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And, with a poignant accent, he added:
"Monsieur Pontmercy, this is not common sense, I am an
honest man. It is by degrading myself in your eyes that I elevate
myself in my own. This has happened to me once before, but it
was less painful then; it was a mere nothing.
Yes, an honest man.
I should not be so if, through my fault, you had continued
to esteem me; now that you despise me, I am so.
I have that fatality hanging over me that, not being able
to ever have anything but stolen consideration, that consideration
humiliates me, and crushes me inwardly, and, in order that I may
respect myself, it is necessary that I should be despised.
Then I straighten up again.
I am a galley-slave who obeys his conscience.
I know well that that is most improbable. But what would you
have me do about it? it is the fact.
I have entered into engagements with myself; I keep them.
There are encounters which bind us, there are chances which
involve us in duties. You see, Monsieur Pontmercy, various things
have happened to me in the course of my life."
Again Jean Valjean paused, swallowing his saliva with an effort,
as though his words had a bitter after-taste, and then he went
on:
"When one has such a horror hanging over one, one has
not the right to make others share it without their knowledge,
one has not the right to make them slip over one's own precipice
without their perceiving it, one has not the right to let one's
red blouse drag upon them, one has no right to slyly encumber
with one's misery the happiness of others.
It is hideous to approach those who are healthy, and to touch
them in the dark with one's ulcer.
In spite of the fact that Fauchelevent lent me his name, I
have no right to use it; he could give it to me, but I could not
take it.
A name is an _I_. You see, sir, that I have thought somewhat,
I have read a little, although I am a peasant; and you see that
I express myself properly. I understand things.
I have procured myself an education.
Well, yes, to abstract a name and to place oneself under it
is dishonest. Letters of the alphabet can be filched, like a purse
or a watch. To be a false signature in flesh and blood, to be
a living false key, to enter the house of honest people by picking
their lock, never more to look straightforward, to forever eye
askance, to be infamous within the _I_, no! no! no! no! no!
It is better to suffer, to bleed, to weep, to tear one's skin
from the flesh with one's nails, to pass nights writhing in anguish,
to devour oneself body and soul.
That is why I have just told you all this. Wantonly, as you
say."
He drew a painful breath, and hurled this final word:
"In days gone by, I stole a loaf of bread in order to
live; to-day, in order to live, I will not steal a name."
"To live!" interrupted Marius.
"You do not need that name in order to live?"
"Ah!
I understand the matter," said Jean Valjean, raising
and lowering his head several times in succession.
A silence ensued.
Both held their peace, each plunged in a gulf of thoughts.
Marius was sitting near a table and resting the corner of
his mouth on one of his fingers, which was folded back. Jean Valjean
was pacing to and fro.
He paused before a mirror, and remained motionless.
Then, as though replying to some inward course of reasoning,
he said, as he gazed at the mirror, which he did not see:
"While, at present, I am relieved."
He took up his march again, and walked to the other end of
the drawing-room. At the moment when he turned round, he perceived
that Marius was watching his walk.
Then he said, with an inexpressible intonation:
"I drag my leg a little.
Now you understand why!"
Then he turned fully round towards Marius:
"And now, sir, imagine this:
I have said nothing, I have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent,
I have taken my place in your house, I am one of you, I am in
my chamber, I come to breakfast in the morning in slippers, in
the evening all three of us go to the play, I accompany Madame
Pontmercy to the Tuileries, and to the Place Royale, we are together,
you think me your equal; one fine day you are there, and I am
there, we are conversing, we are laughing; all at once, you hear
a voice shouting this name:
`Jean Valjean!' and behold, that terrible hand, the police,
darts from the darkness, and abruptly tears off my mask!"
Again he paused; Marius had sprung to his feet with a shudder.
Jean Valjean resumed:
"What do you say to that?"
Marius' silence answered for him.
Jean Valjean continued:
"You see that I am right in not holding my peace.
Be happy, be in heaven, be the angel of an angel, exist in
the sun, be content therewith, and do not trouble yourself about
the means which a poor damned wretch takes to open his breast
and force his duty to come forth; you have before you, sir, a
wretched man."
Marius slowly crossed the room, and, when he was quite close
to Jean Valjean, he offered the latter his hand.
But Marius was obliged to step up and take that hand which
was not offered, Jean Valjean let him have his own way, and it
seemed to Marius that he pressed a hand of marble.
"My grandfather has friends," said Marius; "I
will procure your pardon."
"It is useless," replied Jean Valjean.
"I am believed to be dead, and that suffices.
The dead are not subjected to surveillance. They are supposed
to rot in peace.
Death is the same thing as pardon."
And, disengaging the hand which Marius held, he added, with
a sort of inexorable dignity:
"Moreover, the friend to whom I have recourse is the
doing of my duty; and I need but one pardon, that of my conscience."
At that moment, a door at the other end of the drawing-room
opened gently half way, and in the opening Cosette's head appeared.
They saw only her sweet face, her hair was in charming disorder,
her eyelids were still swollen with sleep.
