Jean Valjean left the town as if running away; he walked hastily
across the fields, taking the roads and paths that offered themselves,
without perceiving that he was going round and round. He wandered thus
the entire morning, and though he had eaten nothing, he did not feel
hungry. He was attacked by a multitude of novel sensations; he felt a
sort of passion, but he did not know with whom. He could not have said
whether he was affected or humiliated; at times a strange softening
came over him, against which he strove, and to which he opposed the
hardening of the last twenty years. This condition offended him, and
he saw with alarm that the species of frightful calmness, which the
injustice of his misfortune had produced, was shaken within him.
He asked himself what would take its place; at times he would have
preferred being in prison and with the gendarmes, and that things had
not happened thus; for that would have agitated him less. Although the
season was advanced, there were still here and there in the hedges a
few laggard flowers, whose smell recalled childhood's memories as he
passed them. These recollections were almost unendurable, for it was so
long since they had recurred to him.
Indescribable thoughts were thus congregated within him the whole day
through. When the sun was setting, and lengthening on the ground the
shadow of the smallest pebble, Jean Valjean was sitting behind a bush
in a large tawny and utterly-deserted plain. There were only the Alps
on the horizon, there was not even the steeple of a distant village.
Jean Valjean might be about three leagues from D----, and a path that
crossed the plain ran a few paces from the bushes. In the midst of this
meditation, which would have contributed no little in rendering his
rags startling to any one who saw him, he heard a sound of mirth. He
turned his head and saw a little Savoyard about ten years of age coming
along the path, with his hurdy-gurdy at his side and his dormouse-box
on his back. He was one of those gentle, merry lads who go about from
place to place, displaying their knees through the holes in their
trousers.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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