One morning Mayor Madeleine was in his study handling some pressing matters related to his work as mayor. He was working quickly, just in case he needed to make the trip to retrieve Cosette himself, when he was told Police Inspector Javert wished to speak with him. The mayor responded, “Show him in, please.”
As Javert entered, the mayor laid down his pen, turned around, and said, “What is the matter, Inspector Javert?”
“Monsieur le Mayor, a criminal offense has been committed.”
“What offense?”
“A lowly agent of the authorities has failed to show proper respect to another official in a very important matter. I have come to bring this fact to your attention, as it is my duty to do,” Javert replied.
“Who is the agent?” asked the mayor.
“It is I,” answered Javert.
“You?” questioned the mayor, with an expression of surprise. He then added, “And who is the official who has a reason to complain about your actions?”
“You, Monsieur le Mayor,” responded Javert. At this the mayor sat upright in his armchair. Then in a somber tone and with his eyes downcast, Javert continued, “Monsieur le Mayor, I have come to request that you ask the proper authorities to have me dismissed.”
Upon hearing this, the mayor opened his mouth in amazement and started to speak. Javert interrupted him to say, “I know what you are going to say—that simply handing in my resignation will suffice. But resigning is an honorable thing, and I have failed to do my duty. I should be punished and should be dismissed, not just allowed to resign.” After a pause, he added, “Monsieur le Mayor, the other day you treated me severely—and unjustly. All I’m asking today is that you treat me severely again—but this time with justice, according to the law.”
“Come now! Why?” exclaimed the mayor. “What is this nonsense? What have you done to me that makes you guilty of a criminal offense? I don’t understand.”
“You will understand, Monsieur le Mayor.” Javert sighed deeply and then resumed, still somberly and sadly, “A few weeks ago, shortly after the incident with that woman, I was so furious that I informed against you.”
“Informed against me?” the mayor questioned.
“Yes, to the chief of police in Paris,” Javert continued.
The mayor, who was not in the habit of laughing—anymore than Javert himself—burst into laughter and said sarcastically, “What did I do? As mayor, did I encroach on their police responsibilities?”
“Not as mayor, sir. As an ex-convict,” Javert said coldly. Still without raising his eyes to the mayor, he resumed, “For some time I have thought you to be someone else and have made a number of inquiries concerning your background but found little. Yet because of your appearance, your slight limp, your incredible strength—especially being strong enough to free poor Fauchelevent trapped underneath his cart—I had you confused with someone from my past. I know this sounds absurd! But because of this, I took you for a man named Jean Valjean.”
“Who? What did you say the name was?”
“Jean Valjean—a convict I knew some twenty years ago when I was a prison guard in Toulon. It appears that soon after being paroled from prison, Valjean robbed a bishop’s home and shortly thereafter even robbed a lad from Savoy on the road using a weapon. Then he seemed to disappear, and the authorities have searched for him for the past eight years. I thought you were Valjean, and my anger toward you drove me to denounce you before the chief of police.”
The mayor picked up a file of papers from his desk, and with an air of indifference, asked, “And what did the chief of police have to say?”
“He said I must be crazy,” Javert answered, “and he was right.”
“I guess it is fortunate for me that you think so,” the mayor said, smiling.
Yet Javert added, “I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found.”
Mayor Madeleine dropped the file from his hand, fixed his eyes on Javert, and said in a strange but questioning tone, “Oh?”
Javert continued, “It seems, Monsieur le Mayor, there was an old fellow by the name of Monsieur Champmathieu in the area near Ailly. He was a very poor man who last autumn was arrested for stealing some apples. Because the jail was in bad condition, an examining official had him transferred to the prison in Arras. It was there that a prisoner by the name of Brevet, who was also an ex-convict, saw Champmathieu and exclaimed, ‘I know this man! He is not Champmathieu—he is Jean Valjean!’ Of course, Champmathieu denied it, but there were two other convicts in the prison, both of whom were serving life sentences and had served with Valjean. They were the only two convicts remaining in prison who would have known Valjean, and when the authorities showed Champmathieu to them, they did not hesitate, but immediately agreed with Brevet. Besides, the thief is the right age—fifty-four—and the right height. Rest assured, he is Jean Valjean.
