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

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>> Brie Carlisle: So.

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line, one bite at a time.

>> Brie Carlisle: Welcome.

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

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>> Brie Carlisle: Values today well be

continuing.

Les miserable by Victor Hugo

chapter three a tempest in a

skull the reader

has no doubt already divined that

Monsieur Madeleine is no other than Jean Valjean.

We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience.

The moment has now come. We must take another look

into it. We do so not

without emotion and trepidation. There

is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of

contemplation. The eye of the spirit

can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more

shadow than in man. It can fix itself

on no other thing which is more formidable, more

complicated, more mysterious, and more

infinite. There is a spectacle more grand

than the sea. it is heaven. There is

a spectacle more grand than heaven. It is the

inmost recesses of the soul to make

the poem of the human conscience, were it only

with reference to a single man, were it only

in connection with the basest of men, would be

to blend all epics into one superior and

definitive epoch. Conscience is the chaos

of chimeras of lusts and of

temptations, the furnace of

dreams, the layer of ideas of which we are

ashamed. It is the pandemonium of

sophisms. It is the battlefield of the

passions. Penetrate, at certain

hours past the livid face of a human being who is

engaged in reflection and look behind.

Gaze into that soul, gaze into

that obscurity. There, beneath that

external silence, battles of giants, like those

recorded in Homer, are in progress.

Skirmishes of dragons and hydras and

swarms of phantoms, as in Milton,

visionary circles, as in Dante.

What a solemn thing is this infinity which every

man bears within him and which he measures with

despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions

of his life. Algieri one day

met with a sinister looking door before which he

hesitated. Here is one before us

upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let

us enter nevertheless. We have but little

to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean

Valjean after the adventure with little Dravaille.

From that moment forth, he was,

as we have seen, a totally different man.

What the bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried

out. It was more than a

transformation, it was a

transfiguration. He succeeded

in disappearing, sold the bishop silver,

reserving only the candlesticks as a souvenir,

crept from town to town, traversed

France, came to M. Sir, M. Conceived M.

The idea which we have mentioned, accomplished

what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself

safe from seizure and inaccessible,

thenceforth established at M. Sur

M, happy M. In feeling his conscience

saddened by the past and the first half of his

existence belied by the last. He lived

in peace, reassured and

hopeful, having henceforth only two

thoughts, to conceal his name and to

sanctify his life, to escape men

and to return to God. These

two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they

formed but a single one. There both

were equally absorbing and imperative and ruled his slightest

actions. In general, they conspired to

regulate the conduct of his life. They turned him

towards the gloom, they rendered him kindly

and simple. They counseled him to the same

things. Sometimes, however, they

conflicted. In that case, as the

reader will remember, the man whom all the country of

M. Sur M called, Monsieur Madeleine, did not

hesitate to sacrifice the first, to the second,

his security, to his virtue.

Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his

prudence, he had preserved the bishops

candlesticks, worn mourning for him,

summoned and interrogated all the little savoyards

who passed that way, collected information

regarding the families at Favarole, and saved old

Faucheleverts life. Despite the

disquieting insinuations of Javert,

it seemed, as we have already remarked, as

though he thought, following the example of all

those who have been wise, holy and just,

that his first duty was not towards himself.

At the same time, it must be

confessed nothing just like this had yet presented

itself. Never had the two ideas

which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we are

narrating engaged in so serious a

struggle. He understood this

confusedly but profoundly at the very first words

pronounced by Javert when the latter entered his

study. At the moment when that

name, what she had buried beneath so many layers,

was so strangely articulated, he was

struck with stupor and as though

intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his

destiny. And through this stupor he felt that

shudder which precedes great shocks.

He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm,

like a soldier at the approach of an assault.

He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings

descending upon his head. As he

listened to Javert, the first thought

which occurred to him was to go, to run

and denounce himself, to take that chant

Mathieu out of prison and place himself there.

This was as painful and as poignant as an

incision in the living flesh. Then

it passed away and he said.

>> Brie Carlisle: To himself, we will see. We will

see.

>> Brie Carlisle: He repressed this first generous instinct

and recoiled. Before heroism

it would be beautiful, no doubt, after

the bishops holy words, after so many years

of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of

a penitence admirably begun, if

this man had not flinched for an instant,

even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture,

but had continued to walk with the same step towards this

yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay

heaven, that would have been

beautiful, but it was not

thus. We must render an account of the things

which went on in this soul and we can only tell what there

was there. He was carried away at

first by the instinct of self preservation.

He rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled

his emotions, took into consideration javerts

presence. That great danger

postponed all decision with the firmness of terror,

shook off thought as to what he had to do

and resumed his calmness. As a warrior picks up his

buckler, he remained in the state

during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within

a profound tranquility without.

He took no preservative measures, as they may be

called. Everything was still

confused and jostling together in his brain.

His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form

of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing

about himself. Except that he had

received a great blow. He

repaired to fantines bed of suffering as usual.

And prolonged his visit through a

kindly instinct. Telling himself that he must behave

thus. And recommend her well to the sisters. In

case he should be obliged to be absent himself.

He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to

Arras. And without having the least in the world made

up his mind to this trip. He said to

himself that being as he was beyond

the shadow of any suspicion. There could be nothing out of

the.

>> Brie Carlisle: Way in being a witness to what.

>> Brie Carlisle: Was to take place. And he engaged the Tilbury

from chauffeur in order to be prepared. In any event,

he dined with a good deal of appetite.

On returning to his room, he communed with himself.

He examined the situation and

found it unprecedented. So

unprecedented that in the midst of his reverie. He rose from his

chair. Moved by some inexplicable impulse of

anxiety, and bolted his door.

He feared lest something more should enter.

He was barricading himself against possibilities.

A moment later, he extinguished his light.

It embarrassed him. It seemed to

him as though he might be seen.

By whom? Alas.

That on which he desired to close the door had already

entered. That which he desired to blind was

staring him in the face. His

conscience, his

conscience. That is to say,

God. Nevertheless, he deluded himself.

At first he had a feeling of security

and of solitude. The bolt once

drawn, he thought himself impregnable. The

candle extinguished. He felt himself invisible.

Then he took possession of himself.

He set his elbows on the table. Leaned, his head on

his hand. And began to meditate in the dark.

>> Brie Carlisle: Where do I stand?

>> Brie Carlisle: Am I not dreaming?

>> Brie Carlisle: What have I heard? Is it really true that I have

seen that Javert. And that he spoke to me in that manner? who can

that chant, Mathieu, be? so he resembles me. Is it

possible, when I reflect. That yesterday I was so

tranquil. And so far from suspecting anything?

What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is

there in this incident? What will the end be?

What is to be done?

>> Brie Carlisle: This was the torment in which he found himself.

His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas.

They passed like waves. And he clutched his brow in both

hands to arrest them. nothing but anguish extricated

itself from this tumult. Which overwhelmed his will and his

reason. And from which he sought to draw proof

and resolution. His head was

burning. He went to the window and threw it wide

open. There were no stars in the

sky. He returned and seated

himself at the table. The first

hour passed in this manner.

Gradually, however, vague

outlines began to take form and affix themselves

in his meditation. And he was able to catch a glimpse

with precision. Of the reality. not m the whole situation, but

some of the details. He began

by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary

as was the situation, he was

completely master of it. This

only caused an increase of his stupor.

Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned

to his actions. All that he had made up to that

day. Had been nothing but a hole in which to bury his name.

That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self

communion during his sleepless nights, was

to ever hear that name pronounced. He had said

to himself that that would be the end of all things for

him. That on the day when that name made its

reappearance. It would cause his new life to vanish from about

him. And, who knows?

Perhaps even his new soul within him also.

He shuddered at the very thought that this was possible.

Assuredly, if anyone had said to him at such moments. That the

hour would come when that name would ring in his ears,

when the hideous words Jean Valjean would suddenly

emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him.

When that formidable light, capable of

dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself.

Would suddenly blaze forth above his head. And

that that name would not menace him.

That that light would but produce an obscurity more

dense. That this rent veil would but increase

the mystery. That this earthquake would

solidify his edifice. That this prodigious

incident would have no other result so far as he was

concerned. If so, it seemed good to him.

And that of rendering his existence at once clearer

and more impenetrable. And that out of his

confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean,

the good and worthy citizen, Monsieur Madeleine, would

emerge more honored, more peaceful and more

respected than ever. If

anyone had told him that, he.

>> Brie Carlisle: Would have tossed his head.

>> Brie Carlisle: And regarded the words as those of a madman.

Well, all this was

precisely what had just come to pass.

All that accumulation of impossibilities was a

fact. And God had permitted these wild

fancies to become real things.

His reverie continued to grow clearer. He

came more and more to an understanding of his position.

It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some

inexplicable dream. And that he found himself slipping

down a declivity in the middle of the night,

erect, shivering, holding back, all in

vain, on the very brink of the abyss.

