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Les Miserables - Volume 1 - Book 2 - Chapter 13
Episode 2711th May 2024 • Bite at a Time Books • Bree Carlile
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Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the twenty-seventh chapter of Les Miserables.

Come with us as we release one bite a day of one of your favorite classic novels, plays & short stories. Bree reads these classics like she reads to her daughter, one chapter a day. If you love books or audiobooks and want something to listen to as you're getting ready, driving to work, or as you're getting ready for bed, check out Bite at a Time Books!

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>> Speaker A: Take a look, in the book and let's see

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>> Brie Carlisle: Welcome.

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>> Brie Carlisle: To bite at a time books where we read you your favorite

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while we try to keep the text as close to the original as

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with Byte at a time books brand values

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today well be continuing.

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>> Brie Carlisle: les miserable by Victor Hugo

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chapter 13 Little

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Gervaise Jean

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Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from

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it. He set out at a very hasty pace

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through the fields, taking whatever roads

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and paths presented themselves to him

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without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing

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his steps. He wandered thus the whole

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morning without having eaten anything and without

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feeling hungry. He was the prey of a

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throng of novel sensations. He was

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conscious of a sort of rage. He did

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not know against whom it was directed.

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He could not have told whether he was touched or

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humiliated. There came over him at

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moments a strange emotion which he resisted

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and to which he opposed the hardness acquired during the last

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20 years of his life. This state

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of mind fatigued him. He perceived

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with dismay that the sort of frightful

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calm which the injustice of its misfortune had conferred

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upon him was giving way within

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him. He asked himself, what would replace

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this? At times he would have actually

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preferred to be in prison with the gendarmes. And

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that, thing should not have happened in this way. It

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would have agitated him less. Although

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the season was tolerably far advanced,

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there were still a few late flowers in the hedgerows here and

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there, whose odor, as he passed through them in

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his march, recalled to him memories of his childhood.

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His memories were almost intolerable to him.

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It was so long since they had recurred to him.

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Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day

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long. As the sun declined to its

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setting, casting long shadows athwart the

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soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat

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down behind a bush upon a large, ruddy plain which

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was absolutely deserted. There

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was nothing on the horizon except the alps,

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not even the spire of a distant village. Jean

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Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D

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A, path which intersected the plain past a few paces from

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the bush. In the middle of this meditation,

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which would have contributed not a little to render his

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rags terrifying to anyone who might have encountered

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him, a joyous sound became

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audible. He turned his head

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and saw a little savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up

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the path and singing his hurdy gurdy on

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his hip and his marmot box on his back,

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one of those gay and gentle children who go from land

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to land, affording a view of their knees through the holes in their

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trousers. Without stopping his

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song, the lad halted in his march from time to time

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and played at knucklebones with some coins, which he had in

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his hand. His whole fortune

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probably. Among this money there was

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140 sou piece. The child

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halted beside the bush without perceiving Jean

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Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous,

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which up to that time he had caught with a good deal of adroitness

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on the back of his hand. This time the

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40 sous piece escaped him and went rolling towards the

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brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.

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Jean Valjean set his foot upon it. In

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the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught

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sight of him. He showed no astonishment,

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but walked straight up to the man. The spot

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was absolutely solitary, as far as the

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eye could see. There was not a person on the plane or on the

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path. The only sound was the tiny,

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feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage

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which was traversing the heavens at an immense height.

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The child was standing with his back to the sun,

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which cast threads of gold in his hair and

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empurpled with its blood red gleam the savage face

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of Jean Valjean. Sir,

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said the little savoyard, with that childish confidence

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which is composed of ignorance and innocence.

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My money. What is your name?

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Said, Jean Valjean. Little gervaise,

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sir. Go away, said Jean

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Valjean. Sir, presumed the

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child. Give me back my money.

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Jean Valjean dropped his head and made no reply.

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The child began again. My money,

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sir. Jean Valjeans eyes remained fixed

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on the earth.

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>> Brie Carlisle: My piece of money.

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>> Brie Carlisle: cried the child.

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>> Brie Carlisle: My white piece. My silver.