“It was at this very time that I had sent my concerns regarding you to the chief of police in Paris. He told me I had lost my mind, for the authorities already had Valjean in their custody. Since I thought you were Jean Valjean, you can imagine my surprise. He even invited me to go to Paris to see for myself.”
“And?” interrupted the mayor.
“And,” Javert replied, with his face as stern and somber as ever, “it is true. There is no doubt in my mind. That man is Jean Valjean.”
Madeleine turned toward his desk, picked up the file again, flipped through the pages, and began writing as though he were very busy. Turning to Javert, he said, “That will be all, Inspector Javert. Actually, I have little interest in your news. This is a waste of our time, and I’m sure we both have work to do.” He then dismissed Javert with a wave of his hand.
Javert did not leave but said, “Excuse me, Monsieur le Mayor….”
“What is it now?” demanded Madeleine.
“I still must remind you of one thing,” Javert insisted.
“What is it?”
“That I must be relieved of my position.”
The mayor replied, “Inspector Javert, you are a man of honor, and I respect you. But you have exaggerated your fault. Besides, it is an offense against me. I think you deserve a promotion, not a demotion, and I want you to retain your position.”
“I am not looking for you to treat me with kindness,” Javert argued. “In fact, your kindness to others has only served to increase my anger toward you. I want no part of it for myself. Your brand of kindness puts a lady of the night above a lawful citizen. Your kindness would put a worthless man above those who are superior. Your kindness is what I see as false kindness—the kind that disrupts society. Good God! It’s easy to be kind—the difficult thing is to be just! Come now—if the tables were turned, I would not be kind to you. Monsieur le Mayor, I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. I must follow the law.”
“We’ll see,” said the mayor, as he offered his hand to Javert.
Javert drew back and said in an angry voice, “This must not be. A mayor should not offer his hand to a police spy—for from the moment I abused my power, I have been no better than a spy.” Then Javert bowed deeply and walked toward the door. Before leaving, however, he wheeled around, and with his eyes still downcast, added, “I will continue to serve until I am relieved from my position.”
Mayor Madeleine stood there thinking as he listened to Javert’s determined footsteps fade away on the pavement outside.
Mayor Madeleine was, of course, none other than Jean Valjean. Yet from the moment of his remorseful prayer, immediately after his encounter with Little Gervais, he was a totally different man. What the bishop had wished to make of him, he had become. And it was more than a simple transformation—he had miraculously become a completely new creation.
Once he had left Digne, he had succeeded in disappearing and soon sold the bishop’s silver—except the candlesticks. He kept them as a reminder of what the bishop had done for him—and as a reminder of his admonition: “Do not forget. Never forget that you have promised to use this silver to become an honest man. You no longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your soul from you … and I give it to God.”
Valjean had sneaked from town to town, covering France, but finally settled in Montreuil. It was here he became so successful and prosperous. He had come to feel safe from the possibility of being recaptured by the authorities and lived in peace. Valjean truly regretted his past life but was hopeful as he looked to the future. He had only two remaining objectives in life: to conceal his name and to sanctify his life—or, as he saw it, to escape men and to return to God.
These two objectives of Valjean’s life were so closely intertwined in his mind they had nearly become one. Yet whenever they conflicted, the man others knew as Mayor Madeleine would never hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second—his security to his virtue.
This explains why—in spite of what may have been more prudent and sensible—he kept the bishop’s candlesticks, openly mourned for the bishop, gave money to the little lads from Savoy who passed his way, and saved Fauchelevent’s life, despite the disturbing insinuations of Javert. It seems Valjean sought to follow the example of the truly wise, holy, and just—living as though his first responsibility was to others, not himself.