He distinctly perceived in the darkness a

stranger, a man unknown to

him, whom, destiny had mistaken for

him and whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his

stead. In order that the gulf might close once more,

it was necessary that someone,

himself or that other man should fall into

it. He had only let things

take their course. The light

became complete and he acknowledged this to

himself, that his place was empty in the

galleys, that do what he would. It was still

awaiting him that the theft from little

Gervais had led him back to it, that this

vacant place would await him and draw him on until he

filled it. That this was inevitable and

fatal. And then he said to himself

that.

>> Brie Carlisle: At this moment he had a substitute.

That it appeared that a certain chant Methue had that

ill luck and that as regards himself being

present in the galleys and the person of that chant Mathieu

present in society under the name of Monsieur

Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear,

provided that he did not prevent men from stealing over the

head of that chant Methue the stone of

infamy, which, like the stone of the

sepulchre, falls once, never to rise

again.

>> Brie Carlisle: All this was so strange and so violent

that there suddenly took place in him that indescribable

movement which no man feels more than two or three

times in the course of his life. A sort

of convulsion of the conscience which

stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart,

which is composed of irony, of joy

and of despair, in which may be called an

outburst of inward laughter.

He hastily relighted his candle.

>> Brie Carlisle: Well, what then?

>> Brie Carlisle: He said to himself.

>> Brie Carlisle: What am I afraid of? What is there in all that

for.

>> Brie Carlisle: Me to think about?

>> Brie Carlisle: I am safe. All is over.

I had but one partly open door through which my past

might invade my life. And behold, that door is

walled up forever. That Javert who has

been annoying me so long, that, terrible instinct

which.

>> Brie Carlisle: Seemed to have divined me, which had divined

me. Good God.

>> Brie Carlisle: And which followed me everywhere, that frightful

hunting dog, always making a point at me, is thrown

off the scent, engaged.

>> Brie Carlisle: Elsewhere, absolutely turned from the

trail.

>> Brie Carlisle: Henceforth he is satisfied. He will

leave me in peace. He has his Jean

Valjean, who knows, it is even

probable that he will.

>> Brie Carlisle: Wish to leave town.

>> Brie Carlisle: And all this has been brought about without any aid from

me, and I count for nothing in it. Ah,

But where is the misfortune in this? Upon my

honor, people would think to see me that some

catastrophe had happened to me. After all,

if it does bring harm to someone, that is not my fault in

the least. It is providence which has done it

all. It is because it wishes it so. It

to be evidently. Have I the right to

disarrange what it has arranged. What do I

ask now? Why should I meddle? It does

not concern me what im not

satisfied. But what more do I want? The goal

to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream

of my nights, the object of my prayers to

heaven security, I, have now

attained. It is God who wills it. I can

do nothing against the will of God. And why does

God will it? In order that I may continue what

I have begun, that I may do good. That

I may 1 day be a grand and encouraging

example. That it may be said at last that

a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have

undergone. And to that virtue to which I

have returned. Really, I do not understand

why I was afraid a little while ago. To enter

the house of that good cure. And to ask his

advice. This is evidently what he would have

said to me. It is settled. Let

things take their course. Let the good God do as

he likes.

>> Brie Carlisle: Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own

conscience.

>> Brie Carlisle: Bending over what may be called his.

>> Brie Carlisle: Own abyss, he rose from his chair and began

to pace the room. Come, said

he.

>> Brie Carlisle: Let us think no more about it. My resolve

is taken.

>> Brie Carlisle: But he felt no joy. Quite the

reverse. One can no more prevent thought

from recurring to an idea. Than one can the sea from

returning to the shore. The sailor calls it

the tide. The guilty man calls it

remorse. God upheaves the soul as he

does the ocean. After the expiration of a

few moments, do what he would. He

resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke

and he who listened, saying that which he would.

>> Brie Carlisle: Have preferred to ignore.

>> Brie Carlisle: And listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear.

Yielding to that mysterious power which said to him,

think as it said to another condemned man

2000 years ago.

March on. Before proceeding

further. And in order to make ourselves fully

understood, let us insist upon

one necessary observation. It is

certain that people do talk to themselves. There is

no living being who has not done it.

>> Brie Carlisle: It may even be said that the.

>> Brie Carlisle: Word is never a more magnificent mystery. Than when it goes

from thought to conscience within a man.

And when it returns from conscience to thought.

It is in this sense only that the words so often

employed in this chapter, he said, he

exclaimed, must be understood.

