sight is improved, and a blind man whose hearing is sharpened. He had
turned his mind to discover the meaning of the various peals, and had
succeeded; so that this enigmatical and mysterious convent had nothing
hidden from him; and this sphinx whispered all its secrets in his ear.
Fauchelevent, while knowing everything, concealed everything, and that
was his art; the whole convent believed him to be stupid, and that is a
great merit in religion. The vocal mothers set value on Fauchelevent,
for he was a curious dumb man and inspired confidence. Moreover, he was
regular, and only went out when absolutely compelled by the claims of
his orchard or kitchen-garden, and this discretion was placed to his
credit. But for all that, he had made two men talk,--in the convent,
the porter, and he thus knew all the peculiarities of the parlor, and
at the cemetery, the grave-digger, and he knew the regularities of
the burial; so that he possessed a double light about these nuns,--the
light of life and the light of death. But he made no abuse of his
knowledge, and the congregation were attached to him. Old, lame, seeing
nothing, and probably rather deaf; what qualifications! It would be
difficult to fill up his place. The good man, with the assurance of a
servant who knows his value, began a rustic address to the prioress,
which was rather diffuse and very artful. He talked a good deal about
his age, his infirmities, years hence-forward reckoning double for him,
the growing demands of his work, nights to pass,--as, for instance, the
last, in which he was obliged to draw matting over the melon frames,
owing to the moon,--and he ended with this, that he had a brother (the
prioress gave a start),--a brother who was not young (a second start,
but not so alarmed),--that if leave were granted, this brother would
come and live with him and help him; that he was an excellent gardener,
and would be of more use to the community than himself was; and that,
on the other hand, if his brother's services were not accepted, as
he, the elder, felt worn out and unequal to his work, he would be
compelled, to his great regret, to give up his situation; and that his
brother had a little girl whom he would bring with him, and who would
be brought into the house, and might--who knew?--become a nun some day.
When he had finished speaking, the prioress broke off her occupation of
letting the beads of her rosary slip through her fingers, and said,--
"Could you procure a strong iron bar between this and to-night?"
"What to do?"
"To act as a lever."
"Yes, Reverend Mother," Father Fauchelevent replied.
The prioress, without adding a syllable, rose and walked into the
adjoining room, where the Chapter was assembled. Fauchelevent was left
alone.
CHAPTER III.
MOTHER INNOCENT.
About a quarter of an hour passed ere the prioress came in again and
sat down on her chair. The two speakers appeared preoccupied. We will
do our best to record their conversation accurately.
"Father Fauvent?"
"Reverend Mother?"
"Do you know the chapel?"
"I have a little cage in it where I hear Mass and the offices."
"And have you gone into the choir for your work?"
"Two or three times."
"A stone will have to be lifted."
"What stone?"
"The one at the side of the altar."
"The stone that closes the vault?"
"Yes."
"That is a job where two men would be useful."
"Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you."
"A woman is never a man."
"We have only a woman to help you, and everybody does the best.
Although Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of
Saint Bernard, and Merlonus Horstius only gives three hundred and
sixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius."
"Nor I."
"The merit is to work according to your strength. A convent is not a
work-yard."
"And a woman is not a man. My brother is a strong fellow!"
"And then, you will have a crowbar."
"It is the only sort of key that fits such locks."
"There is a ring in the stone."
"I will put the crowbar through it."
"And the stone works on hinges."
"All right, Reverend Mother, I will open the vault."
"And the four chanting mothers will help you."
"And when the vault is open?"
"You must shut it again."
"Is that all?"
"No."
"Give me your orders, most Reverend Mother."
"Fauvent, we place confidence in you."
"I am here to do everything."
"And to hold your tongue about everything."
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"When the vault is opened--"
"I will shut it again."
"But, first--"
"What, Reverend Mother?"
"You must let down something into it."
There was a silence; and the prioress, after a pout of the lower lip,
which looked like hesitation, continued,--
"Father Fauvent!"
"Reverend Mother?"
"You are aware that a mother died this morning."
"No."
"Did you not hear the bell?"
"Nothing can be heard at the end of the garden."
"Really now?"
"I can hardly distinguish my own ring."
"She died at daybreak."
"And besides, this morning the wind did not blow in my direction."
"It is Mother Crucifixion, a blessed saint."
The prioress was silent, moved her lips for a moment, as if in mental
prayer, and went on,--
"Three years ago, through merely seeing Mother Crucifixion pray, a
Jansenist, Madame de Béthune, became orthodox."
"Oh, yes, I hear the passing bell now, Reverend Mother."
"The mothers have carried her into the dead-room adjoining the church."
"I know."
"No other man but you can or ought to enter that room, so keep careful
watch. It would be a fine thing to see another man enter the chamber of
the dead."
"More often."
"Eh?"
"More often."
"What do you mean?"
"I say more often."
"More often than what?"
"Reverend Mother, I did not say 'more often than what,' but 'more
often.'"
"I do not understand you; why do you say 'more often'?"
"To say the same as yourself, Reverend Mother."
"But I did not say 'more often.'"
"You did not say it, but I said it to say the same as you."
At this moment nine o'clock struck.
"At nine in the morning and every hour be the most Holy Sacrament of
the altar blessed and adored!" said the prioress.
"Amen," said Fauchelevent.
The hour struck opportunely, for it cut short the "more often." It is
probable that without it the prioress and Fauchelevent would never
have got out of this tangle. Fauchelevent wiped his forehead; and the
prioress gave another internal murmur, and then raised her voice.
"In her life-time Mother Crucifixion performed conversions, after her
death she will perform miracles."
"She will do them," Fauchelevent said, determined not to give ground
again.
"Father Fauvent, the community was blessed in Mother Crucifixion. Of
course it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de Bérulle,
while reading the Holy Mass, and exhale his soul to God while uttering
the words, _Hanc igitur oblationem._ But though she did not attain such
happiness, Mother Crucifixion had a very blessed death. She retained
her senses up to the last moment; she spoke to us, and then conversed
with the angels. She gave us her last commands; if you had more faith,
and if you had been in her cell, she would have cured your leg by
touching it. She smiled, and we all felt that she was living again in
God,--there was Paradise in such a death."
Fauchelevent fancied that it was the end of a prayer; "Amen," he said.
"Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be carried out."
The prioress told a few beads. Fauchelevent held his tongue; then the
lady continued,--
"I have consulted on this point several ecclesiastics, who labor in our
Lord, who turn their attention to the exercise of clerical life, and
reap an admirable harvest."
"Reverend Mother, the knell is heard better here than in the garden."
"Moreover, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint."
"Like yourself, Reverend Mother."
"She slept in her coffin for more than twenty years, by express
permission of our Holy Father Pius VII."
"The same who crowned the Emp--Bonaparte."
For a clever man like Fauchelevent the recollection was ill-timed.
Luckily the prioress, who was deep in thought, did not hear him, and
went on,--
"Father Fauvent?"
"Reverend Mother?"
"Saint Diodorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, requested that only one
word should be inscribed on his tombstone, _Acarus_, which means a
worm, and it was done. Is that true?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"The blessed Mezzocanes, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried under a
gallows, and it was done."
"That is true."
"Saint Terentius, Bishop of Oporto, at the mouth of the Tiber on
the sea, ordered that there should be engraved on his tombstone the
symbol which was placed on the grave of parricides, in the hope that
passers-by would spit on his tomb; and it was done, for the dead ought
to be obeyed."
"So be it."
"The body of Bernard Guidonis, who was born in France, near Roche
Abeille, was, as he ordered, and in defiance of the King of Castile,
conveyed to the Church of the Dominicans of Limoges, although Bernard
Guidonis was Bishop of Tuy in Spain. Can you say the contrary?"
"Certainly not, Reverend Mother."
"The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse."
A few beads were told in silence, and then the prioress resumed,--
"Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be buried in the coffin in
which she has slept for twenty years."
"That is but fair."
"It is a continuation of sleep."
"Then I shall have to nail her up in that coffin?"
"Yes."
"And we shall not employ the undertaker's coffin?"
"Exactly."
"I am at the orders of the most Reverend Community."
"The four singing mothers will help you."
"To nail up the coffin? I do not want them."
"No, to let it down."
"Where?"
"Into the vault."
"What vault?"
"Under the altar."
