That same evening, Monseigneur Bienvenu, the bishop of Digne, shortly after his daily stroll through town, was hard at work in his room. In his position, one with great responsibilities, his duties were never ending. The eight o’clock hour found him still at work, writing with a certain amount of difficulty on little squares of paper placed on a large book lying open across his knees.
Madame Magloire entered his room, as she was accustomed to doing, to get some silverware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the bishop, sensing the dinner table must be set and that his sister probably was waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the dining room. He entered just as Madame Magloire was putting the finishing touches on the dinner table. An oil lamp sat on the table, which was next to the fireplace already lit with a wood-burning fire.
Madame Magloire was in a heated discussion with Mademoiselle Baptistine, haranguing her on a topic very familiar to her and the bishop: the importance of having strong locks on the door of the house. It seems that while Madame Magloire had been buying some provisions at the market, she had learned of an evil-looking prowler who was in town and who looked very suspicious. She ranted fearfully, “Even now he must be roaming about town, and people who return to their homes late tonight may be in for a very unpleasant surprise. And because the police are very badly organized, and there is no love lost between the chief of police and the mayor, people need to protect themselves by using some common sense—barring their windows, and securely locking their doors.”
Madame Magloire strongly emphasized these last few words, primarily for the benefit of the bishop. Yet having just come from his rather cold room, the bishop quickly sat in front of the fire and began warming himself, with his mind on other topics. Since the bishop had totally disregarded the remark meant especially for his ears, Madame Magloire repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine, wanting to satisfy Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother, timidly said, “Did you hear what Madame Magloire said, brother?”
“Vaguely,” replied the bishop. Turning in his chair, he placed his hands on his knees and raised his kind face toward the elderly servant woman, Madame Magloire. With his countenance joyful and illuminated by the bright fire below, he asked, “Come now, what’s the matter? Are we really in any great danger?”
Madame Magloire responded by sharing her entire story again, but this time with even more exaggeration. Although she was unsure of the facts herself, she related, “It seems that a barefooted beggar—a dangerous wanderer—is at this very moment in our town. He tried to find lodging at Jacquin Labarre’s inn but was turned away. He walked into town via the boulevard Gassendi and was roaming the streets around dusk tonight. He is a criminal and has a very scary face.”
“Really!” the bishop responded.
His apparent eagerness to continue the conversation spurred Madame Magloire to proceed triumphantly, unwittingly believing she had brought the bishop to the point of being alarmed. “Yes, Monseigneur, this is all true! Everyone says there is going to be some kind of catastrophe in this town tonight. Here we are, with such poor police protection, living in a mountainous region, and even without streetlights! The streets at night are black as ovens, indeed! And, Monseigneur, Mademoiselle Baptistine agrees with me that …”
“I have said nothing!” interrupted the bishop’s sister.
Yet Madame Magloire continued as though Mademoiselle Baptistine had not protested at all, “We believe this house is totally unsafe! And if you, Monseigneur, will permit, I will ask the locksmith to come and replace the ancient locks on our doors. Nothing could be more terrible than the kind of latches we have, which can be opened even from the outside by anyone passing in the night. We need bolts on these doors! Please, Monseigneur, if only for tonight. I know you are in the habit of saying, ‘Come in,’ even in the middle of the night, to anyone who knocks on our door. Actually, they don’t need to ask permission, for they could open it themselves!”
At that very moment, there was a very loud knock on the door. True to form, the bishop answered it by shouting, “Come in!”
The door rapidly swung open as though someone had given it a determined push. In walked the stranger who was still searching for shelter. With his stick in his hand and his knapsack still on his back, he stopped just inside, leaving the door open behind him. His eyes shone with a look of roughness and fearlessness, yet they seemed weary at the same time. The light from the fire made him appear sinister and terrifyingly ghostly.
Madame Magloire, unable to find the strength to scream, stood trembling with her mouth wide open. Mademoiselle Baptistine, turning toward the door, saw the man and then nearly jumped in terror. But upon turning again toward the fireplace to see her brother’s reaction, she became much calmer once again.
The bishop fixed his eyes on the stranger with a sense of peacefulness. As he opened his mouth, undoubtedly to ask the visitor what he needed, the man rested both hands on his walking stick and directed his gaze at the old man and the two women. Yet before the bishop could utter one word, the stranger began to speak in a loud voice.
“Listen. My name is Jean Valjean, and I am a convict. I have served nineteen years in prison and was liberated just four days ago from the chain gang. My destination is Pontarlier. I have been walking for four full days since leaving Toulon and have traveled more than thirty-five miles today alone. When I arrived in Digne this evening, I went to an inn and was turned away because of my yellow passport, which I earlier had been required to present to the officials at the town hall. At that point, I went to another inn, only to be turned away again. Both places demanded I leave, refusing me food and lodging. I then went to the prison, but the jailer would not admit me. I even attempted to find shelter in a doghouse, only to be bitten by the dog and chased off as though he had been a man himself. You would have thought that dog knew who I was.
