Early in October 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man traveling by foot entered the little town of Digne. Only a few of the town’s inhabitants saw him from their windows or doorways, but those who did stared at him with a sense of uneasiness. It would have been difficult to imagine a vagabond more miserable in appearance.
He was average in height, somewhat stout and sturdy, and despite his unkempt look, he was in the prime of life—forty-six to forty-eight years of age. His cap had a drooping leather visor that partially concealed a face darkly tanned by sun and wind and dripping with perspiration. He wore a yellow shirt of thick linen, loosely fastened by a silver clasp, and a thin necktie that had been twisted like a rope, yet which partially revealed a hairy chest. His blue trousers were threadbare, with one knee worn white and the other ripped. He also wore an old gray, tattered jacket, patched on one of the elbows with green cloth sewn on with string. On his back, he carried a knapsack similar to that of a soldier. It was obviously new, and although very full, was buckled securely. He held a large, knotty walking stick, while his sockless feet wore iron-toed shoes. Beneath his cap was his formerly shaved head—now covered with nothing but short, coarse bristles. They stood in stark contrast to his long, matted beard. The heat and sweat, not to mention his dusty journey by foot, added a complete air of filthiness to his totally miserable condition.
No one knew who he was, and those who saw him assumed him to be an aimless drifter. But from where had he come? Perhaps he had come from the south or from the seashore, for he had entered Digne on the same street Emperor Napoléon had used seven months earlier on his way from Cannes to Paris. He must have been walking all day, because he appeared very tired. Some of the women in the old market at the edge of town earlier had seen him pause under the trees on the boulevard Gassendi to drink at the fountain by the promenade. He must have been quite thirsty, for some children who had been following him also saw him stop just a couple of hundred steps farther on for another drink at the fountain in the market itself.
Once he reached the corner of the rue Poichevert, he turned left and headed toward the town hall. He entered the building, where he remained for a quarter of an hour. Upon exiting, he removed his cap and humbly saluted the military policeman seated on the stone bench near the doorway. The policeman did not return the salute but intently watched him as he walked away, and then entered the town hall himself.
At that time in Digne there was a wonderful inn at the sign of the Cross of Colbas. The innkeeper was a highly esteemed man by the name of Jacquin Labarre. Upon hearing the door open, yet without raising his eyes from his stove, Jacquin asked the traveler, “What may I do for you, sir?”
“I need food and lodging, please.”
“That’s an easy request to fill,” replied the innkeeper. But as he turned his head to glance at the man, he noticed his meager appearance and added, “Do you intend to pay for it?”
The man then took a large leather pouch from the pocket of his jacket and answered, “I have money.”
“In that case, we are at your service,” said the innkeeper.
The man returned his money pouch to his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, and set it on the floor near the door. Continuing to hold the stick in his hand, he seated himself on a short stool near the fire. October evenings are cold there, since Digne is located in the mountains, and having now stopped walking for the day, he had become somewhat chilled. Yet as the man sat on the stool, the innkeeper continued to pace back and forth, scrutinizing him.
“Will dinner be ready soon?” asked the man.
“Immediately,” replied the innkeeper.
While the drifter continued warming himself by the fire with his back turned to the innkeeper, Jacquin Labarre pulled a pencil from his pocket. Then tearing off a corner of an old newspaper lying on a small table near the window, he wrote a couple of quick lines in the blank margin. Simply folding it, he then entrusted the scrap of paper to a child. The innkeeper whispered something to the lad, who apparently served as his kitchen helper and errand boy, and then the child ran in the direction of the town hall.
All of this went unnoticed by the traveler, who again inquired, “Will dinner be ready soon?”
“Immediately,” repeated the innkeeper.
The errand boy quickly returned and handed the scrap of paper to Jacquin. Eagerly unfolding it, as though he were expecting a reply, the innkeeper carefully read the note. Then tilting his head to the side, he appeared to be pondering the message for a few moments. He then walked toward the stranger, who seemed to be immersed in some disturbing thoughts of his own.
