And now he perceived what in his blissful state he had not noticed, that the man addressing him was in very bad shape. He was terribly pale.
Valjean took his arm out of the sling which still supported it, removed the bandage, and held his hand out to Marius.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my thumb,’ he said. ‘There never has been.’ He went on: ‘It was right that I should not attend your wedding party. I have kept in the background as much as possible. I invented this injury in order to avoid signing the marriage deeds, which might have nullified them.’
Marius stammered: ‘But what does it mean?’
‘It means,’ said Valjean, ‘that I have been in the galleys. I was imprisoned for nineteen years, first for theft and later as a recidivist. I am at present breaking parole.’
Marius might recoil in horror, might refuse to believe, but in the end he was forced to accept it. Indeed, as commonly happens, he went further. He shuddered as an appalling thought occurred to him.
‘You must tell me everything – everything!’ he cried. ‘You are really Cosette’s father!’ And in horror he took a step backwards.
Jean Valjean raised his head with a gesture of such dignity that he seemed to grow in stature.
‘In this you must believe me,’ he said, ‘although the sworn oaths of such as I are not accepted in any court of law. I swear to you before God, Monsieur Pontmercy, that I am not Cosette’s father or in any way related to her. My name is not Fauchelevent but Jean Valjean. I am a peasant from Faverolles, where once I earned my living as a tree-pruner. You may be sure of that.’
‘But what proof –?’ stammered Marius.
‘My word is the proof.’
Marius looked at him. He was melancholy but calm, with a kind of stony sincerity from which no lie could emerge. The truth was apparent in his very coldness.
‘I believe you,’ said Marius.
Jean Valjean bowed his head in acknowledgement
‘So what am I to Cosette?’ he went on. ‘Someone who came upon her quite by chance. Ten years ago I did not know that she existed. I love her certainly, as who would not? When one is growing old one has a fatherly feeling for all small children. You may perhaps be prepared to believe that I have something that can be called a heart. She was an orphan and she needed me. That is how I came to love her. Children are so defenceless that any man, even a man like me, may want to protect them. That is what I did for Cosette. Whether an act so trifling can be termed a good deed I do not know; but if it is, then let it be said that I did it. Let it be set down in extenuation. Now she has gone out of my life; our roads run in different directions. Besides, there is nothing more that I can do for her. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her life has changed, and she has gained by the change. As for the six hundred thousand francs, I will anticipate your question. It was a sum held for her in trust. As to how it came into my hands, that is quite unimportant. I have fulfilled my trust, and nothing more can be required of me. And I have concluded the matter by telling you my name. I have done so for my own sake, because I wanted you to know who I am.’
Jean Valjean looked steadily at Marius.
As for Marius, his thoughts were tumultuous and incoherent. We all have moments of bewilderment in which our wits seem to desert us; we say the first thing that comes into our head, although it is not the right thing. There are sudden revelations that cannot be endured, inducing a state of intoxication like that caused by a draught of some insidious wine. Marius was so stupefied that he talked almost as though Valjean had done him a deliberate injury.
‘Why have you told me all this? Nobody forced you to. You could have kept it to yourself. You aren’t being pursued, are you? No one has denounced you. You must have some reason of your own for blurting it out like this. Why have you done so? There must be more – something that you haven’t told me. I want to know what it is.’
‘My reason …’ said Jean Valjean, in a voice so low that he might have been talking to himself. ‘Why should an ex-convict proclaim himself to be an ex-convict? Well, it’s a strange reason – a matter of honesty. There is a bond in my heart that cannot be broken, and such bonds become stronger as one grows older. Whatever may happen in one’s life, they still hold. If I could have broken that bond, dishonoured it, all would have been well. I could simply have gone away. Coaches leave from the Rue Bouloi and you are happy, there was nothing to keep me. I tried to tear out that bond, but I could not do it without tearing out my heart as well. I thought to myself, since I cannot live anywhere else, I must stay here. You will think me a fool, and rightly. Why not just stay and say nothing? You have offered me a home. Cosette – but I should now call her Madame Pontmercy – loves me. Your grandfather would welcome me. We could live together as a happy, united family.’
But as he spoke that last word Jean Valjean’s expression changed. He stood scowling at the floor as though he would like to kick a hole in it, and there was a new ring in his voice.
