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A TEMPEST IN A SKULL
The reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine
is no other than Jean Valjean.
We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience;
the moment has now come when we must take another look into it.
We do so not without emotion and trepidation.
There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort
of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more
dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself
on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated,
more mysterious, and more infinite.
There is a spectacle more grand than the sea; it is heaven:
there is a spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost
recesses of the soul.
To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with
reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the
basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and
definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts,
and of temptations; the furnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of
which we are ashamed; it is the pandemonium of sophisms; it is
the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate, at certain hours,
past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection,
and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity.
There, beneath that external silence, battles of giants, like
those recorded in Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of dragons
and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton; visionary circles,
as in Dante.
What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears
within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices
of his brain and the actions of his life!
Alighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before
which he hesitated.
Here is one before us, upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let
us enter, nevertheless.
We have but little to add to what the reader already knows
of what had happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with
Little Gervais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen,
a totally different man. What the Bishop had wished to make of
him, that he carried out. It was more than a transformation; it
was a transfiguration.
He succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop's silver, reserving
only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town,
traversed France, came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which
we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded
in rendering himself safe from seizure and inaccessible, and,
thenceforth, established at M. sur M., happy in feeling his conscience
saddened by the past and the first half of his existence belied
by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having
henceforth only two thoughts,--to conceal his name and to sanctify
his life; to escape men and to return to God.
These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind
that they formed but a single one there; both were equally absorbing
and imperative and ruled his slightest actions.
In general, they conspired to regulate the conduct of his
life; they turned him towards the gloom; they rendered him kindly
and simple; they counselled him to the same things.
Sometimes, however, they conflicted.
In that case, as the reader will remember, the man whom all
the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did not hesitate
to sacrifice the first to the second--his security to his virtue.
Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he
had preserved the Bishop's candlesticks, worn mourning for him,
summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed
that way, collected information regarding the families at Faverolles,
and saved old Fauchelevent's life, despite the disquieting insinuations
of Javert.
It seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought,
following the example of all those who have been wise, holy, and
just, that his first duty was not towards himself.
At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like
this had yet presented itself.
Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose
sufferings we are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle.
He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first
words pronounced by Javert, when the latter entered his study.
At the moment when that name, which he had buried beneath
so many layers, was so strangely articulated, he was struck with
stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity
of his destiny; and through this stupor he felt that shudder which
precedes great shocks.
He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier
at the approach of an assault.
He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending
upon his head. As he listened to Javert, the first thought which
occurred to him was to go, to run and denounce himself, to take
that Champmathieu out of prison and place himself there; this
was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh.
Then it passed away, and he said to himself, "We will
see!
We will see!"
He repressed this first, generous instinct, and recoiled before
heroism.
It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop's holy words,
after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst
of a penitence admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for
an instant, even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture,
but had continued to walk with the same step towards this yawning
precipice, at the bottom of which lay heaven; that would have
been beautiful; but it was not thus.
We must render an account of the things which went on in this
soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was carried
away, at first, by the instinct of self-preservation; he rallied
all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration
Javert's presence, that great danger, postponed all decision with
the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to
do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler.
He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind
within, a profound tranquillity without.
He took no "preservative measures," as they may
be called.
Everything was still confused, and jostling together in his
brain.
His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form
of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about
himself, except that he had received a great blow.
He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged
his visit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he
must behave thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case
he should be obliged to be absent himself.
He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras;
and without having the least in the world made up his mind to
this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was, beyond the
shadow of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way
in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the
tilbury from Scaufflaire in order to be prepared in any event.
He dined with a good deal of appetite.
On returning to his room, he communed with himself.
He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented; so
unprecedented that in the midst of his revery he rose from his
chair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted
his door.
He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading
himself against possibilities.
A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.
lt seemed to him as though he might be seen.
By whom?
Alas!
That on which he desired to close the door had already entered;
that which he desired to blind was staring him in the face,--
his conscience.
His conscience; that is to say, God.
Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling
of security and of solitude; the bolt once drawn, he thought himself
impregnable; the candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible.
Then he took possession of himself:
he set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand,
and began to meditate in the dark.
"Where do I stand?
Am not I dreaming?
What have I heard?
Is it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he
spoke to me in that manner?
Who can that Champmathieu be?
So he resembles me! Is it possible?
When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far
from suspecting anything!
What was I doing yesterday at this hour?
What is there in this incident?
What will the end be? What is to be done?"
This was the torment in which he found himself.
His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas; they passed
like waves, and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them.
Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which
overwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought
to draw proof and resolution.
His head was burning.
He went to the window and threw it wide open. There were no
stars in the sky.
He returned and seated himself at the table.
The first hour passed in this manner.
Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and
to fix themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch
a glimpse with precision of the reality,--not the whole situation,
but some of the details.
He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary
as was this situation, he was completely master of it.
This only caused an increase of his stupor.
Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had
assigned to his actions, all that he had made up to that day had
been nothing but a hole in which to bury his name.
That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of
self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to ever hear
that name pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would
be the end of all things for him; that on the day when that name
made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from
about him, and--who knows?-- perhaps even his new soul within
him, also.
He shuddered at the very thought that this was possible.
Assuredly, if any one had said to him at such moments that
the hour would come when that name would ring in his ears, when
the hideous words, Jean Valjean, would suddenly emerge from the
darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light,
capable of dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself,
would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name
would not menace him, that that light would but produce an obscurity
more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the mystery,
that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this prodigious
incident would have no other result, so far as he was concerned,
if so it seemed good to him, than that of rendering his existence
at once clearer and more impenetrable, and that, out of his confrontation
with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good and worthy citizen
Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored, more peaceful, and
more respected than ever--if any one had told him that, he would
have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman.
Well, all this was precisely what had just come to pass; all
that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted
these wild fancies to become real things!
His revery continued to grow clearer.
He came more and more to an understanding of his position.
It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable
dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in
the middle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in
vain, on the very brink of the abyss.
He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a man
unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and whom she
was thrusting into the gulf in his stead; in order that the gulf
might close once more, it was necessary that some one, himself
or that other man, should fall into it: he had only let things
take their course.
The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself:
That his place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would,
it was still awaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais
had led him back to it; that this vacant place would await him,
and draw him on until he filled it; that this was inevitable and
fatal; and then he said to himself, "that, at this moment,
be had a substitute; that it appeared that a certain Champmathieu
had that ill luck, and that, as regards himself, being present
in the galleys in the person of that Champmathieu, present in
society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to
fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the
head of that Champmathieu this stone of infamy which, like the
stone of the sepulchre, falls once, never to rise again."
All this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly
took place in him that indescribable movement, which no man feels
more than two or three times in the course of his life, a sort
of convulsion of the conscience which stirs up all that there
is doubtful in the heart, which is composed of irony, of joy,
and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of inward
laughter.
He hastily relighted his candle.
"Well, what then?" he said to himself; "what
am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about?
I am safe; all is over.
I had but one partly open door through which my past might
invade my life, and behold that door is walled up forever! That
Javert, who has been annoying me so long; that terrible instinct
which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me-- good God!
and which followed me everywhere; that frightful hunting-dog,
always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged
elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail:
henceforth he is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he
has his Jean Valjean. Who knows? it is even probable that he will
wish to leave town! And all this has been brought about without
any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it!
Ah! but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honor, people
would think, to see me, that some catastrophe had happened to
me!
After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not
my fault in the least:
it is Providence which has done it all; it is because it wishes
it so to be, evidently.
Have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged?
What do I ask now? Why should I meddle?
It does not concern me; what!
I am not satisfied: but what more do I want?
The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream
of my nights, the object of my prayers to Heaven,--security,--I
have now attained; it is God who wills it; I can do nothing against
the will of God, and why does God will it? In order that I may
continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one
day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at
last, that a little happiness has been attached to the penance
which I have undergone, and to that virtue to which I have returned.
