 Book 5, Chapter 13 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 Catherine Eastman. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 5, The Descent. Chapter 13. The Solution of Some Questions Connected with the Municipal Police. Javert thrust aside the spectators, broke the circle, and set out with long strides towards the police station, which is situated at the extremity of the square, dragging the wretched woman after him. She yielded mechanically. Neither he nor she uttered a word. The cloud of spectators followed, gesting, in a paroxysm of delight, supreme misery and occasion for obscenity. On arriving at the police station, which was a low room, warmed by a stove, with a glazed and grated door opening on the street, and guarded by a detachment, Javert opened the door, entered with fontine, and shut the door behind him, to the great disappointment of the curious, who raised themselves on tiptoe, and craned their necks in front of the thick glass of the station house in their effort to see. Curiosity is a sort of gluttony. To see is to devour. On entering, fontine fell down in a corner, motionless and mute, crouching down like a terrified dog. The sergeant of the guard brought a lighted candle to the table. Javert seated himself, drew a sheet of stamped paper from his pocket, and began to write. "'This class of women is consigned by our laws entirely to the discretion of the police. The latter do what they please, punish them, as seems good to them, and confiscate at their will those two sorry things which they entitle their industry and their liberty.' Javert was impassive. His grave face betrayed no emotion whatever. Nevertheless, he was seriously and deeply preoccupied. It was one of those moments when he was exercising without control, but subject to all the scruples of a severe conscience, his redoubtable discretionary power. At that moment he was conscious that his police agent's stool was a tribunal. He was entering judgment, he judged and condemned. He summoned all the ideas which could possibly exist in his mind around the great thing which he was doing. The more he examined the deed of this woman, the more shocked he felt. It was evident that he had just witnessed the commission of a crime. He had just beheld yonder in the street, society, in the person of a free holder and an elector, insulted and attacked by a creature who was outside all pales. A prostitute had made an attempt on the life of a citizen. He had seen that. He, Javert, he wrote in silence. When he had finished he signed the paper, folded it, and said to the sergeant of the guard as he handed it to him, take three men and conduct this creature to jail. Then, turning to Fontaine, you are to have six months of it. The unhappy woman shuddered. Six months? Six months of prison, she exclaimed, six months in which to earn seven sews a day. But what will become of Cozette, my daughter, my daughter? But I still know that in our days over a hundred francs, do you know that, Mr. Inspector? She dragged herself across the damp floor, among the muddy boots of all those men, without rising, with clasped hands, and taking great strides on her knees. Monsieur Javert, said she, I beseech your mercy. I assure you that I was not in the wrong. If you had seen the beginning you would have seen. I swear to you by the good God that I was not to blame. That gentleman, the bourgeois whom I do not know, put snow in my back. Has anyone the right to put snow down our backs when we are walking along peaceably and doing no harm to anyone? I am rather ill, as you see. And then he had been saying impertinent things to me for a long time. You are ugly, you have no teeth. I know well that I have no longer those teeth. I did nothing. I said to myself, the gentleman is amusing himself. I was honest with him. I did not speak to him. It was at that moment that he put the snow down my back. Monsieur Javert, good Monsieur Inspector, is there not some person here who saw it and can tell you that this is quite true? Perhaps I did wrong to get angry. You know that one is not master of one's self at the first moment. One gives way to vivacity. And then, when someone puts something cold down your back just when you are not expecting it, I did wrong to spoil that gentleman's hat. Why did he go away? I would ask his pardon. Oh, my God! It makes no difference to me whether I ask his pardon. Do me the favour today for this once, Monsieur Javert. Oh, you do not know that in prison one can earn only seven sews a day. It is not the government's fault, but seven sews is one's earnings. And just fancy, I must pay one hundred francs, or my little girl will be sent to me. Oh, my God! I cannot have her with me. What I do is so vile. Oh, my Cozzette! Oh, my little angel of the Holy Virgin! What will become of her poor creature? I will tell you, it is the Tarnardieres, innkeepers, peasants, and such people are unreasonable. They want money. Don't put me in prison. You see, there is a little girl who will be turned out into the street to get along as best she may in the very heart of the winter. And you must have pity on such a being, my good Monsieur Javert. If she were older, she might earn her living, but it cannot be done at that age. I am not a bad woman at bottom. It is not cowardliness and gluttony that have made me what I am. If I have drunk brandy, it was out of misery. I do not love it, but it benumbs the senses. When I was happy, it was only necessary to glance into my closets, and it would have been evident that I was not a coquettish and untidy woman. I had linen, a great deal of linen. Have pity on me, Monsieur Javert. She spoke thus, rent in twain, shaken with sobs, blinded with tears, her neck bare, wringing her hands, and coughing with a dry, short cough, stammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow is a divine and terrible ray which transfigures the unhappy. At that moment, Fantine had become beautiful once more. From time to time she paused, and tenderly kissed the police agent's coat. She would have softened a heart of granite, but a heart of wood cannot be softened. Come, Saint Javert, I have heard you out. Have you entirely finished? You will get six months. Now march! The Eternal Father in person could do nothing more. At these solemn words, the Eternal Father in person could do nothing more. She understood that her fate was sealed. She sank down, murmuring, mercy. Javert turned his back. The soldiers seized her by the arms. A few moments earlier a man had entered, but no one had paid any heed to him. He shut the door, leaned his back against it, and listened to Fantine's despairing supplications. At the instant when the soldiers laid their hands upon the unfortunate woman who would not rise, he emerged from the shadow and said, One moment, if you please. Javert raised his eyes and recognized Monsieur Madeleine. He removed his hat and, saluting him with a sort of aggrieved awkwardness. Excuse me, Monsieur Maire. The words Monsieur Maire produced a curious effect upon Fantine. She rose to her feet with one bound, like a spectre springing from the earth, thrust aside the soldiers with both arms, walked straight up to Monsieur Madeleine before anyone could prevent her, and, gazing intently at him with a bewildered air, she cried, Ah! So it is you who are Monsieur Le Maire! Then she burst into a laugh and spit in his face. Monsieur Madeleine wiped his face and