“You cannot stay here, sir,” he said.
Beginning to stand, the traveler exclaimed, “What! Are you afraid I won’t pay you? I’ll pay in advance. I have money, I tell you!”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is it then?”
“You have money …,” said the innkeeper.
Yet before he finished his thought, the stranger interrupted with, “Yes, I do.”
“And I,” continued the innkeeper, “have no rooms available.”
The weary traveler, regaining some sense of tranquility, responded, “Then put me in your stable.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because all of the stalls are filled with horses.”
“Very well then,” countered the stranger. “Just give me a small corner of the loft with a little bed of straw. We can see to it after dinner.”
“Sir, I can’t give you any dinner either.”
This declaration, spoken in a subdued but firm manner, struck the traveler as a personal threat. Standing fully upright, he shouted, “But I am dying of hunger and have been walking since sunrise. I have traveled more than thirty-five miles today, I have money, and I want to eat!”
“I have no food,” responded the innkeeper.
Upon hearing these words, the stranger burst into laughter, pointed to the fireplace with its stoves, and retorted, “Nothing? With all that!”
“All that food is spoken for already.”
“By whom?”
“By a large group of travelers staying here.”
“How many are there of them?”
“Twelve.”
“But there is enough food here for at least twenty!”
“Sir, it belongs to others. And they have paid for all of it in advance.”
At this the traveler seated himself again, and without raising his voice, said, “I’m at your inn, I’m hungry, and I’m going to stay.”
The unwilling host then leaned as closely as possible to the stranger’s ear, and in a very harsh tone that made the man jump involuntarily, declared, “Go away!”
Bending forward, the traveler jabbed at some hot coals in the fireplace with the ironclad tip of his stick. He then spun around, and just as he began to open his mouth in sharp reply, the innkeeper glared at him and added in a very strong yet subdued tone, “Stop! I’ve had enough of your talk! Do you want me to tell you who you are? I know your name. You are Jean Valjean. As soon as I saw you walk in here, I suspected you were up to no good. So I sent a message to the town hall, and this is the reply I received. Can you read?” The innkeeper then handed the fully unfolded note to the stranger. The weary man glanced at the paper that had now traveled from the inn to the town hall and back. After a brief pause, the reluctant host continued, “I’m in the habit of being polite to everyone. But to you I say, ‘Go away!’ ”
The traveler, dejectedly looking toward the floor, walked toward the door, picked up his knapsack, and made his slow departure. This supposedly fine inn was closed to him, so he began to seek out some humble public place of shelter, however lowly it might be.
As he walked in the now cold twilight, he saw a glimmer of light at the end of the street. A pine branch swayed in the wind before an iron sign. He walked toward the sign, which was outlined in the fading light of dusk, and finally he saw it designated a public house of shelter. This humble inn, located at the corner of the rue de Chaffaut, had two doors by which to enter. One opened onto the street, while the other opened onto a small yard covered with manure. He did not dare to enter by the street door but slipped into the yard, hesitated, and then timidly raised the latch to open the door.
“Who goes there?” asked the manager of the inn.
“Someone who wants supper and a bed for the night.”
“Good! That’s exactly what we furnish here.” The host continued, “There’s the fire, and supper is cooking in the pot. Come and warm yourself, friend.”
Things appeared to be improving for the weary and hungry traveler until one of the men at the table recognized him. The man was a fish salesman who earlier had been at the Cross of Colbas Inn run by Jacquin Labarre. Just thirty minutes before he had witnessed the conflict between Labarre and the stranger. From his chair he motioned to the manager of this public inn, who walked over to him. They quietly exchanged a few words as the traveler once again became deeply absorbed in his own thoughts.
Quickly returning to the fireplace, the innkeeper abruptly laid his hand on the stranger’s shoulder and then demanded, “I want you to get out of here!”
The traveler turned around and gently replied, “You know who I am?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Please let me stay. I have already been turned away from the other inn.”
