Jean Valjean was careful not to go out during the day. At sunset each evening, however, he would walk for an hour or two—sometimes alone but often with Cosette. He would seek out only the most deserted streets and would often visit churches, with the closest and his favorite being Saint Médard’s. When Cosette did not go with him, she would stay with the housekeeper downstairs, but the child was always delighted when they would walk together. He would hold her hand as they walked and speak sweetly to her.
They lived very modestly and kept only a small fire in their stove. On the street, Valjean was taken to be a poor man, for he wore his old, worn coat and his battered hat. Occasionally people he encountered on his walk would hand him a sou or two, which he would accept with a deep bow. Then making sure no one saw him, he would approach some poor beggar and give the coins away, while adding some money of his own. But this had its disadvantages, for in spite of attempting to do this anonymously, he became known as “the beggar who gives.”
As a result of this, speculation began to grow over who this poor “rich” man could be. And to make matters worse, Valjean’s old housekeeper and landlady, a quite cross-looking creature of a woman, was permeated with an inquisitive nature and a horrible sense of envy. She would watch him continually, scrutinizing his every move, yet without his suspecting it. She even had questioned Cosette, who had been unable to tell her anything, since the child knew nothing herself except that she had come from Montfermeil.
One morning this spy saw Valjean doing something that struck the old gossip as peculiar. He entered one of the uninhabited rooms on the first floor of the building while she observed him through the cracked door of the room across the hall. With his back turned toward her, she could see him fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pair of scissors and some thread and then began to rip out the lining of his coat. Beneath the lining was a small piece of yellowish paper she immediately recognized as a 1,000-franc bill.
The woman quickly returned to her room, wondering where such a man would get so much money. Just a moment later, he knocked on her door, handed her the bill, and asked if she could get it broken down for him into smaller bills. He told her it was his quarterly government pension he had received the day before. Yet she knew he had not left the building that day until six in the evening and that the government bank would have been closed at that hour. The old woman did as he asked, however, but not without mentioning her suspicions to a number of people. Therefore, that 1,000-franc bill became the object of a great amount of speculation on the part of many a gossip up and down the street.
Near the well by Saint Médard’s church, Valjean would often pass by a man who appeared to be a beggar about seventy-five years of age. The man was rumored to be some sort of policeman who at one time had worked in the parish, helping to maintain order in the church. Valjean never passed the man without giving him a few sous as the man would sit there mumbling his prayers.
One evening when Valjean was out walking alone, he passed by the beggar who was in his usual place saying his prayers. Valjean placed a few coins in the man’s hand, when the beggar suddenly fixed his eyes on Valjean and then just as quickly dropped his head again.
Lightning seemed to flash through Valjean with a shudder. By the dim light of the street lantern, he had not seen the face of some unknown beggar but that of a well-known and horrifying person from his past. He recoiled in terror but continued to stand there, afraid to speak or even to breathe. He didn’t know whether to stay or to run, but simply stared at the beggar, who no longer appeared to know he was there. Perhaps it was the instinct of self-preservation that kept Jean Valjean from uttering a word. Yet as he pondered the situation, he thought, This man is no different than he’s been any other night. I must be going mad! I must be dreaming! This is impossible! Yet he hardly dared to confess, even to himself, that the face he thought he had seen was that of Javert.
A few days later, around eight in the evening, Valjean was in his room with Cosette, teaching her to spell. He heard the front door of the building open and close again, which struck him as odd for that time of night. He knew the old woman always went to bed at nightfall in order to save her candles, but dismissed it, thinking perhaps she had taken ill and had gone out to get some medicine from the doctor. Yet, upon hearing someone climbing the stairs, he signaled for Cosette to be quiet as he listened.
After quite a long time of silence, he quietly looked through the keyhole of his door. He saw a light that seemed to form a sinister star in the blackness of the stairwell. Someone was obviously there, holding a candle and listening. Several minutes later, the light finally retreated, but he heard no footsteps and realized the person who had been listening had removed his shoes.
That night Valjean did not sleep at all and remained fully clothed as he lay on his bed. At daybreak, just as he was finally dozing off from fatigue, he was awakened by the creaking of a door at the other end of the attic hallway. Then he heard the same heavy footsteps he had heard climbing the stairs the preceding evening. As though shot from the bed, he sprang toward the door and once again peered through the keyhole. Whoever it was walked past his door this time without pausing. The corridor was too dark to see the person’s face, but when the man reached the staircase, a morning ray of light formed his silhouette, giving Valjean a complete view of his back. The man was of lofty stature, wore a long coat, and carried a large walking stick under his arm. The strong neck and shoulders were those of Javert.