“Next I walked into the fields outside of town, intending to sleep in the open air. I decided I would sleep under the stars, only there were none. I thought it was going to rain, so I walked back to town, simply to seek shelter under a covered doorway. Across the square from here, as I was lying on a stone bench, a kind woman pointed to your house and told me, ‘Knock there.’
“So I have done only as I was told. What is this place? Are you running an inn here? I have some savings from my nineteen years of labor in prison—109 francs and fifteen sous. I can pay you. I have money, and at this point paying you means nothing to me. I am extremely weary and hungry, having walked such a long distance today. I just need to know, are you willing for me to stay?”
“Madame Magloire,” the bishop said, “please set another place at the table.”
Valjean took several steps inside the room, moving closer to the lamp sitting on the table. As though he had not quite understood the bishop, he continued to speak. “Stop,” he resumed, “Didn’t you hear what I said? I am a convict just released from prison.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a large sheet of yellow paper and unfolded it. “Here is my passport—yellow, as you can see. This is why I am turned away wherever I go. I can read it to you, for I learned to read in prison in a school they had for those who chose to learn. This is what my passport says: ‘Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in prison: five years for breaking into a house and theft, and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four occasions. He is a dangerous man.’ There you have it! Everyone else has turned me away. Are you willing to have me? Is this an inn? Will you allow me something to eat and a bed on which to sleep? Or even a place in the stable?”
“Madame Magloire,” the bishop said, “please put clean sheets on the bed in the alcove.” She began to obediently follow the bishop’s instructions. Then he turned to Valjean and said, “Please have a seat, sir, and warm yourself. We will be having dinner in a few minutes, and your bed will be prepared while you eat.”
At this point, Valjean seemed to comprehend what he was hearing. The expression on his face, which had been somber and even harsh, now reflected a mixture of astonishment, doubt, and joy. He then began to stammer like a madman, “Really? You are going to allow me to stay and not turn me away! I’m a convict! You called me ‘sir’! You haven’t said, ‘Get out of here, you dog!’ which is what people always say to me. I was so sure you would turn me away I immediately decided to tell you who I was. Oh, how kind that woman was who directed me here! I’m actually going to eat! And have a bed with a mattress and sheets like the rest of the world! You are good people. Excuse me, Monsieur Innkeeper, but what is your name? I will pay whatever you ask. You are a fine man. You are an innkeeper, are you not?”
The bishop replied quite simply by saying, “I am a priest who lives here.”
“A priest!” exclaimed Valjean. “What a fine priest you are! Are you not going to ask any money of me? You are the priest of this parish? Of this big church? And I am a fool for not having noticed your skullcap.”
As he spoke, Valjean set his knapsack and stick in the corner of the room, returned his passport to his pocket, and then seated himself. Mademoiselle Baptistine looked pleasantly at him as he continued. “You are humane, sir, for you have not shunned me or treated me with contempt. A good priest is a very good thing. Will you ask me to pay?”
“No,” answered the bishop, “keep your money. How much did you say you have—109 francs?”
“And fifteen sous,” added Valjean.
“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous. And how long did you say it took you to earn that?”
“Nineteen years.”
“Nineteen years!” exclaimed the bishop, who then sighed deeply.
At this point, Madame Magloire returned to the room with a silver fork and spoon and placed them on the table. Turning to the woman, the bishop said, “Please place those as close to the fireplace as possible.” And turning to his guest, he said, “The night wind is quite harsh in the Alps. You must be very cold, sir.”
Each time the bishop used the word sir, his voice seemed so kind and gentle that Valjean’s face lit up. For a convict to be called sir felt to Valjean like a glass of water might have felt to one of the shipwrecked sailors of the Medusa. Having been discredited and dishonored for so long caused him to thirst for this kind of consideration.
“This lamp sheds only a very dim light,” the bishop said. Understanding his true intent, Madame Magloire went to the Monseigneur’s bedroom, got two silver candlesticks from his cabinet, returned to place them on the table, and lit them.
“Priest,” Valjean said, “you are a good man. You do not despise me and have received me into your house. You have even lit extra candles for me. And you have done all this in spite of the fact I did not conceal my past, my true identity, or my unfortunate situation from you.”
The bishop, who was sitting very near Valjean, gently touched his hand. Then in the truest sense of love and caring, he said, “You did not need to tell me who you were. This is not my house—it is the house of Jesus Christ. And His door never demands to know the name of those who enter, but only requires they have a need. You are suffering and are hungry and thirsty, so you are welcome here. And please do not thank me or say that I have received you into my house. No one is truly at home here except those who need a place of refuge. In fact, as a passerby, you are much more at home here than I am myself. Everything here is yours. I have no need even to know your name. Besides, I already knew it before you told me.”