“And you are being turned away from this one as well.”
“But where would you have me to go?”
“Anywhere but here!”
So the tired man picked up his stick and his knapsack and stepped into the cold once again. As he walked, some children who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas Inn and who seemed to have been lying in wait, began throwing stones at him. Lurching toward them in anger and wildly waving his walking stick, he dispersed the children like a flock of birds.
Soon he came to the local prison. Next to the door hung an iron chain that was attached to a bell. Almost as soon as he rang the bell, a small window covered by a grate in the door was opened by one of the guards. “Sir,” the traveler said, as he politely removed his cap, “would you kindly let me in so I may have lodging for the night?”
The voice behind the grate replied, “This is a prison—not an inn! Get yourself arrested and I’ll let you enter.” Then the guard abruptly slammed the door of the grate in the stranger’s face.
The beleaguered traveler then found himself on a little street bordered on both sides by many gardens. Some of the gardens were edged by beautiful hedges, which brought an aspect of cheerfulness to the street. In one he caught sight of a small, one-story house, with one window brightly lit. Peering through that windowpane he saw a large white room with an inviting bed covered with a printed, soft cotton bedspread. A cradle sat in one corner of the room, while a double-barreled gun hung from the wall. A table set for dinner sat in the center of the room with chairs surrounding it. A copper oil lamp illuminated a thick white linen tablecloth. A pewter jug filled with wine shone like silver in the light, and a brown tureen of steaming soup sat on the tempting table as well.
Sitting at the table was a man of about forty years of age. He had a happy and inviting countenance and bounced a small child on his knee. Nearby sat a very young woman nursing a baby. The father laughed and the young child giggled with glee, while the mother simply smiled with joy.
With his hunger growing by the moment, the traveler weakly tapped on the windowpane. The family did not hear him, so he tapped once again. He then heard the woman ask her husband, “Did I just hear someone knocking?”
“No,” replied the husband.
The stranger tapped a third time. This time the husband stood, grabbed the lamp, and opened the door of the small house.
“Excuse me, sir.” began the traveler. “Would you consider selling me a bowl of soup and allowing me a corner of the shed in your garden as a place to sleep? Would you, please? For money?”
“Who are you?” demanded the man of the house.
The stranger replied, “I have just traveled from Puy-Moisson and have walked all day long. I have walked more than thirty-five miles. May I please stay—if I pay?”
“I would never refuse to lodge any respectable person who would pay me,” answered the man. “But why don’t you go to the inn instead?”
“They have no room.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed the husband. “This is not a market day, nor is there a fair going on in town. Have you been to Labarre’s inn?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well then?”
The traveler replied with obvious embarrassment, “I don’t know. He just wouldn’t allow me to stay.”
“Have you tried ‘what’s his name,’ on the rue de Chaffaut?”
With increasing embarrassment, the stranger stammered, “He wouldn’t allow me to stay either.”
At this point, the townsman’s countenance changed abruptly to a look of distrust. He eyed the newcomer from head to toe and suddenly exclaimed, with a bit of trembling in his voice, “Are you the man …?” Upon taking another look at the stranger, the man then took a few steps backward, returned the lamp to the table, and reached for his gun on the wall.
The man’s wife instinctively pulled her children into her arms and took refuge directly behind her husband. With her nursing breast now uncovered, and with a look of fright in her eyes, she whispered, “This is the bandit of the French Alps!”
Then the husband, after having scrutinized the man for several more moments—as someone would eye a poisonous snake—returned to the door and shouted, “Clear out!”
“For pity’s sake … please, a glass of water?” asked the traveler.
“A shot from my gun!” retorted the townsman. Then he slammed the door, and the stranger immediately heard two large bolts slide firmly into place. A moment later, the window shutter closed and the sound of an iron bar being placed against it could be heard from outside.