She made the movement of a bird, which thrusts its head out
of its nest, glanced first at her husband, then at Jean Valjean,
and cried to them with a smile, so that they seemed to behold
a smile at the heart of a rose:
"I will wager that you are talking politics.
How stupid that is, instead of being with me!"
Jean Valjean shuddered.
"Cosette! . . ." stammered Marius.
And he paused.
One would have said that they were two criminals.
Cosette, who was radiant, continued to gaze at both of them.
There was something in her eyes like gleams of paradise.
"I have caught you in the very act," said Cosette.
"Just now, I heard my father Fauchelevent through the
door saying:
`Conscience . . . doing my duty . . .' That is politics, indeed
it is.
I will not have it.
People should not talk politics the very next day. It is not
right."
"You are mistaken.
Cosette," said Marius, "we are talking business.
We are discussing the best investment of your six hundred thousand
francs . . ."
"That is not it at all " interrupted Cosette.
"I am coming. Does any body want me here?"
And, passing resolutely through the door, she entered the
drawing-room. She was dressed in a voluminous white dressing-gown,
with a thousand folds and large sleeves which, starting from the
neck, fell to her feet.
In the golden heavens of some ancient gothic pictures, there
are these charming sacks fit to clothe the angels.
She contemplated herself from head to foot in a long mirror,
then exclaimed, in an outburst of ineffable ecstasy:
"There was once a King and a Queen.
Oh! how happy I am!"
That said, she made a curtsey to Marius and to Jean Valjean.
"There," said she, "I am going to install myself
near you in an easy-chair, we breakfast in half an hour, you shall
say anything you like, I know well that men must talk, and I will
be very good."
Marius took her by the arm and said lovingly to her:
"We are talking business."
"By the way," said Cosette, "I have opened
my window, a flock of pierrots has arrived in the garden,--Birds,
not maskers. To-day is Ash-Wednesday; but not for the birds."
"I tell you that we are talking business, go, my little
Cosette, leave us alone for a moment.
We are talking figures.
That will bore you."
"You have a charming cravat on this morning, Marius.
You are very dandified, monseigneur.
No, it will not bore me."
"I assure you that it will bore you."
"No. Since it is you.
I shall not understand you, but I shall listen to you.
When one hears the voices of those whom one loves, one does
not need to understand the words that they utter. That we should
be here together--that is all that I desire. I shall remain with
you, bah!"
"You are my beloved Cosette!
Impossible."
"Impossible!"
"Yes."
"Very good," said Cosette.
"I was going to tell you some news. I could have told
you that your grandfather is still asleep, that your aunt is at
mass, that the chimney in my father Fauchelevent's room smokes,
that Nicolette has sent for the chimney-sweep, that Toussaint
and Nicolette have already quarrelled, that Nicolette makes sport
of Toussaint's stammer.
Well, you shall know nothing. Ah! it is impossible? you shall
see, gentlemen, that I, in my turn, can say:
It is impossible.
Then who will be caught?
I beseech you, my little Marius, let me stay here with you
two."
"I swear to you, that it is indispensable that we should
be alone."
"Well, am I anybody?"
Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word.
Cosette turned to him:
"In the first place, father, I want you to come and embrace
me. What do you mean by not saying anything instead of taking
my part? who gave me such a father as that?
You must perceive that my family life is very unhappy.
My husband beats me.
Come, embrace me instantly."
Jean Valjean approached.
Cosette turned toward Marius.
"As for you, I shall make a face at you."
Then she presented her brow to Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean advanced a step toward her.
Cosette recoiled.
"Father, you are pale.
Does your arm hurt you?"
"It is well," said Jean Valjean.
"Did you sleep badly?"
"No."
"Are you sad?"
"No."
"Embrace me if you are well, if you sleep well, if you
are content, I will not scold you."
And again she offered him her brow.
Jean Valjean dropped a kiss upon that brow whereon rested
a celestial gleam.
"Smile."
Jean Valjean obeyed.
It was the smile of a spectre.
"Now, defend me against my husband."
"Cosette! . . ." ejaculated Marius.
"Get angry, father.
Say that I must stay.
You can certainly talk before me.
So you think me very silly.
What you say is astonishing! business, placing money in a
bank a great matter truly. Men make mysteries out of nothing.
I am very pretty this morning. Look at me, Marius."
And with an adorable shrug of the shoulders, and an indescribably
exquisite pout, she glanced at Marius.
"I love you!" said Marius.
"I adore you!" said Cosette.
And they fell irresistibly into each other's arms.
"Now," said Cosette, adjusting a fold of her dressing-gown,
with a triumphant little grimace, "I shall stay."
"No, not that," said Marius, in a supplicating tone.
"We have to finish something."
"Still no?"
Marius assumed a grave tone:
"I assure you, Cosette, that it is impossible."
"Ah! you put on your man's voice, sir.
That is well, I go. You, father, have not upheld me.
Monsieur my father, monsieur my husband, you are tyrants.
I shall go and tell grandpapa. If you think that I am going
to return and talk platitudes to you, you are mistaken.