When the old woman came to work in his room at seven in the morning, Valjean cast a penetrating stare at her but did not ask any questions. She acted as normal as any other day as she swept the floor but then remarked to him, “Possibly you heard someone come in last night.”
“Yes, I did,” he replied, as nonchalantly as possible. “Who was it?”
“It was a new tenant who has just rented a room here,” she replied.
“What’s his name?”
“I’m not exactly sure. It’s Dumont or Daumont, or something.”
“And who is this Monsieur Dumont?” questioned Valjean.
The old woman simply stared at him with her beady eyes and answered, “A wealthy gentleman, like you.” Perhaps she had no ulterior motive in saying this, but Valjean thought he detected one.
When darkness came, he descended the stairs and carefully scrutinized both sides of the street. It appeared to be absolutely deserted, although someone easily could have been hidden behind the trees. He quickly returned to his room and said to Cosette, “Come with me.” Then, taking her by the hand, they departed.
Valjean deliberately took nothing but side streets and would often double back in order to make sure he was not being followed. There was a full moon still near the horizon, casting quite a bit of light and long shadows onto the streets. Because of this, Valjean and Cosette were able to walk along the dark side of the street while keeping an eye on the lighted side. By the time they came to the rue Poliveau, he felt certain they were not being followed.
Cosette walked along without asking any questions—a passiveness that the suffering of the past six years had instilled into her nature. Of course, she had grown accustomed to feeling safe and secure when she was with Valjean and instinctively trusted him to know where they were going. Yet he had no more idea where they were going than Cosette.
He trusted God—she trusted him. It seemed to Valjean as though he were clinging to the hand of Someone greater than himself—as though he felt the presence of Someone leading him—yet invisible. However, he had no settled plan or course to follow. He was not even absolutely sure that the man he had seen was Javert. And even if it had been Javert, perhaps Javert did not recognize him as Jean Valjean.
Valjean stepped into the shadow of a doorway, thinking that if they were being followed, he could not fail to get a good look through the moonlight shining across the way. In fact, not three minutes had passed when four men appeared. All were tall, dressed in long brown coats and hats, and held huge walking sticks in their hands. The man who appeared to be their leader turned and quickly pointed with his hand toward the direction Valjean had headed, while another seemed to indicate the opposite direction with considerable obstinacy. Just as the leader had turned, the moonlight fell upon his face, and Valjean was sure he was beholding the face of Javert.
Uncertainty had now ended for Valjean, but fortunately for him it still lingered with the four men. He took advantage of their hesitation—time lost for them was gained for him. He slipped from the doorway where he and Cosette had been hiding and into the shadows away from the men. He could tell she was becoming tired, so he lifted her into his arms and carried her.
No one was on the streets where Valjean walked, and the street lanterns had not been lit because of the full moon. Now carrying the child, he doubled his pace and headed for the heart of Paris. Several minutes later, he looked back but still saw nothing but deserted streets. Seeing no one, he drew a long, deep breath.
While still fearing, however, that he was in imminent danger, Valjean saw a plain-looking building that appeared to be uninhabited. Rapidly surveying it with his eyes, he thought he could save himself if only he could get inside. He set Cosette against the wall of the old building while instructing her to remain silent. The only door he saw was hidden in the shadows and was perhaps a promising entryway for them. As he examined it closely, however, he realized it was not a door at all. It had no hinges or a lock, and through its rotting planks, he could see nothing but slabs of solid stone. What appeared to be a door was simply a wooden decoration for the facade of the building. It would have been easy to rip away the rotting wood, but he would have found himself face-to-face with the wall once again.
He noticed a pipe running up the side of the building and thought briefly of climbing up to the roof. However, it was three stories to the top, and how would he have carried Cosette with him? Besides, he now saw a man standing on the street corner, who certainly would have seen him climbing. Valjean quickly gave up this idea and crawled back along the wall around the grounds of the building to Cosette. When he reached her, he realized no one would be able to see them there regardless of the direction from which they approached. Yet he reasoned that they could not stay there long and that he must act soon.