said, Inspector Javert set this woman at liberty. Javert felt that he was on the verge of going mad. He experienced at that moment blow upon blow, and almost simultaneously the most violent emotions which he had ever undergone in all his life. To see a woman of the town spit in the Maire's face was a thing so monstrous that, in his most daring flights of fancy, he would have regarded it as a sacrilege to believe it possible. On the other hand, at the very bottom of his thought, he made a hideous comparison as to what this woman was and as to what this Maire might be. And then he, with horror, caught a glimpse of I know not what simple explanation of this prodigious attack. But when he beheld that Maire, that magistrate, calmly wipe his face and say, Set this woman at liberty, he underwent a sort of intoxication of amazement. Thought and word failed him equally. The sum total of possible astonishment had been exceeded in his case. He remained mute. The words had produced no less strange an effect on Fontaine. She raised her bare arm and clung to the damper of the stove like a person who was reeling. Nevertheless she glanced about her and began to speak in a low voice as though talking to herself. At liberty! I am to be allowed to go? I am not to go to prison for six months? Who said that? It is not possible that anyone could have said that. I did not hear a right. It cannot have been that monster of a Maire. Was it you, my good Monsieur Javert, who said that I was to be set free? Oh, see here! I will tell you about it, and you will let me go. That monster of a Maire, that old blaggard of a Maire, is the cause of all. Just imagine, Monsieur Javert, he turned me out, all because of a pack of rascally women who gossip in the workroom. If that is not a horror, what is? To dismiss a poor girl who is doing her work honestly. Then I could no longer earn enough, and all this misery followed. In the first place, there is one improvement which these gentlemen of the police ought to make, and that is to prevent prison contractors from wronging poor people. I will explain it to you, you see. You are earning twelve sews at shirt-making. The price falls to nine sews, and it is not enough to live on. Then one has to become whatever one can. As for me, I had my little cosette, and I was actually forced to become a bad woman. Now you understand how it is that that blaggard of a Maire caused all the mischief. After that, I stamped on that gentleman's hat in front of the officer's cafe, but he had spoiled my whole dress with snow. Every women have but one silk dress for evening wear. You see that I did not do wrong deliberately, truly Monsieur Javert, and everywhere I behold women who are far more wicked than I, and who are much happier. Oh, Monsieur Javert, it was you who gave orders that I am to be set free, was it not? Make inquiries, speak to my landlord. I am paying my rent now. They will tell you that I am perfectly honest. Ah, my God, I beg your pardon. I have unintentionally touched the damper of the stove, and it has made it smoke. Monsieur Madlène listened to her with profound attention. While she was speaking, he fumbled in his waistcoat, drew out his purse, and opened it. It was empty. He put it back in his pocket. He said to Fantine, How much did you say that you owed? Fantine, who was looking at Javert only, turned towards him. Was I speaking to you? Then, addressing the soldiers, Say, you fellows, did you see how I spit in his face? You old wretch of a mayor, you came here to frighten me, the time not afraid of you. I am afraid of Monsieur Javert. I am afraid of my good Monsieur Javert. So saying, she turned to the inspector again. And yet you see, Monsieur Inspector, it is necessary to be just. I understand that you are just Monsieur Inspector. In fact, it is perfectly simple. A man amuses himself by putting snow down a woman's back, and that makes the officers laugh. One must divert themselves in some way, and we, well, we are here for them to amuse themselves with, of course. And then you, you come. You are certainly obliged to preserve order. You lead off the woman who was in the wrong. But on reflection, since you are a good man, you say that I am to be set at liberty. It is for the sake of the little one, for six months in prison would prevent my supporting my child. Only don't do it again, you hussy. Oh, I won't do it again, Monsieur Javert. They may do whatever they please to me now. I will not stir. But today you see, I cried, because it hurt me. I was not expecting that snow from the gentlemen at all. Then as I told you, I am not well. I have a cough. I seem to have a burning ball in my stomach, and the doctor tells me, take care of yourself. Here, feel, give me your hand. Don't be afraid, it is here. She no longer wept, her voice was caressing. She placed Javert's coarse hand on her delicate white throat, and looked smilingly at him. All at once, she rapidly adjusted her disordered garments, dropped the folds of her skirt, which had been pushed up as she dragged herself along, almost to the height of her knee, and stepped towards the door, saying to the soldiers in a low voice and with a friendly nod, Children, Monsieur Lindspector has said that I am to be released, and I am going. She laid her hand on the latch of the door, one step more, and she would be in the street. Javert, up to that moment, had remained erect, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the ground, cast a thwartless scene like some displaced statue which is waiting to be put away somewhere. The sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an expression of sovereign authority, an expression all the more alarming in proportion as the authority rests on a low level, ferocious in the wild beast, atrocious in the man of no estate. Sergeant, he cried, don't you see that that jade is walking off? Who bads you let her go? I, said Madeline. Fantine trembled at the sound of Javert's voice, and let go of the latch as a thief relinquishes the article which he has stolen. At the sound of Madeline's voice, she turned around, and from that moment forth she uttered no word, nor dared so much as to breathe freely, but her glance strayed from Madeline to Javert, and from Javert to Madeline in turn, according to which was speaking. It was evident that Javert must have been exasperated beyond measure before he would permit himself to apostrophise the sergeant as he had done, after the mayor's suggestion that Fantine should be set at liberty. Had he reached the point of forgetting the mayor's presence? Had he finally declared to himself that it was impossible that any authority should have given such an order, and that the mayor must certainly have said one thing by mistake for another without intending it? Or in view of the enormities of which he had been a witness for the past two hours, did he say to himself that it was necessary to recur to supreme resolutions, that it was indispensable that the small should be made great, that the police spy should transform himself into a magistrate, that the policeman should become a dispenser of justice, and that in this prodigious extremity, order, law, morality, government, society in its entirety was personified in him, Javert? However that may be, when Monsieur Madeleine uttered the word, I, as we have just heard, police inspector Javert was seen to turn toward the mayor, pale, cold, with blue lips, and a look