Fauchelevent started.
"The vault under the altar?"
"Yes."
"But--"
"You have an iron bar."
"Yes, still--"
"You will lift the stone by passing the bar through the ring."
"But--"
"We must obey the dead. It was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion to
be buried in the vault under the chapel altar, not to be placed in
profane soil, and to remain when dead at the place where she had prayed
when alive. She asked this of us, indeed, ordered it."
"But it is forbidden."
"Forbidden by man, ordered by God."
"Suppose it oozed out?"
"We have confidence in you."
"Oh! I am a stone of your wall."
"The Chapter is assembled; the vocal mothers, whom I have just
consulted once again, and who are deliberating, have decided that
Mother Crucifixion should be interred according to her wish, under our
altar. Only think. Father Fauvent, if miracles were to take place here!
What a glory in God for the community! Miracles issue from tombs."
"But, Reverend Mother, supposing the Sanitary Commissioner--"
"Saint Benedict II., in a matter of burial, resisted Constantine
Pogonatus."
"Still the Inspector--"
"Chonodemairus, one of the seven German kings who entered Gaul during
the empire of Constantius, expressly recognized the right of monks to
be buried in religion, that is to say, beneath the altar."
"But the Inspector of the Prefecture--"
"The world is as nothing in presence of the cross. Martin, eleventh
general of the Carthusians, gave his order this device, _Stat crux dam
volvitur orbis._"
"Amen!" Fauchelevent said, who imperturbably got out of the scrape in
that way whenever he heard Latin.
Any audience suffices for a person who has been a long time silent. On
the day when Gymnastoras, the rhetorician, left prison, with a great
many dilemmas and syllogisms inside him, he stopped before the first
tree he came to, harangued it, and made mighty efforts to convince
it. The prioress, whose tongue was usually stopped by the dam of
silence, and whose reservoir was over-full, rose and exclaimed with the
loquacity of a raised sluice,--
"I have on my right hand Benedict, and on my left Bernard. Who is
Bernard? The first abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a
blessed spot for having witnessed his birth. His father's name was
Técelin, his mother's Alèthe; he began with Citeaux to end with
Clairvaux; he was ordained abbot by William de Champeaux, Bishop of
Châlons sur Saône; he had seven hundred novices, and founded one
hundred and sixty monasteries; he over-threw Abeilard at the Council of
Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple, as well as an
errant sect called the Apostolicals; he confounded Arnold of Brescia,
crushed the monk Raoul, the Jew-killer, led the Council of Reims in
1148, condemned Gilbert de la Porée, Bishop of Poitiers, and Éon de
l'Étoile, settled the disputes of the princes, enlightened King Louis
the young, advised Pope Eugene III., regulated the temple, preached
the Crusade, and performed two hundred and fifty miracles in his life,
and as many as thirty-seven in one day. Who is Benedict? He is the
patriarch of Monte Cassino; he is the second founder of the claustral
Holiness, the Basil of the West. His order has produced fourteen popes,
two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, one thousand six hundred
archbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve
empresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six
hundred canonized saints, and still exists after one thousand four
hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the Sanitary
Inspector! On one side Saint Benedict, on the other the Inspector of
the streets! What do we know about the State, the regulations, the
administration, and the public undertaker? Any witnesses would be
indignant at the way in which we are treated; we have not even the
right to give our dust to Christ! Your salubrity is a revolutionary
invention. God subordinate to a Police Inspector, such is the age!
Silence, Fauvent!"
Fauchelevent did not feel very comfortable under this douche, but the
prioress continued,--
"The right of the monasteries to sepulture is indubitable, and it
can only be denied by fanatics and schismatics. We live in times of
terrible confusion; people do not know what they should, and know what
they should not. Men are crass and impious; and there are people at
the present day who cannot distinguish between the most mighty Saint
Bernard and that Bernard called of the poor Catholics, a certain
worthy ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so
blasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis XVI. with the cross of
our Saviour. Louis XVI. was only a king. There are no just or unjust
persons left; the name of Voltaire is known and that of Cæsar de Bus
unknown,--but Cæsar de Bus is blessed, while Voltaire is condemned.
The last archbishop, Cardinal de Périgord, did not even know that
Charles de Gondrin succeeded Bérullus, and François Bourgoin Gondrin,
and Jean François Senault Bourgoin, and Father de Sainte Marthe Jean
François Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because he was
one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratory, but because
he supplied the Huguenot King Henri IV. with material for an oath.
What makes people of the world like Saint Francis de Sales, is that he
cheated at play. And then religion is attacked, and why? Because there
have been bad priests; because Sagittarius, Bishop of Gap, was brother
of Salonces, Bishop of Embrun, and both followed Mommolus. Of what
consequence is all this? Does it prevent Martin of Tours from being a
saint, and having given one half of his cloak to a poor man? The saints
are persecuted, and people close their eyes against the truth. They are
accustomed to the darkness, and the most ferocious beasts are blind
beasts. No one thinks of hell seriously; oh, the wicked people! 'By
the king's order' means at the present day by order of the revolution.
People forget what they owe, either to the living or the dead. We are
forbidden to die in holiness; burial is a civil matter, and this is
horrible. Saint Leon II. wrote two letters expressly,--one to Peter
Notarius, the other to the King of the Visigoths, to combat and reject,
in questions that affect the dead, the authority of the exarchus and
the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of Châlons, opposed
Otho, Duke of Burgundy, in this matter. The old magistrates coincided,
and we formerly had a voice in the Chapter itself upon temporal
affairs. The Abbot of Citeaux, general of the order, was councillor by
right of birth in the Parliament of Burgundy. We do what we like with
our dead. Is not the body of Saint Benedict himself in France at the
Abbey of Fleury, called Saint Benedict, in the Loire, although he died
at Monte Cassino in Italy, on Saturday, March 21, 543? All this is
incontestable. I abhor the psallants, I hate the priors, I execrate
heretics, but I should detest even worse any one who opposed my views
in this matter. It is only necessary to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel
Bucelinus, Trithème, Maurolicus, and Dom Luc d'Achery."
The prioress breathed, and then turned to Fauchelevent. "Father
Fauvent, is it settled?"
"It is, Reverend Mother."
"Can we reckon on you?"
"I will obey."
"Very good."
"I am entirely devoted to the convent."
"You will close the coffin, and the sisters will carry it into the
chapel. The office for the dead will be read, and then we shall return
to the cloisters. Between eleven and twelve you will come with your
iron bar, and everything will be performed with the utmost secrecy;
there will be no one in the chapel but the four singing mothers, Mother
Ascension, and yourself."
"And the sister who will be at the post?"
"She will not turn round."
"But she will hear."
"She will not listen. Moreover, what the convent knows the world is
ignorant of."
There was another pause, after which the prioress continued,--
"You will remove your bell, for it is unnecessary for the sister at the
stake to notice your presence."
"Reverend Mother?"
"What is it, Father Fauvent?"
"Has the physician of the dead paid his visit?"
"He will do so at four o'clock to-day; the bell has been rung to give
him notice. But do you not hear any ringing?"
"I only pay attention to my own summons."
"Very good, Father Fauvent."
"Reverend Mother, I shall require a lever at least six feet long."
"Where will you get it?"
"Where there are plenty of gratings there are plenty of iron bars. I
have a pile of old iron at the end of the garden."
"About three quarters of an hour before midnight, do not forget."
"Reverend Mother?"
"What is it?"
"If you have other jobs like this, my brother is a strong fellow for
you,--a Turk."
"You will be as quick as possible."
"I cannot do things quickly, for I am infirm, and for that reason
require an assistant. I halt."
"Halting is not a crime, and may be a blessing. The Emperor Henry II.,
who combated the Anti-pope Gregory, and re-established Benedict VIII.,
has two surnames,--the saint and the cripple."
"Two excellent surtouts," muttered Fauchelevent, who really was rather
hard of hearing.
"Father Fauvent, now I think of it, take a whole hour, for it will not
be too much. Be at the High Altar with your crowbar at eleven o'clock,
for the service begins at midnight, and all must be finished a good
quarter of an hour previously."
