1.F.8.5. A SUITABLE TOMB
JAVERT deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison.
The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or
rather, an extraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are
sorry that we cannot conceal the fact, that at the single word,
"He was a convict," nearly every one deserted him. In less
than two hours all the good that he had done had been forgotten,
and he was nothing but a "convict from the galleys."
It is just to add that the details of what had taken place at
Arras were not yet known. All day long conversations
like the following were to be heard in all quarters of the
town: —
"You don't know? He was a liberated convict!" "Who?"
"The mayor." "Bah! M. Madeleine?" "Yes." "Really?"
"His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name,
Bejean, Bojean, Boujean." "Ah! Good God!" "He has
been arrested." "Arrested!" "In prison, in the city prison,
while waiting to be transferred." "Until he is transferred!"
"He is to be transferred!" "Where is he to be taken?" "He
will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he
committed long ago." "Well! I suspected as much. That
man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the
cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came
across. I always thought there was some evil history back
of all that."
The "drawing-rooms" particularly abounded in remarks of
this nature.
One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau Blanc, made the
following remark, the depth of which it is impossible to
fathom: —
"I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!"
It was thus that the phantom which had been called M.
Madeleine vanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons
in all the town remained faithful to his memory. The
old portress who had served him was among the number.
On the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sitting
in her lodge, still in a thorough fright, and absorbed in
sad reflections. The factory had been closed all day, the
carriage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was
no one in the house but the two nuns, Sister Perpetue and
Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of
Fantine.
Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to
return home, the good portress rose mechanically, took from a
drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, and the flat candlestick
which he used every evening to go up to his quarters;
then she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed
to take it, and set the candlestick on one side, as though she
was expecting him. Then she sat down again on her chair,
and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor, good
old woman bad done all this without being conscious of it.
It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused
herself from her revery, and exclaimed, "Hold! My good
God Jesus! And I hung his key on the nail!"
At that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a
hand passed through, seized the key and the candlestick,
and lighted the taper at the candle which was burning there.
The portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping
mouth, and a shriek which she confined to her throat.
She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat.
It was M. Madeleine.
It was several seconds before she could speak; she had a
seizure, as she said herself, when she related the adventure
afterwards.
"Good God, Monsieur le Maire," she cried at last, "I
thought you were — "
She stopped; the conclusion of her sentence would have
been lacking in respect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean
was still Monsieur le Maire to her.
He finished her thought.
"In prison," said he. "I was there; I broke a bar of one
of the windows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and
here I am. I am going up to my room; go and find
Sister Simplice for me. She is with that poor woman, no
doubt."
The old woman obeyed in all haste.
He gave her no orders; he was quite sure that she would
guard him better than he should guard himself.
No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the
courtyard without opening the big gates. He had, and always
carried about him, a pass-key which opened a little side-door;
but he must have been searched, and his latch-key must have
been taken from him. This point was never explained.
He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On
arriving at the top, he left his candle on the top step of his
stairs, opened his door with very little noise, went and closed
his window and his shutters by feeling, then returned for his
candle and re-entered his room.
It was a useful precaution; it will be recollected that his
window could be seen from the street.
He cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his
bed which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace
of the disorder of the night before last remained. The
portress had "done up" his room; only she had picked out of
the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of
the cudgel and the forty-sou piece which had been blackened
by the fire.
He took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote: "These are
the two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece
stolen from Little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of
Assizes," and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron,
and the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be
seen on entering the room. From a cupboard he pulled out
one of his old shirts, which he tore in pieces. In the strips
of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver candlesticks.
He betrayed neither haste nor agitation; and while he was
wrapping up the Bishop's candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece
of black bread. It was probably the prison-bread which he
had carried with him in his flight.
This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the
floor of the room when the authorities made an examination
later on.
There came two taps at the door.
"Come in," said he.
It was Sister Simplice.
She was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she
carried trembled in her hand. The peculiar feature of the
violences of destiny is, that however polished or cool we may
be, they wring human nature from our very bowels, and force
it to reappear on the surface. The emotions of that day had
turned the nun into a woman once more. She had wept, and
she was trembling.
Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a
paper, which he handed to the nun, saying, "Sister, you will
give this to Monsieur le Cure."
The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it.
"You can read it," said he.
She read: —
"I beg Monsieur le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave
behind me. He will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses
of my trial, and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday.
The rest is for the poor."
The sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer
a few inarticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however: —
"Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at
that poor, unhappy woman?"
"No," said he; "I am pursued; it would only end in their
arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her."
He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on
the staircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps,
and the old portress saying in her loudest and most piercing
tones: —
"My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a
soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and
that I have not even left the door."
A man responded: —
"But there is a light in that room, nevertheless."
They recognized Javert's voice.
The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening
masked the corner of the wall on the right. Jean Valjean
blew out the light and placed himself in this angle.
Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table.
The door opened.
Javert entered.
The whispers of many men and the protestations of the
portress were audible in the corridor.
The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying.
The candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very
little light.
Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement.
It
will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert,
his element, the very air he breathed, was veneration for all
authority. This was impregnable, and admitted of neither
objection nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecclesiastical
authority was the chief of all; he was religious, superficial
and correct on this point as on all others. In his eyes,
a priest was a mind, who never makes a mistake; a nun was a
creature who never sins; they were souls walled in from this
world, with a single door which never opened except to allow
the truth to pass through.
On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire.
But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled
him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second
movement was to remain and to venture on at least one
question.
This was Sister Simplice, who had never told a lie in her
life. Javert knew it, and held her in special veneration in
consequence.
"Sister," said he, "are you alone in this room?"
A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress
felt as though she should faint.
The sister raised her eyes and answered: —
"Yes."
"Then," resumed Javert, "you will excuse me if I persist;
it is my duty; you have not seen a certain person — a man —
this evening? He has escaped; we are in search of him — that
Jean Valjean; you have not seen him?"
The sister replied: —
"No."
She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the
other, without hesitation, promptly, as a person does when
sacrificing herself.
"Pardon me," said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow.
O sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you
have rejoined your sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the
angels, in the light; may this lie be counted to your credit in
paradise!
The sister's affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing
that he did not even observe the singularity of that candle
which had but just been extinguished, and which was still
smoking on the table.
An hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, was
rapidly departing from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris.
That man was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the
testimony of two or three carters who met him, that he was
carrying a bundle; that he was dressed in a blouse. Where
had he obtained that blouse? No one ever found out. But an
aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few
days before, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps
that was the one.
One last word about Fantine.
We all have a mother, — the earth. Fantine was given back
to that mother.
The cure thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he
really was, in reserving as much money as possible from what
Jean Valjean had left for the poor. Who was concerned, after
all? A convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had
a very simple funeral for Fantine, and reduced it to that
strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave.
So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery
which belongs to anybody and everybody, and where the poor
are lost. Fortunately, God knows where to find the soul again.
Fantine was laid in the shade, among the first bones that came
to hand; she was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes.
She was thrown into the public grave. Her grave resembled
her bed.