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>> Brie Carlisle: It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him.

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The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook

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him. At the same time he made an effort to

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displace the big iron shod shoe which rested on his

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treasure.

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>> Brie Carlisle: I want my piece of money. My

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piece of 40 sous.

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>> Brie Carlisle: The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his

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head. He still remained seated.

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His eyes were troubled. He gazed at

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the child in a sort of amazement. Then

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he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a

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terrible voice. Whos there?

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Ay, sir, replied the child.

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>> Brie Carlisle: Little Gervaise, give me back my

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40 sous, if you please. Take your foot

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away, sir, if you please.

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>> Brie Carlisle: Then, irritated though he was so small and

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becoming almost menacing, come now, will.

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>> Brie Carlisle: You take your foot away? Take your foot away, or well,

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see,

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>> Brie Carlisle: Ah, its still you, said Jean Valjean.

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And rising abruptly to his feet, his foot still resting

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on the silver piece, he added, will you take

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yourself off? The frightened child looked at

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him, then began to tremble from head to foot.

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And after a few moments of stupor, he set out

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running at the top of his speed without daring to turn his neck

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or to utter a cry. Nevertheless,

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lack of breath, forced him to halt after a certain distance.

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And Jean Valjean heard him sobbing in the midst of his own

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reverie. At the end of a few moments, the

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child disappeared. The sun had

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set. The shadows were descending around Jean

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Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day.

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It is probable that he was feverish.

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He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude

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after the childs flight. A breath heaved his

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chest at, long and irregular intervals.

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His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of

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him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the

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shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which

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had fallen in the grass. All at

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once he shivered. He had just

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begun to feel the chill of evening. He settled

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his cap more firmly on his brow, sought

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mechanically to cross and button his blouse,

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advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel.

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At that moment he caught sight of the 40 soup

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use which his foot had half ground into the

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earth and which was shining among the pebbles.

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It was as though he had received a galvanic

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shock. What is this? He

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muttered between his teeth. He recoiled three

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paces, then halted without being able to detach his

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gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant

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before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the

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gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.

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At the expiration of a few moments, he darted convulsively

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towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened

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himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the

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plain, at the same time casting his eyes

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towards all points of the horizon. As he stood there

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erect and shivering like a terrified

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wild animal which is seeking refuge,

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he saw nothing. Night was

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falling. The plain was cold and

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vague. Great banks of violet haze were

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rising.

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In the gleam of the twilight. He said, ah, and

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set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had

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disappeared. After about 30 paces,

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he paused, looked about him and saw

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nothing. Then he shouted with all his

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might, little gervaise. Little

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Gervaise. He paused

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and waited. There was no

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reply. The landscape was gloomy and

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deserted. He was encompassed by space.

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There was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his

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gaze was lost and a silence which engulfed his

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voice. An icy north wind was

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blowing and imparted to things around him a sort of lugubrious

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life. The bushes shook their thin little

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arms with incredible fury. One would have

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said that they were threatening. In pursuing someone,

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he set out on his march again. Then

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he began to run, and from time to time

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he halted and shouted into that solitude with

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a voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate

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that it was possible to hear. Little Gervaise.

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Little gervaise. Assuredly,

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if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and would have taken good

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care not to show himself. But the child was

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no doubt already far away. He encountered

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a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and

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said, monsieur le cure, have you seen a child

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pass? No, said the priest.

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One named Little Gervaise. I have seen no

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one. He drew two five franc pieces from his

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money bag and handed them to the priest. Monsieur

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le cure, this is for your poor people. Monsieur

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le cure. He was a little lad, about ten years old, with a

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marmot, I think, and a hurdy gurdy, one of those

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savoyards, you know. Ive not seen

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him. Little Gervaise. There are no

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villages here. Can you tell me if

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he is like what you say, my friend? Hes a little

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stranger. Such persons pass through these

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parts. We know nothing of them.

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Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each

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with violence, and gave them to the priest. For your

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poor, he said. Then he added

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wildly, Monsieur le Abbe, have me

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arrested. I am a thief. The priest

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put spurs to his horse and fled in haste. Much

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alarmed, Jean Valjean set out on a

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run in the direction which he had first taken.

