Les Miserables

The Journey's End

Years ago I stole a loaf of bread to feed my hungry family. I was sent to prison and sentenced to hard labor. I traded my name for a number. I was no longer Jean Valjean. For nineteen years, I was known as number 24,601. That was a dark, lonely time for me.

Now I am old and dying. I write this for my daughter, Cosette. When she reads it she will know the truth. I hope she can forgive me. I hope she will understand why I
did not tell her everything sooner.

At the time my story begins, I was the breadwinner in my sister's household. Her husband was dead, and she had seven children.

One year the winter was very hard. I didn't have work, and we had no food. I couldn't let the children starve, so I broke the baker's window and stole a loaf of bread. I was twenty-five years old when I lost my freedom.

In October of 1815 I was released from prison. Nineteen years of my life had been spent behind bars.

My first taste of freedom filled me with joy. I was free to walk anywhere!

That first day, I walked many miles. By nightfall my bones ached from the cold, damp air. And I was exhausted.

I stopped at the best inn in the town of Digne. I entered and the innkeeper called, “What can I do for you, monsieur?”

“I want a meal and a bed,” I replied. “I have money.”

The few francs I had earned in prison were more than enough to pay for food and lodging.

“In that case, you're welcome,” said the innkeeper.

I sat down and waited for my dinner. I waited. And waited.

The innkeeper was watching me. He had sent a boy out half an hour ago. At that very moment, the boy was at the police station finding out about me.

“Will dinner be ready soon?” I finally asked. I was faint with hunger.

Just then the boy returned. He handed the innkeeper a scrap of paper. The innkeeper frowned after reading it. He walked over to me.

“I'm sorry, monsieur,” he said. “I can't have you here.”

“Why?” I asked. “Would you like me to
pay in advance? I have money.”

“You may have the money,” he replied. “But I don't have the room.”

“Then put me in the stable,” I begged. I needed sleep desperately.

But even the stable was too good for me. The innkeeper had found out that my name was Jean Valjean. He knew that I carried yellow identity papers, the passport of an ex-convict.

Soon everyone in town knew who I was. No one would rent to me. No one would even give me a glass of water.

I sat outside in the dark and shivered. I had no strength left. But God was watching over me that night. A kind woman stopped and told me to knock at the bishop's house. The good bishop opened his door to me.

The bishop of Digne lived with his sister and a housekeeper. He was a small man of about seventy-five. He lived a quiet, simple
life. He had very little, for he gave all his money to the poor.

I told the bishop I was a convict and explained why. I showed him my yellow passport.

“See,” I said. “It says I am a dangerous man. I was given five years for robbery and fourteen more for trying to escape four times.”

I waited for the bishop to tell me to leave. Instead he invited me to sit at his table. The good silver was laid out. Two silver candlesticks graced the table.

“This isn't my house, but Christ's,” he told me. “You are hungry and thirsty, so you are welcome. Everything in my house is yours.”

I had never known anyone so generous. What kind of man was this? How could he open his home to me so freely? It scared me. Maybe that's why I did what I did.

I tossed and turned that night. I hadn't slept in a bed for years. At two in the morning, I was wide awake. I had one thought on my mind—the bishop's silver.

It took me an hour to decide. But in the end I did it. I took my shoes off, tiptoed to the cupboard and stole the bishop's silver.

It was a foolish thing to do. The police caught me by dawn. They brought me back to the bishop's house. He spoke before I could say a word.

“I'm delighted to see you again!” he said. “You forgot to take the silver candlesticks with you when you left. I wanted you to have them as well. They're worth a good two hundred francs.”

I was stunned. This godly man was forgiving my crime. And he was also giving me his only valuable possessions—his precious silver. It was too much for me. I couldn't believe what was happening.

The police left.

The bishop looked at me and said, “I have bought your soul for God. Promise me you will use the money from this silver to become an honest man.”