One speaks to oneself, talks to

oneself, exclaims to oneself. Without

breaking the external silence. There is a great

tumult everything about us talks

except the mouth. The realities of the soul

are nonetheless realities because they are not visible and

palpable. So he asked himself where he

stood. He interrogated himself upon

that settled resolve. He confessed to himself

that all that he had just arranged in his mind was

monstrous. That, to let things take their

course, to let the good God do as he liked,

was simply horrible. To allow this

error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to

hinder it, to lend himself to it through his

silence. To do nothing, in short, was to

do everything. That this was

hypocritical baseness in the last degree.

That it was a base, cowardly,

sneaking, abject, hideous crime.

For the first time in eight years,

the wretched man had just tasted the bitter savor of an

evil thought and of an evil action.

He spit it out with disgust. He

continued to question himself. He asked

himself severely what he had meant by this. my object is

at hand. He declared to himself that his

life really had an object. But

what object? To conceal his

name? To deceive the police?

Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he

had done? Had he not another

and a grand object which was the true

one. To save not his person, but

his soul. To become honest and good

once more? To be a just man?

Was it not that, above all, that

alone which he had always desired. Which the

bishop had enjoined upon him to shut the door on his

past? But he was not

shutting it, great God. He was

reopening it by committing an infamous action.

He was becoming a thief once more. And the most odious of

thieves. He was robbing another of his

existence, his life, his

peace, his place in the sunshine. He was

becoming an assassin. He was

murdering, morally murdering a wretched

man. He was inflicting on him that frightful, living

death, that death between the open sky, which is called the

galleys. On the other hand, to

surrender himself, to save that man. Struck down

with so melancholy an error. To resume his own

name. To become once more out of duty

the convict Jean Valjean. That

was in truth, to achieve his

resurrection. And to close forever that hell

when she had just emerged. To fall back there in

appearance was to escape from it in reality.

This, must be done. He had done nothing.

If he did not do all this, his whole life

was useless. All his penitence was

wasted. There was no longer any need of

saying, what is the use? He felt that

the bishop was there, that the bishop

was present all the more because he was dead. That

the bishop was gazing fixedly at him. That

henceforth, Mayor Madeleine, with all his

virtues, would be abominable to him. And that the

convict Jean Valjean would be pure and

admirable in his sight. That men

beheld his mask, but that the bishop

saw his face, that men

saw his life, but that, the bishop beheld his

conscience. So he must go to Aerys,

deliver the false Jean Valjean and denounce the real

one. Alas, that was the greatest

of sacrifices, the most poignant of

victories. The last step to take.

But it must be done. Sad

fate. He would enter into sanctity only

in the eyes of God. When he returned to infamy in the eyes of

men. Well, said he,

let us decide upon this.

>> Brie Carlisle: Let us do our duty. let us save this man.

>> Brie Carlisle: He uttered these words aloud without perceiving

that he was speaking aloud. He took his

books, verified them and put them in

order. He flung in the fire a bundle of bills

which he had against petty and embarrassed

tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a

letter, and.

>> Brie Carlisle: On the envelope it might have been.

>> Brie Carlisle: Read, had there been anyone in his chamber at that

moment. To Monsieur Lafitte, banker,

rue d'Artois, Paris, he drew

from his secretary a pocketbook which contained several

banknotes in the passport, of which he had made use

that same year when he went to the elections.

Anyone who had seen him during the execution of these various

acts into which there entered such grave

thought. Would have had no suspicion of what was going

on within him. Only

occasionally did his lips move. At

other times, he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some

point of the wall, as though there existed at that

point something which he wished to elucidate or

interrogate. When he had finished the

letter to Monsieur Lafitte, he put it into

his pocket, together with the pocketbook, and

began his walk. Once more, his

reverie had not swerved from its course.

He continued to see his duty clearly written in

luminous letters which flared before his eyes and changed

its place as he altered the direction of his

glance. Go. Tell your name.

Denounce yourself. In the same

way, he beheld as though they had passed before

him invisible forms. The two ideas which had, up

to that time, formed the double rule of his soul,

the concealment of his name, the

sanctification of his life. For the

first time, they appeared to him as absolutely

distinct, and he perceived the distance which

separated them. He recognized the fact

that one of these ideas was necessarily good,

while the other might become bad,

that the first was self devotion and that the

other was personality. that the one said my

neighbor and that the other said myself.

That one emanated from the light and the other from

darkness.

They were antagonistic. He saw

them in conflict. In proportion as

he meditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit.