"I will do everything to prove my zeal to the community. I will nail
up the coffin, and be in the chapel at eleven o'clock precisely; the
singing mothers and Mother Ascension will be there. Two men would be
better; but no matter, I shall have my crowbar. We will open the vault,
let down the coffin, and close it again. After that there will not be a
trace, and the Government will have no suspicion. Reverend Mother, is
all arranged thus?"
"No."
"What is there still?"
"There is the empty coffin."
This was a difficulty; Fauchelevent thought of and on it, and so did
the prioress.
"Father Fauvent, what must be done with the other coffin."
"It must be buried."
"Empty?"
Another silence. Fauchelevent made with his left hand that sort of
gesture which dismisses a disagreeable question.
"Reverend Mother, I will nail up the coffin and cover it with the pall."
"Yes; but the bearers, while placing it in the hearse and lowering it
into the grave, will soon perceive that there is nothing in it."
"Oh, the de--!" Fauchelevent exclaimed. The prioress began a cross, and
looked intently at the gardener; the _vil_ stuck in his throat, and he
hastily improvised an expedient to cause the oath to be forgotten.
"Reverend Mother, I will put earth in the coffin, which will produce
the effect of a body."
"You are right, for earth is the same as a human being. So you will
manage the empty coffin?"
"I take it on myself."
The face of the prioress, which had hitherto been troubled and clouded,
now grew serene. She made the sign of a superior dismissing an
inferior, and Fauchelevent walked toward the door. As he was going out,
the prioress gently raised her voice.
"Father Fauvent, I am satisfied with you; to-morrow, after the
interment, bring me your brother, and tell him to bring me his
daughter."
CHAPTER IV.
A PLAN OF ESCAPE.
The strides of halting men are like the glances of squinters, they do
not reach their point very rapidly. Fauchelevent was perplexed, and
he spent upwards of a quarter of an hour in returning to the garden
cottage. Cosette was awake, and Jean Valjean had seated her by the
fireside. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, Jean Valjean was
pointing to the gardener's basket leaning in a corner, and saying to
her,--
"Listen to me carefully, little Cosette. We are obliged to leave this
house, but shall return to it, and be very happy. The good man will
carry you out in that thing upon his back, and you will wait for
me with a lady till I come to fetch you. If you do not wish Madame
Thénardier to catch you again, obey, and say not a word."
Cosette nodded her head gravely; at the sound Fauchelevent made in
opening the door Jean Valjean turned round.
"Well?"
"All is arranged, and nothing is so," said Fauchelevent. "I have leave
to bring you in, but to bring you in you must go out. That is the
difficulty; it is easy enough with the little one."
"You will carry her out?"
"Will she be quiet?"
"I answer for that."
"But you, Father Madeleine?"
And after an anxious silence Fauchelevent cried,--
"Why, go out in the same way as you came in."
Jean Valjean, as on the first occasion, confined himself to saying
"Impossible!"
Fauchelevent, speaking to himself rather than to Jean Valjean,
growled,--
"There is another thing that troubles me. I said that I would put earth
in it, but now I come to think of it, earth instead of a body will not
do, for it will move about and the men will notice it. You understand,
Father Madeleine, the Government will perceive the trick?"
Jean Valjean looked at him, and fancied that he must be raving;
Fauchelevent continued,--
"How the deuce are you going to get out? For everything must be settled
to-morrow, as the prioress expects you then."
Then he explained to Valjean that it was a reward for a service
which he, Fauchelevent, was rendering the community. It was part of
his duty to attend to the funerals, nail up the coffin, and assist
the grave-digger at the cemetery. The nun who had died that morning
requested to be buried in the coffin which served her as bed in the
vault under the altar of the chapel. This was forbidden by the police
regulations, but she was one of those women to whom nothing could be
refused. The prioress and the vocal mothers intended to carry out the
wishes of the deceased, and so all the worse for the Government. He,
Fauchelevent, would nail up the coffin in the cell, lift the stone in
the chapel, and let down the body into the vault. As a reward for this
the prioress would admit into the house his brother as gardener, and
his niece as boarder. The prioress had told him to bring his brother
the next day after the pretended funeral; but he could not bring M.
Madeleine in from outside if he were not there. This was his first
embarrassment, and then he had a second in the empty coffin.
"What do you mean by the empty coffin?" Valjean asked.
"Why, the Government coffin."
"I do not understand you."
"A nun dies, and the physician of the municipality comes and says:
'There is a nun dead.' Government sends a coffin; the next day it sends
a hearse and undertaker's men to fetch the coffin and carry it to the
cemetery. They will come and lift the coffin, and there's nothing in
it."
"Put something in it."
"A dead person? I have n't such a thing."
"Well, then, a living one."
"Who?"
"Myself," said Jean Valjean.
Fauchelevent, who was seated, sprang up as if a shell had exploded
under his chair.
"You?"
"Why not?"
Jean Valjean had one of those rare smiles which resembled a sunbeam in
a wintry sky.
"You know that you said, Fauchelevent, 'Mother Crucifixion is dead,'
and I added, 'And Father Madeleine is buried,' It will be so."
"Oh, you are joking, not speaking seriously."
"Most seriously. Must I not get out of here?"
"Of course."
"I have told you to find for me also a basket and a tilt."
"Well?"
"The basket will be of deal, and the tilt of black cloth."
"No, white cloth. Nuns are buried in white."
"All right, then, white cloth."
"You are not like other men, Father Madeleine."
To see such ideas, which are nought but the wild and daring inventions
of the hulks, issue from his peaceful surrounding, and mingled with
what he called "the slow pace of the convent," produced in Fauchelevent
a stupor comparable to that which a passer-by would feel on seeing a
whaler fishing in the gutter of the Rue St. Denis. Jean Valjean went on.
"The point is to get out of here unseen, and that is a way. But just
tell me, how does it all take place? Where is the coffin?"
"The empty one?"
"Yes."
"In what is called the dead-house. It is upon two trestles, and covered
with the pall."
"What is the length of the coffin?"
"Six feet."
"What is this dead-house?"
"A ground-floor room with a grated window looking on the garden, and
two doors, one leading to the church, the other to the convent."
"What church?"
"The street church, the one open to everybody."
"Have you the keys of these doors?"
"No, I have the key of the one communicating with the convent; but the
porter has the other."
"When does he open it?"
"Only to let the men pass who come to fetch the body. When the coffin
has gone out the door is locked again."
"Who nails up the coffin?"
"I do."
"Who places the pall over it?"
"I do."
"Are you alone?"
"No other man, excepting the doctor, is allowed to enter the
dead-house. It is written on the wall."
"Could you hide me in that house to-night, when all are asleep in the
convent?"
"No; but I can hide you in a dark hole opening out of the dead-house,
in which I put the burial tools, of which I have the key."
"At what hour to-morrow will the hearse come to fetch the body?"
"At three in the afternoon. The interment takes place at the Vaugirard
cemetery a little before nightfall, for the ground is not very near
here."
"I will remain concealed in your tool-house during the night and
morning. How about food? For I shall be hungry."
"I will bring you some."
"You can nail me up in the coffin at two o'clock." Fauchelevent
recoiled and cracked his finger-bones.
"Oh, it is impossible!"
"Nonsense! To take a hammer and drive nails into a board?"
What seemed to Fauchelevent extraordinary was, we repeat, quite simple
to Jean Valjean, for he had gone through worse straits; and any man who
has been a prisoner knows how to reduce himself to the diameter of the
mode of escape. A prisoner is affected by flight just as a sick man is
by the crisis which saves or destroys him, and an escape is a cure.
What will not a man undergo for the sake of being cured? To be nailed
up and carried in a box, to live for a long time in a packing-case, to
find air where there is none, to economize one's breath for hours, to
manage to choke without dying, was one of Jean Valjean's melancholy
talents.
Besides, a coffin in which there is a living body, this convict's
expedient, is also an imperial expedient. If we may believe the monk
Austin Castillejo, it was the way employed by Charles V., who, wishing
to see La Plombes for the last time after his abdication, contrived to
get her in and out of the monastery of St. Yuste. Fauchelevent, when he
had slightly recovered, exclaimed,--
"But how will you manage to breathe?"
"I will manage it."
"In that box? Why, the mere idea of it chokes me.
"You have a gimlet. You will make a few holes round the mouth, and
nail down the lid, without closing it tightly."
"Good! and suppose you cough or sneeze?"
"A man who is escaping does not do such a thing."