of despair, his whole body agitated by an imperceptible quiver and an unprecedented occurrence, and say to him, with downcast eye, but a firm voice, Mr. Mayor, that cannot be. Why not? said Mr. Madeleine. This miserable woman has insulted a citizen. Inspector Javert replied to the mayor in a calm and conciliating tone, Listen, you are an honest man, and I feel no hesitation in explaining matters to you. Here is the true state of the case. I was passing through the square, just as you were leading this woman away. There were still groups of people standing about, and I made inquiries and learned everything. It was the townsmen who was in the wrong, and who should have been arrested by properly conducted police. Javert retorted, This wretch has just insulted Monsieur Le Mayor. That concerns me, said Mr. Madeleine. My own insult belongs to me, I think. I can do what I please about it. I beg Mr. Le Mayor's pardon. The insult is not to him but to the law. Inspector Javert replied, Mr. Madeleine, the highest law is conscience. I have heard this woman. I know what I am doing. And I, Mr. Mayor, do not know what I see. Then content yourself with obeying. I am obeying my duty. My duty demands that this woman shall serve six months in prison. Mr. Madeleine replied gently. Heed this well. She will not serve a single day. At this decisive word Javert ventured to fix a searching look on the mayor, and to say, but in a tone of voice that was still profoundly respectful, I am sorry to oppose Monsieur Le Mayor. It is for the first time in my life, but he will permit me to remark that I am within the bounds of my authority. I confine myself, since Monsieur Le Mayor desires it, to the question of the gentleman. I was present. This woman flung herself on Monsieur Bama Tabnois, who is an elector and the proprietor of that handsome house with a balcony, which forms the corner of the Esplanade, three stories high and entirely of cut stone, such things as there are in the world. In any case, Monsieur Le Mayor, this is a question of police regulations in the streets, and concerns me, and I shall detain this woman fontine. Then Monsieur Madeleine folded his arms, and said, in a severe voice which no one in the town had heard hitherto, the matter to which you refer is one connected with the municipal police. According to the terms of Articles 9, 11, 15, and 66 of the Code of Criminal Examination, I am the judge. I order that this woman shall be set at liberty. Javert ventured to make a final effort. But Monsieur Le Mayor, I refer you to Article 81 of the law of the 13th of December, 1799, in regard to arbitrary detention. Monsieur Le Mayor, permit me, not another word. But leave the room, said Monsieur Madeleine. Javert received the blow erect, full in the face, in his breast, like a Russian soldier. He bowed to the very earth before the Mayor, and left the room. Fontine stood aside from the door, and stared at him in amazement as he passed. Nevertheless, she also was the prey to a strange confusion. She had just seen herself a subject of dispute between two opposing powers. She had seen two men who held in their hands her liberty, her life, her soul, her child in combat before her very eyes. One of these men was drawing her towards darkness. The other was leading her back towards the light. In this conflict, viewed through the exaggerations of terror, these two men had appeared to her like two giants. The one spoke like her demon. The other like her good angel. The angel had conquered the demon, and, strange to say, that which made her shudder from head to foot was the fact that this angel, this liberator, was the very man whom she abhorred, that Mayor whom she had so long regarded as the author of all her woes, that Madeleine. And at the very moment when she had insulted him in so hideous a fashion, he had saved her. Had she then been mistaken, must she change her whole soul? She did not know. She trembled. She listened in bewilderment. She looked on, in a fright, and at every word uttered by Monsieur Madeleine she felt the frightful shades of hatred crumble and melt within her, and something warm and ineffable, indescribable, which was both joy, confidence, and love, dawn in her heart. When Javert had taken his departure, Monsieur Madeleine turned to her and said to her in a deliberate voice, like a serious man who does not wish to weep and who finds some difficulty in speaking. I have heard you. I knew nothing about what you have mentioned. I believe that it is true, and I feel that it is true. I was even ignorant of the fact that you had left my shop. Why did you not apply to me? But here, I will pay your debts, I will send for your child, or you shall go to her. You shall live here, in Paris, or where you please. I undertake the care of your child and yourself. You shall not work any longer, if you do not like. I will give all the money you require. You shall be honest and happy once more. And listen, I declare to you that, if all is as you say, and I do not doubt it, you have never ceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God. Poor woman. This was more than Fontaine could bear to have Cozette to leave this life of infamy, to live free, rich, happy, respectable with Cozette, to see all these realities of paradise blossom of a sudden in the midst of her misery. She stared stupidly at this man who was talking to her, and could only give vent to two or three sobs. Ah! Ah! Ah! Her limbs gave way beneath her, she knelt in front of Monsieur Madeline, and before he could prevent her, he felt her grasp his hand and press her lips to it. Then she fainted. End of Book 5, Chapter 13 of Les Miserables Book 6, Chapter 1 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabella 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 6, Javert. Chapter 1, The Beginning of Repose Monsieur Madeline had fontine removed to that infirmary which he had established in his own house. He confided her to the sisters who put her to bed. A burning fever had come on. She passed apart of the night in delirium and raving. At length, however, she fell asleep. On the morrow towards midday, fontine awoke. She heard someone breathing close to her bed. She drew aside the curtain and saw Monsieur Madeline standing there and looking at something over her head. His gaze was full of pity, anguish, and supplication. She followed its direction and saw that it was fixed on a crucifix which was nailed to the wall. Thenceforth Monsieur Madeline was transfigured in fontine's eyes. He seemed to her to be clothed in light. He was absorbed in a sort of prayer. She gazed at him for a long time without daring to interrupt him. At last she said timidly, What are you doing? Monsieur Madeline had been there for an hour. He had been waiting for fontine to awake. He took her hand, felt of her pulse, and replied, How do you feel? Well, I have slept. She replied, I think that I am better. It is nothing. He answered, responding to the first question which he had put to him as though he had just heard it. I was praying to the martyr there on high. And he added in his own mind, For the martyr here below. Monsieur Madeline had passed the night and the morning in making inquiries. He knew all now. He knew fontine's history in all its heart-rending details. He went on, You have suffered much, poor mother. Oh, do not complain. You now have the dowry of the elect. It is thus that men are transformed