At that moment, Valjean heard heavy, deliberate footsteps some distance away. He risked leaning from the shadows to glance around the corner of the street. To his dismay, he saw seven or eight soldiers in formation with their bayonets drawn. They were marching down the street toward him. There could be no mistake, he figured, that this was a patrol Javert had commandeered to assist him in his search. Indeed, he soon recognized two men with the patrol as those who had earlier been with Javert. At every alleyway, the men would stop to search and then continue their march in his direction.
Valjean calculated that at the rate they were traveling, he had about a quarter of an hour before they would reach him. He probed the recesses of his mind as to what to do next. Because of his past, he had two compartments in which to search—one held his saintly thoughts, while the other held the talents of a criminal. He had learned to use one or the other depending on his circumstances. Among these resources, thanks to his numerous escapes from the prison at Toulon, he also had the incredible ability to scale walls, often using nothing but his sheer muscular force.
Yet climbing any wall at this point would be a problem because of Cosette. Abandoning her was out of the question, and it would be impossible to carry her up the wall. The wall appeared to be about eighteen feet high, and to get the child over it, he would need a rope. Then reaching into the criminal pocket of his mind, he noticed the lamppost across the street. In those days, the lamps were lit by a worker who would climb to the top using a rope kept in a locked box at the base of the light. Valjean crossed the street in what seemed to be a single bound, broke the latch on the metal box with the tip of his knife, and quickly returned to Cosette. He now had a rope.
Then, without making one useless movement, he undid his necktie and tied it around Cosette underneath her arms. Taking the rope, he tied it to the necktie and put the other end of the rope in his teeth. He quickly took off his shoes and socks, threw them over the wall, and began climbing. Putting his fingers into the mortar grooves between the blocks of stone, he found himself atop the wall within thirty seconds. Crouching on his knees, he looked at Cosette, who stared at him in amazement but without uttering a word. In a quiet voice, he instructed the little girl, “Put your back against the wall.” She obeyed without hesitation, as Valjean added, “Don’t say a word, and don’t be afraid.”
Before Cosette knew it, she too was atop the wall. Then Valjean put her on his back and crawled on his stomach along the wall. Suddenly he heard the thundering voice of Javert yelling at the patrol to search the nearby alley. Valjean quickly slid onto an adjacent roof, lowered Cosette onto the grounds of the building, and then jumped down himself. Whether it was from sheer terror or from courage, Cosette had not breathed a sound through this entire ordeal, though her hands had been somewhat scraped by the stones of the wall.
Valjean found himself next to the building whose roof had served as his means of escape. Now he was standing in some sort of a very large, unique garden. No one was there, which was not uncommon considering the late hour, yet it did not seem as though the garden was made to walk in, even in broad daylight. His first concern was to put his shoes and socks back on, and then he and Cosette stepped into a small shedlike structure to hide. Of course, a man who is running from someone never believes he is sufficiently hidden.
By now Cosette was trembling and standing as closely as possible to him while they heard Javert’s patrol searching the nearby alleys and streets. After about a quarter of an hour had passed, it seemed as though the sound of the men finally had become more distant. Valjean continued to hold his breath, however, as he held his hand gently over Cosette’s mouth. The solitude of the garden in which they stood seemed strangely calm, as though the walls were made of the deaf stones mentioned in the Scriptures. The walls—and the garden inside them—remained peaceful—not sensing a need to cry out, although all beyond them was in an uproar.
Suddenly, in the midst of this profound calm, a new sound arose. It was as divine and celestial as the noise of the patrol had been horrible. It was a hymn so beautiful and full of a sense of prayer and harmony that one would believe it to be a heavenly sound that only a newborn baby or a dying man would ever hear. The sound was the sound of women’s voices and was towering above the garden as it wafted its way from the gloomy building next to Valjean and Cosette. Just as the sound of demons seemed to be retreating, this choir of angels seemed to be breaking through the thick darkness of the night.
Valjean and Cosette fell to their knees. They did not know what they were hearing and they did not know where they were. Yet both of them—man and child—the penitent and the innocent—felt compelled to kneel. The voices they heard had a strange quality, for they did not appear to prevent the building from seeming deserted. To them the sound was the supernatural praise of an uninhabited house.
By now a cold night wind was blowing, which was typical of one to two o’clock in the morning this time of year. Yet the poor, weary, and trembling Cosette said nothing. She simply sat down next to Valjean and leaned her head against him without one complaint. At first he thought she had fallen asleep, but as he bent down to look at her, he saw her eyes were wide open, and her thoughtful expression troubled him. He asked the child, “Aren’t you sleepy?”