I am proud.
I shall wait for you now. You shall see, that it is you who
are going to be bored without me. I am going, it is well."
And she left the room.
Two seconds later, the door opened once more, her fresh and
rosy head was again thrust between the two leaves, and she cried
to them:
"I am very angry indeed."
The door closed again, and the shadows descended once more.
It was as though a ray of sunlight should have suddenly traversed
the night, without itself being conscious of it.
Marius made sure that the door was securely closed.
"Poor Cosette!" he murmured, "when she finds
out . . ."
At that word Jean Valjean trembled in every limb.
He fixed on Marius a bewildered eye.
"Cosette! oh yes, it is true, you are going to tell Cosette
about this. That is right.
Stay, I had not thought of that.
One has the strength for one thing, but not for another.
Sir, I conjure you, I entreat now, sir, give me your most
sacred word of honor, that you will not tell her.
Is it not enough that you should know it? I have been able
to say it myself without being forced to it, I could have told
it to the universe, to the whole world,--it was all one to me.
But she, she does not know what it is, it would terrify her.
What, a convict! we should be obliged to explain matters to
her, to say to her:
`He is a man who has been in the galleys.' She saw the chain-gang
pass by one day.
Oh!
My God!" . . . He dropped into an arm-chair and hid his
face in his hands.
His grief was not audible, but from the quivering of his shoulders
it was evident that he was weeping.
Silent tears, terrible tears.
There is something of suffocation in the sob.
He was seized with a sort of convulsion, he threw himself
against the back of the chair as though to gain breath, letting
his arms fall, and allowing Marius to see his face inundated with
tears, and Marius heard him murmur, so low that his voice seemed
to issue from fathomless depths:
"Oh! would that I could die!"
"Be at your ease," said Marius, "I will keep
your secret for myself alone."
x And, less touched, perhaps, than he ought to have been,
but forced, for the last hour, to familiarize himself with something
as unexpected as it was dreadful, gradually beholding the convict
superposed before his very eyes, upon M. Fauchelevent, overcome,
little by little, by that lugubrious reality, and led, by the
natural inclination of the situation, to recognize the space which
had just been placed between that man and himself, Marius added:
"It is impossible that I should not speak a word to you
with regard to the deposit which you have so faithfully and honestly
remitted. That is an act of probity.
It is just that some recompense should be bestowed on you.
Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you. Do not
fear to set it very high."
"I thank you, sir," replied Jean Valjean, gently.
He remained in thought for a moment, mechanically passing
the tip of his fore-finger across his thumb-nail, then he lifted
up his voice:
"All is nearly over.
But one last thing remains for me . . ."
"What is it?"
Jean Valjean struggled with what seemed a last hesitation,
and, without voice, without breath, he stammered rather than said:
"Now that you know, do you think, sir, you, who are the
master, that I ought not to see Cosette any more?"
"I think that would be better," replied Marius coldly.
"I shall never see her more," murmured Jean Valjean.
And he directed his steps towards the door.
He laid his hand on the knob, the latch yielded, the door
opened. Jean Valjean pushed it open far enough to pass through,
stood motionless for a second, then closed the door again and
turned to Marius.
He was no longer pale, he was livid.
There were no longer any tears in his eyes, but only a sort
of tragic flame.
His voice had regained a strange composure.
"Stay, sir," he said.
"If you will allow it, I will come to see her. I assure
you that I desire it greatly.
If I had not cared to see Cosette, I should not have made
to you the confession that I have made, I should have gone away;
but, as I desired to remain in the place where Cosette is, and
to continue to see her, I had to tell you about it honestly.
You follow my reasoning, do you not? it is a matter easily
understood.
You see, I have had her with me for more than nine years.
We lived first in that hut on the boulevard, then in the convent,
then near the Luxembourg. That was where you saw her for the first
time.
You remember her blue plush hat.
Then we went to the Quartier des Invalides, where there was
a railing on a garden, the Rue Plumet.
I lived in a little back court-yard, whence I could hear her
piano. That was my life.
We never left each other.
That lasted for nine years and some months.
I was like her own father, and she was my child.
I do not know whether you understand, Monsieur Pontmercy,
but to go away now, never to see her again, never to speak to
her again, to no longer have anything, would be hard.
If you do not disapprove of it, I will come to see Cosette
from time to time. I will not come often.
I will not remain long.
You shall give orders that I am to be received in the little
waiting-room. On the ground floor.
I could enter perfectly well by the back door, but that might
create surprise perhaps, and it would be better, I think, for
me to enter by the usual door.
Truly, sir, I should like to see a little more of Cosette.
As rarely as you please. Put yourself in my place, I have
nothing left but that.
And then, we must be cautious.
If I no longer come at all, it would produce a bad effect,
it would be considered singular.
What I can do, by the way, is to come in the afternoon, when
night is beginning to fall."
"You shall come every evening," said Marius, "and
Cosette will be waiting for you."
"You are kind, sir," said Jean Valjean.
Marius saluted Jean Valjean, happiness escorted despair to
the door, and these two men parted.
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