Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER IX—CLOISTERED
2667 words | Chapter 222
Cosette continued to hold her tongue in the convent.
It was quite natural that Cosette should think herself Jean Valjean’s
daughter. Moreover, as she knew nothing, she could say nothing, and
then, she would not have said anything in any case. As we have just
observed, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness. Cosette
had suffered so much, that she feared everything, even to speak or to
breathe. A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her.
She had hardly begun to regain her confidence since she had been with
Jean Valjean. She speedily became accustomed to the convent. Only she
regretted Catherine, but she dared not say so. Once, however, she did
say to Jean Valjean: “Father, if I had known, I would have brought her
away with me.”
Cosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholar in the convent, to don
the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean succeeded in getting
them to restore to him the garments which she laid aside. This was the
same mourning suit which he had made her put on when she had quitted
the Thénardiers’ inn. It was not very threadbare even now. Jean Valjean
locked up these garments, plus the stockings and the shoes, with a
quantity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents abound, in
a little valise which he found means of procuring. He set this valise
on a chair near his bed, and he always carried the key about his
person. “Father,” Cosette asked him one day, “what is there in that box
which smells so good?”
Father Fauchelevent received other recompense for his good action, in
addition to the glory which we just mentioned, and of which he knew
nothing; in the first place it made him happy; next, he had much less
work, since it was shared. Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff, he
found the presence of M. Madeleine an advantage, in that he used three
times as much as he had done previously, and that in an infinitely more
luxurious manner, seeing that M. Madeleine paid for it.
The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean
_the other Fauvent_.
If these holy women had possessed anything of Javert’s glance, they
would eventually have noticed that when there was any errand to be done
outside in the behalf of the garden, it was always the elder
Fauchelevent, the old, the infirm, the lame man, who went, and never
the other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed on God know not
how to spy, or whether they were, by preference, occupied in keeping
watch on each other, they paid no heed to this.
Moreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that he kept close and did not
stir out. Javert watched the quarter for more than a month.
This convent was for Jean Valjean like an island surrounded by gulfs.
Henceforth, those four walls constituted his world. He saw enough of
the sky there to enable him to preserve his serenity, and Cosette
enough to remain happy.
A very sweet life began for him.
He inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden, in company with
Fauchelevent. This hovel, built of old rubbish, which was still in
existence in 1845, was composed, as the reader already knows, of three
chambers, all of which were utterly bare and had nothing beyond the
walls. The principal one had been given up, by force, for Jean Valjean
had opposed it in vain, to M. Madeleine, by Father Fauchelevent. The
walls of this chamber had for ornament, in addition to the two nails
whereon to hang the knee-cap and the basket, a Royalist bank-note of
’93, applied to the wall over the chimney-piece, and of which the
following is an exact facsimile:—
[Illustration: Royalist Bank-note]
This specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall by the
preceding gardener, an old Chouan, who had died in the convent, and
whose place Fauchelevent had taken.
Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made himself very
useful. He had formerly been a pruner of trees, and he gladly found
himself a gardener once more. It will be remembered that he knew all
sorts of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to
advantage. Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungrafted, and
wild. He budded them and made them produce excellent fruit.
Cosette had permission to pass an hour with him every day. As the
sisters were melancholy and he was kind, the child made comparisons and
adored him. At the appointed hour she flew to the hut. When she entered
the lowly cabin, she filled it with paradise. Jean Valjean blossomed
out and felt his happiness increase with the happiness which he
afforded Cosette. The joy which we inspire has this charming property,
that, far from growing meagre, like all reflections, it returns to us
more radiant than ever. At recreation hours, Jean Valjean watched her
running and playing in the distance, and he distinguished her laugh
from that of the rest.
For Cosette laughed now.
Cosette’s face had even undergone a change, to a certain extent. The
gloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine; it
banishes winter from the human countenance.
Recreation over, when Cosette went into the house again, Jean Valjean
gazed at the windows of her class-room, and at night he rose to look at
the windows of her dormitory.
God has his own ways, moreover; the convent contributed, like Cosette,
to uphold and complete the Bishop’s work in Jean Valjean. It is certain
that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the devil
exists there. Jean Valjean had been, unconsciously, perhaps, tolerably
near that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his lot in the
convent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared himself only to
the Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy and had remained
humble; but for some time past he had been comparing himself to men in
general, and pride was beginning to spring up. Who knows? He might have
ended by returning very gradually to hatred.
The convent stopped him on that downward path.
This was the second place of captivity which he had seen. In his youth,
in what had been for him the beginning of his life, and later on, quite
recently again, he had beheld another,—a frightful place, a terrible
place, whose severities had always appeared to him the iniquity of
justice, and the crime of the law. Now, after the galleys, he saw the
cloister; and when he meditated how he had formed a part of the
galleys, and that he now, so to speak, was a spectator of the cloister,
he confronted the two in his own mind with anxiety.
Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoe, and slowly
descended the endless spirals of reverie.
He recalled his former companions: how wretched they were; they rose at
dawn, and toiled until night; hardly were they permitted to sleep; they
lay on camp beds, where nothing was tolerated but mattresses two inches
thick, in rooms which were heated only in the very harshest months of
the year; they were clothed in frightful red blouses; they were
allowed, as a great favor, linen trousers in the hottest weather, and a
woollen carter’s blouse on their backs when it was very cold; they
drank no wine, and ate no meat, except when they went on “fatigue
duty.” They lived nameless, designated only by numbers, and converted,
after a manner, into ciphers themselves, with downcast eyes, with
lowered voices, with shorn heads, beneath the cudgel and in disgrace.
Then his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his eyes.