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In this way, he traversed a tolerably long

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distance, gazing, calling,

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shouting. But he met no one.

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Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something

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which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or

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crouching down. It turned out to be nothing

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but brushwood or rocks, nearly on a level with the

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earth. At length, at a

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spot where three paths intersected each other, he

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stopped. The moon had risen.

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He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last

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time. Little gervaise. Little

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gervaise. Little gervaise.

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His shout died away in the mist. Without even

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awakening an echo, he murmured, yet once

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more, little gervaise.

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But in a feeble and almost inarticulate

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voice, it was his last effort.

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His legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible

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power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil

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conscience. He fell exhausted

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on a large stone, his fists clenched

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in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried,

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I am a wretch. Then his heart

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burst and he began to cry.

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it was the first time that he had wept in 19

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years. When Jean Valjean left the

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bishops house, he was, as we have

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seen, quite thrown out of everything that had been his

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thought. Hitherto. He could not yield to the

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evidence of what was going on within him. He

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hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words

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of the old man. You have promised me to

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become an honest man. I buy your

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soul. I take it away from the spirit of

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perversity. I give it to the good

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God. This recurred to his mind

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unceasingly to this celestial

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kindness. He opposed pride, which is the fortress

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of evil within us. He was

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indistinctly conscious that the pardon of this

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priest was the greatest assault and the most

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formidable attack which had moved him yet that his

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obduracy was finally settled. If he resisted this

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clemency, that, if he yielded,

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he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions

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of other men had filled his soul through so many years

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and which pleased him. That this time

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it was necessary to conquer or to be conquered.

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And that a struggle, a, colossal and

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final struggle had been begun between his

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viciousness and the goodness of that man

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in the presence of these lights he

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proceeded like a man who is intoxicated

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as he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a

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distinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at

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dinner? That he understand all

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those mysterious murmurs which warn of importune

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the spirit at certain moments of life? That

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a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the

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solemn hour of his destiny. That there no longer

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remained a middle course for him. That if he were

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not henceforth the best of men, he would be

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the worst. That it behooved him now, so to

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speak, to mount higher than the bishop or fall

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lower than the conviction that if he wished to

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become good, he must become an angel. That

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if he wished to remain evil, he must become a monster.

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Here again, some questions must be put, which

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weve already put to ourselves elsewhere. Did

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he catch some shadow of all this in his thought,

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in a confused way? Misfortune,

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certainly, as we have said, does form the education

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of the intelligence. Nevertheless, it is

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doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to

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disentangle all that we have here indicated.

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If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught

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glimpses of rather than saw them,

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and they only succeeded in throwing him into

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an unutterable and almost painful state of

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emotion. On emerging from that black

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and deformed thing which is called the galleys,

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the bishop had hurt his soul. Thus,

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too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes. On emerging from the

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dark, the future life, the

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possible life which offered itself to him henceforth,

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all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors

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and anxiety. He no longer

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knew where he really was. Like an

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owl who should suddenly see the sun rise. The convict had

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been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue.

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That which was certain, that which he did

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not doubt, was that he was no longer the same

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man, that everything about him was

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changed, that it was no longer in his power

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to make it as though the bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched

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him in this state of mind, he had

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encountered little gervaise and had robbed him of

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40 sous. Why,

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he certainly could not have explained it. Was this

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the last effect in the supreme effort, as it were, of the

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evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys, a

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remnant of impulse, a result of what is

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called in statistics, acquired force.

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It was that. And it was also,

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perhaps even less than that.

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Let us say it simply. it was not he who

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stole. It was not the man.

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It was the beast who by habit

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and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that money,

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while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel

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and hitherto unheard of thoughts besetting it.

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When intelligence reawakened and beheld that action

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of the brute, Jean Valjean

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recoiled with anguish. And uttered a cry of

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terror. It was

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because strange phenomenon.