Yet nothing of the magnitude of this current situation, as presented by Javert to him, had ever presented itself in the past. Never before had he faced so serious a struggle. His immediate instinct was to expose his true identity and take the place of Champmathieu in prison at once—a painfully difficult decision. The thought passed, however, and Valjean said to himself, “We will see. We will see.” He thereby suppressed his first generous instinct and retreated from heroism.
It would have been beautiful, especially after the bishop’s holy words to him, if Valjean had not hesitated for an instant. After so many years of exhibiting true repentance, he should have walked resolutely toward the gaping precipice before him, at the bottom of which lay heaven. It would have been beautiful, but it was not to be. Instead, he was carried away, at least at first, by his instinct of self-preservation.
At times he would barricade himself mentally against future possibilities. He would even rise from his chair and bolt his door as if locking them out. And he would often extinguish his light as though he might be seen. Yet what he desired to close his door upon had already entered, and what he tried to keep blind was already staring him in the face. It was Valjean’s conscience—or more precisely—it was God Himself.
Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first, for he had a feeling of security and solitude. Once the door was locked, Valjean felt invincible, and once the candle was extinguished, he felt invisible. Finally, he tried to take a personal mental inventory. He set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands, and began to meditate in the dark.
Valjean thought, Where do I stand? Is this a dream? Is what Javert said really true? Who can that Champmathieu be? Is it really possible he resembles me? How could life have been so peaceful yesterday, and change so quickly? I did not expect anything like this. How will this end? What should I do?
Nothing but anguish resulted from this mental turmoil. It overwhelmed his will and his reason, from which he desperately sought some help and resolution. Valjean’s head was burning, yet gradually vague outlines began to take form in his thinking. He began to catch a glimpse, not of his entire dilemma, but of some of the details. He also began to recognize the fact that he was actually in control of his situation. His thinking grew clearer and clearer as he came to understand his predicament.
Valjean realized he was becoming a thief once more, and the most repugnant kind of all, for he was robbing another person of his life, his peace, his place in the sunshine, and his very existence. He was becoming an assassin—he was murdering, at least morally, this poor man. He was inflicting on him a terrifying living death—a death called prison.
Ironically, to surrender to save the man, to assume his real name, to become the convict Jean Valjean once again—out of duty—was in actual fact the only thing that would achieve his resurrection and close forever the hell from which he had finally emerged. Appearing outwardly to return to it was the only way to escape it in reality. It must be done!
In spite of the unfortunate mistake of misidentification leading to this dilemma, doing nothing would nullify his entire life, making it worthless. His repentance from past sins would also mean nothing and would be wasted. Valjean felt as though the bishop were present once again, with his eyes fixed upon him. He knew the bishop now saw Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues, as an abomination, and saw the convict Jean Valjean as pure and honorable. Men saw his mask, but the bishop saw his face. Men saw his life, but the bishop beheld his conscience.
He knew what he must do—go to Arras and reveal the false Jean Valjean and denounce the real one. This would be the greatest of sacrifices, while ironically being the most profound victory at the same time. It was the last step for him to take, but it must be done. In this one sad step, he would enter into sanctity in the eyes of God alone and return to infamy in the eyes of men.
Without realizing he was speaking aloud, he said, “I will do my duty. I will save this man.” He then took his financial account books and put them in order, and threw a file of loan papers into the fire, releasing many poor debtors from what they owed him. And then he thought of Fantine.
“Wait a moment!” Valjean exclaimed to himself. “What about that poor woman?” At this point a new crisis presented itself.
Fantine, abruptly appearing in his troubled thoughts, produced an unexpected ray of light. Suddenly everything seemed to be undergoing a change of perspective. He exclaimed, “Until now I have considered no one but myself, and whether I should hold my tongue and conceal my true identity, or denounce myself and save my soul. I only considered whether to be a respected but despicable mayor—or an infamous but honorable convict.