And Jean Valjean added,--
"Father Fauchelevent, we must make up our minds. I must either be
captured here or go out in the hearse."
Everybody must have noticed the fancy which cats have of stopping and
sniffing in a half-opened door. Who has not said to a cat, "Come in,
then"? There are men who, when an incident stands half opened before
them, have also a tendency to remain undecided between two resolutions,
at the risk of being crushed by destiny as it hurriedly closes the
adventure. The more prudent, cats though they are, and because they are
cats, often incur greater danger than the more daring. Fauchelevent was
of this hesitating nature; still, Jean Valjean's coolness involuntarily
mastered him, and he growled,--
"After all, there is no other way."
Jean Valjean continued,--
"The only thing I am anxious about is what will take place at the
cemetery."
"There is the very thing I am not anxious about," said Fauchelevent;
"if you feel sure of getting out of the coffin, I feel sure of getting
you out of the grave. The grave-digger is a friend of mine and a
drunkard of the name of Father Mestienne; he puts the dead in the
grave, and I put the grave-digger in my pocket. I will tell you what
will occur. We shall arrive a little before twilight, three quarters
of an hour before the cemetery gates are closed The hearse will drive
up to the grave; and I shall follow, for that is my business. I shall
have a hammer, a chisel, and pincers in my pocket; the hearse stops,
the undertaker knots a cord round your coffin and lets you down; the
priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the
holy water, and bolts. I remain alone with Father Mestienne; and he is
a friend of mine, I tell you. One of two things is certain; he will
either be drunk or not be drunk. If he is not drunk, I shall say to
him, 'Come, and have a drink before the "Bon Coing" closes.' I take
him away, make him drunk, which does not take long, as he has always
made a beginning. I lay him under the table, take his card, and return
to the cemetery without him. You will have only to deal with me. If he
is drunk I shall say to him, 'Be off; I will do your work for you.' He
will go, and I get you out of the hole."
Jean Valjean held out his hand, which Father Fauchelevent seized with a
touching peasant devotion.
"It is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well."
"Providing that nothing is deranged," Fauchelevent thought; "suppose
the affair was to have a terrible ending!"
CHAPTER V.
A DRUNKARD IS NOT IMMORTAL.
The next day, as the son was setting, the few passers-by on the
Boulevard de Maine took off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse,
ornamented with death's-head, thigh-bones, and tears. In this hearse
was a coffin covered with a white pall, on which lay an enormous black
cross, like a tall dead woman with hanging arms. A draped carriage, in
which could be noticed a priest in his surplice, and a chorister in
his red skull-cap, followed. Two mutes in a gray uniform with black
facings walked on the right and left of the hearse, while behind them
came an old man in workman's garb, who halted. The procession proceeded
toward the Vaugirard cemetery. Projecting from the man's pocket could
be seen the handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold-chisel, and the
double antennæ of a pair of pincers. This cemetery formed an exception
to the others in Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had a
large gate and a side gate, which old people in the quarters, tenacious
to old names, called the horseman's gate and the footman's gate. The
Bernardo-Benedictines of the Little Picpus had obtained, as we have
stated, permission to be buried there in a separate corner, and by
night, because the cemetery had formerly belonged to their community.
The grave-diggers, having thus an evening duty in summer and a night
duty in winter, were subjected to special rules. The gates of Parisian
cemeteries were closed at that period at sunset; and as this was
a police measure, the Vaugirard cemetery was subjected to it like
the rest. The two gates adjoined a pavilion, built by the architect
Perronet, in which the porter lived, and they were inexorably closed at
the moment when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides.
If any grave-digger were detained at that moment in the cemetery, he
had only one way to get out, his card, with which the undertaker's
department supplied him. There was a species of letter-box in the
shutter of the porter's window; the grave-digger threw his card into
this box, the porter heard it fell, pulled the string, and the small
gate opened. If the grave-digger had not his card he gave his name; the
porter got up, recognized him, and opened the gate with his key; but in
that case the grave-digger paid a fine of fifteen francs.
This cemetery, with its own regulations, was a flaw on the
administrative symmetry, and it was put down shortly after 1830. The
cemetery of Mont Parnasse succeeded it, and inherited the famous
cabaret attached to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was known by the
sign, "Au Bon Coing," one side of which looked out on the drinking
tables, the other on the tombs. It was what might be called a faded
cemetery, and it was falling into decay; green mould was invading it,
and the flowers deserted it. Respectable tradesmen did not care to
be buried at Vaugirard, for it had a poverty-stricken smell. La Père
Lachaise, if you like! to be buried there was like having a mahogany
suit of furniture. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure,
laid out like an old French garden; in it were straight walks,
box-trees, holly-trees, old tombs under old yew-trees, and very tall
grass. At night it was a tragical-looking spot.
The sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and black
cross entered the avenue of this cemetery; and the halting man who
followed it was no other than Fauchelevent. The interment of Mother
Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, getting Cosette out, and
introducing Jean Valjean into the dead-house, had been effected without
the slightest hitch.
Let us say, in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion beneath
the altar is to us a very venial thing, and one of those faults which
resemble a duty. The nuns had accomplished it, not only without feeling
troubled, but with the applause of their conscience. In a convent,
what is called "the Government" is only an interference with the
authorities, which admits of discussion. First comes the rule,--as for
the code, time enough for that. Men, make as many laws as you please,
but keep them for yourselves! Rendering unto Cæsar only comes after
rendering unto God, and a prince is nothing by the side of a principle.
Fauchelevent limped after the hearse with great satisfaction; his twin
plots, the one with the nuns, the other with M. Madeleine, one for,
the other against, the convent, were getting on famously. The calmness
of Jean Valjean was one of those powerful tranquillities which are
contagious, and Fauchelevent no longer doubted of success. What he
still had to do was nothing; during the last two years he had made the
grave-digger drunk a dozen times, and he played with him. He could
do what he liked with Father Mestienne, and his head exactly fitted
Fauchelevent's cap. The gardener's security was complete.
At the moment when the procession entered the avenue leading to the
cemetery, Fauchelevent looked at the hearse with delight, and rubbed
his huge hands as he said in a low voice, "What a lark!"
All at once the hearse stopped; it had reached the gates, and the
permission for burying must be shown. The undertaker conversed with the
porter, and during this colloquy, which occupied two or three minutes,
a stranger stationed himself behind the hearse by Fauchelevent's side.
He was a sort of workman, wearing a jacket with wide pockets, and
holding a spade under his arm. Fauchelevent looked at the stranger, and
asked him,--
"Who are you?"
The man replied, "The grave-digger."
If any man could survive a cannon-ball right in the middle of his
chest, he would cut such a face as Fauchelevent did.
"Why, Father Mestienne is the grave-digger."
"Was."
"How, was?"
"He is dead."
Fauchelevent was prepared for anything except this, that a grave-digger
could die; and yet, it is true that grave-diggers themselves die; while
digging holes for others, they prepare one for themselves. Fauchelevent
stood with widely-opened mouth, and had scarce strength to stammer,--
"Why, it is impossible."
"It is the case."
"But the grave-digger," he went on feebly, "is Father Mestienne."
"After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Rustic, my name
is Gribier."
Fauchelevent, who was very pale, stared at Gribier; he was a tall,
thin, livid, thoroughly funereal man. He looked like a broken-down
doctor who had turned grave-digger. Fauchelevent burst into a laugh.
"Ah, what funny things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead, but long
live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who he is? A bottle of Surêne,
morbigou! real Paris Surêne. And so Father Mestienne is dead; I feel
sorry for him, as he was a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellow
too, are you not, comrade? We will drink a glass together, eh?"
The man answered, "I have finished my education, and I never drink."
The hearse had set out again, and was now going along the main
avenue. Fauchelevent had decreased his pace, and limped more through
anxiety than infirmity. The grave-digger walked in front of him, and
Fauchelevent once again surveyed this unknown Gribier. He was one
of those men who when young look old, and who, though thin, are very
strong.
"Comrade!" Fauchelevent cried.
The man turned round.
"I am the convent grave-digger."
"My colleague," the man said.
Fauchelevent, uneducated though very sharp, understood that he had to
deal with a formidable species, a fine speaker; he growled,--
"So, then, Father Mestienne is dead."