These beings also lived with shorn heads, with downcast eyes, with
lowered voices, not in disgrace, but amid the scoffs of the world, not
with their backs bruised with the cudgel, but with their shoulders
lacerated with their discipline. Their names, also, had vanished from
among men; they no longer existed except under austere appellations.
They never ate meat and they never drank wine; they often remained
until evening without food; they were attired, not in a red blouse, but
in a black shroud, of woollen, which was heavy in summer and thin in
winter, without the power to add or subtract anything from it; without
having even, according to the season, the resource of the linen garment
or the woollen cloak; and for six months in the year they wore serge
chemises which gave them fever. They dwelt, not in rooms warmed only
during rigorous cold, but in cells where no fire was ever lighted; they
slept, not on mattresses two inches thick, but on straw. And finally,
they were not even allowed their sleep; every night, after a day of
toil, they were obliged, in the weariness of their first slumber, at
the moment when they were falling sound asleep and beginning to get
warm, to rouse themselves, to rise and to go and pray in an ice-cold
and gloomy chapel, with their knees on the stones.
On certain days each of these beings in turn had to remain for twelve
successive hours in a kneeling posture, or prostrate, with face upon
the pavement, and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.
The others were men; these were women.
What had those men done? They had stolen, violated, pillaged, murdered,
assassinated. They were bandits, counterfeiters, poisoners,
incendiaries, murderers, parricides. What had these women done? They
had done nothing whatever.
On the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, deceit, violence, sensuality,
homicide, all sorts of sacrilege, every variety of crime; on the other,
one thing only, innocence.
Perfect innocence, almost caught up into heaven in a mysterious
assumption, attached to the earth by virtue, already possessing
something of heaven through holiness.
On the one hand, confidences over crimes, which are exchanged in
whispers; on the other, the confession of faults made aloud. And what
crimes! And what faults!
On the one hand, miasms; on the other, an ineffable perfume. On the one
hand, a moral pest, guarded from sight, penned up under the range of
cannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims; on the
other, the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth. There,
darkness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams of light,
and of gleams full of radiance.
Two strongholds of slavery; but in the first, deliverance possible, a
legal limit always in sight, and then, escape. In the second,
perpetuity; the sole hope, at the distant extremity of the future, that
faint light of liberty which men call death.
In the first, men are bound only with chains; in the other, chained by
faith.
What flowed from the first? An immense curse, the gnashing of teeth,
hatred, desperate viciousness, a cry of rage against human society, a
sarcasm against heaven.
What results flowed from the second? Blessings and love.
And in these two places, so similar yet so unlike, these two species of
beings who were so very unlike, were undergoing the same work,
expiation.
Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former; that
personal expiation, the expiation for one’s self. But he did not
understand that of these last, that of creatures without reproach and
without stain, and he trembled as he asked himself: The expiation of
what? What expiation?
A voice within his conscience replied: “The most divine of human
generosities, the expiation for others.”
Here all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator; we
place ourselves at Jean Valjean’s point of view, and we translate his
impressions.
Before his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation, the highest
possible pitch of virtue; the innocence which pardons men their faults,
and which expiates in their stead; servitude submitted to, torture
accepted, punishment claimed by souls which have not sinned, for the
sake of sparing it to souls which have fallen; the love of humanity
swallowed up in the love of God, but even there preserving its distinct
and mediatorial character; sweet and feeble beings possessing the
misery of those who are punished and the smile of those who are
recompensed.
And he remembered that he had dared to murmur!
Often, in the middle of the night, he rose to listen to the grateful
song of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities, and the
blood ran cold in his veins at the thought that those who were justly
chastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy, and that
he, wretch that he was, had shaken his fist at God.
There was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply, like
a warning whisper from Providence itself: the scaling of that wall, the
passing of those barriers, the adventure accepted even at the risk of
death, the painful and difficult ascent, all those efforts even, which
he had made to escape from that other place of expiation, he had made
in order to gain entrance into this one. Was this a symbol of his
destiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancholy
resemblance to that other one whence he had fled, and yet he had never
conceived an idea of anything similar.
Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars—to guard whom? Angels.
These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld once
more around lambs.
This was a place of expiation, and not of punishment; and yet, it was
still more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than the other.
These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts. A
cold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth, traversed the
barred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still harsher and more
biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.
Why?
When he thought on these things, all that was within him was lost in
amazement before this mystery of sublimity.
In these meditations, his pride vanished. He scrutinized his own heart
in all manner of ways; he felt his pettiness, and many a time he wept.
All that had entered into his life for the last six months had led him
back towards the Bishop’s holy injunctions; Cosette through love, the
convent through humility.
Sometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at an hour when the garden was
deserted, he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk which
skirted the chapel, in front of the window through which he had gazed
on the night of his arrival, and turned towards the spot where, as he
knew, the sister was making reparation, prostrated in prayer. Thus he
prayed as he knelt before the sister.
It seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God.
Everything that surrounded him, that peaceful garden, those fragrant
flowers, those children who uttered joyous cries, those grave and
simple women, that silent cloister, slowly permeated him, and little by
little, his soul became compounded of silence like the cloister, of
perfume like the flowers, of simplicity like the women, of joy like the
children. And then he reflected that these had been two houses of God
which had received him in succession at two critical moments in his
life: the first, when all doors were closed and when human society
rejected him; the second, at a moment when human society had again set
out in pursuit of him, and when the galleys were again yawning; and
that, had it not been for the first, he should have relapsed into
crime, and had it not been for the second, into torment.
His whole heart melted in gratitude, and he loved more and more.
Many years passed in this manner; Cosette was growing up.
[THE END OF VOLUME II “COSETTE”]
VOLUME III
MARIUS
[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Three]
[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Three]
BOOK FIRST—PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM
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