into angels. It is not their fault. They do not know how to go to work otherwise. You see, this hell from which you have just emerged is the first form of heaven. It was necessary to begin there. He sighed deeply. But she smiled on him with that sublime smile in which two teeth were lacking. That same night Javert wrote a letter. The next morning he posted it himself at the office of Montré-sur-Mer. It was addressed to Paris, and the superscription ran to Monsieur Chabouillet, secretary of Monsieur le Prifet of police. As the affair in the station-house had been brooded about, the postmistress and some other persons who saw the letter before it was sent off and who recognized Javert's handwriting on the cover thought that he was sending in his resignation. Monsieur Madeleine made haste to write to the Tarnardiers. Fontaine owed them 120 francs. He sent them 300 francs, telling them to pay themselves from that sum and to fetch the child instantly to Montré-sur-Mer where her sick mother required her presence. This dazzled Tarnardier. The devil said the man to his wife. Don't let's allow the child to go. This lark is going to turn into a milch-cow. I see through it. Some ninny has taken a fancy to the mother. He replied with a very well-drawn-up bill for 500 and some odd francs. In this memorandum two indisputable items figured up over 300 francs, one for the doctor, the other for the apothecary who had attended and physicked Ebenine and Azelma through two long illnesses. Cozette, as we have already said, had not been ill. It was only a question of a trifling substitution of names. At the foot of the memorandum, Tarnardier wrote, received on account 300 francs. Monsieur Madeleine immediately sent 300 francs more and wrote, Make haste to bring Cozette. Christy, said Tarnardier, let's not give up the child. In the meantime Fantine did not recover. She still remained in the infirmary. The sisters had at first only received and nursed that woman with repugnance. Those who have seen the bas-reliefs of rames will recall the inflation of the lower lip of the wise virgins as they survey the foolish virgins. The ancient scorn of the vestals for the amboubaj is one of the most profound instincts of feminine dignity. The sisters felt it with the double force contributed by religion. In a few days Fantine disarmed them. She said all kinds of humble and gentle things and the mother in her provoked tenderness. One day the sisters heard her say amid her fever, I have been a sinner, but when I have my child beside me it will be a sign that God has pardoned me. While I was leading a bad life I should not have liked to have my Cozette with me. I could not have borne her sad astonished eyes. It was for her sake that I did evil and that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the benediction of the good God when Cozette is here. I shall gaze at her. It will do me good to see that innocent creature. She knows nothing at all. She is an angel you see my sisters. At that age the wings have not fallen off. Monsieur Madeleine went to see her twice a day and each time she asked him, Shall I see my Cozette soon? He answered, Tomorrow perhaps. She may arrive at any moment. I am expecting her. And the mother's pale face grew radiant. Oh! she said. How happy I am going to be! We have just said that she did not recover her health. On the contrary her condition seemed to become more grave from week to week. That handful of snow applied to her bare skin between her shoulder blades had brought about a sudden suppression of perspiration as a consequence of which the malady which had been smoldering within her for many years was violently developed at last. At that time people were beginning to follow the fine linex, fine suggestions on the study and treatment of chest maladies. The doctor sounded Fontine's chest and shook his head. Monsieur Madeleine said to the doctor, Well? Has she not a child which she desires to see? Said the doctor. Yes. Well, make haste and get it here. Monsieur Madeleine shuddered. Fontine inquired. What did the doctor say? Monsieur Madeleine forced himself to smile. He said that your child was to be brought speedily, that that would restore your health. Oh! she rejoined. He is right. But what do those tennardiers mean by keeping my cusette from me? Oh! she is coming. At last I behold happiness close beside me. In the meantime, tennardiers did not let go of the child and gave a hundred insufficient reasons for it. Cusette was not quite well enough to take a journey in the winter and then there still remained some petty but pressing debts in the neighborhood and they were collecting the bills for them, et cetera, et cetera. I shall send someone to fetch Cusette. Said Father Madeleine. If necessary I will go myself. He wrote the following letter to Fontine's dictation and made her sign it. Monsieur Tennardier. You will deliver Cusette to this person. You will be paid for all the little things. I have the honor to salute you with respect. Fontine. In the meantime a serious incident occurred. Carve as we will the mysterious block of which our life is made. The black vein of destiny constantly reappears in it. End of book six, chapter one. Book six, chapter two 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 six, Javert. Chapter two, how Jean may become Shyam. One morning Monsieur Madeleine was in his study occupied in arranging in advance some pressing matters connected with the mayor's office in case he should decide to take the trip to Montfermets when he was informed the police inspector Javert was desirous of speaking with him. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression on hearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since the affair of the police station and Monsieur Madeleine had not seen him. Admit him, he said. Javert entered. Monsieur Madeleine had retained his seat near the fire, pen in hand, his eyes fixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating, and which contained the trials of the commission on highways for the infraction of police regulations. He did not disturb himself on Javert's account. He could not help thinking of poor Fontine and it suited him to be glacial in his manner. Javert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayor whose back was turned to him. The mayor did not look at him but went on annotating the docket. Javert advanced two or three paces into the study and halted without breaking the silence. If any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert and who had made a lengthy study of the savage in the service of civilization, this singular composite of the Roman, the Spartan, the monk and the corporal, the spy who was incapable of a lie, this unspotted police agent. If any physiognomist had known his secret and long cherished aversion for Monsieur Madeleine, his conflict with the mayor on the subject of Fontine and had examined Javert at that moment, he would have said to himself, what has taken place? It was evident to anyone acquainted with that clear, upright, sincere, honest, austere and ferocious conscience that Javert had but just gone through some great interior struggle. Javert had nothing in his soul which he had not also in his countenance. Like violent people in general he was subject to abrupt changes of opinion. His physiognomy had never been more peculiar and startling. On entering he bowed to Monsieur Madeleine with a look