Several days after Jean Valjean fled from Montreuil, the police in Paris arrested him once again. He had taken advantage of his few days of liberty, however, to withdraw a considerable sum of money—some 600,000 to 700,000 francs—from his bank account. Then he hid the money in a place only he knew.
When he was accused of theft, Valjean refused to defend himself. Not only was he pronounced guilty of robbing Little Gervais, but also was erroneously accused of being a member of a gang of robbers in the south of France. As a result, he was condemned and sentenced to death. Even though he refused to lodge an appeal, the king of France commuted his penalty to hard labor for life in prison.
Valjean was transferred immediately to the prison at Toulon, a place he knew all too well. But no longer was he prisoner 24601—now he would be known as prisoner 9430.
With their mayor now imprisoned, the people of Montreuil saw their prosperity vanish. His huge factory was shut down, his buildings fell into ruin, and his workforce was scattered across the country. The small amount of trade that remained was now done strictly for money instead of for the general good, so nothing was given to the poor any longer.
Some months later, near the end of October 1823, a ship by the name of Orion pulled into the port of Toulon for repairs. It was part of France’s Mediterranean fleet and it had been in dry dock for repairs the previous year. During that repair, thick layers of barnacles, which had slowed the vessel to half its normal speed, had been removed from its keel. That repair, however, had weakened the bolts on the keel, and now it had sprung a leak.
A warship the size of the Orion, being repaired once again, always drew quite a crowd in the town of Toulon. One morning the people who had gathered to observe the ship witnessed an accident. A sailor high atop the mainsail lost his balance while mending it. As he fell, he was able to grab hold of one of the footropes hanging from the bottom of the sail. Now he swung violently back and forth at the very end of the rope high above the water and then above the crowd as they watched breathlessly from below. The man’s fall and the sudden jolt of grasping the rope had taken quite a toll on his strength. Now it was all he could do simply to hang on to the end of the rope.
The poor man attempted to climb the rope to safety but was too weak to do so. And a rescue seemed so dangerous that no sailor volunteered even to attempt one. It was obvious something must be done, and soon, for the man was so exhausted he did not dare even to shout for help, fearing he would weaken himself further.
Suddenly a man was seen climbing the rigging with the agility of a tiger. He was dressed in a red prison uniform and wore a green cap, indicating he was sentenced to life. As he climbed, a gust of wind blew his cap away, revealing his perfectly white hair and the fact that he was not a young man.
This convict, assigned by the prison to work in the shipyard, had immediately asked the officer in charge for permission to help as soon as he had seen the accident. While all the sailors trembled in fear and shrank from their responsibility, this man was willing to risk his life. The officer, instead of verbally responding to the man’s request, had taken a hammer and, with one strong blow, had broken the riveting that secured the prisoner’s chain to his ankle.
In what seemed like centuries to those below, but actually were mere seconds, the man climbed to the mainsail. Then he walked precariously along the bottom support of the sail as it swayed in the wind, tied another rope to it, and descended hand over hand to the unfortunate sailor below.
Now two men swung high above the water. The convict worked quickly to secure the sailor with his own rope while he hung on the sailor’s rope with his other hand. Once the man was tied securely, the convict climbed back to the bottom pole of the sail, pulled the man up, and then carefully carried him to the other sailors who by now had climbed the mast.
At that moment, the crowd broke into applause, convicts and sailors wept, and women embraced each other on the pier. And an impassioned cry could be heard from a number of people, who shouted, “A pardon for that man!”
In the meantime, the convict had begun to make his descent. With all eyes on him, he suddenly ran along the pole of one of the lower sails, as though he would descend more quickly by dropping down one of its ropes. Yet as he did so, they saw him hesitate, stagger, and fall into the sea. The crowd, thinking the man’s energy must be totally spent by now, shouted in horror for someone to help.
The poor convict had fallen between the Orion and another large vessel. Four men quickly launched a small boat, fearing the man would be pulled by the tide underneath one of the ships and drown. However, the man was nowhere to be found. He had not risen to the surface and seemed to have disappeared without a ripple. They continued to search until evening, yet their search was in vain, for they never found his body.
The next day, the Toulon newspaper ran the following story:
November 17, 1823. Yesterday a convict assigned to the detachment of prisoners working on the Orion fell into the sea and was drowned. He had just saved a sailor from certain death when he lost his footing and fell. The convict, whose body has not yet been found, was prisoner 9430. His is name was Jean Valjean.
The Christmas season of 1823 was particularly bright for the people of Montfermeil. The weather had been warm through the early part of the season, and they had not yet seen frost or snow. Many merchants from Paris had received permission from the mayor of the town to erect a marketplace in the church square. So many booths were erected that a number of them extended into the Lane du Boulanger, where the Thénardiers’ inn was located.
On Christmas Eve, as a result of the busy marketplace, the Thénardiers’ inn was filled with a number of traders and merchants who were eating, drinking, and smoking around the tables of the dining area. With just four or five candles burning, there was little light but a great deal of noise. Madame Thénardier was cooking the supper, which was roasting over a roaring fire, while her husband was drinking and talking politics with his customers.