They had now attained colossal statures. And it seemed

to him that he beheld within himself in that

infinity of which we were recently speaking. In the

midst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and

a giant. Contending. He was

filled with terror. But it

seemed to him that the good thought

was getting the upper hand. He felt that he was

on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his

conscience and of his destiny.

That the bishop had marked the first phase of his new

life, and that chant Methue marked the second.

After the grand crisis, a

grand test. But the fever,

allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of

him. A thousand thoughts traversed his

mind, but they continued to fortify him in

his resolution. One moment, he said to

himself that he was perhaps taking the

matter too keenly. That after all this chant

Mathieu was not interesting. And that he had actually been guilty

of theft.

>> Brie Carlisle: He answered himself, if this man

has indeed stolen a few apples, that

means a month in prison. It is a long way from

that to the galleys. And who knows? Did he

steal? Has it been proved the name of

Jean Valjean overwhelms him and seems to dispense with

proofs? Do not the attorneys for the crown always

proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a

thief because he is known to be a convict.

>> Brie Carlisle: In another instance, the thought had occurred to him that when he

denounced himself, the heroism of his deed

might perhaps be taken into consideration.

And his honest life for the last seven years. And

what he had done for the district. And that they would have mercy on

him. But this supposition

vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he

remembered that the theft of the 40 sous from little Dravaille, put

him in the position of a man guilty of a second offense after

conviction. That this affair

would certainly come up and according to the

precise terms of the law, would render him liable to

penal servitude for life. He turned

aside from all illusions, detached

himself more and more from earth. And

sought strength and consolation elsewhere.

He told himself that he must do his duty.

That, perhaps he should not be more unhappy after doing his

duty than after having avoided it.

That if he allowed things to take their own

course, if he remained at m sur m his

consideration, his good name,

his good works, the deference and veneration paid to

him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity,

his virtue would be seasoned with a crime.

And what would be the taste of all these holy things when

bound up with this hideous thing? Well,

if he accomplished his sacrifice, a

celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys,

the post, the iron necklet, the

green cap, unceasing toil and pitiless

shame. At length he told himself that

it must be so, that his destiny

was thus allotted, that he had not authority to alter

the arrangements made on high, that in any case

he must make his choice. Virtue without an

abomination within, or holiness within,

and infamy without. The

stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause

his courage to fail, but his brain grew

weary. He began to think of other

things, of indifferent matters, in spite of

himself. The veins in his temples

throbbed violently. He still paced to

and fro. Midnight sounded, first from the

parish church, then from the town hall.

He counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks

and compared the sounds of the two bells. He

recalled in this connection the, fact that a few days

previously he had seen in an ironmongers

shop an ancient clock for sale, upon which was

written the name Antoine Alban de Romanville.

He was cold. He lighted a small

fire. It did not occur to him to close the

window. In the meantime he had

relapsed into his stupor. He was obliged to

make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had

been the subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck.

He finally succeeded in doing this. Ah,

yes, he said to himself.

>> Brie Carlisle: I had resolved to inform against myself.

>> Brie Carlisle: And then all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine.

Hold, said he, and what about

that poor woman here? A

fresh crisis declared itself.

Fantine, by appearing thus

abruptly in his reverie, produced the effect of an

unexpected ray of light. It seemed to

him as though everything about him were undergoing a change of

aspect. He exclaimed, ah,

>> Brie Carlisle: But I have hitherto considered no one but myself.

It is proper for me to hold my tongue, or to denounce

myself, to conceal my person, or to save

my soul to be a despicable and respected

magistrate, or an infamous and venerable

convict. It is I. It is

always I. And, nothing but I. But

good God, all this is egotism. These are

diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism

all the same. What if I were to think little about

others? The highest holiness is to think of

others. Come, let us examine the

matter. The I accepted, the

I effaced, the I forgotten. What would be

the result of all this? What if I denounce

myself I am arrested. This

chant Mathieu is released. I am put back in

the galleys. That is well. And what

then? What is going on here? Ah, Here is

a country, a town. Here are factories,

an industry, workers, both men and women,

aged grandsires, children, poor people.

All this I have created, all these.

>> Brie Carlisle: I provide with their living.

>> Brie Carlisle: Everywhere, where there is a smoking chimney, it is I who have

placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the

pot. I have created ease,

circulation, credit. Before me

there was nothing. I have elevated,

vivified, informed with life, fecundated,

stimulated, enriched the whole countryside.

Lacking me, the soul is lacking.

