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LITTLE GERVAIS
Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from
it. He set out at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking
whatever roads and paths presented themselves to him, without
perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps.
He wandered thus the whole morning, without having eaten anything
and without feeling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel
sensations.
He was conscious of a sort of rage; he did not know against
whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched
or humiliated. There came over him at moments a strange emotion
which he resisted and to which he opposed the hardness acquired
during the last twenty years of his life.
This state of mind fatigued him.
He perceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which
the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving
way within him. He asked himself what would replace this.
At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison
with the gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in
this way; it would have agitated him less. Although the season
was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late flowers
in the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through
them in his march recalled to him memories of his childhood.
These memories were almost intolerable to him, it was so long
since they had recurred to him.
Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all
day long.
As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart
the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush
upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted.
There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps.
Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might
have been three leagues distant from D---- A path which intersected
the plain passed a few paces from the bush.
In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed
not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might
have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible.
He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years
of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his
hip, and his marmot-box on his back,
One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to
land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their
trousers.
Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from
time to time, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which
he had in his hand--his whole fortune, probably.
Among this money there was one forty-sou piece.
The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean
Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that
time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back
of his hand.
This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling
towards the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean set his foot upon it.
In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had
caught sight of him.
He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man.
The spot was absolutely solitary.
As far as the eye could see there was not a person on the
plain or on the path.
The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds
of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense height.
The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast
threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam
the savage face of Jean Valjean.
"Sir," said the little Savoyard, with that childish
confidence which is composed of ignorance and innocence, "my
money."
"What is your name?" said Jean Valjean.
"Little Gervais, sir."
"Go away," said Jean Valjean.
"Sir," resumed the child, "give me back my
money."
Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply.
The child began again, "My money, sir."
Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth.
"My piece of money!" cried the child, "my white
piece! my silver!"
It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him.
The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook
him.
At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron-shod
shoe which rested on his treasure.
"I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!"
The child wept.
Jean Valjean raised his head.
He still remained seated.
His eyes were troubled.
He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretched
out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice,
"Who's there?"
"I, sir," replied the child.
"Little Gervais!
I!
Give me back my forty sous, if you please!
Take your foot away, sir, if you please!"
Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost
menacing:--
"Come now, will you take your foot away?
Take your foot away, or we'll see!"
"Ah!
It's still you!" said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly
to his feet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added:--
"Will you take yourself off!"
The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble
from head to foot, and after a few moments of stupor he set out,
running at the top of his speed, without daring to turn his neck
or to utter a cry.
Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain
distance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of
his own revery.
At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared.
The sun had set.
The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean.
He had eaten nothing all day; it is probable that he was feverish.
He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude
after the child's flight.
The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals.
His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed
to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient
fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All
at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.
He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically
to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to
pick up his cudgel.
At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which
his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining
among the pebbles.
It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. "What
is this?" he muttered between his teeth.
He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to
detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an
instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there
in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.
At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively
towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up
again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at the same time
casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood
there erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which
is seeking refuge.
He saw nothing.
Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks
of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.
He said, "Ah!" and set out rapidly in the direction
in which the child had disappeared.
After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw
nothing.
Then he shouted with all his might:--
"Little Gervais!
Little Gervais!"
He paused and waited.
There was no reply.
The landscape was gloomy and deserted.
He was encompassed by space. There was nothing around him
but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost, and a silence which
engulfed his voice.
An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around
him a sort of lugubrious life.
The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury.
One would have said that they were threatening and pursuing
some one.
He set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from
time to time he halted and shouted into that solitude, with a
voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate
that it was possible to hear, "Little Gervais!
Little Gervais!"
Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been
alarmed and would have taken good care not to show himself.
But the child was no doubt already far away.
He encountered a priest on horseback.
He stepped up to him and said:--
"Monsieur le Cure, have you seen a child pass?"
"No," said the priest.
"One named Little Gervais?"
"I have seen no one."
He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed
them to the priest.
"Monsieur le Cure, this is for your poor people.
Monsieur le Cure, he was a little lad, about ten years old,
with a marmot, I think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards,
you know?"
"I have not seen him."
"Little Gervais?
There are no villages here?
Can you tell me?"
"If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little
stranger. Such persons pass through these parts.
We know nothing of them."
Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with
violence, and gave them to the priest.
"For your poor," he said.
Then he added, wildly:--
"Monsieur l'Abbe, have me arrested.
I am a thief."
The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much
alarmed.
Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had
first taken.
