Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER I—WHICH TREATS OF THE MANNER OF ENTERING A CONVENT
2938 words | Chapter 214
It was into this house that Jean Valjean had, as Fauchelevent expressed
it, “fallen from the sky.”
He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue
Polonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of
the night, was the nuns chanting matins; that hall, of which he had
caught a glimpse in the gloom, was the chapel. That phantom which he
had seen stretched on the ground was the sister who was making
reparation; that bell, the sound of which had so strangely surprised
him, was the gardener’s bell attached to the knee of Father
Fauchelevent.
Cosette once put to bed, Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent had, as we have
already seen, supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a
good, crackling fire; then, the only bed in the hut being occupied by
Cosette, each threw himself on a truss of straw.
Before he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said: “I must remain here
henceforth.” This remark trotted through Fauchelevent’s head all night
long.
To tell the truth, neither of them slept.
Jean Valjean, feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his
scent, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to
Paris. Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded
him in this cloister. Jean Valjean had, henceforth, but one thought,—to
remain there. Now, for an unfortunate man in his position, this convent
was both the safest and the most dangerous of places; the most
dangerous, because, as no men might enter there, if he were discovered,
it was a flagrant offence, and Jean Valjean would find but one step
intervening between the convent and prison; the safest, because, if he
could manage to get himself accepted there and remain there, who would
ever seek him in such a place? To dwell in an impossible place was
safety.
On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began by
declaring to himself that he understood nothing of the matter. How had
M. Madeleine got there, when the walls were what they were? Cloister
walls are not to be stepped over. How did he get there with a child?
One cannot scale a perpendicular wall with a child in one’s arms. Who
was that child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had
lived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M. sur M., and he knew
nothing of what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air
which discouraged questions; and besides, Fauchelevent said to himself:
“One does not question a saint.” M. Madeleine had preserved all his
prestige in Fauchelevent’s eyes. Only, from some words which Jean
Valjean had let fall, the gardener thought he could draw the inference
that M. Madeleine had probably become bankrupt through the hard times,
and that he was pursued by his creditors; or that he had compromised
himself in some political affair, and was in hiding; which last did not
displease Fauchelevent, who, like many of our peasants of the North,
had an old fund of Bonapartism about him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine
had selected the convent as a refuge, and it was quite simple that he
should wish to remain there. But the inexplicable point, to which
Fauchelevent returned constantly and over which he wearied his brain,
was that M. Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that
little girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to
them, and still did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had
just made its entrance into Fauchelevent’s hut. Fauchelevent groped
about amid conjectures, and could see nothing clearly but this: “M.
Madeleine saved my life.” This certainty alone was sufficient and
decided his course. He said to himself: “It is my turn now.” He added
in his conscience: “M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was
a question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of
dragging me out.” He made up his mind to save M. Madeleine.
Nevertheless, he put many questions to himself and made himself divers
replies: “After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a
thief? Just the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? Just
the same. Since he is a saint, shall I save him? Just the same.”
But what a problem it was to manage to have him remain in the convent!
Fauchelevent did not recoil in the face of this almost chimerical
undertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy without any other ladder than
his self-devotion, his good will, and a little of that old rustic
cunning, on this occasion enlisted in the service of a generous
enterprise, undertook to scale the difficulties of the cloister, and
the steep escarpments of the rule of Saint-Benoît. Father Fauchelevent
was an old man who had been an egoist all his life, and who, towards
the end of his days, halt, infirm, with no interest left to him in the
world, found it sweet to be grateful, and perceiving a generous action
to be performed, flung himself upon it like a man, who at the moment
when he is dying, should find close to his hand a glass of good wine
which he had never tasted, and should swallow it with avidity. We may
add, that the air which he had breathed for many years in this convent
had destroyed all personality in him, and had ended by rendering a good
action of some kind absolutely necessary to him.
So he took his resolve: to devote himself to M. Madeleine.
We have just called him a _poor peasant of Picardy_. That description
is just, but incomplete. At the point of this story which we have now
reached, a little of Father Fauchelevent’s physiology becomes useful.
He was a peasant, but he had been a notary, which added trickery to his
cunning, and penetration to his ingenuousness. Having, through various
causes, failed in his business, he had descended to the calling of a
carter and a laborer. But, in spite of oaths and lashings, which horses
seem to require, something of the notary had lingered in him. He had
some natural wit; he talked good grammar; he conversed, which is a rare
thing in a village; and the other peasants said of him: “He talks
almost like a gentleman with a hat.” Fauchelevent belonged, in fact, to
that species, which the impertinent and flippant vocabulary of the last
century qualified as _demi-bourgeois, demi-lout_, and which the
metaphors showered by the château upon the thatched cottage ticketed in
the pigeon-hole of the plebeian: _rather rustic, rather citified;
pepper and salt_. Fauchelevent, though sorely tried and harshly used by
fate, worn out, a sort of poor, threadbare old soul, was, nevertheless,
an impulsive man, and extremely spontaneous in his actions; a precious
quality which prevents one from ever being wicked. His defects and his
vices, for he had some, were all superficial; in short, his physiognomy
was of the kind which succeeds with an observer. His aged face had none
of those disagreeable wrinkles at the top of the forehead, which
signify malice or stupidity.
At daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an
enormous deal of thinking, and beheld M. Madeleine seated on his truss
of straw, and watching Cosette’s slumbers. Fauchelevent sat up and
said:—
“Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter?”
This remark summed up the situation and aroused Jean Valjean from his
reverie.
The two men took counsel together.
