Book 1, Chapter 10 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Eastman. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 1. Chapter 10. The bishop in the presence of an unknown light. At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits. In the country near Dina a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the convention. His name was G. Member of the convention, G, was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of Dina. A member of the convention? Can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other Thou, and when they said Citizen. This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost's court on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please. Clemency must be exercised, agreed, but a good banishment for life, an example in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture? Was G a vulture after all? Yes, if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in the solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France. He dwelt at a distance of three quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbours, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman. Nevertheless the bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon, at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the convention. And he said, There is a solyonder which is lonely. And he added, deep in his own mind, I owe him a visit. But let us avow it. This idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment's reflection, a strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For at bottom he shared the general impression. And the old member of the convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement. Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep! The good bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction. Then he returned. Finally the rumour one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd who served the member of the convention in his hovel had come in quest of a doctor, that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live overnight. Thank God! some added. The bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his two-threadbare cassock as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out. The sun was setting and had almost touched the horizon when the bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly at the extremity of the wasteland and behind lofty brambles he caught sight of the cavern. It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside. Near the door, in an old wheelchair, the armchair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man smiling at the sun. Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk. While the bishop was watching him, the old man spoke. Thank you, he said, I need nothing. And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child. The bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life. This is the first time since I have been here, he said, that anyone has entered here. Who are you, sir? The bishop answered, my name is Bienvenue Muriel. Bienvenue Muriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monsignor Welcome? I am. The old man resumed with a half-smile. In that case you are my bishop? Something of that sort. Enter, sir. The member of the convention extended his hand to the bishop, but the bishop did not take it. The bishop confined himself to the remark, I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to be ill. Monsignor replied to the old man, I am going to recover. He paused and then said, I shall die three hours hence. Then he continued, I am something of a doctor. I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday only my feet were cold. Today the chill has ascended to my knees. Now I feel it mounting to my waist. When it reaches the heart I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me, it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who was on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one's caprices. I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all, dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight. The old man turned to the shepherd lad. Go to thy bed. Thou were to wake all last night. Thou art tired. The child entered the hut. The old man followed him with his eyes and added as though speaking to himself, I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors. The bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think that he discerned God in this manner of dying. Let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest. He, who on occasion was so fond of laughing at his grace, was rather shocked and not being addressed as Monsignor, and he was almost tempted to retort citizen. He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth.  Meanwhile, the member of the convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust. The bishop on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which in his opinion bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach in connection with any other man. A member of the convention produced in him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. Gee, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who formed the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man, one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Osrail, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back and thought that he had mistaken the door. Gee, seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast.  Gee, at this solemn moment, resembled the king of that tail of the Orient, who was flesh above and marble below. There was a stone there. The bishop sat down. The Exordium was abrupt. I congratulate you, said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. You did not vote for the death of the king after all. The old member of the convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words after all. He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face. Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant. It was the tone of austerity, answering the tone of severity. What do you mean to say, resumed the bishop? I mean to say that man has a tyrant, ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant, that tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science. And conscience, added the bishop. It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us. Monsignor Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him. The member of the convention resumed. So far as Louis XVI was concerned, I said no. I did not think that I had the right to kill a man. But I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant. That is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumpling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world. And the old world, that vase of miseries, has become through its upsetting upon the human race an urn of joy. Mixed joy, said the bishop. You may say troubled joy. And today, after that fatal return of the past which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared. Alas, the work was incomplete, I admit. We demolished the ancient regime in deeds. We were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient. Customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer. The wind is still there. You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath. Right has its wrath, Bishop. And the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete it may be, but sublime. It's at free all the unknown social quantities. It softened spirits. It calmed, appeased, enlightened. It caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity. The bishop could not refrain from murmuring. Yes, 93. The member of the convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation, ah, there you go, 93. I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of 1500 years. At the end of 1500 years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial. The bishop felt, without perhaps confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless he put a good face on the matter. He replied, The judge speaks in the name of justice. The priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error. And he added, regarding the member of the convention steadily the while. Louis XVII. The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the bishop's arm. Louis XVII. Let us see. For whom do you mourn? Is it for the innocent child? Very good. In that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Plastigraf until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of cartouche is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV, an innocent child martyred in the tower of the temple for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV. Monsieur, said the bishop, I like not this conjunction of names. Cartouche, Louis XV, to which of the two do you object? A momentary silence ensued. The bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken. The conventionary resumed. Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, cinete parvulos, he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as Augustine rags as in Fleur-de-Lis. That is true, said the bishop in a low voice. I persist, continued the conventionary gie. You have mentioned Louis XVII to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than 93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people. I weep for all, said the bishop. Equally, exclaimed conventionary gie, and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer. Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death-agony. It was almost an explosion. Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And, hold, that is not all, either. Why have you just questioned me, and talked to me about Louis XVII? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts, I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit. But that signifies nothing. Clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage. You have left at Yonder, beyond the compass at the fork of the roads, no doubt.  You have told me that you are the bishop. But that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you?  That is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues who have vast pre-pens, the bishopric of Dynia, 15,000 francs settled income, 10,000 in perquisites, total 25,000 francs, who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat more hands on Friday, who strut about a lackey before, a lackey behind in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot.  You have this like the rest, and like the rest you enjoy it. It is well, but this says either too much or too little. This does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you? The bishop hunk his head and replied, fair me soon, I am a worm. A worm of the earth in a carriage, growled the conventionary. It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogant and the bishop's to be humble. The bishop resumed mildly. So be it, sir, but explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off beyond the tree's yonder, how my good table and the more hens which I eat on Friday, how my 25,000 francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty and that 93 was not inexorable. The conventionary passed a hand across his brow as though to sweep away a cloud.  I have just committed a wrong, sir.  You discuss my ideas and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate, but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future. I thank you, said the bishop. Gee, resumed. Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me that 93 was inexorable? Inexorable, yes, said the bishop. What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine? What think you of Bosway chanting the Tadeum over the draganade? The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The bishop quivered under it. No reply occurred to him, but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bosway. The best of minds will have their fetishes, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic. The conventionary began to pant. The asthma of the agony which has mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice. Still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on. Let me say a few words more in this and that direction. I am willing. Apart from the revolution which taken as a whole is an immense human affirmation, 93 is alas, a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir, but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is abandoned, but what name do you give to Montrevelle? Fouquet-en-Ville is a rascal, but what is your opinion as to La Monion-Baville? My yard is terrible, but Sotavon, if you please. Ducan senior is ferocious, but what epithet will you allow me for the Elder Le Tellier? Chourdan Coupetet is a monster, but not so great a one as Monsieur the Marquis de Levoix. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, Archduchess and Queen, but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman who in 1685 under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant was bound naked to the waist to a stake and the child kept at a distance. Her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish. The little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized. The executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, abjure, giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind, sir. The French Revolution had its reasons for existence. Its wrath will be absolved by the future. Its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows, there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage. Moreover, I am dying. And ceasing to gaze at the bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words. Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed. The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost entrenchments of the bishop. One remained, however, and from this entrenchment, the last resource of Monsignor Bienvenu's resistance came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning. Progress should be leave in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race. The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with the fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low and to himself while his eyes were plunged in the depths. Oh, thou, oh, ideal, thou alone existest. The bishop experienced an indescribable shock. After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said, the infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit. It would not be infinite. In other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an eye. That eye of the infinite is God. The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice and with the shiver of ecstasy as though he beheld someone. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching. The bishop understood this. Time pressed. It was as a priest that he had come. From extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion. He gazed at those closed eyes. He took that wrinkled, aged, and ice cold handed his and bent over the dying man. This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain? The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance. Bishop, said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength. I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was 60 years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed. I combated them. Terranies existed. I destroyed them. Rights and principles existed. I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded. I defended it. France was menaced. I offered my breast. I was not rich. I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state. The vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver. I dined in Dead Tree Street at 22 Seuss. I have secret the oppressed. I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true, but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is, at Pettigam in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of urbanists, the Abbey of St. Clair-en-Boulogne, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers and all the good that I was able. After which I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, cheered at, scorned, cursed, prescribed. For many years past, I, with my white hair, have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me. To the poor, ignorant masses, I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred without hating anyone myself. Now I am 86 years old. I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me? Your blessing, said the bishop. And he knelt down. When the bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired. The bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning, some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the convention, G. He contended himself with pointing heavenward. From that moment, he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers. Any allusion to that old wretch of a G caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his did not count for something in his approach to perfection. This pastoral visit naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries. Is the bedside of such a dying man is that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil. One day, a dowager of the imperdinent variety who thinks herself spiritual addressed this sally to him. Monsignor, people are inquiring when your greatness will receive the red cap. Oh, oh, that's a coarse color, replied the bishop. It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat. End of book one, chapter 10. In chapter 11 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Recording by Melissa. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book one, A Just Man. Chapter 11, A Restriction. We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves. Were we to conclude from this that Monsignor welcome was a philosophical bishop or a patriotic curate? His meeting, which may also be designated as his union with conventionary G, left behind in his mind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him still more gentle. That is all. Although Monsignor Biavenue was far from being a politician, this is perhaps the place to indicate very briefly what his attitude was in the events of that epic, supposing that Monsignor Biavenue ever dreamed of having an attitude. Let us then go back a few years. Some time after the elevation of Monsieur Mariel to the Episcopat, the emperor had made him a baron of the empire, in company with many other bishops. The arrest of the pope took place, as everyone knows, on the night of the 5th to the 6th of July, 1809. On this occasion, Monsieur Mariel was summoned by Napoleon to the Senate of the Bishops of France in Italy, convened in Paris. The Senate was held at Notre Dame and assembled for the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the presidency of Cardinal Fesque. Monsieur Mariel was one of the 95 bishops who attended it, but he was present only at one sitting and at three or four private conferences. Bishop of the mountain diocese, living so very close to nature, in rusticity and deprivation, it appeared that he imported among these imminent personages ideas which altered the temperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to Dignia. He was interrogated as to the speedy return and he replied, I embarrassed them. The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them the effect of an open door. On another occasion he said, what would you have? Those gentlemen are princes. I am only a poor peasant bishop. The fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is said that he chanced to remark one evening when he found himself at the house of one of his most notable colleagues. What beautiful clocks, what beautiful carpets, what beautiful liveries. They must be a great trouble. I would not have all these superfluities crying incessantly in my ears. There are people who are hungry. There are people who are cold. There are poor people. There are poor people. Let us remark by the way that the hatred of luxury is not an intelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts. Nevertheless, in churchmen, luxury is wrong, except in connection with the representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have very little that is charitable about them. An opulent priest is a contradiction. The priest must keep close to the poor. Now, can one come in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all these misfortunes and this poverty without having about one's own person a little of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible to imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm? Can one imagine a workman who is working near a furnace and who has neither a singed hair nor blackened nails nor a drop of sweat nor a speck of ashes on his face? The first proof of charity in the priest in the bishop especially, is poverty. This no doubt is what the bishop of Damia thought. It must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call the ideas of the century on certain delicate points. He took very little part in the theological quarrels of the moment and maintained silence on questions in which church and state were implicated. But if he had been strongly pressed, it seems that he would have been found to be an ultramontane rather than a Gallican. Since we are making a portrait and since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced to add that he was glacial towards Napoleon and his decline. Beginning in 1813, he gave in his adherents to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He refused to see him as he passed through on his return from the island of Elba and he abstained from ordering public prayers for the emperor and his diocese during the hundred days. Besides his sister, men was Elbaptistein. He had two brothers, one a general, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable frequency. He was harsh for a time towards the former because holding a command in Provence at the epic of the disembarkation at Cairns, the general had put himself at the head of 1,200 men and had pursued the emperor as though the latter had been a person whom one is desirous of allowing to escape. His correspondence with the other brother, the ex-prefect, a fine worthy man who lived in retirement at Paris, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate. The small signier of the avenue also had his hour of party spirit, his hour of bitterness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment traversed his grand and general spirit occupied with eternal things. Certainly such a man would have done well not to maintain any political opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning. We are not confounding what is called political opinions with the grand aspiration for progress, with a sublime faith, patriotic, democratic humane, which in our day should be the very foundation of every generous intellect. Without going deeply into questions which are only indirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say this. It would have been well if Monsignor Biavenu had not been a royalist, and if his glance had never been for a single instant, turned away from that serene contemplation in which is distinctly discernible above the fictions and the hatreds of this world, above the stormy vicissitudes of human things, the beaming of those three pure irradiances, truth, justice, and charity. While admitting that it was not for a political office that God created Monsignor welcome, we should have understood and admired his protest in the name of right and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but perilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which pleases us and people who are rising, pleases us less in the case of people who are falling. We only love the fray so long as there is danger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone the right to be the exterminators of the last. He who has not been a stubborn accuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of ruin. The denunciator of success is the only legitimate executioner of the fall. As for us, when providence intervenes and strikes, we let it work. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1813, the cowardly breach of silence of that tact-determined legislative body, emboldened by catastrophe, possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime to applaud in 1814 in the presence of those marshals who betrayed, in the presence of that Senate which passed from one downhill to another, insulting after having deified, in the presence of that idolatry which was losing its footing, and spinning on its idol. It was a duty to turn aside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air, when France was seized with a shiver at their sinister approach, when Waterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Napoleon, the mournful acclamation of the army and the people of the condemned of destiny had nothing laughable on it. And after making all allowance for the despot, a heart like that of the Bishop of Dena was not not perhaps to have failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by the embrace of a great nation and a great man on the brink of the abyss. With this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable, intelligent, humble and dignified, beneficent and kindly, which is only another sort of benevolence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It must be admitted that even in the political views with which we have just reproached him and with which we are disposed to judge almost with severity, he was tolerant and easy, more so perhaps than we who are speaking here. The porter of the town hall had been placed there by the emperor. He was an old non-commissioned officer of the old guard, a member of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist as the eagle. This poor fellow occasionally let slip inconsiderate remarks, which the law then stigmatized as seditious speeches. After the imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honor, he never dressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so that he would not be obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the imperial effigy from the cross, which Napoleon had given him. This made a hole and he would not put anything in its place. I will die, he said, rather than wear the three frogs upon my heart. He liked to scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. The gaudy old creature in English Gators, he said, let him take himself off to Prussia with that cue of his. He was happy to combine in the same implication the two things which he most attested, Prussia and England. He did it so often that he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house with his wife and children and without bread. The bishop sent for him, reproved him gently and appointed him beetle in the cathedral. In the course of nine years, Monsignor Biavenue, had by dents of holy deeds and gentle manners, filled the town of Dinia with a sort of tinder and filial reverence. Even his contact toward Napoleon had been accepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were by the people, the good and weakly flock who adored their emperor, but loved their bishop. End of Book One, Chapter 11. Book One, Chapter 12, of Les Miserables, translated by Isabel F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book One, A Just Man. Chapter 12, The Solitude of Monsignor Welcome. A bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of little abbeys, just as a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what that charming San François de Salle calls somewhere, they pretre blanc bec, calo priests. Every career has its aspirants who form a train for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power which has not its dependence. There is no fortune which has not its court. The seekers of the future, eddy around them, splendid present. Every metropolis has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses the least influence has about him, his patrol of cherubim from the seminary, which goes the round and maintains good order in the Episcopal Palace, and mounts guard over Monsignor's smile. To please a bishop is