in which there was neither rancour, anger, nor distrust. He halted a few paces in the rear of the mayor's armchair, and there he stood, perfectly erect in an attitude almost of discipline, with the cold, ingenuous roughness of a man who has never been gentle and who has always been patient. He waited without uttering a word, without making a movement, in genuine humility and tranquil resignation, calm, serious, hat in hand, with eyes cast down, and an expression which was half-way between that of a soldier in the presence of his officer and a criminal in the presence of his judge until it should please the mayor to turn around. All the sentiments as well as all the memories which one might have attributed to him had disappeared. That face, as impenetrable and simple as granite, no longer bore any trace of anything but a melancholy depression. His whole person breathed lowliness and firmness and an indescribable, courageous despondency. At last the mayor laid down his pen and turned half-round. Well, what is it? What is the matter, Javert? Javert remained silent for an instant as though collecting his ideas then raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity which did not, however, preclude simplicity. This is the matter, Mr. Mayor. A culpable act has been committed. What act? An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect and in the gravest manner towards a magistrate. I have come to bring the fact to your attention as it is my duty to do. Who is the agent? asked Mr. Madeleine. I, said Javert. You? I. And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent? You, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Madeleine sat erect in his armchair. Javert went on with a severe air and his eyes still cast down. Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me. Mr. Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Javert interrupted him. You will say that I might have handed in my resignation but that does not suffice. Handing in one's resignation is honourable. I have failed in my duty. I ought to be punished. I must be turned out. And after a pause he added, Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day and unjustly. Be so to-day with justice. Come now, why? exclaimed Mr. Madeleine. What nonsense is this? What is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of towards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs with regard to me? You accuse yourself. You wish to be superseded. Turned out, said Javert. Turned out, so be it then. That is well. I do not understand. You shall understand, Mr. Mayor. Javert sighed from the very bottom of his chest and resumed still coldly and sadly. Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of a scene over that woman, I was furious and I informed against you. Informed against me at the prefecture of police in Paris. Mr. Madeleine, who was not in the habit of laughing much oftener than Javert himself, burst out laughing now, as a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police, as an ex-convict. The mayor turned livid. Javert, who had not raised his eyes, went on. I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time, a resemblance, inquiries which you had caused to be made at Favreau, the strength of your loins, the adventure with Old Foch Levant, your skill in marksmanship, your leg which you drag a little. I hardly know what all. Absurdities. But at all events, I took you for a certain Jean Valjean. A certain, what did you say the name was? Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing twenty years ago when I was a judent guard of convicts at Toulon. On leaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop. Then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence on a public highway, on the person of a little Savillard. He disappeared eight years ago. No one knows how. And he has been sought, I fancied. In short, I did this thing. Rath impelled me. I denounced you at the prefecture. Monsieur Madeleine, who had taken up the docket again several moments before this, resumed with an air of perfect indifference. And what reply did you receive? That I was mad. Well? Well, they were right. It is lucky that you recognise the fact. I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found. The sheet of paper which Monsieur Madeleine was holding dropped from his hand. He raised his head, gazed fixedly at Javert, and said with his indescribable accent, Ah! Javert continued. This is the way it is, Monsieur Maire. It seems that there was, in the neighbourhood near Aïle-au-Clochet, an old fellow who was called Father Chamatieu. He was a very wretched creature. No one paid any attention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on. Lately, last autumn, Father Chamatieu was arrested for the theft of some cider-apples from... Well, no matter. A theft had been committed. A wall-scaled branches of trees broken. My Chamatieu was arrested. He still had the branch of apple-tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up. Up to this point, it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is where Providence intervened. The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it convenient to transfer Chamatieu to Ara, where the departmental prison is situated. In this prison at Ara, there is an ex-convict named Brevet, who is detained for, I know not what, and who has been appointed turnkey of the house because of good behavior. Monsieur-Mère, no sooner had Chamatieu arrived than Brevet exclaims, Hey, why I know that man. He is a faggot. Take a good look at me, my good man. You are Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean? Who's Jean Valjean? Chamatieu feigns astonishment. Don't play the innocent dodge, says Brevet. You are Jean Valjean. You have been at the galleys of Toulon. It was twenty years ago. We were there together. Chamatieu denies it. Pardon-le, you understand. The case is investigated. The thing was well ventilated for me. This is what they discovered. This Chamatieu had been, thirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at Favreau. Their all-trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne, then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheel-right, and to have had a daughter who was a laundress. But that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Favreau. Another fact. This Valjean's Christian name was Jean, and his mother's surname was Matieu. What more natural to suppose than that on emerging from the galleys, he should have taken his mother's name for the purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean Matieu. He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns Jean into Jean. He is called Jean Matieu. Our man offers no opposition, and behold, he is transformed into Jean Matieu. You follow me, do you not? Inquiries were made at Favreau. The family of Jean Valjean is no longer there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among those classes, a family often disappears. Research was made and nothing was found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as the beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer anyone at Favreau who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at Toulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean. They are Couchpie and Chindeau, and are sentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the pretended Jean Matieu. They do