At night he came home tired, and ate his soup without saying a word.
His sister, mother Jeanne, while he was eating, often took out of his
porringer the best part of his meal, the piece of meat, the slice of
bacon, or the heart of the cabbage, to give it to one of her children;
he, still eating, bent over the table with his head almost in the soup,
and his long hair falling round his porringer and hiding his eyes,
pretended not to see it, and let her do as she pleased. There was at
Faverolles, not far from the Valjeans' cottage, on the other side of
the lane, a farmer's wife called Marie Claude. The young Valjeans,
who were habitually starving, would go at times and borrow in their
mother's name a pint of milk from Marie Claude, which they drank behind
a hedge or in some corner, tearing the vessel from each other so
eagerly that the little girls spilt the milk over their aprons. Their
mother, had she been aware of this fraud, would have severely corrected
the delinquents, but Jean Valjean, coarse and rough though he was, paid
Marie Claude for the milk behind his sister's back, and the children
were not punished.
He earned in the pruning season eighteen sous a day, and besides hired
himself out as reaper, laborer, neat-herd, and odd man. He did what
he could; his sister worked too, but what could she do with seven
children? It was a sad group, which wretchedness gradually enveloped
and choked. One winter was hard, and Jean had no work to do, and the
family had no bread. No bread, literally none, and seven children!
One Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker in the church square at
Faverolles, was just going to bed when he heard a violent blow dealt
the grating in front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm
passed through a hole made by a fist through the grating and window
pane; the arm seized a loaf, and carried it off. Isabeau ran out
hastily; the thief ran away at his hardest, but the baker caught him
and stopped him. The thief had thrown away the loaf, but his arm was
still bleeding; it was Jean Valjean.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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