“I’m just very cold,” she replied. The ground was damp, and with the shed open on all sides, the breeze seemed to grow stronger every second. Valjean lovingly removed his coat and wrapped it around little Cosette.
“Is that better?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, Father,” was her sweet reply, as she laid her head on a stone and fell asleep.
Valjean sat down beside her and began to think. Now feeling somewhat safe, he began to regain his composure little by little. As he gazed at the beautiful child, he clearly recognized a truth that was to become the foundation of his life going forward. He knew that as long as she was near, he would need nothing else. And as long as they were together, he would never fear for his well-being, but only for hers. In fact, since giving her his coat, he was totally unaware that he was very cold himself.
In spite of being lost in thought, he suddenly heard a peculiar noise. It sounded like the faint tinkling of a bell, yet it was quite distinct. Upon turning in the direction of the noise, he saw someone standing in the garden. A man was walking through the melon beds and was stooping at regular intervals, as though he were spreading something onto the ground. And the man appeared to have a limp.
Valjean shuddered when he saw the man. Now sure he was being pursued, he was suspicious of everyone and saw anyone as potentially hostile. He could not relax during the day because it might enable someone to recognize him, nor could he relax at night because it would allow the one searching for him the opportunity for surprise. Earlier he was afraid because the garden was deserted, but now he shuddered because someone was there.
Upon seeing the man, Valjean quickly took the sleeping Cosette into his arms and placed her on the ground behind a pile of old furniture being stored at the far end of the shed. Then he carefully began to scrutinize the man working among the melons. What seemed strange to him was that every time the man moved the small bell sounded again. Valjean pondered, “Who is this man who has a bell attached to himself like a cow or an ox?”
As he wondered, he lightly touched Cosette’s hands and found they were icy cold. “Oh my Lord!” he cried out, softly. Then he spoke quietly to the child, “Cosette.” Yet she did not open her eyes. At this he shook her quite vigorously, but she still did not awaken. He asked himself if she were dead and then sprang to his feet, now shaking from head to toe.
Cosette was pale and was now lying totally still. He knelt over her as she was spread out on the ground and listened to her breathing. She was still alive, but her respiration was so shallow and weak Valjean feared she was at the point of death. He wondered how he could possibly warm her back to health. Without considering the possible consequences, he rushed from the shelter of the shed. He was certain he must find some way to put her beside a fire in a very few minutes and then put her to bed.
Valjean walked straight up to the man he saw in the garden as he pulled a 100 francs from the pocket of his coat. The man was bent over and did not see him approaching, when Valjean said, “One hundred francs!” Startled, the man quickly looked at Valjean, who continued, “One hundred francs if you will give me shelter for the night.” The moonlight fully illuminated Jean Valjean’s terrified countenance.
With words of great surprise, the man exclaimed, “Monsieur Madeleine! Is it you?”
Hearing these unexpected words, especially at such a late hour and in an unfamiliar place, Valjean was greatly startled. The man, who obviously knew him as Mayor Madeleine, was a stooped old man who was partially lame. He was dressed like a peasant and wore a leather covering on his left knee that had a small bell attached. His face was in the shadow of the moonlight and was therefore not recognizable to Valjean.
Trembling all over, the man removed his cap and excitedly continued, “Why are you here Monsieur Madeleine? Where did you come from? Did you fall from heaven? That wouldn’t surprise me in the least. And look how you’re dressed, on such a cold night! You have no hat or coat.”
“Who are you and what building is this?” demanded Valjean.
“Oh, pardon me, but this is too much!” exclaimed the old man. “I am the man for whom you arranged this job, and this is the house where you yourself had me taken. Don’t you recognize me?”
“No,” said Valjean, with a puzzled expression on his face. “And how is it that you know me?”
“You saved my life,” the man answered.
The man turned slightly, and the moonlight outlined his profile. Suddenly Valjean recognized him as old Fauchelevent, the man he had once rescued from underneath his broken cart. Then he said, “Yes, of course, I remember you, Monsieur Fauchelevent. But what are you doing out so late tonight?”
“I’m covering the melons in the garden. With such a full moon, I figured it would be quite cold tonight, and I didn’t want them to freeze.” Then returning to the matter at hand, he added, “But tell me why you are here.”