not hesitate. He is Jean Valjean for them as well as for Brevet. The same age. He is fifty-four. The same height. The same air. The same man. In short, it is he. It was precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason and that Jean Valjean is at Ara in the power of the authorities. You can imagine whether this surprised me when I thought that I had that same Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge. He sends for me. Jean Matieu is conducted to me. Well, interposed Monsieur Madeleine. Chavert replied, his face incorruptible and his melancholy as ever. Monsieur Meir, the truth is the truth. I am sorry, but that man is Jean Valjean. I recognized him also. Monsieur Madeleine resumed in a very low voice. You are sure. Chavert began to laugh with that mournful laugh which comes from profound conviction. Oh, sure! He stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically taking pinches of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on the table, he added, and even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean I do not see how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Meir. Chavert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole station-house and bade him leave the room. Chavert, that haughty man, unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity. Monsieur Madeleine made no other reply to his prayer than the abrupt question, and what does this man say? Ah, indeed, Monsieur Meir, it's a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a branch, to perlouin apples is a mischievous trick in a child. For a man it is a misdemeanor. For a convict it is a crime. Robbing and house-breaking it is all there. It is no longer a question of correctional police. It is a matter for the court of assizes. It is no longer a matter of a few days in prison. It is the galleys for life. And then there is the affair with the little saffiard who will return, I hope. The deuce. There is plenty to dispute in the matter, is there not? Yes, for anyone but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly dog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt that things were getting hot for him. He would struggle, he would cry out. The kettle sings before the fire. He would not be Jean Valjean, et cetera. But he has not the appearance of understanding. He says, I am Chamatieu and I won't depart from that. He has an astonished air. He pretends to be stupid. It is far better. The rogue is clever. But it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been recognized by four persons. The old scamp will be condemned. The case has been taken to the assizes, et cetera. I shall go there to give my testimony. I have been summoned. Monsieur Madeleine had turned to his desk again and taken up his docket and was turning over the leaves tranquilly, reading and writing by turns like a busy man. He turned to Javert. That will do, Javert. In truth all these details interest me but little. We are wasting our time and we have pressing business on hand. Javert, you will be take yourself at once to the house of the woman Boussapier who sells herbs at the corner of the rue Saint-Sauve. You will tell her that she must enter her complaint The man is a brute who came near crushing this woman and her child. He must be punished. You will then go to Monsieur Chassier, rue Montreux-Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the adjoining house which discharges rainwater on his premises and is undermining the foundations of his house. After that you will verify the infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in the rue Guybourg and rue Garroblanc at Marama-Renée-LeBose and you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a great deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that you were going to Ara on that matter in a week or ten days? Sooner than that, Monsieur Amir. On what day then? Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur Amir that the case was to be tried tomorrow and that I am to set out by diligence tonight. Monsieur Madeleine made an imperceptible movement. And how long will the case last? One day, at the most, the judgment will be pronounced tomorrow evening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence which is certain. I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken. That is well, said Monsieur Madeleine. And he dismissed Chavère with the wave of the hand. Chavère did not withdraw. Excuse me, Monsieur Amir, said he. What is it now? demanded Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur Amir, there is still something of which I must remind you. What is it? That I must be dismissed. Monsieur Madeleine rose. Chavère, you are a man of honour and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me. Chavère, you deserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish you to retain your post. Chavère gazed at Monsieur Madeleine with his candid eyes, in whose depths he is not very enlightened, but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible, and said in a tranquil voice, Monsieur Amir, I cannot grant you that. I repeat, replied Monsieur Madeleine, that the matter concerns me. But Chavère, heeding his own thought only, continued. So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is the way I reason. I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is our right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed above ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you as a convict. You, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate. That is serious, very serious. I have insulted authority in your person. I, an agent of the authorities. If one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I should have declared him unworthy of the service and have expelled him. Well, stop, Monsieur Amir. One word more. I have often been severe in the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have done would become injustice. Are I to spare myself more than others? No. What? I should be good for nothing but to chastise others and not myself. Why, I should be a blaggard. Those who say that blaggard of a Javert would be in the right. Monsieur Amir, I do not desire that you should treat me kindly. Your kindness roused sufficient bad blood in me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a citizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness. That is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God, it is very easy to be kind. The difficulty lies in being just. Come, if you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to you, not I. You would have seen. Monsieur Amir, I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself, if you flinch, if I ever catch you in a fault, you may rest at your ease. I have flinched. I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse. Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled. That is well. I have arms. I will till the soil. It makes no difference to me. Monsieur Amir, the good of the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of Inspector Javert. All this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced tone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular honest man. We shall see, said Monsieur Madeleine, and he offered him his hand. Javert recoiled and said in a wild voice, excuse me, Mr. Amir, but this must not be. Amir does not offer his hand to a police spy. He added between his teeth, a police spy, yes, from the moment when I have misused the police I am no more than a police spy. Then he bowed profoundly and directed his steps towards the door. There he wheeled round and with eyes still downcast. Monsieur Amir, he said, I shall continue to serve until I am superseded. He withdrew. Monsieur Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm sure step, which died away on the pavement of the corridor. End of book 6, chapter 2, recorded by Peter Eastman. Book 7, chapter 1 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 J. C. Gwon. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 7, chapter 1. Sister Simplice. The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at Montreuil-sur-Mer. But the small portion of them, which became known, left such a memory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we did not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which we preserve out of respect for the truth. On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, Monsieur Madeleine went to see Fantine according to his want. Before entering Fantine's room, he had Sister Simplice summoned. The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary, Lazarist ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister Perpetu and Sister Simplice. Sister Perpetu was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity, in a coarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any other service. She was a nun, as other women are cooks. This type is not so very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant earthenware, which is easily fashioned into a Capuchin or an Ursuline. These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The transition from a drover to a caramelite is not in the least violent. The one turns into the other without much effort. The funds of ignorance come into the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand and places the bore at once on the same footing as the monk, a little more amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perpetu was a robust nun from the marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois, drowned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the hypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was crapped with the dying, almost flunk God in their faces, stoned their death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage, was bold, honest, and rude. Sister St. Plyce was white with a wax and pallor. Besides Sister Perpetu, she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely traced the features of the sister of charity in these admirable words in which he mingles as much freedom as servitude. They shall have for their convent only the house of the sick, for cell only a hired room, for chapel only their parish church, for cloister only the streets of the town and the words of the hospitals, for enclosure only obedience, for gratings only the fear of God, for veil only modesty. This ideal was realized in the living person of Sister St. Plyce, she had never been young and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one could have told Sister St. Plyce's age. She was a person, we dare not see a woman, who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile, but she was more solid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that were charmingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her speech. She said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a drawing room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the surge gown, finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of God. Let us emphasize one detail, never to have lied, never to have said for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister St. Plyce's distinctive trait. It was the accent of her virtue. She was almost renowned in the congregation for this impertable veracity. The Abyssica speaks of Sister St. Plyce in a letter to the deaf mute's monsieur. However, pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the crack of the little innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent lie. Does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To lie illittle is not possible. He who lies lies the whole lie. To lie is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names. He is called Satan and lying. That is what she thought. And as she thought, so she did. The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned. A whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white. Her glance was white. There was not a single spider's web, not a grain of dust on the glass window of that conscience. Unentering the order of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Saint Plyce by special choice. Saint Plyce of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse. A lie which would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul. Sister Saint Plyce, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults which she had gradually corrected. She had the taste for dainties, and she liked to receive letters. She never read anything, but a book of prayers printed in Latin, in course type. She did not understand Latin, but she understood the book. This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost exclusively to her care. M. Madeleine took Sister Saint Plyce apart and recommended Fantine to her in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on. On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine. Fantine awaited M. Madeleine's appearance every day as one awaits a ray of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, I only live when M. Le Maire is here. She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine, she asked him. And Cosette? He replied with a smile. Soon. M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an hour instead of half an hour to Fantine's great delight. He urged everyone repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very somber. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had bent down to his ear and said to him, She's losing ground fast. Then he returned to the town hall and the clerk observed him attentively, examining a road map of friends which hung in his study. He wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil. End of Book 7, Chapter 1. Book 7, Chapter 2 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. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Recording by Betty Griby in Wapella, Illinois. Book 7, Chapter 2. The Purr Spesacity of Master Schoflier From the town hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town to a Fleming named Master Schoflier, French Schoflier who let out horses and cabriolets as desired. In order to reach this Schoflier, the shortest way was to take the little frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the parish in which M. Madeline resided. The cure was, it was said, a worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeline arrived in front of the parsonage, there was but one passer by in the street. And this person noticed this. After the mayor had passed the priest's house, he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it. Then he paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall abruptly, he placed it gently and resumed his way with a sort of haste which had not been apparent previously. M. Madeline found Master Schoflier at home, engaged in stitching a harness over. Master Schoflier, he inquired, Have you a good horse? Mr. Mayor, said the Fleming, All my horses are good. What do you mean by a good horse? I mean a horse that can travel twenty leagues in a day. The deuce, said the Fleming, twenty leagues. Yes. Pitch to a cabriolet. Yes. And how long can he rest at the end of his journey? He must be able to set out again on the next day, if necessary, to traverse the same road. Yes. The deuce, the deuce, and it is twenty leagues. M. Madeline drew from his pocket the paper on which he had penciled some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were five, six, eight-and-a-half. You see, he said, total, nineteen-and-a-half, as well as say twenty leagues. Mr. Mayor, returned the Fleming, I have just what you want. My little white horse. You may have seen him pass occasionally. He is a small beast from lower Boulogne. He is full of fire. They wanted to make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared. He kicked. He laid everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage. That is what he wanted, sir. He is as gentle as a girl. He goes like the wind. Ah! Indeed, he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas to be a saddle-horse. Everyone has his ambition. Draw? Yes. Carry? No. We must suppose that is what he said to himself. And he will accomplish the trip. Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours. But here are the conditions. State them. In the first place, you will give him half an hour's breathing spell midway of the road. He will eat, and someone must be by while he is eating to prevent the stable-boy of the inn from stealing his oats. For I have noticed in inns that oats are more often drunk by the stable-men than eaten by the horses. Someone will be by. In the second place, is the cabriolet for Monsieur Le Maire? Yes. Does Monsieur Le Maire know how to drive? Yes. Well, Monsieur Le Maire will travel alone and without baggage in order not to overload the horse. Agreed. But as Monsieur Le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen. That is understood. I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for also, not a farthing less, and the beast's food to be at Monsieur Le Maire's expense. M. Madeline drew three Napoleon's from his purse and laid them on the table. Here is the pay for two days in advance. Fourthly, for such a journey, a cabriolet would be too heavy and would fatigue the horse. Monsieur Le Maire must consent to travel in a little till-barrier that I own. I consent to that. It is light, but it has no cover. That makes no difference to me. Has Monsieur Le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter? M. Madeline did not reply. The Fleming resumed. That it is very cold. M. Madeline preserved silence. Master Scofflier continued. That it may rain. M. Madeline raised his head and said, the till-barrier and the horse will be in front of my door tomorrow morning at half-past four o'clock. Of course, Monsieur Le Maire, replied Scofflier. Then, scratching a speck in the wood of the table with his thumbnail, he resumed with that careless air, which the Fleming's understand so well how to mingle with their shrewdness. But this is what I am thinking now. M. Le Maire has not told me where he is going. Where is M. Le Maire going? He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the conversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the question. Are your horses four legs good? said M. Madeline. Yes, M. Le Maire, you must hold him in a little or there are many descents between here and the place whither you are going. Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o'clock tomorrow morning, replied M. Madeline, and he took his departure. The Fleming remained utterly stupid, as he himself said some time afterwards. The Maire had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened again. It was the Maire once more. He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air. M. Scofflier, said he, at what sum do you estimate the value of the horse and tillberry which you are to let me, the one bearing the other? The one dragging the other, M. Le Maire, said the Fleming with a broad smile. So be it, well. Does M. Le Maire wish to purchase them or me? No, but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and cabriolet? Five hundred francs, M. Le Maire. Here it is. M. Madeline laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room, and this time he did not return. M. Scofflier experienced a frightful regret that he had not said a thousand francs. Besides, the horse and tillberry together were worth a hundred crowns. The Fleming called his wife and related the affair to her. Where the devil could M. Scofflier Le Maire be going? They held counsel together. He is going to Paris, said the wife. I don't believe it, said the husband. M. Madeline had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay on the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. Five, six, eight-and-a-half. That must designate the posting relays. He turned to his wife. I have found out. What? It is five leagues from here to Hezden. Six from Hezden to St. Paul. Eight-and-a-half from St. Paul to Ora. He is going to Ora. Meanwhile M. Madeline had returned home. He had taken the longest way to return from Master Scofflier's, as though the Parsonage Door had been a temptation for him, and he wished to avoid it. He ascended to his room, and there he shut himself up, which is a very simple act, since he liked going to bed early. Nevertheless the portraits of the factory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeline's only servant, noticed that the latter's light was extinguished at half-past eight, and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding, Is M. Le Maille ill? I thought he had a rather singular air. This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeline's chamber. He paid no heed to the portraits' words, but went to bed and to sleep. Towards midnight he woke with a start. In his sleep he had heard a noise above his head. He listened. It was a footstep pacing back and forth as though someone were walking in the room above him. He listened more attentively and recognized M. Madeline's step. This struck him as strange. Usually there was no noise in M. Madeline's chamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard a noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened and then shut again. Then a piece of furniture was disarranged, then a pause ensued, then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed quite awake now and staring and through his window panes he saw the reddish gleam of a lighted window reflected on the opposite wall. From the direction of the rays it could only come from the window of M. Madeline's chamber. The reflection wavered as though it came rather from a fire which had been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window frame was not shown which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step was still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead. The reflection was still visible on the wall but now it was pale and peaceful like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was still open. This is what had taken place in M. Madeline's room. End of Book 7, Chapter 2 of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo Recording by Betty Grebe in Wapela, Illinois