“In the first place,” said Fauchelevent, “you will begin by not setting
foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the
garden and we are done for.”
“That is true.”
“Monsieur Madeleine,” resumed Fauchelevent, “you have arrived at a very
auspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; one of the
ladies is very ill. This will prevent them from looking much in our
direction. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours
are being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies
them. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we
are all saints here; all the difference between them and me is that
they say ‘our cell,’ and that I say ‘my cabin.’ The prayers for the
dying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at
peace here for to-day; but I will not answer for to-morrow.”
“Still,” observed Jean Valjean, “this cottage is in the niche of the
wall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not
visible from the convent.”
“And I add that the nuns never come near it.”
“Well?” said Jean Valjean.
The interrogation mark which accentuated this “well” signified: “it
seems to me that one may remain concealed here?” It was to this
interrogation point that Fauchelevent responded:—
“There are the little girls.”
“What little girls?” asked Jean Valjean.
Just as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to explain the words which he had
uttered, a bell emitted one stroke.
“The nun is dead,” said he. “There is the knell.”
And he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen.
The bell struck a second time.
“It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue to strike
once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from the
church.—You see, they play. At recreation hours it suffices to have a
ball roll aside, to send them all hither, in spite of prohibitions, to
hunt and rummage for it all about here. Those cherubs are devils.”
“Who?” asked Jean Valjean.
“The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered. They would
shriek: ‘Oh! a man!’ There is no danger to-day. There will be no
recreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers. You hear
the bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute. It is the death knell.”
“I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils.”
And Jean Valjean thought to himself:—
“Here is Cosette’s education already provided.”
Fauchelevent exclaimed:—
“Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl around
you! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have the plague.
You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild
beast.”
Jean Valjean fell into more and more profound thought.—“This convent
would be our salvation,” he murmured.
Then he raised his voice:—
“Yes, the difficulty is to remain here.”
“No,” said Fauchelevent, “the difficulty is to get out.”
Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.
“To get out!”
“Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first necessary
to get out.”
And after waiting until another stroke of the knell had sounded,
Fauchelevent went on:—
“You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you? For me,
you fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require one to
enter by the door.”
All at once they heard a rather complicated pealing from another bell.
“Ah!” said Fauchelevent, “they are ringing up the vocal mothers. They
are going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any one dies.
She died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak. But cannot
you get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do not ask for the
sake of questioning you, but how did you get in?”
Jean Valjean turned pale; the very thought of descending again into
that terrible street made him shudder. You make your way out of a
forest filled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine a friendly
counsel that shall advise you to return thither! Jean Valjean pictured
to himself the whole police force still engaged in swarming in that
quarter, agents on the watch, sentinels everywhere, frightful fists
extended towards his collar, Javert at the corner of the intersection
of the streets perhaps.
“Impossible!” said he. “Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the
sky.”
“But I believe it, I believe it,” retorted Fauchelevent. “You have no
need to tell me that. The good God must have taken you in his hand for
the purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped
you. Only, he meant to place you in a man’s convent; he made a mistake.
Come, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and
inform the municipality that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a
corpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at
all fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in
anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lifts something else too. How
quickly they have had the doctor summoned this time! What is the
matter? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name?”
“Cosette.”
“She is your daughter? You are her grandfather, that is?”
“Yes.”
“It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service
door which opens on the courtyard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my
vintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father
Fauchelevent goes out with his basket—that is perfectly natural. You
will tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I
will leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a
fruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who
has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller’s ear, that she is a
niece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to-morrow. Then
the little one will re-enter with you; for I will contrive to have you
re-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out?”
Jean Valjean shook his head.
“No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent.
Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like
Cosette.”
Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear with the middle finger of
his left hand, a sign of serious embarrassment.
A third peal created a diversion.
“That is the dead-doctor taking his departure,” said Fauchelevent. “He
has taken a look and said: ‘She is dead, that is well.’ When the doctor
has signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker’s company sends a
coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister,
the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up. That forms a part
of my gardener’s duty. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is
placed in a lower hall of the church which communicates with the
street, and into which no man may enter save the doctor of the dead. I
don’t count the undertaker’s men and myself as men. It is in that hall
that I nail up the coffin. The undertaker’s men come and get it, and
whip up, coachman! that’s the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box
with nothing in it, they take it away again with something in it.
That’s what a burial is like. _De profundis_.”
A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of the sleeping
Cosette, who lay with her mouth vaguely open, and had the air of an
angel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen to gazing at her.
He was no longer listening to Fauchelevent.
That one is not listened to is no reason for preserving silence. The
good old gardener went on tranquilly with his babble:—
“The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they are
going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cemetery
which is outside the regulations, which has no uniform, and which is
going to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient. I have a friend
there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one
privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a
special permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many
events have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and
Father Madeleine—”
“Is buried,” said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.
Fauchelevent caught the word.
“Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial.”
A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached the belled
knee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee again.
“This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I am
pricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don’t
stir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up. If you are
hungry, there is wine, bread and cheese.”
And he hastened out of the hut, crying: “Coming! coming!”
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as fast as his
crooked leg would permit, casting a sidelong glance by the way on his
melon patch.
Less than ten minutes later, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell put the
nuns in his road to flight, tapped gently at a door, and a gentle voice
replied: _“Forever! Forever!” _ that is to say: _“Enter.” _
The door was the one leading to the parlor reserved for seeing the
gardener on business. This parlor adjoined the chapter hall. The
prioress, seated on the only chair in the parlor, was waiting for
Fauchelevent.
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