Chapter 54

A Candlelight Dinner

The meeting of Bishop Myriel and Jean Valjean in Les Miserables—The Bishop's home is not his
own but the house of Jesus Christ; everything there is consecrated to the poor and needy—There is more
joy in heaven for the repentant sinner than the white robes of a hundred just men.

Carolyn received the stray cat into her home with the same love and kindness that Bishop
Myriel received the convict Jean Valjean into his. Their encounter in the book is described as
follows:

Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a little without
being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a bare-footed vagabond, a sort of
dangerous mendicant, was at that moment in the town. He had presented himself at Jacquin
Labarre's to obtain lodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had been seen
to arrive by the way of the boulevard Gassendi and roam about the streets in the gloaming. A
gallows-bird with a terrible face.

"Really!" said the Bishop.

This willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed to her to
indicate that the Bishop was on the point of becoming alarmed; she pursued triumphantly:—

"We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur will permit, I will go and
tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and replace the ancient locks on the doors; we have
them, and it is only the work of a moment; for I say that nothing is more terrible than a door
which can be opened from the outside with a latch by the first passer-by; and I say that we need
bolts, Monseigneur, if only for this night; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always saying
'come in'; and besides, even in the middle of the night, O mon Dieu! there is no need to ask
permission." At that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door.

"Come in," said the Bishop.

The door opened.

It opened wide with a rapid movement, as though some one had given it an energetic and
resolute push.

A man entered.

We already know the man. It was the wayfarer whom we have seen wandering about in
search of shelter.

He entered, advanced a step, and halted, leaving the door open behind him. He had his
knapsack on his shoulders, his cudgel in his hand, a rough, audacious, weary, and violent
expression in his eyes. The fire on the hearth lighted him up. He was hideous. It was a sinister
apparition.

Madame Magloire had not even the strength to utter a cry. She trembled, and stood with
her mouth wide open.

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
new-comer 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! Every one has cast me out. Are
you willing to receive me? Is this an inn? Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have
you a stable?"

"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will put white sheets on the bed in the
alcove." We have already explained the character of the two women's obedience.

Madame Magloire retired to execute these orders.

The Bishop turned to the man.

"Sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We are going to sup in a few moments, and your bed
will be prepared while you are supping."

At this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expression of his face, up to that time
sombre and harsh, bore the imprint of stupefaction, of doubt, of joy, and became extraordinary.
He began stammering like a crazy man:—

"Really? What! You will keep me? You do not drive me forth? A convict! You call me sir!
You do not address me as thou? 'Get out of here, you dog!' is what people always say to me. I felt
sure that you would expel me, so I told you at once who I am. Oh, what a good woman that was
who directed me hither! I am going to sup! A bed with a mattress and sheets, like the rest of the
world! a bed! It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed! You actually do not want me to go!
You are good people. Besides, I have money. I will pay well. Pardon me, monsieur the inn-
keeper, but what is your name? I will pay anything you ask. You are a fine man. You are an inn-
keeper, are you not?"

"I am," replied the Bishop, "a priest who lives here."

"A priest!" said the man. "Oh, what a fine priest! Then you are not going to demand any
money of me? You are the cure, are you not? the cure of this big church? Well! I am a fool,
truly! I had not perceived your skull-cap."

As he spoke, he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner, replaced his passport
in his pocket, and seated himself. Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildly at him. He continued:

"You are humane, Monsieur le Curé; you have not scorned me. A good priest is a very
good thing. Then you do not require me to pay?"

"No," said the Bishop; "keep your money. How much have you? Did you not tell me one
hundred and nine francs?"

"And fifteen sous," added the man.

"One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous. And how long did it take you to earn that?"

"Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years!"

The Bishop sighed deeply.

The man continued: "I have still the whole of my money. In four days I have spent only
twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload some wagons at Grasse. Since you are an
abbe, I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys. And one day I saw a bishop there.
Monseigneur is what they call him. He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is the cure
who rules over the other cures, you understand. Pardon me, I say that very badly; but it is such a
far-off thing to me! You understand what we are! He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on
an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it glittered in the bright light of
midday. We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing
us. We could not see very well. He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not hear. That is
what a bishop is like."

While he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had remained wide
open.

Madame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon, which she placed on
the table.

"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "place those things as near the fire as possible."
And turning to his guest: "The night wind is harsh on the Alps. You must be cold, sir."

Each time that he uttered the word sir, in his voice which was so gently grave and
polished, the man's face lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is like a glass of water to one of the
shipwrecked of the Medusa. Ignominy thirsts for consideration.

"This lamp gives a very bad light," said the Bishop.

Madame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver candlesticks from the
chimney-piece in Monseigneur's bed-chamber, and placed them, lighted, on the table.

"Monsieur le Curé," said the man, "you are good; you do not despise me. You receive me
into your house. You light your candles for me. Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come
and that I am an unfortunate man."

The Bishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand. "You could not help
telling me who you were. This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not
demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you
are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. And do not thank me; do not say that I receive you in
my house. No one is at home here, except the man who needs a refuge. I say to you, who are

passing by, that you are much more at home here than I am myself. Everything here is yours.
What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me you had one which I knew."

The man opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Really? You knew what I was called?"

"Yes," replied the Bishop, "you are called my brother."

"Stop, Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed the man. "I was very hungry when I entered here;
but you are so good, that I no longer know what has happened to me."

The Bishop looked at him, and said,—

"You have suffered much?"

"Oh, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, the convicts,
the thrashings, the double chain for nothing, the cell for one word; even sick and in bed, still the
chain! Dogs, dogs are happier! Nineteen years! I am forty-six. Now there is the yellow passport.
That is what it is like."

"Yes," resumed the Bishop, "you have come from a very sad place. Listen. There will be
more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a
hundred just men. If you emerge from that sad place with thoughts of hatred and of wrath
against mankind, you are deserving of pity; if you emerge with thoughts of good-will and of
peace, you are more worthy than any one of us."

In the meantime, Madame Magloire had served supper: soup, made with water, oil,
bread, and salt; a little bacon, a bit of mutton, figs, a fresh cheese, and a large loaf of rye bread.
She had, of her own accord, added to the Bishop's ordinary fare a bottle of his old Mauves wine.

The Bishop's face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is peculiar to
hospitable natures. "To table!" he cried vivaciously. As was his custom when a stranger supped
with him, he made the man sit on his right. Mademoiselle Baptistine, perfectly peaceable and
natural, took her seat at his left.

The Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself, according to his custom. The
man began to eat with avidity.

All at once the Bishop said: "It strikes me there is something missing on this table."

Madame Magloire had, in fact, only placed the three sets of forks and spoons which were
absolutely necessary. Now, it was the usage of the house, when the Bishop had any one to
supper, to lay out the whole six sets of silver on the table-cloth—an innocent ostentation. This
graceful semblance of luxury was a kind of child's play, which was full of charm in that gentle
and severe household, which raised poverty into dignity.

Madame Magloire understood the remark, went out without saying a word, and a
moment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded by the Bishop were glittering
upon the cloth, symmetrically arranged before the three persons seated at the table.