‘A family! But I belong to no family, least of all yours. I am sundered from all mankind. There are moments when I wonder whether I ever had a father and mother. Everything ended for me with that child’s marriage. She is happy with the man she loves, a worthy old man to watch over her, a comfortable home, servants, everything that makes for happiness; but I said to myself, “That is not for me.” I might have lied and deceived you all by continuing to be “Monsieur Fauchelevent”. I did it where she was concerned; but now it is a matter of my own conscience and I can do it no longer. That is my answer to you when you ask me why I have felt compelled to speak. Conscience is a strange thing. It would have been so easy to say nothing. I spent the whole night trying to persuade myself to do so. I did my utmost. I gave myself excellent reasons. But it was no use. I could not break that bond in my heart or silence the voice that speaks to me when I am alone. That is why I have come here to confess everything to you, or nearly everything. There is no point in telling you things that only concern myself. I have told you what matters, disclosed my secret to you, and, believe me, it was not easy to do. I had to wrestle with myself all night. You may believe me when I say that in concealing my real name I was harming no one. It was Fauchelevent himself who gave it me, in return for a service I had done him. I could have been very happy in the home you have offered me, keeping to my own corner, disturbing no one, content to be under the same roof as Cosette. To continue to be Monsieur Fauchelevent would have settled everything – except my conscience. No matter how great the happiness around me, my soul would have been in darkness. The circumstances of happiness are not enough, there must also be peace of mind. I should have been a figure of deceit, a shadow in your sunshine, sitting at your table with the thought that if you knew who and what I really was you would turn me out – the very servants would have exclaimed in horror! When we were alone together, your grandfather, you two children and myself, talking unconstrainedly, all seeming at our ease, one of us would have been a stranger, a dead man battening on the living; and condemned to this for the rest of his life! Does it not make you shudder? I should have been not only the most desolate of men but the most infamous, living the same lie day after day. Cheating you day after day, my beloved, trusting children! It is not so easy to keep silent when the silence is a lie. I should never have ceased to be sickened by my own treachery and cowardice. My “good morning” would have been a lie, and my “good night”. I should have slept with the lie, eaten with it, returned Cosette’s angelic smile with a grimace of the damned. And all for what? To be happy! But what right have I to happiness? I tell you, monsieur, I am an outcast from life.’
Jean Valjean paused. Marius had been listening without attempting to interrupt, for there are times when interruption is impossible. Valjean again lowered his voice, but now it contained a harsh note.
‘You may ask why I should tell you this, if I have not been exposed and am not in any danger of pursuit. But I have been exposed, I am pursued – by myself! That is a pursuer that does not readily let go.’ He
gripped his coat collar and thrust it out towards Marius. ‘Look at that fist,’ the said. ‘Don’t you think it has a firm grip on that collar? That is what conscience is like. If you want to be happy you must have no sense of duty, because a sense of duty is implacable. To have it is to be punished, but it is also to be rewarded, for it thrusts you into a hell in which you feel the presence of God at your side. Your heart may be broken, but you are at peace with yourself.’
Then again his voice changed, containing a note of poignancy.
‘This is not a matter of common sense, Monsieur Pontmercy. I am an honourable man. In debasing myself in your eyes I am raising myself in my own. Yes, an honourable man; but I should not be one if, through my fault, you continued to esteem me. That is the cross I bear, that any esteem I may win is falsely won; it is a thought that humiliates and shames me, that I can only win the respect of others at the cost of despising myself. So I have to take a stand. I am a felon acting according to his conscience. It may be a contradiction in terms, but what else can I do? I made a pact with myself and I am holding to it. There are chances that create duties. So many things, Monsieur Pontmercy, have happened to me in my life.’
Once again Jean Valjean paused. Then he resumed talking with an effort, as though the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
‘When a man is under a shadow of this kind he has no more right to inflict it upon others without their knowledge than he has to infect them with the plague. To draw near to the healthy, to touch them with hands that are secretly contagious, that is a shameful thing. Fauchelevent may have lent me his name, but I have no right to use it. A name is an identity. Although I was born a peasant, monsieur, I have done a little reading and thinking in my time; I have learnt the value of things. As you see, I can express myself fluently. I have done something to educate myself. To make use of a borrowed name is an act of dishonesty, as much a theft as to steal a purse or a watch. I cannot cheat decent people in that way – never, never, never! Better to suffer the tortures of the damned! And that is why I have told you all this.’ He sighed and added a last word: ‘Once I stole a loaf of bread to stay alive; but now I cannot steal a name in order to go on living.’
‘Go on living!’ cried Marius. ‘Surely you don’t need the name simply for that.’
‘I know what it means to me,’ said Valjean and nodded his head several times.
For a time there was silence. Both men were occupied with their own thoughts. Marius was seated by a table with his chin resting on his hand. Valjean had been pacing up and down. He stopped in front of a mirror and stood motionless, staring into it but seeing nothing. Then, as though replying to some observations of his own, he said:
‘For the present, at least, I have a sense of relief.’
He began once more to pace the room. Then, seeing Marius’s eyes upon him, he said:
‘I drag my leg a little as I walk. Now you know why … I ask you to consider this, monsieur. Let us suppose that I had said nothing but had come to live with you as Monsieur Fauchelevent, to share your daily lives, to walk with Madame Pontmercy in the Tuileries and the Place Royale, to be accepted as one of yourselves and then one day, when we are talking and laughing together, a voice cries “Jean Valjean!” and the terrible hand of the police descends on my shoulder and strips the mask away! … What do you think of that?’
Marius had nothing to say.
‘Now you know why I could not keep silent. But no matter. Be happy, be Cosette’s guardian angel, live in the sun and do not worry about how an outcast goes about his duty. You are facing a wretched man, monsieur.’
Marius walked slowly across the room, holding out his hand. But he had to reach for Valjean’s hand, which made no response, and it was like grasping a hand of marble.
‘My grandfather has friends’ he said. ‘I will get you a reprieve.’