I take myself off. Everything

dies. And this woman who has suffered so

much, who possesses so many merits, in spite of her

fall, the cause of all whose misery I have

unwittingly been. And that child whom I meant

to go in search of, whom I have promised to her

mother. Do I not also owe something to this

woman in reparation for the evil which I have done her?

If I disappear, what happens? The mother

dies.

The child becomes what it can. That

is what will take place if I denounce

myself. If I do not denounce

myself. Come, let us see how it will be if

I do not denounce myself.

>> Brie Carlisle: After putting this question to himself, he paused.

He seemed to undergo momentary hesitation and

trepidation.

>> Brie Carlisle: But it did not last long.

>> Brie Carlisle: And he answered himself calmly.

>> Brie Carlisle: Well, this man is going to the galleys. It

is true. But what the deuce he has

stolen. There is no use in my saying that he has

not been guilty of theft, for he has. I

remain here. I go on. In

ten years I shall have made ten millions. I

scatter them over the country. I have nothing of my

own. What is that to me? It is not for

myself that I am doing it. The prosperity of all

goes on augmenting. Industries are aroused

and animated. Factories and shops are

multiplied. Families, 100

families, a thousand families are happy. The

district becomes populated. Villages spring

up where there were only farms before. Farms

rise where there was nothing, wretchedness

disappears. And with wretchedness, debauchery,

prostitution, theft, murder. All

vices disappear, all crimes.

And this poor mother rears her child. And behold a

whole country, rich and honest.

>> Brie Carlisle: Ah.

>> Brie Carlisle: I was a fool. I was absurd. What

was that I was saying about denouncing myself?

I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about

anything. What? Because it would have pleased me to

play the grand and generous? This is

melodrama, after all. Because I should have thought of no

one but myself. The idea for

the sake of saving from a punishment. A trifle

exaggerated, perhaps, but just at

bottom, no one knows whom. A, thief, a good for

nothing. Evidently. A whole countryside

must perish. A poor woman must die in the

hospital. A poor little girl must die in the

street like dogs.

>> Speaker A: Ah.

>> Brie Carlisle: This is abominable.

>> Brie Carlisle: And without the mother even having seen the child once

more. Almost without the childs having known her mother.

And all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple thief. Who

most assuredly has deserved the galleys for something else. If

not that, find scruples indeed.

Which save a guilty man. And sacrifice the

innocent. Which save an old vagabond. Who has only a

few years to live at most. And who will not be more

unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel. And

which sacrifice a whole mothers,

wives, children. This poor little

Cosette. Who has no one in the world but me. And who

is, no doubt, blew with cold at this moment in the den of those

thenardiers. Those peoples are

rascals. And I was going to neglect my duty

towards all these poor creatures. And I was going off

to denounce myself. And and I was about to commit that

unspeakable folly. Let us put it at the

worst. Suppose that there is a wrong action

on my part in this. And that my conscience will

reproach me for it someday. to accept for

the good of others. These reproaches which weigh only on

myself. This evil action which

compromises my soul. Alone in that

lies self sacrifice. In that alone there

is virtue.

>> Brie Carlisle: He rose and resumed his march. This

time he seemed to be content.

Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the

earth. Truths are found only in the depths of

thought. It seemed to him that

after having descended into these depths. After

having long groped among the darkest of these shadows.

He had at last found one of these diamonds,

one of these truths. And that he now

held it in his hand. And he was dazzled as he gazed upon

it. Yes, he thought.

>> Brie Carlisle: This is right. I am on the right road.

I have the solution. I must end by holding fast

to something. My resolve is taken.

Let things take their course. Let us no

longer vacillate. Let us no longer hang

back. This is for the interest of all,

not for my own. I am, Madeline.

And Madeleine. I remain. Woe to the

man who is Jean Valjean. I am no longer

he. I do not know that man. I

no longer know anything. It turns out

that someone is Jean Valjean at the present moment.

Let him look out for himself. That does not concern

me. It is a fatal name which was floating abroad in

the night. If it halts and descends on a head,

so much the worse for that head.

>> Brie Carlisle: He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney piece and

said, hold.

>> Brie Carlisle: It has relieved me to come to a decision. Im

quite another man now.

>> Brie Carlisle: He proceeded a few paces further. Then he stopped

short. Come, he said.

>> Brie Carlisle: I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the

resolution which I have once adopted. There

are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean.

They must be broken. In this very room there

are objects which would betray me, dumb things

which would bear witness against me. It is

settled. All these things must

disappear.

>> Brie Carlisle: He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his

purse, opened it, and took out a small

key.

>> Brie Carlisle: He inserted the key in a lock.