In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing,
calling, shouting, but he met no one.
Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something
which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or
crouching down; it turned out to be nothing but brushwood or rocks
nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where three
paths intersected each other, he stopped.
The moon had risen.
He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last
time, "Little Gervais!
Little Gervais! Little Gervais!"
His shout died away in the mist, without even awakening an
echo.
He murmured yet once more, "Little Gervais!" but
in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice.
It was his last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him,
as though an invisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with
the weight of his evil conscience; he fell exhausted, on a large
stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his face on his knees,
and he cried, "I am a wretch!"
Then his heart burst, and he began to cry.
It was the first time that he had wept in nineteen years.
When Jean Valjean left the Bishop's house, he was, as we have
seen, quite thrown out of everything that had been his thought
hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what was going
on within him. He hardened himself against the angelic action
and the gentle words of the old man.
"You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy
your soul.
I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to
the good God."
This recurred to his mind unceasingly.
To this celestial kindness he opposed pride, which is the
fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that
the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most
formidable attack which had moved him yet; that his obduracy was
finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if he yielded,
he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions
of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which
pleased him; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to
be conquered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle,
had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that
man.
In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who
is intoxicated.
As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct
perception of what might result to him from his adventure at D----?
Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn or importune
the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in
his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny;
that there no longer remained a middle course for him; that if
he were not henceforth the best of men, he would be the worst;
that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the
Bishop, or fall lower than the convict; that if he wished to become
good be must become an angel; that if he wished to remain evil,
he must become a monster?
Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already
put to ourselves elsewhere:
did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a
confused way?
Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does form the education
of the intelligence; nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean
Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here
indicated.
If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of,
rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him
into an unutterable and almost painful state of emotion.
On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called
the galleys, the Bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light
would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark.
The future life, the possible life which offered itself to
him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors
and anxiety.
He no longer knew where he really was.
Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict
had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue.
That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that
he was no longer the same man, that everything about him was changed,
that it was no longer in his power to make it as though the Bishop
had not spoken to him and had not touched him.
In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and
had robbed him of his forty sous.
Why?
He certainly could not have explained it; was this the last
effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts
which he had brought away from the galleys,-- a remnant of impulse,
a result of what is called in statics, acquired force?
It was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that.
Let us say it simply, it was not he who stole; it was not
the man; it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply
placed his foot upon that money, while the intelligence was struggling
amid so many novel and hitherto unheard-of thoughts besetting
it.
When intelligence re-awakened and beheld that action of the
brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of
terror.
It was because,--strange phenomenon, and one which was possible
only in the situation in which he found himself,--in stealing
the money from that child, he had done a thing of which he was
no longer capable.
However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive
effect on him; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore
in his mind, and dispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscurity,
and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state
in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a
troubled mixture by precipitating one element and clarifying the
other.
First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting,
all bewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to
find the child in order to return his money to him; then, when
he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in
despair. At the moment when he exclaimed "I am a wretch!"
he had just perceived what he was, and he was already separated
from himself to such a degree, that he seemed to himself to be
no longer anything more than a phantom, and as if he had, there
before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean
Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack
filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and
gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects.
Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in
some sort a visionary.
This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw
that Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost
reached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was
horrified by him.
His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly
calm moments in which revery is so profound that it absorbs reality.
One no longer beholds the object which one has before one, and
one sees, as though apart from one's self, the figures which one
has in one's own mind.
Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and
at the same time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in
a mysterious depth a sort of light which he at first took for
a torch.
On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience
with more attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed
a human form and that this torch was the Bishop.
His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before
it,-- the Bishop and Jean Valjean.
Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second.
By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar to this
sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his revery continued, as the
Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean
grow less and vanish.
After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a
shade.
All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone remained; he
filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent
radiance.
Jean Valjean wept for a long time.
He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more weakness than a
woman, with more fright than a child.
As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into
his soul; an extraordinary light; a light at once ravishing and
terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long expiation,
his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal
to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had
happened to him at the Bishop's, the last thing that he had done,
that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime all the more cowardly,
and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's
pardon,--all this recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to
him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed.
He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his soul,
and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light
rested over this life and this soul. It seemed to him that he
beheld Satan by the light of Paradise.
How many hours did he weep thus?
What did he do after he had wept? Whither did he go!
No one ever knew.
The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that
same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, and
who arrived at D---- about three o'clock in the morning, saw,
as he traversed the street in which the Bishop's residence was
situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on the pavement
in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur Welcome.
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