Mademoiselle Baptistine turned round, beheld the man entering, and half started up in terror; then, turning her head by degrees towards the fireplace again, she began to observe her brother, and her face became once more profoundly calm and serene.
The Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man.
As he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the newcomer what he desired, the man rested both hands on his staff, directed his gaze at the old man and the two women, and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he said, in a loud voice:—
“See here.
My name is Jean Valjean.
I am a convict from the galleys.
I have passed nineteen years in the galleys.
I was liberated four days ago, and am on my way to Pontarlier, which is my destination.
I have been walking for four days since I left Toulon.
I have travelled a dozen leagues to-day on foot.
This evening, when I arrived in these parts, I went to an inn, and they turned me out, because of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the town-hall.
I had to do it.
I went to an inn.
They said to me,
‘Be off,’ at both places.
No one would take me.
I went to the prison; the jailer would not admit me.
I went into a dog’s kennel; the dog bit me and chased me off, as though he had been a man.
One would have said that he knew who I was.
I went into the fields, intending to sleep in the open air, beneath the stars.
There were no stars.
I thought it was going to rain, and I re-entered the town, to seek the recess of a doorway.
Yonder, in the square, I meant to sleep on a stone bench. A good woman pointed out your house to me, and said to me,
‘Knock there!’
I have knocked.
What is this place?
Do you keep an inn?
I have money—savings. One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous, which I earned in the galleys by my labor, in the course of nineteen years.
I will pay.
What is that to me?
I have money.
I am very weary; twelve leagues on foot; I am very hungry.
Are you willing that I should remain?”
“Madame Magloire,” said the Bishop, “you will set another place.”
The man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the table.
“Stop,” he resumed, as though he had not quite understood; “that’s not it.
Did you hear?
I am a galley-slave; a convict. I come from the galleys.”
He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded.
“Here’s my passport.
Yellow, as you see.
This serves to expel me from every place where I go.
Will you read it?
I know how to read.
I learned in the galleys.
There is a school there for those who choose to learn.
Hold, this is what they put on this passport:
‘Jean Valjean, discharged convict, native of’—that is nothing to you—‘has been nineteen years in the galleys: five years for house-breaking and burglary; fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four occasions.
He is a very dangerous man.’
There!