By now the darkness of night was nearly at hand and a cold Alpine wind was beginning to blow. Yet in the dim twilight that remained, the traveler noticed a small grass hut located in another garden bordering the same street. Determined to find shelter, he climbed the wooden fence and jumped into the garden. Approaching the hut, he saw its door to be quite low and narrow, and assumed it to be one of the small buildings a road worker would construct for himself as temporary shelter on cold days. He himself was now suffering from hunger and exposure to the elements, and saw the hut—at least at a minimum—as shelter from the cold. This sort of hut typically was not occupied at night, so after crouching low to the ground, he crawled through its door. Inside he found some warmth and a somewhat comfortable bed of straw. Exhausted, he lay there for a moment, fully stretched out on his newfound bed. Feeling unable to move another muscle, he nevertheless reached to unbuckle one of the straps of his knapsack in order to remove it from his back and use it as a pillow. At that very moment, he heard a ferocious growl. Quickly raising his eyes, he saw the head of an enormous dog faintly outlined at the entrance to the hut.
The poor traveler realized he unwittingly had invaded the dog’s house. Although he was a strong and somewhat large man, he armed himself with his stick and used his knapsack as a shield. Then he made his way as best he could through the small door, which caused the rips in his ragged clothing to become even more enlarged.
With some difficulty, he climbed back across the fence and once again found himself alone in the street. Without a place of refuge, without any shelter, without a roof over his head, and now having been chased from a miserable dog’s house, he dropped his weary body onto a large, cold stone. As he was lying there, being too tired to sit, someone passing by heard him exclaim, “I’m not even as good as a dog!”
After some time, he pulled himself up again only to resume his long walk. He headed out of the town, hoping to find some tree or even a haystack in the fields that would provide some small amount of shelter. He walked for quite a while with his head now drooping. Once he felt he was far from any possibility of human habitation, he lifted his eyes and intently searched the landscape around him. He found himself in a field, and just ahead of him was a low hill that resembled a shaved head. Its grain had been recently harvested and only the stubble remained. Except for that stubble, nothing stood on the hill but a deformed tree, now writhing and shivering in the cold wind just a few paces ahead.
With his surroundings showing little hope of shelter, the traveler decided to retrace his steps. Returning to Digne, he found the gates of the town now closed. Digne had sustained a number of sieges during the religious wars of ancient times, and in 1815 it was still surrounded by the old walls and the square towers that flanked them. He discovered an ancient breach in the wall and entered the town again.
By now it was eight o’clock in the evening. As before, being unacquainted with the town, he walked the streets at random. He passed the building of the local magistrate and then continued past the town’s seminary. And as he passed through Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.
On another corner of Cathedral Square was a printing office. The proclamations of the emperor and the imperial guard to the army, brought from the island of Elba and dictated by Napoléon himself, were printed in that very establishment. Being completely fatigued, and now totally without hope of food or shelter, the traveler lay down on a stone bench in the doorway of the printing office.
Just at that moment, an old woman walked out from the church. She saw the poor man stretched out on the bench shrouded in shadows. “What are you doing here, my friend?” she asked.
He answered harshly and with anger, “As you can see, my good woman, I’m sleeping.” The kind woman, not worthy of such treatment, was Madame la Marquise de R.
“On this cold bench?” she asked.
“I have had a mattress of wood for the past nineteen years,” replied the stranger, “and today I have one of stone.”
“Have you been a soldier?”
“Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”
“Why don’t you go to the inn?”
“Because I have no money.”
“So! All I have myself is four sous in my purse,” said Madame de R.
“Give it to me anyway,” demanded the stranger.
The woman handed over the four sous but added, “I know you can’t find lodging at an inn for such a small sum of money, but have you tried? You certainly can’t spend the night like this. No doubt you are quite cold and hungry. Surely someone would give you lodging simply out of charity.”
“I have knocked on every door.”
“And?”
“And … I have been turned away everywhere.”
The kind woman lightly touched the man’s arm and then pointed to a small house on the other side of the street next to the seminary. “You have knocked on every door?”
“Yes.”
“But have you knocked on that one?”
“No.”
“Then knock there.”