Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER XIII—LITTLE GERVAIS
3332 words | Chapter 102
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
reverie.
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 Curé, 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 Curé, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Curé, 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’Abbé, 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 he 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 reawakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean
Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror.
[Illustration: Awakened]
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 reverie 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 reverie 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.
BOOK THIRD—IN THE YEAR 1817
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