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And one which was possible only in the situation in which he

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found himself. In stealing the money from that

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child, he had done a thing of which he was no longer

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capable. However that may be,

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this last evil action had a decisive effect on

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him. It abruptly traversed that chaos which he

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bore in his mind. And dispersed it, placed on

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one side the thick obscurity and on the other

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the light. And acted on his soul in the

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state in which it then was. As certain chemical

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reagents act upon a troubled m mixture.

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By precipitating one element and clarifying the

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other. First of all, even

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before examining himself and reflecting

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all bewildered, like one who seeks to save

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himself. He tried to find the

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child in order to return his money to him.

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Then, when he recognized the fact that this was

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impossible, he halted in despair

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at the moment when he exclaimed, im a

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wretch. He had just perceived what he

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was. And he was already separated from

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himself to such a degree. That he seemed to

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himself to be no longer anything more than a phantom.

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And as if he had there before him

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in flesh and blood. The hideous galley

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convict Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand,

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his blasts on his hips, his knapsack

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filled with stolen objects. On his back, with his

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resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled

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with abominable projects.

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Excessive unhappiness had, as, we

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have remarked, made him in some sort a visionary.

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This, then, was in the nature of a vision.

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He actually saw that Jean Valjean,

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that sinister face before him.

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He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man

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was. And he was horrified by

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him. His brain was going through one of those

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violent and yet perfectly calm moments. In which

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reverie is so profound that it absorbs

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reality. One no longer

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beholds the object which one has before one.

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And one sees as though apart from oneself

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the figures which one has in ones own mind.

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Thus he contemplated himself, so to

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speak, face to face. And at the same

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time, athwart this hallucination. He

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perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light which he

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at first took for a torch.

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Unscrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with

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more attention. He recognized the fact that it

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possessed a human form. And that this torch was the

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bishop. His conscience weighed

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in turn these two men thus placed before

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it the bishop and Jean

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Valjean. Nothing less than the first was

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required to soften the second by one

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of those singular effects which are peculiar to this sort of

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ecstasies in proportion. As his reverie

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continued, as the bishop grew great

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and resplendent in his eyes, so

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did Jean Valjean grow less and

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vanish. After a certain

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time, he was no longer anything more than a shade.

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All at once, he disappeared.

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The bishop alone remained. He filled the

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whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent

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radiance. Jean Valjean wept.

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For a long time. He wept burning

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tears. He sobbed with more weakness

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than a woman, with more fright than a

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child. As he wept, daylight

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penetrated more and more clearly into his soul,

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an extraordinary light, a light at

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once ravishing and terrible.

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His past life, his first

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fault, his long expiation, his

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external brutishness, his internal

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hardness, his dismissal to liberty,

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rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance. What had

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happened to him at the bishops? The last thing

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that he had done, that theft of 40

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sous from a child, a crime all the more

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cowardly and all the more monstrous since it had come after

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the bishops. Pardon. All this

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recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to him,

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but with a clearness which he had never hitherto

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witnessed. He examined his

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life, and it seemed horrible to

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him, his soul, and it

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seemed frightful to him. In the meantime,

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a gentle light rusted over this life and the

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soul. It seemed to him that he beheld

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Satan by the light of paradise.

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How many hours did he weep thus?

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What did he do after he wept? Whither did he

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go? No one knew. The only thing which seems

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to be authenticated is that that same night, the

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carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, who

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arrived at d about 03:00 in the

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morning, saw as he traversed the

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street in which the bishops residence was situated,

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a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on the

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pavement in the shadow in front of the door of

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Monseigneur, welcome. Thank you for

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joining bite at a time books today. while we read a bite of one of

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your favorite classics. Again, my name

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is Brie Carlisle, and I hope you come back

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tomorrow, for the next bite of le

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Miserable.

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>> Brie Carlisle: Don't forget to sign up for our

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newsletter@biteoutimebooks.com, dot. And

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check out the shop. You can check out the show notes or

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our website, byteadittimebooks.com, for

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the rest of the links for our show. wed love to hear from you on

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social media as well.

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>> Speaker A: mountains we can climb,

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take your words, go word, line by

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line, one bite at a time.

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