>> Brie Carlisle: Whose aperture could hardly be seen. So hidden was

it in the most somber tones of the design, which covered the

wallpaper. A secret receptacle

opened, a sort of

false cupboard constructed in the angle between the

wall and the chimney piece. In this

hiding place there were some rags, a blue linen

blouse, an old pair of trousers,

an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel

shod with iron at both ends. Those who

had seen Jean Valjean at the epic when he passed through d

in October 1815 could easily have

recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit.

He had preserved them, as he had preserved the silver

candlesticks, in order to remind himself

continually of his starting point.

But he had concealed all that came from the galleys,

and he had allowed.

>> Brie Carlisle: The candlesticks which came from the bishop to be seen.

>> Brie Carlisle: He cast a furtive glance towards the door,

as though he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which

fastened it. Then, with a quick and

abrupt movement, he took the hole in his arms at once,

without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so

religiously and so perilously preserved for so many

years, and flung them all,

rags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire.

He closed the false cupboard again, and with

redoubled precautions henceforth unnecessary since it

was now empty, he concealed the door

behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it.

After the lapse of a few seconds, the room

and the opposite wall were lighted up with a fierce red,

tremulous glow. Everything was

on fire. The thorn cudgel snapped and threw

out sparks to the middle of the chamber. As the

knapsack was consumed. Together with the hideous rags which

it contained, it revealed something

which sparkled in the ashes

by bending over one could have

readily recognized a coin. No

doubt the 40 sous piece stolen from the little savoyard.

He did not look at the fire. But

paced back and forth with the same

step. All at once his eye fell on

the two silver candlesticks. Which shone

vaguely on the chimney piece through the glow.

Hold, he thought.

>> Brie Carlisle: The whole of Jean Valjean is still in them.

They must be destroyed also.

>> Brie Carlisle: He seized the two candlesticks. There was

still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape. And

converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of

metal. He bent over the hearth and

warmed himself. For a moment, he felt a

sense of real comfort. How good warmth

is, said he.

>> Brie Carlisle: He stirred the live coals with one of the

candlesticks. A minute more, and they were both in

the fire. At that moment

it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him. Shouting, Jean

Valjean.

>> Brie Carlisle: Jean Valjean.

>> Brie Carlisle: His hair rose upright.

>> Brie Carlisle: He became like a man who was.

>> Brie Carlisle: Listening to some terrible thing.

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes, thats it.

>> Brie Carlisle: Finish, said the voice.

>> Brie Carlisle: Complete what you are about. Destroy these

candlesticks. Annihilate this souvenir. Forget the

bishop. Forget everything. Destroy this champ, Mathieu,

do. That is right. Applaud

yourself. So it is settled. Resolved.

Fixed.

>> Brie Carlisle: Agreed.

>> Brie Carlisle: Here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of

him. Who has perhaps done nothing.

An innocent man whose whole misfortune lies

in your name. Upon whom your name weighs like a

crime. Whos about to be taken for you. Wholl

be condemned. Who will finish his days in abjectness

and horror. That is good. Be

an honest man yourself. Remain Monsieur le

Maire. Remain honorable and honored.

Enrich the town. Nourish the indigent,

rear the orphan. Live happy, virtuous

and admired. And during this time, while you

are here in the midst of joy and light. There will be a

man who will wear your red blouse. Who will wear your name

and ignomy. And who will drag your chain in

the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged.

Thus a, wretch.

>> Brie Carlisle: The perspiration streamed from his brow.

He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks.

But that within him which had spoken, had not

finished. The voice continued.

>> Brie Carlisle: Jean Valjean, there will be around you

many voices. Which will make a great noise.

Which will talk very loud. And which will bless you.

And only one which no one will hear. And

which will curse you in the dark. Well,

listen, infamous man. All those

benedictions will fall back before they reach

heaven. And only the male addiction will ascend

to God.

>> Brie Carlisle: This voice, feeble at

first. In which had proceeded from the most obscure

depths of his conscience. Had gradually

become startling and formidable.

And he now heard it in his very ear.

It seemed to him that it had detached itself from

him. And that it was now speaking outside of

him. He thought that he heard the

last words so distinctly. That he glanced around the room in a sort

of terror.

>> Brie Carlisle: Is there anyone here?

>> Brie Carlisle: He demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.

Then he resumed with a laugh which resembled that of an

idiot.

>> Brie Carlisle: How stupid I am. There can be no

one.