The man answered, "Completely. Le bon Dieu consulted his bill-book.
Father Mestienne was due, and so Father Mestienne is dead."
Fauchelevent repeated mechanically, "Le bon Dieu."
"Le bon Dieu," the man said authoritatively,--"with philosophers the
Eternal Father; with Jacobins, the Supreme Being."
"Are we not going to form an acquaintance?" Fauchelevent stammered.
"It is formed. You are a rustic, I am a Parisian."
"People never know one another thoroughly till they have drunk
together; for when a man empties his glass, he empties his heart. You
will come and drink with me; such an offer cannot be refused."
"Work first."
Fauchelevent thought, "It's all over with me."
They had only a few more yards to go before reaching the nuns' corner.
The grave-digger added,--
"Peasant, I have seven children to feed, and as they must eat I must
not drink."
And he added with the satisfaction of a serious man who is laying down
an axiom,--
"Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst."
The hearse left the main avenue, and turned down a smaller one, which
indicated the immediate proximity of the grave. Fauchelevent reduced
his pace, but could not reduce that of the hearse. Fortunately, the
ground was saturated with winter rains, and rendered their progress
slower. He drew closer to the grave-digger.
"There is such a capital Argenteuil wine," he muttered.
"Villager," the man replied, "I was not meant to be a grave-digger. My
father was porter at the 'Prytanæum,' and destined me for literature,
but he was unfortunate in his speculations on the Exchange. Hence I
was compelled to relinquish the profession of author, but I am still a
public writer."
"Then you are not a grave-digger?" Fauchelevent retorted, clinging to
this very weak branch.
"One does not prevent the other. I cumulate." Fauchelevent did not
understand the last word.
"Let us go to drink," he said.
Here a remark is necessary. Fauchelevent, however great his agony
might be, proposed drinking, but did not explain himself on one point.
Who was to pay? As a general rule, Fauchelevent proposed, and Father
Mestienne paid. A proposal to drink evidently resulted from the new
situation created by the new grave-digger, and that proposal the
gardener must make; but he left, not undesignedly, the proverbial
quarter of an hour called Rabelais' in obscurity. However affected
Fauchelevent might be, he did not feel anxious to pay.
The grave-digger continued with a grand smile, "As a man must live,
I accepted Father Mestienne's inheritance. When a man has nearly
completed his course of studies, he is a philosopher; and I have added
the work of my arms to that of my hand. I have my writer's stall at
the market in the Rue de Sèvres--you know the umbrella market? all the
cooks of the Croix Rouge apply to me, and I compose their declarations
to the soldiers. In the morning I write billets-doux, in the evening I
dig graves; such is life, rustic."
The hearse went on, and Fauchelevent looked all about him with the
greatest anxiety; heavy drops of perspiration fell from his forehead.
"Still," the grave-digger continued, "a man cannot serve two
mistresses, and I must choose between the pick and the pen. The pick
ruins my hand."
The hearse stopped; the chorister got out of the coach, and then the
priest. One of the small front wheels of the hearse was slightly raised
by a heap of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.
"Here's a trick!" Fauchelevent said in consternation.
CHAPTER VI.
BETWEEN FOUR PLANKS.
Who was in the coffin? It was, as we know, Jean Valjean, who had so
contrived as to be able to live in it, and could almost breathe. It is
a strange thing to what an extent security of conscience produces other
security; the whole combination premeditated by Valjean had been going
on since the previous evening, and was still going on excellently.
He calculated, like Fauchelevent, upon Father Mestienne, and did not
suspect the end. Never was a situation more critical or a calamity more
perfect.
The four planks of a coffin exhale a species of terrible peace; and
it seemed as if some of the repose of the dead were blended with
Valjean's tranquillity. From the bottom of this coffin he had been
able to follow and did follow all the phases of the formidable drama
which he performed with death. A short while after Fauchelevent had
finished nailing down the coffin lid, Valjean felt himself raised and
then carried along. Through the cessation of the jolting he felt that
they had passed from the pavement to the stamped earth, that is to say,
the hearse had left the streets and had turned into the boulevards.
From the hollow sound he guessed that he was crossing the bridge of
Austerlitz; at the first halt, he understood that he was entering the
cemetery, and at the sound he said to himself, "Here is the grave."
He suddenly felt hands seize the coffin, and then noticed a rumbling
grating on the planks; he guessed that a rope was being fastened round
the coffin in order to let it down into the grave. After this, he felt
dizzy for a while; in all probability the men had made the coffin
oscillate and let the head down before the feet. He perfectly recovered
when he found himself horizontal and motionless. He felt a certain
amount of cold, as a chill and solemn voice was raised above him, and
he heard the Latin words which he did not understand pass away so
slowly that he could distinguish each in turn.
"Qui dormiunt in terræ pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam æternam, et
alii in opprobrium, ut videant semper."
A boyish voice said, "De profundis."
The grave voice began again, "Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine!"
The boyish voice replied, "Et lux perpetua luceat ei!"
He heard something like the gentle plash of rain upon the coffin lid;
it was probably the holy water. He thought: "It is finished, and I only
need a little patience. The priest will go away, and Fauchelevent take
Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left here till Fauchelevent returns
alone, and I shall get out. It will take about an hour."
The grave voice continued, "Requiescat in pace!"
And the boyish voice said, "Amen."
Jean Valjean, who was listening attentively, heard something like the
sound of retreating footsteps.
"They are going away," he thought. "I am alone." All at once he heard
over his head a noise which appeared to him like a thunder-clap; it was
a spadeful of earth falling on the coffin; a second spadeful fell, and
one of the holes by which he breathed was stopped; a third spadeful
fell, and then a fourth. There are some things stronger than the
strongest man, and Jean Valjean lost his senses.
CHAPTER VII.
FAUCHELEVENT HAS AN IDEA.
This is what took place above the coffin which contained Jean Valjean.
When the hearse had gone away, when the priest and the chorister had
driven off in the coach, Fauchelevent, who did not once take his eyes
off the grave-digger, saw him stoop down and seize his spade, which was
standing upright in the heap of earth. Fauchelevent formed a supreme
resolution; he placed himself between the grave and the digger, folded
his arms, and said,--
"I'll pay."
The grave-digger looked at him in amazement, and replied,--
"What, peasant?"
Fauchelevent repeated, "I'll pay for the wine."
"What wine?"
"The Argenteuil."
"Where is it?"
"At the 'Bon Coing.'"
"Go to the devil!" said the grave-digger.
And he threw a spadeful of earth on the coffin, which produced a hollow
sound. Fauchelevent tottered, and was himself ready to fall into the
grave. He cried, in a voice with which a death-rattle was beginning to
be mingled,--
"Come along, mate, before the 'Bon Coing' closes."
The grave-digger filled his spade again, and Fauchelevent continued,
"I'll pay."
And he seized the grave-digger's arm.
"Listen to me, mate; I am the convent grave-digger, and have come to
help you. It is a job which can be done by night, so let us begin by
having a drink."
And while speaking, while clinging to this desperate pressing, he made
the melancholy reflection, "And suppose he does drink, will he get
drunk?"
"Provincial," said the grave-digger, "since you are so pressing, I
consent. We will drink, but after work, not before."
And he raised his spade, but Fauchelevent restrained him.
"It is Argenteuil wine."
"Why," said the grave-digger, "you must be a bell-ringer; ding, dong,
ding, dong. You can only say that. Go and have yourself pulled."
And he threw the second spadeful. Fauchelevent had reached that moment
when a man is no longer aware of what he says.
"But come and drink," he cried, "since I offer to pay."
"When we have put the child to bed," said Gribier.
He threw the third spadeful; and then added as he dug the spade into
the ground,--
"It will be very cold to-night, and the dead woman would halloo after
us if we were to leave her here without a blanket."
At this moment the grave-digger stooped to fill his spade and his
jacket-pocket gaped. Fauchelevent's wandering glance fell mechanically
into his pocket and remained there. The sun was not yet hidden by the
horizon, and there was still sufficient light to distinguish something
white at the bottom of this gaping pocket.
All the brightness of which a Picard peasant's eye is capable
glistened in Fauchelevent's,--an idea had struck him. Unnoticed by
the grave-digger, he thrust his hand into his pocket from behind, and
drew out the white thing at the bottom. The grave-digger threw the
fourth spadeful into the grave: and as he hurried to raise a fifth,
Fauchelevent looked at him with profound calmness, and said,--
"By the way, my novice, have you your card?"