Really, I do not understand why I was afraid, a little while
ago, to enter the house of that good cure, and to ask his advice;
this is evidently what he would have said to me: It is settled;
let things take their course; let the good God do as he likes!"
Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience,
bending over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his
chair, and began to pace the room:
"Come," said he, "let us think no more about
it; my resolve is taken!" but he felt no joy.
Quite the reverse.
One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea
than one can the sea from returning to the shore:
the sailor calls it the tide; the guilty man calls it remorse;
God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean.
After the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he
resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he
who listened, saying that which he would have preferred to ignore,
and listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear,
yielding to that mysterious power which said to him:
"Think!" as it said to another condemned man, two
thousand years ago, "March on!"
Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves
fully understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation.
It is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is
no living being who has not done it.
It may even be said that the word is never a more magnificent
mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a
man, and when it returns from conscience to thought; it is in
this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter,
he said, he exclaimed, must be understood; one speaks to one's
self, talks to one's self, exclaims to one's self without breaking
the external silence; there is a great tumult; everything about
us talks except the mouth.
The realities of the soul are none the less realities because
they are not visible and palpable.
So he asked himself where he stood.
He interrogated himself upon that "settled resolve."
He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged
in his mind was monstrous, that "to let things take their
course, to let the good God do as he liked," was simply horrible;
to allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not
to hinder it, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do
nothing, in short, was to do everything! that this was hypocritical
baseness in the last degree! that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking,
abject, hideous crime!
For the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just
tasted the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.
He spit it out with disgust.
He continued to question himself.
He asked himself severely what he had meant by this, "My
object is attained!"
He declared to himself that his life really had an object;
but what object? To conceal his name?
To deceive the police?
Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had
done?
Had he not another and a grand object, which was the true
one--to save, not his person, but his soul; to become honest and
good once more; to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that
alone, which he had always desired, which the Bishop had enjoined
upon him--to shut the door on his past? But he was not shutting
it! great God! he was re-opening it by committing an infamous
action!
He was becoming a thief once more, and the most odious of
thieves!
He was robbing another of his existence, his life, his peace,
his place in the sunshine. He was becoming an assassin.
He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man.
He was inflicting on him that frightful living death, that
death beneath the open sky, which is called the galleys. On the
other hand, to surrender himself to save that man, struck down
with so melancholy an error, to resume his own name, to become
once more, out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that was, in
truth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever that
hell whence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance
was to escape from it in reality.
This must be done!
He had done nothing if he did not do all this; his whole life
was useless; all his penitence was wasted.
There was no longer any need of saying, "What is the
use?"
He felt that the Bishop was there, that the Bishop was present
all the more because he was dead, that the Bishop was gazing fixedly
at him, that henceforth Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues,
would be abominable to him, and that the convict Jean Valjean
would be pure and admirable in his sight; that men beheld his
mask, but that the Bishop saw his face; that men saw his life,
but that the Bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras,
deliver the false Jean Valjean, and denounce the real one.
Alas! that was the greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant
of victories, the last step to take; but it must be done. Sad
fate! he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when
he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.
"Well, said he, "let us decide upon this; let us
do our duty; let us save this man."
He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was
speaking aloud.
He took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He
flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty
and embarrassed tradesmen.
He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might
have been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment,
To Monsieur Laffitte, Banker, Rue d'Artois, Paris.
He drew from his secretary a pocket-book which contained several
bank-notes and the passport of which he had made use that same
year when he went to the elections.
Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various
acts, into which there entered such grave thought, would have
had no suspicion of what was going on within him.
Only occasionally did his lips move; at other times he raised
his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall, as though
there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate
or interrogate.
When he had finished the letter to M. Laffitte, he put it
into his pocket, together with the pocket-book, and began his
walk once more.
His revery had not swerved from its course.
He continued to see his duty clearly, written in luminous
letters, which flamed before his eyes and changed its place as
he altered the direction of his glance:--
"Go!
Tell your name!
Denounce yourself!"
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