“What about this woman who has already suffered so much and who possesses so many praiseworthy qualities in spite of her downfall? And to think I unwittingly have been the cause of her great misery! And what about her child? I promised her mother—do I not owe something to her for the evil I have done? What will happen if suddenly I disappear? The child will be destitute and hopeless once her mother dies.”
Then, reversing his previous decision, he argued, “If I do not denounce myself, I will remain Madeleine. Too bad for the man who is Jean Valjean! I am no longer he, and I no longer even know Valjean.” Looking at his face in the mirror above the fireplace, he continued, “I am not Valjean—I am someone totally different now.
“I must not cower before the consequences of this new decision. In fact, there are objects in this very room that could tie me to that old Jean Valjean. Those threads must be broken, for they could betray me.” Taking a small key from his pocket, he unlocked a hiding place built into the wall. Inside this hidden cabinet were a blue linen jacket, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and an iron-tipped walking stick. He had kept all these things, including the candlesticks, in order to remind himself of his starting point. Yet he allowed only the candlesticks to be in plain view.
Valjean cast a cautious glance toward the door, as though he were afraid someone would open it despite the bolt that locked it. He then threw everything but the candlesticks into the fire. As the knapsack was consumed in the flames, it suddenly revealed something that sparkled amid the ashes. He bent over and recognized it as a coin—the forty-sou piece stolen from the little lad from Savoy.
As the fire roared, his eyes abruptly fell on the two silver candlesticks sitting on the mantel. Seizing them, he thought, The entire being of Jean Valjean is still in them. They must be destroyed as well! He stirred the hot coals with one of the candlesticks.
In a moment more, they both would have been in the fire. But suddenly he heard a voice within him shouting, “Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!” The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he listened to what seemed to be a strong voice arising from within his soul.
The voice continued, “That’s right, Valjean! Destroy these candlesticks! Forget the bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this man, Champmathieu, too! That’s right. Applaud yourself. Here is an old man—an innocent man—whose whole misfortune lies in your name. Your name weighs like a crime upon him, and because of it he is condemned to finish his life in abject horror. That’s good! Be an honest man—remain Monsieur le Mayor. Remain honored and esteemed, enrich the town with your factory, feed the poor, and raise the orphans. Live your life of happiness. Just remember—while you are here in the midst of your joy and light, there is a man wearing your prison clothes, who bears your name in disgrace, and who drags your chain across a cold prison floor. Yes, these are great plans, you wretched creature!”
Perspiration streamed from his brow as he fixed his wearied eyes on the candlesticks. Yet the voice within had not finished, and added, “Jean Valjean, all the voices around you will bless you. But there will be one voice, which no one will hear, cursing you in the dark. All those blessings from others will fall back before reaching heaven, and only your curse will rise and be visible before the eyes of God.”
The voice had come from the most obscure depths of his conscience but had been quite startling and strong. In fact, he had heard the last words so distinctly that he glanced around the room in terror. “Is someone there?” he demanded aloud. Then after laughing a somewhat maniacal laugh, he said, “How stupid I am! There’s no one here!”
Yet there was One who was there, but He was not of those the human eye can see.
Valjean returned the candlesticks to the mantel. He now recoiled in equal terror before both opposing decisions he had made—one after the other. Either seemed equally fatal. And try as he may, he kept returning to the heartrending dilemma that lay at the foundation of his tumultuous thinking: Should he remain in paradise and become a demon? Or should he return to hell and become an angel?
Thus was the severe struggle of this unhappy soul in his astounding anguish. Yet this unfortunate man stood in the shadow of another Man, a mysterious Being, who 1,800 years before had taken upon Himself—amid all of His sacredness—the sufferings of humanity. While the olive trees of Gethsemane shivered in the fierce breath of the Infinite, He drank of the terrible cup before Him—a cup dripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths of a world that had obscured even the flickering light of the stars.