The grave-digger stopped.
"What card?"
"The sun is just going to set."
"Very good, it can put on its nightcap."
"The cemetery gates will be shut."
"Well, and what then?"
"Have you your card?"
"Ah, my card!" the grave-digger said; and he felt in one pocket and
then in another, he passed to his fobs and turned them inside out.
"No," he said; "I have not got my card, I must have forgotten it."
"Fifteen francs' fine," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green, for the pallor of livid men is green.
"Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed; "fifteen francs' fine!"
"Three one hundred sous pieces," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger let his shovel fall, and Fauchelevent's turn had
arrived.
"Come, conscript," said the old gardener, "no despair; you need not
take advantage of the grave to commit suicide. Fifteen francs are
fifteen francs, and besides, you can avoid paying them. I am old and
you a new-comer, and I am up to all the tricks and dodges. I will
give you a piece of friendly advice. One thing is clear,--the sun is
setting; it is touching the dome, and the cemetery will shut in five
minutes."
"That is true."--
"Five minutes will not be enough for you to fill up this grave, which
is deuced deep, and reach the gates in time to get out before they
close."
"Perfectly correct."
"In that case, fifteen francs' fine. But you have time,--where do you
live?"
"Hardly a quarter of an hour's walk from here, at No. 87, Rue de
Vaugirard."
"You have just time enough to get out, if you look sharp."
"So I have."
"Once outside the gates, you will gallop home and fetch your card; and
when you return the porter will open the gate for you gratis. And you
will bury your dead woman, whom I will stop from running away during
your absence."
"I owe you my life, peasant."
"Be off at once," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger, who was beside himself with gratitude, shook his hand
and ran off.
When he had disappeared behind a clump of trees, Fauchelevent listened
till his footsteps died away, then bent over the grave, and said in a
low voice, "Father Madeleine!"
There was no reply. Fauchelevent trembled; he tumbled all of a heap
into the grave, threw himself on the coffin lid, and cried,--
"Are you there?"
There was silence in the coffin, and Fauchelevent, who could not
breathe for trembling, took out his cold-chisel and hammer and pried
off the coffin lid. He could see Jean Valjean's face in the gloom,
pale, and with the eyes closed. The gardener's hair stood on end; he
got up, and then fell against the side of the grave. He gazed at Jean
Valjean, who lay livid and motionless. Fauchelevent murmured in a voice
faint as a breath, "He is dead!"
And drawing himself up, he folded his arms so violently that his
clenched fists struck his shoulders, and cried, "That is the way in
which I save him!"
Then the poor old man began sobbing and soliloquizing; for it is a
mistake to suppose that there is no soliloquy in nature. Powerful
agitations often talk aloud.
"It is Father Mestienne's fault. Why did that ass die? Had he any
occasion to go off the hooks so unexpectedly? It is he who has killed
M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine! he is in his coffin, and it is all
over with him. Has such a thing as this any common-sense? Oh, my
goodness, he is dead! Well, and what shall I do with his little girl?
What will the green-grocer say? Is it possible that such a man can die
in such a way? When I think how he got under my cart! Father Madeleine!
Father Madeleine! By Heaven, he is suffocated, as I said he would
be, and he would not believe me. Well I this is a pretty trick of my
performance. The worthy man is dead, the best man among all God's good
people; and his little one! Well, I sha'n't go back to the convent,
but stop here. To have done such a thing as this! it is not worth
while being two old men to be two old fools. But how did he manage to
get into the convent? That was the beginning, and a man ought not to
do things like that. Father Madeleine, Madeleine, Monsieur Madeleine,
Monsieur le Maire! He does not hear me. Get out of it now as best you
can."
And he tore his hair. A shrill grating sound was audible at a
distance through the trees; it was the closing of the cemetery gate.
Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all at once bounded back
to the further end of the grave,--Jean Valjean's eyes were open and
staring at him.
If seeing a death is fearful, seeing a resurrection is nearly as
frightful. Fauchelevent became like stone. He was pale, haggard,
confounded by such excessive emotion, not knowing if he had to do with
a dead man or a living man, and looking at Jean Valjean, who looked at
him.
"I was falling asleep," said Valjean.
And he sat up. Fauchelevent fell on his knees.
"Holy Virgin! how you frightened me!"
Then he rose and cried,--"Thank you, Father Madeleine!"
Jean Valjean had only fainted, and the fresh air aroused him again. Joy
is the reflux of terror; and Fauchelevent had almost as much difficulty
in recovering himself as had Jean Valjean.
"Then you are not dead! Oh, what a clever fellow you are! I called to
you so repeatedly that you came back. When I saw your eyes closed, I
said, 'There, he is suffocated!' I should have gone stark mad, fit
for a strait waistcoat, and they would have put me in Bicêtre. What
would you have me do if you were dead; and your little girl? The
green-grocer's wife would not have understood it at all. A child is
left upon her hands, and the grandfather is dead! What a story! Oh, my
good saints in Paradise, what a story! Well, you are alive, that's the
great thing."
"I am cold," said Valjean.
This remark completely recalled Fauchelevent to the reality, which was
urgent. These two men, who had scarce recovered, had a troubled mind,
they knew not why, which emanated from the gloomy place where they were.
"Let us get out of this at once," said Fauchelevent.
He felt in his pocket and produced a flask.
"But a dram first," he said.
The flask completed what the fresh air had begun. Valjean drank a
mouthful of spirits and regained perfect possession of himself. He got
out of the coffin, and helped Fauchelevent to nail on the lid again;
three minutes later they were out of the grave.
Fauchelevent was calm, and took his time. The cemetery was closed,
and there was no fear of Gribier returning. That "conscript" was at
home, busily seeking his card, and prevented from finding it because
it was in Fauchelevent's pocket. Without it he could not return to
the cemetery. Fauchelevent took the spade, and Valjean the pick, and
they together buried the empty coffin. When the grave was filled op,
Fauchelevent said,--
"Come along; you carry the pick and I will carry the spade."
The night was falling.
Jean Valjean felt some difficulty in moving and walking; for in the
coffin he had grown stiff, and become to some extent a corpse. The
rigidity of death had seized upon him between these four planks, and he
must, so to speak, become thawed.
"You are stiff," said Fauchelevent; "it is a pity that I am a cripple,
or we would have a run."
"Nonsense," said Valjean, "half a dozen strides will make my legs all
right again."
They went along the avenues by which the hearse had passed, and on
reaching the gate, Fauchelevent threw the grave-digger's card into the
box; the porter pulled the string, and they went out.
"How famously it has all gone," said Fauchelevent; "it was an excellent
idea you had, Father Madeleine!"
They passed through the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest way in the
world, for in the vicinity of a cemetery, a spade and a pick are two
passports. The Rue de Vaugirard was deserted.
"Father Madeleine," Fauchelevent said, as they walked along, "you have
better eyes than I have, so show me No. 87."
"Here it is," said Valjean.
"There is no one in the street," Fauchelevent continued; "give me the
pick, and wait for me a couple of minutes."
Fauchelevent entered No. 87, went right to the top, guided by that
instinct which ever leads the poor man to the garret, and rapped at
a door in the darkness. A voice replied, "Come in." It was Gribier's
voice.
Fauchelevent pushed the door. The grave-digger's room was like
all these wretched abodes, an impoverished and crowded garret. A
packing-case--possibly a coffin--occupied the place of a chest of
drawers, a butter-jar was the water-cistern, a paillasse represented
the bed, while the floor filled the place of chairs and table. In one
corner, on an old ragged piece of carpet, were a thin woman and a
heap of children. The whole of this poor interior displayed signs of
a convulsion, and it seemed as if an earthquake "for one" had taken
place there. The blankets were torn away, the rags scattered about, the
jug was broken, the mother had been crying, and the children probably
beaten,--there were evident signs of an obstinate and savage search. It
was plain that the grave-digger had been wildly looking for his card,
and made everything in the garret responsible for it, from his jug to
his wife. He looked desperate, but Fauchelevent was too eager to notice
this sad side of his success; he went in, and said, "I have brought you
your spade and pick."
Gribier looked at him in stupefaction.