Little Cosette had become useful to the Thénardiers in two ways: She brought in the money her poor mother sent, and she was forced to serve them. Therefore, when the money ceased to flow from Fantine, due to her death, they kept Cosette anyway. In their thinking, at the very least she could continue to be a servant in their house.
Due to the high elevation of the plateau where Montfermeil is located, water was scarce. Therefore, it was necessary to carry water from a considerable distance to the inn. This difficult task had been assigned to Cosette. She was terrified at the idea of having to go to the spring in the dark of night, so the child attempted to make sure there was always plenty of water in the house before sunset.
This particular night she was seated in her usual place—underneath the kitchen table near the chimney. She was dressed only in rags, while her sockless feet wore only cold, wooden shoes. Her present task was the knitting of socks destined for the feet of the young Thénardier daughters—Éponine and Azelma—who could be heard playing and laughing in the adjoining room.
Every newcomer to the Thénardiers’ inn and tavern would think of Madame Thénardier as the one in charge since she always appeared to be working. This, however, was a mistake, for she was completely dominated by her evil husband. Yet she herself was quite a formidable person and not exactly kind. She loved no one except her own children, and she feared no one except her husband. Actually, it would not be totally correct to say that she loved her own children, for often the cries of a very young child could be heard throughout the inn. It was a little boy who had been born to the Thénardiers during one of the previous winters, and who was now a little more than three years old. She loved to joke with her guests that the poor child was the result of “a very cold winter.” Madame Thénardier had given birth to him and nursed him, but she did not love him. When he would cry, her husband would shout at her, “Would you please go see about the little brat?” Yet she did not want to be bothered and would allow the poor neglected child to continue to scream in the dark. So her sense of motherhood certainly stopped with her daughters, while her husband seemed to have no parenting instincts at all. He had but one thought and goal in life—how to enrich himself.
In spite of Monsieur Thénardier’s craftiness and skill at deception, he was not successful even at his one and only goal. He blamed this on the fact that he had not yet found a “theater worthy of his great talent.” In fact, he was near the point of financial ruin and was quite anxious because he owed more than 1,500 francs in various debts.
His theory of running an inn was to squeeze everything possible from the unsuspecting travelers who were unfortunate enough to come through Montfermeil near nightfall. He would continually seek to warp his wife’s mind as well by demanding, “The duty of an innkeeper is to sell the traveler the following: stew, rest, candles, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile. It is to stop the passersby, empty the small purses, lighten the heavy ones, and shelter their family. It is to charge for an open window, a closed window, the chimney, the armchair, the ottoman, the stool, and the bed—whether it’s a mattress of feathers or straw. We should charge for using our mirror every time they take a look—in short, to make the traveler pay for everything, even for the flies his dog eats!” This man and woman were nothing less than craftiness and rage united—a hideous and terrible team.
As Cosette continued her knitting, four new travelers arrived at the inn. She knew these new customers would need water and suddenly remembered that the water tank was empty. The recent surge in business, a result of the nearby Christmas market, had greatly increased the inn’s water consumption, and now she was fearful she would be forced to venture out in the dead of night. To make matters worse, she heard the customers saying, “It’s black as an oven out there tonight,” and “You would have to be a cat to go out there without a lantern!” Cosette trembled.
Then one of the peddlers staying at the inn suddenly said in a harsh tone, “My horse has not been watered.”
“Sure it has,” replied Madame Thénardier.
“I’m telling you it hasn’t!” retorted the peddler.
At this, Madame Thénardier looked at Cosette and angrily said, “You little dog, go and water his horse.”
“But, madam, there is no water,” Cosette offered feebly.
Upon hearing this, Madame Thénardier threw the door open and shouted at the poor frightened child, “Well, go and get some then!”
Cosette dropped her head and walked to pick up the empty bucket near the chimney. The pail was bigger than she was and easily would have held the child herself. She stood motionless before the open door with her bucket in hand, seemingly waiting for someone to come to her rescue.
“Get along!” screamed Madame Thénardier.
So the frightened little girl walked out into the cold dark chasm of the night, while the door closed behind her. She plunged into the darkness, making as much noise with her bucket as possible, as though the noise kept her company. The immensity of the night was confronting this tiny creature, so she did not look to the right or to the left for fear of seeing something hiding in the bushes or the trees.
At last Cosette reached the spring of water. She did not take time to breathe but bent down toward the natural basin hollowed out by the water and plunged her bucket into the dark water. Then nearly filling the pail, she pulled it out and set it next to herself on the grass. Realizing she was quite fatigued, she remained crouched on the ground for some time. Finally, she grabbed the bucket’s handle with both hands but could barely lift it.
