The people there are low and vulgar. The butter is bad, the coffee is green. Ah, it is horrible! In prison, as in a bad hotel, a man soon loses, not only his morals, but what is much worse to a Frenchman, his sense of refinement and delicacy. Jean Valjean came from prison with confused notions of Society. He forgot the modern peculiarities of hospitality. So he walked off with the Bishop’s candlesticks. Let us consider. Candlesticks were stolen; that was evident. Society put Jean Valjean in prison; that was evident, too. In prison, Society took away his refinement; that is evident, likewise. Who is Society? You and I are Society. My friend, you and I stole those candlesticks! III The Bishop thought so, too. He meditated profoundly for six days. On the morning of the seventh he went to the Prefecture of Police. He said: “Monsieur, have me arrested. I have stolen candlesticks.” The official was governed by the law of Society, and refused. What did this Bishop do? He had a charming ball and chain made, affixed to his leg, and wore it the rest of his life. This is a fact! IV Love is a mystery. A little friend of mine down in the country, at Auvergne, said to me one day: “Victor, Love is the world,—it contains everything.” She was only sixteen, this sharp-witted little girl, and a beautiful blonde. She thought everything of me. Fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and touching manner. This is a peculiarity of French grisettes. You are an Englishman, and you don’t understand. Learn, my friend, learn. Come to Paris and improve your morals. Fantine was the soul of modesty. She always wore high-neck dresses. High-neck dresses are a sign of modesty. Fantine loved Tholmoyes. Why? My God! What are you to do? It was the fault of her parents, and she hadn’t any. How shall you teach her? You must teach the parent if you wish to educate the child. How would you become virtuous? Teach your grandmother! V When Tholmoyes ran away from Fantine,—which was done in a charming, gentlemanly manner,—Fantine became convinced that a rigid sense of propriety might look upon her conduct as immoral. She was a creature of sensitiveness,—and her eyes were opened. She was virtuous still, and resolved to break off the liaison at once. So she put up her wardrobe and baby in a bundle, child as she was, she loved them both,—then left Paris. VI Fantine’s native place had changed. M. Madeline—an angel, and inventor of jet-work—had been teaching the villagers how to make spurious jet. This is a progressive age. Those Americans—children of the West,—they make nutmegs out of wood. I, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those children of the forest. But civilization has acquired deception too. Society is made up of deception. Even the best French society. Still there was one sincere episode. Eh? The French Revolution! VII M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.