"Is it you, peasant?"
"And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the porter of the
cemetery."
And he placed the shovel and pick on the floor.
"What does this mean?" Gribier asked.
"It means that you let your card fall out of your pocket, that I
found it on the ground when you had left, that I have buried the dead
woman, filled up the grave, done your work, the porter will give you
your card, and you will not pay fifteen francs. That's what it is,
conscript!"
"Thanks, villager," said Gribier, quits dazzled, "next time I will pay
for a bottle."
CHAPTER VIII.
A SUCCESSFUL EXAMINATION.
An hour later two men and a child presented themselves in the darkness
of night at No. 69, Little Rue Picpus. The elder of the two men raised
the knocker and rapped.
The two men had fetched Cosette from the green-grocer's, where
Fauchelevent had left her on the previous evening. Cosette had spent
the four-and-twenty hours in understanding nothing and silently
trembling; she trembled so greatly that she had not cried, nor had
she eaten nor slept. The worthy green-grocer had asked her a hundred
questions; but had only obtained as answer a gloomy look, ever the
same. Cosette did not breathe a syllable of what she had seen or
heard during the last two days; for she guessed that she was passing
through a crisis, and felt deeply that she must be "good." Who has not
experienced the sovereign power of the words, "say nothing," uttered
with a certain accent in the ear of a little startled being? Fear is
dumb; besides, no one can keep a secret like a child.
The only thing was, that when she saw Jean Valjean again after these
mournful four-and-twenty hours, she uttered such a cry of joy that any
thoughtful person who had heard it would have divined in this cry an
escape from a gulf.
Fauchelevent belonged to the convent, and knew all the pass-words;
hence doors readily opened to him, and thus was solved the double and
startling problem, "how to get in, and how to get out." The porter, who
had his instructions, opened the little gate which communicated between
the court-yard and the garden, in the wall of the former facing the
gateway, which might still be seen from the street twenty years ago.
The porter showed them all three through this gate, and thence they
reached the inner private parlor where Fauchelevent had received the
orders of the prioress on the previous day.
The prioress was waiting for them, rosary in hand, and a vocal mother,
with her veil down, was standing near her. A discreet candle lit up,
or to speak more correctly, pretended to light up the parlor. The
prioress took a thorough look at Jean Valjean, for no eye examines like
a drooping one. Then she questioned him.
"Are you the brother?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother," Fauchelevent answered.
"What is your name?"
Fauchelevent answered: "Ultime Fauchelevent."
He had really had a brother of that name, who was dead.
"Where do you come from?"
_Fauchelevent._--"From Picquigny near Amiens."
"What is your age?"
_F._--"Fifty."
"What is your trade?"
_F._--"Gardener."
"Are you a good Christian?"
_F._--"All the members of our family are so."
"Is this little girl yours?"
_F._--"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"Are you her father?"
_F._--"Her grandfather."
The vocal mother said to the prioress in a whisper, "He answers well."
Jean Valjean had not said a word. The prioress looked attentively at
Cosette, and whispered to the vocal mother, "She will be ugly."
The two mothers consulted for a few minutes in a very low voice in a
corner of the parlor, and then the prioress turned and said,--
"Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap and bell, for we shall
require two in future."
On the morrow two bells were really heard in the garden, and the nuns
could not resist the temptation of raising a corner of their veils.
They could see under the shade of the trees two men digging side by
side, Fauvent and another. It was an enormous event; and silence was so
far broken that they whispered, "It is an assistant gardener," while
the vocal mothers added, "It is a brother of Father Fauvent's."
Jean Valjean was in fact permanently installed; he had the
leathern knee-cap and bell, and was henceforth official. He called
himself Ultime Fauchelevent. The most powerful determining cause
of his admission was the remark of the prioress with reference
to Cosette,--"She will be ugly." The prioress, once she had
prognosticated this, felt an affection for Cosette, and gave her a
place in the boarding-school. This is very logical after all; for
although there may be no looking-glasses in a convent, women are
conscious of their face. Now, girls who feel themselves pretty have a
disinclination to take the veil; and as profession is generally in an
inverse ratio to the beauty, more is hoped from ugly than from pretty
girls.
All this adventure aggrandized Fauchelevent, for he had a three-fold
success,--with Jean Valjean, whom he saved and sheltered; with
Gribier, who said to himself, "He saved me fifteen francs;" and
with the convent, which, thanks to him, while keeping the coffin of
Mother Crucifixion under the altar, eluded Cæsar and sanctified God.
There was a coffin with a body at the Little Picpus, and a coffin
without a body in the Vaugirard cemetery; public order was doubtless
deeply affected by this, but did not perceive the fact. As for the
convent, its gratitude to Fauchelevent was great; he became the best
of servants, and most precious of gardeners. On the archbishop's very
next visit, the prioress told the whole affair to the Grandeur, partly
in confusion, and partly in a boastful spirit. The archbishop, on
leaving the convent, spoke about it applaudingly and in a whisper to
M. de Latil, Confessor to Monseigneur, and afterwards Archbishop of
Reims and Cardinal. The admiration felt for Fauchelevent travelled
all the way to Rome; and we have seen a letter addressed by the then
reigning Pope, Leo XII., to one of his relatives, Monsignore, in the
Paris Nunciature, and called, like himself, Della Genga, in which were
the following lines,--"It appears that there is at a convent in Paris
an excellent gardener, who is a holy man, of the name of Fauvent."
Nothing of all this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut; he went
on grafting, hoeing, and covering his melon beds, quite unaware of his
excellence and sanctity. He no more suspected his glory than does a
Durham or Surrey steer whose portrait is published in the _Illustrated
London News_, with the inscription "The ox that gained the Short-horn
prize."
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE CONVENT.
Cosette in the convent continued to be silent. She naturally thought
herself Valjean's daughter, but as she knew nothing, she could say
nothing, and in any case would have said nothing, as we have remarked;
for nothing trains children to silence like misfortune. Cosette had
suffered so greatly that she feared everything, even to speak, even to
breathe, for a word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her!
She had scarce begun to grow reassured since she had belonged to Jean
Valjean, but she grew very soon accustomed to the convent. The only
thing she regretted was Catherine, but she did not dare say so. One
day, however, she remarked to Valjean, "If I had known, I would have
brought her with me."
Cosette, on becoming a boarder at the convent, was obliged to assume
the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean begged, and obtained
the old clothes she left off; the same mourning clothes he made her put
on when he removed her from the Thénardiers', and they were not much
worn. Jean Valjean placed these clothes and her shoes and stockings,
with a quantity of camphor and other odorous drugs with which convents
abound, in a small valise which he managed to procure. He placed this
valise on a chair by his bed-side, and always had the key about him.
"Father," Cosette asked him one day, "what is that box which smells so
nice?"
Father Fauchelevent, in addition to the glory we have described and of
which he was ignorant, was rewarded for his good deed; in the first
place, he was happy, and, in the second place, he had much less to do,
owing to the division of labor. Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff,
he had from M. Madeleine's presence the advantage that he took thrice
as much as before, and in a far more voluptuous manner, because M.
Madeleine paid for it.
The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean
"the other Fauvent." Had these holy women had any of Javert's temper
about them, they must have noticed that when anything had to be
procured from outside for the garden it was always the elder Fauvent,
the cripple, who went out, and never the other; but either because eyes
constantly fixed on God know not how to spy, or because they preferred
to watch one another, they paid no attention to the fact. However, Jean
Valjean did quite right in keeping shy and not stirring, for Javert
watched the quarter for a whole month.
This convent was to Jean Valjean like an island surrounded by gulfs,
and these four walls were henceforth the world for him; he saw enough
of the sky there to be secure, and enough of Cosette to be happy. He
lived with old Fauchelevent in the hovel at the end of the garden.
This lath and plaster tenement, which still existed in 1825, was
composed of three rooms which had only the bare walls. The largest
room was surrendered by force, for Jean Valjean resisted in vain, by
Father Fauchelevent to M. Madeleine. The wall of this room had for
ornament, in addition to the two nails for hanging up the knee-cap and
the basket, a Royalist note for ten livres, date '93, fastened above
the mantel-piece. This Vendéan assignat had been nailed to the wall by
the previous gardener, an ex-chouan, who died in the convent, and was
succeeded by Fauchelevent.