Straining with each step, she managed only about twelve paces before needing to set the bucket down again. She continued in this way for some time, but was proceeding very slowly. Even by taking shorter and shorter breaks between efforts, she knew at this rate it would take more than an hour to return to the inn, and that no matter what, Madame Thénardier would beat her. Upon coming to an old chestnut tree, she stopped for a few minutes, hoping to get well rested. Then she summoned all her strength, picked up the bucket once more, and courageously resumed her march. Yet the poor desperate little creature could not keep from crying out, “Oh God! Help!”
Suddenly—at that very moment—it seemed that her bucket weighed nothing at all. A hand, which to her appeared to be enormous, had just grabbed the handle and had lifted it easily. Looking up, she saw a large dark form, tall and straight, walking next to her in the darkness. This man apparently had walked up from behind her, but she had not heard him approaching. Without uttering a word, he had seized the handle of the bucket she was so valiantly attempting to carry.
Although her God-given instinct for this encounter might have been fear, she was not afraid. The man abruptly spoke to her in a deep voice that seemed quite somber, “My child, this is very heavy for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Cosette replied respectfully.
“Give it to me then,” said the man. “I will carry it for you.” Cosette let go of the handle as the man walked along beside her. “It really is quite heavy,” he added, before saying, “How old are you, little one?”
“Eight, sir.”
“And have you come from very far with this?” he questioned.
“From the spring in the forest,” she answered.
“And how far are you going?”
“A good quarter of an hour’s walk from here, sir.”
The man said nothing for a moment but then abruptly remarked, “Do you not have a mother?”
“I don’t know,” responded the child. And before the man had time to speak again, she added, “I don’t think so. Other people have mothers, but I don’t.” Then after what seemed to be a moment of reflection, she continued, “I don’t think I ever had one.”
The man stopped, set the bucket on the ground, bent over the child, and placed both hands on her shoulders, attempting to see her face in the dark. The faint light of the night sky vaguely outlined Cosette’s emaciated face.
“What is your name?” asked the man.
“Cosette,” was the seemingly unexpected answer. It was as though the man had received a massive shock. He looked at her again, removed his hands from her shoulders, and then quickly grabbed the bucket and began walking down the path once more.
After a moment, he inquired, “Where do you live, little one?”
“In Montfermeil, sir, if you know where that is.”
“Is that where we’re headed?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
He paused then began again. “Who sent you out at such a late hour to get water in the forest?”
“It was Madame Thénardier.”
The man resumed, attempting to sound indifferent, but with a tremor in his voice nonetheless, “And what does your Madame Thénardier do?”
“She and her husband keep the inn where I live,” Cosette replied.
“The inn? Well, I will lodge there myself tonight. Will you show me the way?” asked the man.
“We are on the way there now,” the child answered.
The man was walking quite fast, yet Cosette followed him without difficulty and no longer felt tired. From time to time, she would look up at him with a sense of peace and indescribable confidence. No one had ever taught her to turn to Providence in prayer; nevertheless, she felt the beginnings of joy and hope bubbling up within her, and she lifted her eyes toward heaven.
As they reached the village and approached the inn, Cosette timidly touched his arm and said, “Monsieur?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Will you let me take my bucket now?”
“But why?”
“If madam sees that someone has carried it for me, she will beat me,” the poor child answered in a matter-of-fact way.
The man handed her the bucket as they came to the tavern door. Cosette knocked, and the door swung open, revealing Madame Thénardier standing inside with a candle in her hand. Then with her voice filled with anger, she yelled at the child, “Oh, it’s you! You wretched creature! Mercy, but you have taken your time! This little hussy has been amusing herself!”
“Madam,” Cosette answered, while trembling all over, “here’s a gentleman who needs lodging.”
Madame Thénardier, with an obvious air of false sincerity, speedily replaced her gruffness with a forced smile. Then she eagerly focused her eyes on the man and said, “And this is the gentleman?”
“Yes, madam,” the man replied, as he tipped his hat slightly with his hand.
She knew that wealthy travelers typically were not so polite, so this gesture, and a quick inspection of his clothing and bag, caused her fake smile to vanish. Her gruff tone reappeared as she said, “Enter, my good man.”
So the “good man” entered. As Madame Thénardier continued to scrutinize the traveler, she noticed his threadbare coat and his worn and battered hat. Then with a grimace on her face, she walked across the room to consult with her husband who was drinking with some carriage drivers.
It was obvious they believed the man to be a common beggar, because Monsieur Thénardier looked up and exclaimed, “See here, my good man! I am very sorry, but I have no room left.”
“Then put me wherever you like,” the man replied. “Put me in the attic or the stable. I will still pay as though you gave me a room.”
“Forty sous,” the innkeeper demanded.
“Forty sous it is,” the man agreed.
Overhearing the conversation, one of the carriage drivers leaned to whisper to Madame Thénardier, “Isn’t the rate only twenty sous?”
“In his case it’s forty,” the woman retorted. “I don’t lodge beggars like him for less.”
“That’s true,” added her husband. “We could ruin our spotless reputation lodging such people.”
Their new guest never took his eyes off Cosette. She returned to what the Thénardiers called her kennel, while her sad but beautiful eyes took on an expression never seen in them before. The poor child kept them riveted on the traveler.