>> Brie Carlisle: There was someone. But the

person who was there was of those whom the human eye

cannot see. He placed the

candlesticks on the chimney piece. Then he resumed

his monotonous and lugubrious tramp. Which troubled the dreams

of the sleeping man beneath him. And awoke him with a start.

This tramping to and fro

soothed. And at the same time intoxicated

him. It sometimes

seems, on supreme occasions. As though people

moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they

may encounter by change of place.

>> Brie Carlisle: After the lapse of a few minutes.

>> Brie Carlisle: He no longer knew his position. He now

recoiled in equal terror. Before both the resolutions at which

he had arrived. In turn, the two

ideas which counseled him. Appeared to him equally

fatal. What a

fatality. What conjunction

that that champ Mathieu should have been taken. For him

to be overwhelmed. By precisely the means which

providence seemed to have employed at first

to strengthen his position.

There was a moment when he reflected on the future.

Denounce himself. Great

God, deliver himself up.

With immense despair. He faced all that he should be obliged to

leave. All that he should be obliged to take up. Once

more he should have to bid farewell to that

existence which was so good, so

pure, so radiant. To the respect of all, to

honor, to liberty. He should never

more stroll in the fields. He should never

more hear the birds sing in the month of May. He should

never more bestow alms on the little children.

He should never more experience the sweetness.

Of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon

him. He should quit that house which he

had built, that little chamber.

Everything seemed charming to him at that moment.

Never again should he read those books.

Nevermore should he write on that little table of white wood.

His old portraits. The only servant whom he

kept would never more bring him his coffee in the

morning. Great God.

Instead of that, the convict

gang, the iron necklet, the

red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle,

fatigue, the cell, the camp bed. All those horrors which he

knew so well. At his age,

after having been what he was.

If he were only young again. But

to be addressed in his old.

>> Brie Carlisle: Age as thou what?

>> Brie Carlisle: By anyone who pleased to be searched

by the convict guard. To receive the galley

sergeants cudgelings.

To wear iron bound shoes on his bare feet.

To have to stretch out his leg night and morning. To the

hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang.

To submit to the curiosity of strangers?

Who would be told that man yonder is the famous Jean

Valjean. Who was mayor of M sur M.

And at night, dripping with

perspiration, overwhelmed with

lassitude, their green caps drawn over their

eyes. To remount two by two. The

latter staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant's whip.

Oh, what misery. Can

destiny then be as malicious as an intelligent

being. And become as monstrous as the human

heart? And do what he would. He always

fell back upon the heartrending dilemma. Which lay at the foundation of his

reverie. Should, he remain in

paradise and become a demon? Should he return to

hell and become an angel?

What was to be done?

Great God, what was to be done?

The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty.

Was unchained afresh within him. His

ideas began to grow confused once more.

They assumed a kind of stupefied and

mechanical quality. Which is peculiar to

despair. The name of Romainville

recurred incessantly to his mind. With the two verses

of a song which he had heard in the past.

He thought that Romainville was a little grove near

Paris. Where young lovers go to pluck lilacs in the

month of April. He wavered

outwardly as well as inwardly.

He walked like a little child whos permitted to toddle

alone. At intervals as he

combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover the

mastery of his mind. He tried to

put to himself for the last time.

And definitely the problem over which he had

in a manner fallen prostrate with fatigue.

Ought he to denounce

himself, ought he to hold his

peace? He could not manage to see

anything distinctly. The vague

aspects of all the courses of reasoning. Which had been sketched out by

his meditations. Quivered and

vanished one after the other

into smoke. He only felt

that to whatever course of action he made up his mind,

something in him must die, and that of

necessity. and without his being able to escape the fact.

That he was entering a sepulchre on the right hand.

As much as on the left, that he was passing through

a death agony. The agony of his

happiness or the agony of his

virtue. Alas, all his

resolution had again taken possession of him.

He was no further advanced than at the beginning.

Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in his

anguish 1800 years

before this unfortunate man, this

mysterious being in whom are summoned up all the

sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity had

also long thrust aside with his hand while

the olive trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite,

the terrible cup which appeared to him dripping with

darkness and overflowing with shadows and the

depths all studded with stars.

Thank you for joining bite at a time books today while we

read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlisle

and I hope you come back tomorrow, for the next bite

of Les Miserable.

>> Brie Carlisle: Dont forget to sign up for our

newsletter@byteoutimebooks.com, comma, and

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

or our website, byteadatimebooks.com,

for the rest of the links for our show. Wed love

to hear from you on social media as well.

>> Speaker A: So many adventures and

mountains we can climb.

Take your words forward, line by

line, one bite at a time.