Valjean’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. He exclaimed, “Really! You knew what I was called?”
“Yes,” replied the bishop, “you are called my brother.”
“Stop, dear priest,” Valjean protested. “I came here with great hunger, but you have been too good. I don’t understand what has happened to me.”
The bishop looked at him and kindly asked, “You have suffered a great deal?”
“I was forced to wear prison clothes and had a ball and chain attached to my ankle. I slept on a plank of wood in the heat and the cold. I was beaten and shackled with a second chain for nothing at all. I was sent to solitary for saying only one word. And even when sick or asleep, I would be chained. Dogs are treated better! Nineteen years! Now I am forty-six years old and must travel with a yellow passport. That is my life.”
“You come from very difficult circumstances, indeed,” responded the bishop. “Yet there will be more joy in heaven over the tearstained face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from your sad past with thoughts of hatred and of wrath against mankind, you are deserving of our pity. If, however, you emerge with thoughts of goodwill and peace, you are more worthy than any one of us.”
In the meantime, Madame Magloire had served supper: soup made with water, oil, bread, and salt; a little bacon, a small piece of mutton, figs, cheese, and a large loaf of rye bread. Of her own accord, she had added to the bishop’s ordinary menu a bottle of fine old Mauves wine.
Then the bishop’s face was immediately illuminated with an expression of merriment common only among hospitable people. “To the table!” he shouted excitedly. As was his custom, he asked his guest to be seated on his right, while Mademoiselle Baptistine, who remained perfectly calm, took her seat to his left.
The bishop asked God’s blessing on the food and began to ladle the soup for the others at the table. Valjean began to eat with the enthusiasm of a half-starved man. Then the bishop abruptly declared, “It seems there is something missing on the table.”
In fact, Madame Magloire had only set the table with the bare necessities of silverware—one fork and spoon for each person. Yet whenever the bishop had a guest for supper, it was his desire that the full place setting of six pieces per person be placed on the tablecloth. He saw this simple luxury as innocently pretentious but something that added charm to an otherwise austere home, and which would lend some dignity to the poor.
Without saying a word but fully understanding the bishop’s remark, Madame Magloire left the room. A moment later, three full place settings of silver glittered on the tablecloth, symmetrically arranged in front of each person seated at the table.
Once they had completed their dinner, the bishop wished his sister a good night. He then took one of the two silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and said to Valjean, “Monsieur, I will show you to your room.” The weary traveler followed the bishop.
The small house was arranged so that in order to walk to the chapel, where the traveler’s alcove and bed were situated, it was necessary to pass through the bishop’s bedroom. As they passed through that room, Madame Magloire was busily returning the silverware to the cupboard near the head of the bed. This was always one of her final duties before retiring for the night.
The bishop showed his guest to the alcove where a bed with fresh linens had been made. Valjean then placed his candle on the small table. “Good night, my brother,” said the bishop. “May you sleep peacefully tonight. Tomorrow morning, before you leave, we will be happy to share a glass of warm milk with you from our cows.”
“Thank you, dear priest,” Valjean replied. Yet he hardly had spoken these kind, peaceful words before his expression changed so much that if the women had seen it, they would have been terrified by him. It is difficult to understand what may have prompted him at that moment. Perhaps he was attempting to convey some sort of warning or obeying some instinctive impulse that even he did not understand. Nevertheless, he turned abruptly toward the old bishop, folded his arms, looked at him with a piercing gaze, and exclaimed in a rough tone, “You really are going to put me here in your house! And this close to yourself!”
Then, just as abruptly, he stopped, and finally added with somewhat of a sinister laugh, “Have you really thought this through, sir? How do you know I’m not a murderer?”
The bishop replied, “That is the concern of our good and gracious God.” Then in a solemn way, the bishop raised two fingers of his right hand, and while moving his lips as a person who is praying, bestowed a blessing on Valjean. The guest did not bow, and without turning around or looking behind him, the bishop left the alcove.
When the alcove was in use, a large woolen curtain, which was drawn from wall-to-wall across the chapel, concealed the altar. As the bishop passed by the curtain, he knelt and said a brief prayer. A moment later, he walked through the garden, thinking and meditating, with his entire heart and soul wholly absorbed in the grand and mysterious things that God reveals at night to those whose eyes remain open.
As for Valjean, he was so fatigued he could not fully appreciate the clean, white sheets. After blowing out his candle, he dropped completely dressed onto the bed, where he immediately fell into a deep sleep.
The bishop returned from his garden just as the clock struck midnight. A few minutes later, all the inhabitants of the small house were sound asleep.