Valjean, realizing he was now known to this man—at least as Madeleine—still proceeded cautiously. Then, in spite of being the intruder, he reversed their roles and became the questioner by asking, “What is this bell you are wearing on your knee?”
“This,” replied Fauchelevent, “is so I may be avoided.”
“What do you mean? Avoided?”
Old Fauchelevent winked, and said with a slight smile, “Oh, yes! You see, there are only women in this house—many of them young girls. I am not to be seen by them, so the bell gives them a warning I am coming. So when I come, they go.”
“What kind of house is this?” Valjean questioned.
“Come now, surely you know.”
“No, I really do not,” replied Valjean in a serious tone.
“But you got me the job here as the gardener?”
“Please refresh my memory, as though I knew nothing,” Valjean insisted.
“This is the Convent of the Petit Picpus in the Saint Antoine Quarter,” Fauchelevent reminded him. At these words, Valjean’s memory suddenly seemed to be restored. As the memories came flooding back to him, he marveled how chance—or more correctly, Providence—had brought him to the very place he himself had recommended for Fauchelevent after the old man had been crippled by the fall from his cart some two years ago.
Valjean then mumbled softly but with a sense of astonishment, “The Convent of the Petit Picpus.”
“Exactly!” old Fauchelevent resounded. “But tell me Monsieur Madeleine, how in the world did you manage to get in here? For even if you are a saint, you are still a man, and no man is allowed in here.”
“You’re certainly here, aren’t you?” retorted Valjean.
“Well, no man but me is allowed.”
“Still,” pleaded Valjean. “I must stay here.” Then leaning toward the old man, he whispered in a somber voice, “After all, Monsieur Fauchelevent, I saved your life.”
“Yes, I know. And I had to remind you of that,” the old man responded.
“Well, now you can repay the favor, for what I did for you two years ago?”
“It would be a blessing from God if I could do something for you! What do you want me to do?” Fauchelevent asked.
“I will explain everything,” Valjean said with a tone of assurance. “Do you have an extra room with a bed?”
“All I have is my small cabin over there, behind the ruins of the old convent. No one ever goes in there but me. It has three rooms in it.”
“Great! It’s settled then. Now, Monsieur Fauchelevent, I have two requests to make of you.”
“Certainly, what do you need?” the man asked kindly.
“First, that you not tell anyone what you know about me. And second, that you not attempt to learn anything more.”
Fauchelevent responded with a reassuring look and said, “Monsieur Madeleine, I know that you can do nothing dishonorable and that you have always been a man of God. Besides, it was you who got me this place to stay. It is yours, and I am your servant.”
Then, with a sense of urgency, Valjean said, “Please come with me. We will go and get the child.”
“There is a child!” the old man said in amazement. Then, without saying another word, he obediently followed Valjean, as a faithful dog follows his master.
Less than half an hour later, Cosette’s cheeks had become rosy once again by the heat of the fire, and she was sound asleep in the old gardener’s bed. Once they had put little Cosette safely to bed, Valjean and Fauchelevent sipped on a glass of wine and ate a bite of cheese, sitting before the crackling fire. Then, with the only bed in the house being occupied by Cosette, the men lay their tired bodies on piles of straw. Before he shut his eyes, Valjean mumbled quietly, yet loudly enough that Fauchelevent overheard, “I guess we will have to stay here forever.”
This remark rang through Fauchelevent’s ears all night long, causing him to wonder what had brought the dear Mayor Madeleine to him under such a cloud of mystery. And despite the fact both men were very tired, neither of them slept at all that night.
So it was into this little house that Jean Valjean had “fallen from heaven,” as Fauchelevent had expressed it. Now Valjean knew for sure that Javert had found him out and that Javert knew he had not been drowned when he fell from the ship in Toulon. Then, knowing Javert was on his trail once again, he knew he would be doomed if he walked from the convent onto the streets of Paris. He felt like a whirlwind had picked him up and deposited him in this convent. Therefore, he had but one thought—to remain there.
For a man in this unfortunate position, the convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of all places. It was the most dangerous because men were not allowed to be there. If he were discovered, he would be charged with a flagrant offense, and there would be only one step between the convent and prison. Yet it was the safest because, if he could manage to remain there, no one would ever think to look for him in such a place. The unlikelihood of a man being in this “impossible” place brought safety.