‘There is no need,’ said Valjean. ‘The fact that I am presumed dead is enough.’ Releasing his hand from Marius’s clasp he added, with an implacable dignity: ‘All that matters is that I should do my duty. The only reprieve I need is that of my own conscience.’
At this moment the door at the other end of the salon was half-opened and Cosette’s head peeped round it. Her hair was charmingly disordered and her eyes still heavy with sleep. With a movement like that of a bird peeping out of its nest she looked first at her husband and then at Jean Valjean, and exclaimed laughingly,
‘I’m sure you’ve been talking politics. How absurd of you, when you might have been talking to me!’
Valjean started. Marius stammered, ‘Cosette …’ and then was silent. They might have been two guilty men.
Cosette continued to gaze at them, her eyes shining.
‘I’ve caught you out,’ she said. ‘I heard a few words that father Fauchelevent spoke just as I opened the door. Something about conscience and duty. Well, that’s politics and I won’t have it. Nobody’s allowed to talk politics the day after a wedding.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Marius. ‘We were talking business. We were discussing how to invest your six hundred thousand francs.’
‘Is that all?’ said Cosette. ‘Then I’m going to join you.’ And she walked determinedly into the room.
She was wearing a voluminous white peignoir with wide sleeves which covered her from neck to toes. She looked herself over in a long mirror and then exclaimed in sheer delight.
‘Once upon a time there was a king and queen … Oh, I’m so happy!’ After which she curtseyed to Marius and Valjean. ‘And now I’m going to sit down with you. Luncheon is in half an hour. You can talk about anything you like and I won’t interrupt. I’m a very good girl. I know men have to talk.’
Marius took her by the arm and said affectionately:
‘We were talking business.’
‘By the way,’ said Cosette, ‘when I opened my window I saw a flock of starlings in the garden – real ones, not masks. This is Ash Wednesday, but the birds can’t be expected to know that.’
‘I said we were talking business, dearest. Figures and that sort of thing. It would only bore you.’
‘What a nice necktie you’re wearing, Marius. You’re looking very smart. No, it wouldn’t bore me.’
‘I’m sure it would.’
‘No. I shan’t understand, but I shall enjoy listening. When it’s two people you love the words don’t matter, the sound of their voices is enough. I just want to be with you, and so I’m going to stay.’
‘My beloved Cosette, it’s really impossible.’
‘Impossible!’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ said Cosette. ‘And I was going to tell you such interesting things. For instance, that grandfather is still asleep and Aunt Gillenormand has gone to Mass, and father Fauchelevent’s chimney is smoking and Nicolette has sent for the sweep, and she and Toussaint have quarrelled already because she teased Toussaint about her stammer. You see, you don’t know a thing about what’s going on. Impossible, is it? Well, you be careful, or I’ll say “impossible” to you, and then where would you be! Darling Marius, please, please let me stay with you.’
‘My sweet Cosette, I do promise you that we have to be alone.’
‘But surely I don’t count as just anyone.’
Jean Valjean had not spoken a word. She turned to him.
‘In the first place, father, I must ask you to come and kiss me. Why haven’t you been standing up for me? What sort of a father are you? Can’t you see how unhappy I am? My husband beats me. So come and kiss me at once.’
Valjean moved towards her and she turned back to Marius.
‘As for you, I’m frowning at you.’
Valjean had drawn close, and she offered him her forehead to kiss. But then she took a step back.
‘Father, how pale you are! Is your hand still hurting you?’
‘No, it’s better,’ said Valjean.
‘Well, did you sleep badly?’
‘No.’
‘Are you feeling unhappy?’
‘Then kiss me. If you’re well and happy I shan’t scold you.’
Again she offered him her forehead, and he touched it with his lips.
‘But you must smile.’
He did so, a spectral smile.
‘And now you must take my side against my husband.’
‘Cosette …’ said Marius.
‘Be cross with him. Tell him I can stay here. You can talk in front of me. You must think I’m very silly. Business indeed, investing money and all that nonsense – as if it were so difficult to understand! Men make mysteries out of nothing. I want to stay. I’m looking particularly pretty this morning, aren’t I, Marius?’
She turned to him with a look of enchanting archness and it was as though a spark passed between them. The presence of a third party was unimportant.
‘I love you,’ said Marius.
‘I adore you.’
And they fell into each other’s arms.
‘And now,’ said Cosette smoothing her peignoir with a little smile of triumph, ‘I’m staying.’
‘My dear, no,’ said Marius beseechingly. “There’s something we have got to settle.’
‘It’s still no?’
‘I assure you, it’s impossible.’
‘Well, of course, when you talk to me in that solemn voice … Very well then, I’ll go. Father, you didn’t support me. You and my husband are both tyrants. I shall complain to grandfather. And if you think I’m going to come back and talk sweet nothings to you, you’re very much mistaken. I shall wait for you to come to me, and you’ll find that you’ll very soon get bored without me. So now I’m going.’
She went out; but a moment later the door opened again and her glowing face reappeared peeping round it. ‘I’m very cross with you both!’ she said.
The door closed once more and the darkness returned. It was as though a ray of light had lost its way and flashed through a world of shadow.
Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774) Page 137