Jean Valjean worked daily in the garden, and was very useful. As he
had once been a pruner, he was glad to become a gardener. It will be
remembered that he had a great number of receipts and secrets which
he turned to a profit. Nearly all the trees in the orchard were wild
stocks; but he grafted them, and made them produce excellent fruit.
Cosette had permission to spend an hour daily with him; and as the
sisters were sad and he was kind, the child compared them and adored
him. At the fixed hour she ran to the cottage, and when she entered
it filled it with paradise. Jean Valjean expanded, and felt his own
happiness grow with the happiness which he caused Cosette. The joy
which we inspire has this charming thing about it, that far from being
weakened, like ordinary reflections, it returns to us more radiant
than before. Ia her hours of recreation Jean Valjean watched her from
a distance, playing and running, and distinguished her laugh from that
of the others, for Cosette now laughed. Her face had also changed to
a certain extent; for laughter is the sun which drives winter from the
human face. When Cosette returned to her studies Jean Valjean watched
the windows of her school-room, and at night would rise to gaze at the
windows of her dormitory.
God has His inscrutable designs; and the convent contributed, like
Cosette, to maintain and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean.
It is certain that one of the sides of virtue leads to pride, and
there is a bridge built there by the demon. Jean Valjean was perhaps
unconsciously very near this bridge when Providence threw him into the
convent of the Little Picpus. So long as he had only compared himself
with the Bishop, he had found himself unworthy, and had been humble;
but for some time past he had been beginning to compare himself with
men, and pride was growing up. Who knows whether he might not have
ended by gently returning to hatred?
The convent checked him on this slope; it was the second place of
captivity which he had seen. In his youth, in what had been to him the
commencement of life, and again very recently, he had seen another, a
frightful spot, a terrible spot, whose severities had ever appeared
to him to be the iniquity of justice and the crime of the law. At the
present day, after the hulks he saw the convent, and reflecting that he
had been a member of the galleys and was now, so to speak, a spectator
of the convent, he anxiously confronted them in his thoughts.
At times he leaned on his spade, and fell into a profound reverie.
He recalled his old comrades; how wretched they were! They rose at
dawn and worked till night; they were scarce granted time to sleep;
they lay down on camp-beds and were only allowed mattresses two inches
thick; their rooms were only warmed in the severest months of the year;
they were dressed in hideous red jackets; they were allowed, as an
indulgence, canvas trousers in the great heat, and a woollen bandage
on their back in the severe cold; they only ate meat and drank wine
when they worked on fatigue parties; they lived without names, solely
designated by numbers, lowering their eyes, lowering their voice, with
shorn hair, under the stick, and in disgrace.
Then his thoughts turned to the beings whom he had before him. These
beings also lived with cropped hair, downcast eyes, and a low voice,
not in disgrace, but amid the mockery of the world; and if their
backs were not bruised by a stick, their shoulders were lacerated by
the discipline. Their names had vanished too among human beings, and
they only existed under severe appellations. They never ate meat nor
drank wine; they often remained without food till night; they were
dressed, not in a red jacket, but in a black woollen pall, heavy in
summer and light in winter, and were unable to reduce it or add to
it at all; and they wore for six months in the year serge chemises,
which caused them a fever. They slept not in rooms warmed merely in
the severe cold, but in cells in which fires were never kindled; they
slept not on mattresses two inches thick, but on straw; lastly, they
were not even allowed to sleep,--every night, after a day of labor,
they were compelled to get up, dress themselves, and go and pray in
a freezing dark chapel, with their knees upon the stones. On certain
days, moreover, each of these beings was obliged, in turn, to remain
for twelve hours prostrate on the ground, with her arms extended like a
cross.
The former were men; the latter were women. What had the men done?
They had robbed, violated, plundered, killed, assassinated; they were
bandits, forgers, poisoners, incendiaries, murderers, and parricides.
What had these women done? Nothing. On one side, brigandage and fraud,
cozening, violence, lubricity, homicide, every sort of sacrilege, every
variety of crime; on the other, only one thing,--innocence, perfect
innocence, which was still attached to the earth by virtue, and already
attached to heaven by holiness. On one side, confessions of crimes made
in a whisper; on the other, confessions of faults made aloud. And what
crimes, and what faults! On one side miasmas, on the other an ineffable
perfume; on one side a moral pestilence, closely guarded, held down
by cannon, and slowly devouring its plague-sufferers; on the other, a
chaste kindling of all the souls on the same hearth. There darkness,
here shadow, but a shadow full of light, and light full of radiance.
They were two places of slavery; but in the former there was a possible
deliverance, a constantly visible legal limit, and besides, escape;
in the second, perpetuity, the only hope being that gleam of liberty
which men call death, upon the extreme horizon. In the former, people
were only held by chains, in the latter, by faith. What emerged from
the former? An immense curse, gnashing of teeth, hatred, desperate
wickedness, a cry of rage against human society, and sarcasms hurled
at heaven. What issued from the latter? Blessings, love. And in these
two places, which were so similar and yet so varying, these two so
different species of beings accomplished the same work of expiation.
Jean Valjean perfectly understood the expiation of the former, as
personal; but he did not understand the expiation of the others, of
these creatures who were without reproach or stain, and he asked
himself with trembling: Expiation for what? A voice answered in his
conscience: The most divine proof of human generosity, expiation for
others.
Here we lay aside any and every personal theory; we are only the
narrator, we are standing in Jean Valjean's place, and transferring his
impressions. He had before his eyes the sublime summit of abnegation,
the highest pinnacle of possible virtue, that innocence which forgives
men their faults, and expiates them in their place; servitude endured,
torture accepted, punishment demanded by souls which have not sinned,
that they may absolve souls which have erred; the love of humanity
swallowed up in the love of God, but remaining distinct and suppliant
in it; gentle, feeble beings who have the wretchedness of those who are
punished and the smile of those who are rewarded.
And he remembered that he had dared to complain. He often rose in the
middle of the night to listen to the grateful song of these innocent
creatures, weighed down by severity; and his blood ran cold when he
thought that men who were justly chastised only raised their voices to
heaven to blaspheme, and that he, wretch as he was, had threatened God.
It was a striking thing, which made him reflect deeply, and imagine it
a warning of Providence, that all the things he had done to escape from
the other place of expiation,--such as climbing walls, difficulties,
dangerous adventures, and risks of death,--he had gone through again,
in entering the present place. Was it a symbol of his destiny?
This house was a prison too, and bore a mournful likeness to the other
abode from which he had fled, and yet he had never had such an idea
here. He saw again the bars, bolts, and iron bars, to guard whom?
Angels. The lofty walls which he had seen around tigers he saw again
around lambs.
It was a place of expiation, and not of punishment, and yet it was even
more austere, gloomy, and pitiless than the other. These virgins were
more harshly bowed than the galley slaves. A rough cold wind, the wind
which had chilled his youth, blew through the barred and padlocked cage
of the vultures; but a sharper and more painful wind passed through
the cotes of these doves.
Why was this?
When he thought of these things, all within him bowed down before this
mystery of sublimity. In these meditations pride vanished: he felt
himself insignificant, and wept many times: all that had entered his
life during the past six months, led him back to the Bishop's holy
injunctions,--Cosette by love, the convent by humility.
At times, in those hours of the night when the garden was deserted, he
might have been seen kneeling in front of that window through which he
had gazed on the night of his arrival, turned toward the spot where
he knew that the sister who was making reparation was prostrated in
prayer. He prayed thus, kneeling before this sister,--it seemed as if
he dared not kneel directly to God.
All that surrounded him--this peaceful garden, these fragrant flowers,
these children uttering merry cries, these grave and simple women,
these silent cloisters;--slowly penetrated him and gradually his soul
was composed of silence like this cloister, of perfume like these
flowers, of peace like this garden, of simplicity like these women, and
of joy like these children. And then he thought how two houses of God
had in turn received him at the two critical moments of his life,--the
first when all doors were closed and human society repulsed him, the
second at the moment when human society was beginning to hunt him down
again, and the hulks were yawning for him; and that, had it not been
for the former, he would have fallen back into crime; and but for the
latter, into punishment. All his heart melted into gratitude, and he
loved more and more.
Several years passed thus, and Cosette grew.
END OF PART SECOND.