equivalent to getting one's foot in the stroke for a sub-deaconate. It is necessary to walk one's path discreetly. The apostleship did not disdain canonship. Just as there are big weeks everywhere, there are big miters in the church. These are the bishops who stand well at court, who are rich, well endowed, skillful, accepted by the world, who know how to pray no doubt, but who know also how to beg, who feel a little scruple at making a whole diocese dance attendance in their person, who are connecting links between the sacristy and diplomacy, who are abbeys rather than priests, prelates rather than bishops. Happy those who approach them. Being persons of influence, they create a shower about them upon the assiduous and the favored, and upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasing, of large parishes, pre-bends, archediacanates, chaplaincies, and cathedral posts, while awaiting Episcopal honors. As they advance themselves, they cause their satellites to progress also. It is a whole solar system on the march. Their radiance casts a gleam of purple over their suite. Their prosperity is crumbled up behind the scenes into nice little promotions. The larger the diocese of the patron, the fatter the curacy for the favorite. And then there is Rome. A bishop who understands how to become an archbishop, an archbishop who knows how to become a cardinal, carries you with him as conclavist. You enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you receive the pallium, and behold, you are an auditor, then a papal chamberlain, then one senior, and from a grace to an eminence is only a step, and between the eminence and the holiness there is but the smoke of a ballot. Every skullcap may dream of the tiara.  Then what a nursery of aspirations as a seminary, how many blushing choristers, how many youthful abbeys bear on their heads parrots pot of milk. Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call itself vocation, in good faith per chance, and deceiving itself, devotee that it is. Monsignor Biavenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not accounted among the big miters. This was plain for the complete absence of young priests about him. We have seen that he did not take in Paris, not a single future dreamed of engrafting itself on this solitary old man, not a single sprouting ambition committed the folly of putting forth its foliage in his shadow. His cannons and grand vicars were good old men, rather vulgar like himself, walled up like him in this diocese, without exit to a cardinal ship, and who resembled their bishop with this difference, that they were finished and he was completed. The impossibility of growing great under Monsignor Biavenu was so well understood, that no sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they got themselves recommended to the archbishop's of aches or of och, and went off in a great hurry. For in short, we've repeated, men wish to be pushed. A saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation is a dangerous neighbor. He might communicate to you by contagion and incurable poverty, an angelosis of the joints, which are useful in advancement, and in short, more renunciation than you desire, and this infectious virtue is avoided. Hence the isolation of Monsignor Biavenu. We live in the midst of a gloomy society, success, that is the lesson which falls drop by drop from the slope of corruption. Be it said in passing, that success is a very hideous thing. Its false resemblance to merit deceives men. For the masses, success has almost the same profile as supremacy. Success, that manage most of talent, has one dup, history. Juvenile intacticus alone grumble at it. In our day, a philosophy which is almost official has entered into its service, wears the livery of success and performs the service of its antechamber. Succeed, theory. Prosperity argues capacity. When in the lottery, and behold, you are a clever man. He who triumphs is venerated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Everything lies in that. Be lucky, and you will have all the rest. Be happy, and people will think you great. Outside of five or six immense exceptions, which compose the splendor of a century, contemporary admiration is nothing but short-sightedness. Building is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival by pure chance, so long as you do arrive. The common herd is an old narcissist who adores himself and who applauds the vulgar herd. Let enormous ability by virtue of which one is Moses, Aeschylus, Dante, Michelangelo, or Napoleon, the multitude awards on the spot and by acclamation to whomsoever attains his object and whatsoever it may consist. Let a notary transfigure himself into a deputy. Let a false corneal composed here darte. Let a unit come to possess a harem. Let a military produm accidentally win the decisive battle of an epic. Let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army of the Sambres and Mous and construct for himself out of this cardboard, sold as leather, 400,000 francs of income. Let a pork-packer espouse usury and cause it to bring forth seven or eight millions, of which he is the father and of which it is the mother. Let a preacher become a bishop by force of his nasal drawl. Let the steward of a fine family be so rich on a retiring from service that he has made minister of finances and men call that genius, just as they call the face of Muscatone beauty and the mien of Claude majesty. With the constellations of space, they can found the stars of the abyss, which are made in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks. End of book one, chapter 12. Recording by Melissa. And chapter 13 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabella Hapgood. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by Melissa. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book one, A Just Man. Chapter 13, What He Believed. We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of Dena on the score of orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul, we feel ourselves in no mood but respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his word. Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible development of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs from our own. What do you think of this dogma or of that mystery? These secrets of the inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb where souls internaked. The point on which we are certain is that the difficulties of faith never resolve themselves into hypocrisy in his case. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. Credo in patron, he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the conscience and which whispers to a man, thou art with God. The point on which we consider our duty to note is that outside of and beyond his faith, as it were, the bishop possessed an excess of love. It was in that quarter, kiam multum amavit, because he loved much, that he was regarded as vulnerable by serious men, grave persons and reasonable people, favorite locutions of our sad world where egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this excess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we have already pointed out, and which on occasion extended even to things. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every man, even the best, has within him a thoughtless harshness which he reserves for animals. The bishop of Dynia had none of that harshness, which is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. He did not go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have waited the saying of Ecclesiastes, who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth. Hideousness of aspect, deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did not arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It seemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the balance of life which is apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for them. He seemed at times to be asking God to commute to these penalties. He examined without wrath and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a polymest. That portion of chaos which still exists in nature. This reverie sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. One morning he was in his garden and thought himself alone, but his sister was walking behind him, unseen by him. Suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground. It was a large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say, poor beast, it was not his fault. Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness? Pure aisle they may be, but these sublime purellities were peculiar to St. Francis de Sissy and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his ankle and his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden and then there was nothing more venerable possible. Monsignor Biavenu had formerly been, if the stories and then to his youth and even in regard to his manhood were to be relieved, a passionate and possibly a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of nature than the results of a grand conviction which had filtered into his heart through the medium of life and it trickled there slowly, thought by thought, for in a character as in a rock there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are unaffacable. These formations are indestructible. In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his 75th birthday, but he did not appear to be more than 60. He was not tall, he was rather plump and in order to combat this tendency, he was fond of taking long strolls on foot. His step was firm and his form was but slightly bent. That detail from which we do not pretend to draw any conclusion. Gregory the 16th at the age of 80 held himself erect and smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. One senior welcome had what the people term a fine head, but so amiable was he that they forgot that it was fine. When he conversed with that infantile guarantee which was one of his charms and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person, his fresh and ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had preserved and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which caused the remark to be said of a man. He is a good fellow and of an old man. He is a fine man. That, it will be recalled, was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first encounter and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing in fact but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours and beheld him in the least degree pensive, the fine man became gradually transfigured and took on some imposing quality. I know not what. His broad and serious brow, rendered all goose by his white locks, became all goose also by virtue of meditation. Majesty radiated from his goodness, though his goodness ceased not to be radiant. One experienced something of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings without ceasing to smile. Respect, in unutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your heart and one felt that one had before him one of those strong, thoroughly tried and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it can no longer be anything but gentle. As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion, almsgiving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit of land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence, study, work, filled every day of his life, filled as exactly the word. Certainly the bishop's day was quite full to the brim of good words and good deeds. Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden before going to bed and after the two women had retired. It seemed to be a sort of right with him to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in the presence of the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the serenity of his mind with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not have told himself probably what was passing in his spirit. He felt something take its flight from him and something descend into him. Mysterious exchange of the abyssness of the soul with the abyssness of the universe. He thought of the grandeur and presence of God, of the future eternity, that strange mystery of the eternity past, a mystery still more strange. Of all the infinities which pierced their way into all his senses beneath his eyes, and without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not study God, he was dazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms which communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them, create individualities in unit, proportions in extent, be innumerable in the infinite, and through light produce beauty. These conjunctions are formed and dissolved incessantly, hence life and death. He seated himself on a wooden bench with his back against a decrepit vine. He gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his fruit trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so encumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him and satisfied his once. What more was needed by this old man who divided the leisure of his life where there was so little leisure between gardening and the daytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure with the heavens for a ceiling sufficient to enable him to adore God in his most divine works in turn? Does not this comprehend all in fact? And what is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, an immensity in which to dream, at one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked, overhead that which one can study and meditate upon, some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky. End of Book 1, Chapter 13, recording by Melissa. Book 1, Chapter 14 of Les Misérables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Zachary Brewstergeis. Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. Book 1, Adjust Man. Chapter 14, What He Thought. One last word. Since this sort of details might, particularly at the present moment, and to use an expression now in fashion, give to the Bishop of Dynia a certain penned theistical physiognomy, and induce the belief, either to his credit or discredit, that he entertained one of those personal philosophies which are peculiar to our century, which sometimes spring up in solitary spirits, and there take on a form and grow until they usurp the place of religion, we insist upon it. That not one of those persons who knew Misérables' welcome would have thought himself authorized to think anything of the sort. That which enlightened this man was his heart. His wisdom was made of the light which comes from there. No systems, many works. Abstrus speculations contain vertigo. No, there is nothing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses. The apostle may be daring, but the bishop must be timid. He would probably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain problems which are in a manner reserved for terrible great minds. There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma.  Woe to him who penetrates thither. Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure speculation, situated so to speak above all dogmas, propose their ideas to God. Their prayer audaciously offers discussion. Their adoration interrogates. This is direct religion, which is full of anxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cliffs. Human meditation has no limits. At his own risk and peril, it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say that by a sort of splendid reaction it with it dazzles nature. The mysterious world which surrounds us renders back what it has received. It is probable that the contemplators are contemplated. However that may be there are on earth men who, are they men, perceived distinctly at the verge of the horizons of reverie, the heights of the absolute, and who have the terrible vision of the infinite mountain. Monsignor Welcombe was one of these men. Monsignor Welcombe was not a genius. He would have feared those sublimities when some very great men even, like Svedenborg and Pascal, have slipped into insanity. Certainly these powerful reveries have their moral utility, and by these arduous paths one approaches to ideal perfection. As for him, he took the path which shortens the Gospels. He did not attempt to impart to his Chasiable the folds of Elijah's mantle. He projected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events. He did not see to condense in flame the light of things. He had nothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him. This humble soul loved, and that was all. That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is probable. But one can no more pray too much than one can love too much. And if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts, St. Teresa and St. Jerome would be heretics. He inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe appeared to him like an immense malady. Everywhere he felt fever, everywhere he heard the sound of suffering, and without seeking to solve the enigma, he strove to dress the wound. The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him. He was occupied only in finding for himself and in inspiring others with the best way to compassionate and relieve. That which exists was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation. There are men who toil at extracting gold. He toiled at the extraction of pity. Universal misery was his mind. The sadness which reigned everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness. Love each other. He declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was the whole of his doctrine. One day that man who believed himself to be a philosopher, the senator who has already been alluded to, said to the bishop, just survey the spectacle of the world, all war against all, the strongest has the most wit. Your love each other is nonsense. Well, replied Monsignor Welcome, without contesting the point, if it is nonsense, the soul should shut itself up in it as the pearl in the oyster.  He lived there. He was absolutely satisfied with it, leaving on one side the prodigious questions which attract and terrify the fathomless perspectives of abstraction, the precipices of metaphysics, all those profundities which converge for the apostle in God, for the atheist in nothingness, destiny, good and evil, the way of being against being, the conscience of man, the thoughtful senambulism of the animal, the transformation in death, the recapitulation of existences which the tomb contains, the incomprehensible grafting of successive loves on the persistent eye, the essence, the substance, the nile and the ends, the soul, nature, liberty, necessity, perpendicular problems, sinister obscurities where lean the gigantic archangels of the human mind, formidable abysses which Lucretius, Manu, St. Paul, Dante contemplate with eyes flashing lightning which seems by its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaze forth there. Monsignor Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterious questions without scrutinizing them and without troubling his own mind with them and who cherished, in his own soul, a grave respect for darkness. End of Book 1, Chapter 14. Recording by Zachary Brewstergeist, Greenbelt, Maryland, July 2007. Book 2, Chapter 1 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Habgud. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ann Keela. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 2, The Fall, Chapter 1, The Evening of a Day of Walking. Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot entered the little town of Dean. The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveler with a sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust, in the prime of his life. He might have been 46 or 48 years old. A cap with a dripping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned in tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellow linen fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor permitted a view of his hairy breast. He had a cravat twisted into a string, trousers of blue-drilling worn in threadbare, white on one knee and torn on the other. An old gray, tattered blouse patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine, a tightly packed soldier knapsack well buckled and perfectly new on his back.  The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust added I know not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little and did not seem to have been cut for some time. No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passerby. Once came he. From the south, from the seashore perhaps, for he made his entrance into Dean by the same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town, which is situated below the city, had seen him pause beneath the trees of the Boulevard Gassandie and drink at the fountain, which stands at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty for the children who followed him, saw him stop again for a drink 200 paces further on at the fountain in the marketplace. On arriving at the corner of the roue Poit-au-Vere, he turned to the left and directed his steps toward the town hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarm was seated near the door on the stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of Dien the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted the gendarm. The gendarm, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at him, followed him for a while with his eyes and then entered the town hall. There then existed at Dien a fine inn at the sign of the Cross of Colba. This inn had for a landlord, a certain Jaquine-la-Barre, a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another La-Barre, who kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor's Landing, many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of Three Dauphins. It is said that General Bertrand, disguised as a Carter, had made frequent trips fither in the month of January and that he had distributed crosses of honour to the soldiers and handfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is that when the Emperor entered Grenoble, he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the perfecture. He had thanked the mayor, saying, I am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance, and he had be taken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory of the La-Barre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the La-Barre of the Cross to Colba at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in town, that is the cousin of the men of Grenoble. The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the countryside. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stoves were lighted, a huge fire blazed gaily in the fireplace. The host, which was also the chief cook, was going from one stew pan to another, very busily super intending and excellent dinner desired for the waggers, whose loud talking conversation and laughter were audible from the adjoining apartment. Anyone who has travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than waggers.  On the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lucette and a trout from Lake Alawes were cooking. The host heard the door open and seen a newcomer enter said without raising his eyes from his stoves, what do you wish, sir? Food and lodging said the man. Nothing easier, replied the host. At that moment he turned his head, took in the traveller's appearance with a single glance and added, by paying for it. The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse and answered, I have money. In that case we are at your service, said the host. The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his hand and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. Dean is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October. But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller. Will dinner be ready soon, said the man. He immediately replied the landlord.  On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then entrusted the scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of Scullion and Lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the Scullion's ear, and the child set off at a run in the direction of the town hall. The traveller saw nothing of all this. Once more he inquired, will dinner be ready soon? Immediately responded the host. The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly like a person who was expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene. I cannot receive you, sir, said he. The man half rose. What? Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you. It is not that. What then? You have money. Yes, said the man, and I, said the host, have no room. The man resumed tranquilly. Put me in the stable. I cannot. Why? The horses take up all the space. Very well, retorted the man. A corner of the loft then, a trouse of straw. We will see about that after dinner. I cannot give you any dinner. This declaration made in a measured but firm tone struck the stranger as grave. He rose. Ah, bah, but I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have traveled twelve leagues. I pay, I wish to eat. I have nothing, said the landlord. The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves. Nothing and all that. All that is engaged by whom? By Mr. Husslewagoners. How many are there of them, twelve? There is enough food there for twenty. They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance. The man seated himself again and said, without raising his voice, I am at an inn. I am hungry, and I shall remain. Then the host bent down to his ear and said in a tone that made him start, go away. At that moment, the traveler was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the ironshawn tip of his staff. He turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice, stop. That's enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Vajran. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in, I suspected something. I sent to the town hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read? So sane, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had just traveled from the inn to the town hall, and from the town hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause. I am in the habit of being polite to everyone. Go away.  He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the cross of Kopa, standing on his threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the passersby in the street, talking vivaciously and pointing him out with his finger, and from the glances of terror and distrust crass by the group, he might have divined that his arrival would speedily come an event for the whole town. He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them. Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing at random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue, as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him to see whether he could not discover some shelter. The fine hostelry was close to him. He was seeking some very humble public place, some hovel however lowly. Just then, a light flashed up at the end of the streets. A pine branch suspended from a crossbeam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither. It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house, which is in the rue de chauffeur. The wayfarer halted for a moment and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on the table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame. The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is by two doors.  The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and opened the door. Who goes there? said the master. Someone who wants supper in bed. Good, we furnish supper in bed here. He entered. All the men who were drinking turned around. The lamp illuminated him on one side, the fire laid on the other. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack. The host said to him, "'There is the fire, the supper is cooking in the pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade.' He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his feet, which were exhausted with fatigue to the fire. A fine odor was emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort, mingled with that other-pugnant aspect which habitual suffering bestows. It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy was strangely composed. It began by seeming humble and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes, like a fire beneath brushwood. One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffot, had been to stable his horse at Le Barres. It chanced that he had that very morning encountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras d'As, and I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escobol. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely wary, had requested him to take him on his cropper, to which the fishmonger had made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacques-Quin Le Barres, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning to the people at the cross-de-côte-bat. From where he sat, he made an imperceptible sign to the tavernkeeper. The tavernkeeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections. The tavernkeeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shoulder of the man, and said to him, "'You are going to get out of here.'" The stranger turned round and replied gently, "'Ah, you know?' "'Yes.'" I was sent away from the other hand, and you are to be turned out of this one. "'Where would you have me go?' "'Elsewhere.'" The man took his stick and his knapsack, and departed. As he went out, some children who had followed him from the craw of B'Kobah, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at him. He retraced his steps in anger and threatened them with his stick. The children dispersed like a flock of birds. He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to the bell. He rang. The wicket opened. Turnkey, said he, removing his capuletly, "'Will you have the kindness to admit me and give me a lodging for the night?' I've voiced reply, "'The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested and you will be admitted.'" The wicket closed again. He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them were enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges, he caught sight of a small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He peered through the pain as he had done at the public house. Within was a large white-washed room with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barreled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the center of the room.  At this table set a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling. The stranger paused a moment in reverie before this tender and calming spectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told. It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be hospitable and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he might find perhaps a little pity. He tapped on the pain with a very small and feeble knock. They did not hear him. He tapped again. He heard the woman say, It seems to me, husband, that someone is knocking. No, replied the husband. He tapped a third time. The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door which he opened. He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a huge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a hammer and red kerchief, a powder horn, and all sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdle as in a pocket caused to bulge out.   Pardon me, sir, said the way fairer. Could you, in consideration of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden in which to sleep? Tell me, can you, for money? Who are you, demanded the master of the house? The man replied, I have just come from Poimoussin. I have walked all day long. I have traveled twelve leagues. Can you, if I pay? I would not refuse, said the peasant, to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn? There is no room. Ah, impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Le Barre? Yes, well? The traveller replied in embarrassment. I did not know. He did not receive me. Have you been to what's his names? In the Rue Chafot. The stranger's embarrassment increased, he stammered. He did not receive me either. The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust. He surveyed the newcomer from head to feet and suddenly explained, with a sort of shutter. Are you the man? He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed a lamp on the table, took his gun down from the wall. Meanwhile, at the words are you the man, the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, so maraud. All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to oneself. After having scrutinized the man for several minutes, as one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door and said, clear out. For pity's sake, a glass of water set the man, a shot from my gun set the peasant.  A moment later the window shutter was closed and the sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside. Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the light of the expiring day, the stranger perceived in one of the gardens which bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely and found himself in the garden. He approached the hut. Its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture and it resembled those buildings which road laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought without doubt that it was in fact the dwelling of a road laborer. He was suffering from cold and hunger but this was at least a shelter from the cold. This sort of dwelling was not usually occupied at night. He threw himself flat on his face and crawled into the hut. It was warm there and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay for a moment, stretched out on this bed without the power to make a movement so fatigued was he. Then as the knapsack on his back was in his way and as it furnished more over a pillow ready at his hand, he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment a ferocious growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut. It was a dog's kennel. He was himself vigorous and formidable. He armed himself with his staff, made a shield of his knapsack and made his way out of the kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents of his eggs. He left the garden in the same manner but backwards being obliged in order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manoeuvre with this stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as la Rose could flirt. When he had, not without difficulty, repast the fence and found himself once more in the street alone without refuge, without shelter, without a roof over his head. Chased even from that bed of straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on a stone. And it appears that a passerby heard him exclaim, I'm not even a dog. He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town, hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford him shelter. He walked thus for some time with his head still dripping. When he felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazed searchily around him. He was in a field. Before him was one of those low hills covered with close-cut stubble which, after the harvest, resembled shaved heads. The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of night. It was caused by very low hanging clouds which seemed to rest upon the hill itself and which were mounting and filling the whole sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise and as there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these clouds formed at the summit of the sky, a sort of whitish arch once a gleam of light fell upon the earth. The earth was thus better lighted than the sky which produces a particularly sinister effect and the hill whose contour was poor and mean was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious and narrow. There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer. This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious aspects of things. Nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in that hill, in that plane, in that tree which was so profoundly desolate that after a moment of immobility and reverie he turned back abruptly. There are instances when nature seems hostile. He retraced his steps. The gates of Dean were closed. Dean which had sustained sieges during the wars of religion was still surrounded in 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again. It might have been eight o'clock in the evening as he was not acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random. In this way he came to the perfecture then to the seminary. As he passed through the cathedral square he shook his fist at the church. At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is there that the proclamations of the emperor and of the imperial guard to the army brought from the island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon himself were printed for the first time. Worn out with fatigue and no longer entertaining any hope he laid down on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office. At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man stretched out in the shadow. What are you doing there, my friend? said she. He answered harshly and angrily. As you see, my good woman, I am sleeping. The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact was the marquise to heir. On this bench, she went on, I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years, said the man. Today I have a mattress of stone. You have been a soldier? Yes, my good woman, a soldier. Why do you not go to the inn? Because I have no money. Alas! said the madame d'airre. I have only four sous in my purse. Give it to me all the same. The man took the four sous. Madame d'airre continued. You cannot obtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no doubt. Someone might have given you a lodging out of charity. I have knocked at all doors. Well, I have been driven away everywhere. The good woman touched the man's arm and pointed out to him on the other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the bishop's palace. Have you knocked at all doors? Yes. Have you knocked at that one? No. Knock there. End of book two, chapter one. Book two, chapter two of Les Miserables, translated by Isabel F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Book two, The Fall. Chapter two, Prudence Counsel to Wisdom. That evening, the Bishop of Dynia, after his promenade through the town, remained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work on duties, which was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully compiling everything that the fathers and the doctors have said on this important subject. His book was divided into two parts. Firstly, the duties of all, and secondly, the duties of each individual, according to the class to which he belongs. The duties of all are the great duties. There are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out. Duties toward God, Matthew six, duties towards oneself, Matthew five, 29 and 30, duties towards one neighbor, Matthew seven, 12, duties towards animals, Matthew six, 20 and 25. As for the other duties, the Bishop found them pointed out and prescribed elsewhere to sovereigns and subjects in the epistles to the Romans, to magistrates to wives to mothers, to young men, by Saint Peter, to husbands, fathers, children and servants in the epistles to the Ephesians, to the faithful in the epistles of the Hebrews, to virgins in the epistles to the Corinthians. Out of these precepts, he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole which he desired to present to souls. At eight o'clock, he was still at work, writing with a good deal of inconvenience upon little squares of paper with a big book open on his knees. When Madame Magliore entered, according to her want, to get the silverware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop, knowing that the table was set and that his sister was probably waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table and entered the dining room. The dining room was an oblong apartment with a fireplace, which had a door opening on the street, as we have said, and a window opening on the garden. Madame Magliore was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the table. As she performed the service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle Baptisteen. A lamp stood on the table, the table was near the fireplace. A wood fire was burning there. One can easily picture to oneself these two women, both of whom were over 60 years of age. Madame Magliore, small, plump, vivacious. Mademoiselle Baptisteen, gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than her brother, dressed in a gown of poose-colored silk of the fashion of 1806, which she had purchased at that date in Paris and which had lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which possessed the merit of giving utterance in a single word, to an idea which a whole page would hardly suffice to express, Madame Magliore had the air of a peasant, and Mademoiselle Baptisteen, that of a lady. Madame Magliore wore a white quilted cap, a gold jeanette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her neck, the only bit of feminine jewelry that there was in the house, a very white fissue puffing out from a gown of coarse black woolen stuff with large short sleeves, an apron of cotton cloth and red and green checks, knotted around the waist with a green ribbon, with a stomacher of the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse shoes on her feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseille. Mademoiselle Baptisteen's gown was cut on the patterns of 1806 with a short waist, a narrow sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves with flaps and buttons. She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as the baby wig. Madame Magliore had an intelligent, vivacious and kindly air. The two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and her upper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather crapped and imperious look. So long as Monsignor held his peace, she talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom. But as soon as Monsignor began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed passively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptisteen did not even speak. She confined herself to a bang and pleasing him. She had never been pretty, even when she was young. She had large, blue, prominent eyes and a long arched nose. But her whole visage, her whole person, breathed forth in unethical goodness, as we have stated in the beginning. She had always been predestined to gentleness. But faith, charity, hope, those three virtues which mildly warmed the soul had gradually elevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb. Religion had made her an angel. Poor, sainted virgin, sweet memory which has vanished. Mademoiselle Baptisteen has so often narrated what passed at the Episcopal residence that evening, that there are many people now living who still recall the most minute details. At the moment when the bishop entered, Madame Aglioir was talking with considerable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptisteen on a subject which was familiar to her and to which the bishop was also accustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door. It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame Aglioir had heard things in diverse places. People had spoken of a prowler of evil appearance. A suspicious vagabond had arrived who must be somewhere about the town and those who should take into their heads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant encounters. The police was very badly organized, moreover, because there was no love lost between the prefect and the mayor who sought to injure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to play the part of their own police and to guard themselves well and care must be taken to duly close, bar and barricade their houses and to fasten the doors well. Madame Aglioir emphasized these last words. But the bishop had just come from his room where it was rather cold.  He did not take up the remark dropped with design by Madame Aglioir. She repeated it. Then, Madame Lauselle Baptistein, desirous of satisfying Madame Aglioir without displeasing her brother, ventured to say timidly, did you hear what Madame Aglioir is saying, brother? I have heard something of it in a vague way, replied the bishop. Then, half turning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees and raising towards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew joyous and which was illuminated from below by the firelight. Come, what is the matter? What is the matter? Are we in any great danger? Then Madame Aglioir began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a little without being aware of the fact. It appeared that a bohemian, a bear-footed vagapond, a sort of dangerous mendicant, was at that moment in the town. He had presented himself at Jaquem de Bares to obtain lodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had been seen to arrive by the way of the boulevard Cassendi and roam about the streets in the gloaming, a gallows-berg with a terrible face. Really, said the bishop, this willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Maglioir, it seemed to her to indicate that the bishop was on the point of becoming alarmed. She pursued triumphantly. Yes, Monsignor, that is how it is. There will be some sort of catastrophe in this town tonight. Everyone says so. And with all, the police is so badly regulated, a useful repetition, the idea of living in a mountainous country and not even having lights in the streets at night. One goes out, black as ovens indeed, and I say, Monsignor, and Mademoiselle there says with me, I, interrupted his sister, say nothing. What my brother does is well done. Madame Maglioir continued as though there had been no protest. We say that this house is not safe at all, that if Monsignor will permit, I will go and tell Paulin Muespoir, the locksmith, to come and replace the ancient locks on the door. We have them, and it is only the word of a moment. For I say that nothing is more terrible than a door which can be opened from the outside with a latch, but the first passerby. And I say that we need bolts, Monsignor, if only for this night. Moreover, Monsignor has the habit of always saying, come in. And besides, even in the middle of the night, oh, my dear, there is no need to ask permission. At that moment, there came a tolerably violent knock on the door. Come in, said the bishop, end of book two, chapter two, recording by Melissa.


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