I was confused when I left the bishop. I wandered the countryside in a daze. I didn't know where I was going. Nor did I care.

Memories of my years in prison flooded my mind. Suddenly I was angry. God had given me such a hard life.

A boy came walking toward me on the footpath. He was flipping a coin. The coin dropped in the dirt just as he passed me. I stamped my foot on it.

“Monsieur, my franc! It's under your foot,” the boy pleaded.

I screamed at him to get lost. The look of terror in his eyes was like a wild animal's. I yelled again and the boy bolted.

I did all this without thinking. Then suddenly I saw what I had done. I was a
monster! I had stolen from a child!

I broke down and wept. I prayed for forgiveness. I tried to find the boy to make things right. But he was gone.

Oddly my anger was also gone. The bishop's love had cast it out. I was a changed man. I was truly free for the first time in my life. I have never committed another crime.

Monsieur Madeleine

I sold most of the silver to set myself up. But I kept the candlesticks to remind me that I was a new man.

I moved to Montreuil-sur-mer. I arrived the night of the town hall fire. The police chief's two children were in the fire. I rescued them. In the excitement, no one asked to see my identity papers.

I changed my name to Madeleine and began a new life.

In three short years I was rich. It happened like this.

The city of Montreuil had a special craft—making black glass beads. The black beads brought Montreuil most of its money. I invented a cheaper glaze to finish the beads. The beads were even more in demand. The town prospered.

I built a bead factory. There was a workshop for men and one for women. Any person wanting honest work could always get a job at my factory.

I gave beds to the hospital and built an old people's home. It was the first one in France. I built a new school.

At first people didn't trust me. They thought I was doing these things for my own gain. How could they know I gave so much because so much had been given to me?

In time I earned everyone's trust. They even made me their mayor. Only one person
didn't trust me. That person was Javert, the police inspector. His eyes were like ice whenever we met.

I lived quietly. I didn't want Javert to learn the truth about me. I was an ex-convict. But worse, I had stolen from a child.

Soon I would find out that Javert was like a hawk when it came to the law. His eyes were sharp, and he never let his prey escape.

One day I was out walking. The ground was soft from rain the day before. I saw a small crowd gathered around a horsecart. They parted when I arrived.

A horse had broken its hind legs and an old man was trapped under the cart. The man was Père Fauchelevent. He had never liked me. I think he was jealous. Once I had been a day laborer, as he was. Now I owned a factory.

“Is help on the way?” I asked.

The loaded cart pressed heavily on the
poor man's chest. If help didn't arrive soon, he would be crushed.

“Yes,” replied the man next to me. “Someone has gone to get a jack from the blacksmith. But it will take a quarter of an hour.”

“A quarter of an hour!” I cried. “Fauchelevent will be dead in that time. There's still room for a man to crawl under the cart and lift it on his back. I'll give five francs to anyone with the muscle and the heart.”

No one spoke. I raised my offer to ten francs. Twenty francs. Still no one came forward. Meanwhile, the cart was sinking deeper into the mud. It was squeezing the life out of Fauchelevent.

“A man would have to be as strong as an ox to lift that load,” said Javert.

I had not seen him in the crowd.

“He would risk getting crushed himself,” he continued. “I have only known one man
who could lift a load like this on his back. I knew him when I was warden in the Toulon prison.”

Toulon. How long was it since I'd heard that name spoken? Memories of my years in prison rushed in upon me.

Javert was watching me closely. But I couldn't let Fauchelevent die.

Suddenly the old man cried out, “It's crushing me. My ribs are breaking. For God's sake, do something!”

I stripped off my coat and crawled under the cart. The cart was low in the mud. I was almost flat on my stomach. I slipped again and again, trying to get a foothold.

“Hurry! Come out of there, Monsieur Madeleine!” someone shouted.

Fauchelevent himself cried out, “Go away, Monsieur Madeleine! I'm done for. Let me be, or you'll be killed too.”