Les Misérables, page 25
CHAPTER IV--DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER.
Now, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannotdo better than to transcribe here a passage from one of MademoiselleBaptistine's letters to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversationbetween the convict and the Bishop is described with ingeniousminuteness.
". . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracityof a starving man. However, after supper he said:
"'Monsieur le Curé of the good God, all this is far too good for me; butI must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them keepa better table than you do.'
"Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:--
"'They are more fatigued than I.'
"'No,' returned the man, 'they have more money. You are poor; I see thatplainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a curé? Ah, if thegood God were but just, you certainly ought to be a curé!'
"'The good God is more than just,' said my brother.
"A moment later he added:--
"'Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going?'
"'With my road marked out for me.'
"I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:--
"'I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If thenights are cold, the days are hot.'
"'You are going to a good country,' said my brother. 'During theRevolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comté atfirst, and there I lived for some time by the toil of my hands. My willwas good. I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose. There arepaper mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil factories, watch factorieson a large scale, steel mills, copper works, twenty iron foundries atleast, four of which, situated at Lods, at Châtillon, at Audincourt, andat Beure, are tolerably large.'
"I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which mybrother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me:--
"'Have we not some relatives in those parts, my dear sister?'
"I replied,--
"'We did have some; among others, M. de Lucenet, who was captain of thegates at Pontarlier under the old régime.'
"'Yes,' resumed my brother; 'but in '93, one had no longer anyrelatives, one had only one's arms. I worked. They have, in thecountry of Pontarlier, whither you are going, Monsieur Valjean, atruly patriarchal and truly charming industry, my sister. It is theircheese-dairies, which they call _fruitières_.'
"Then my brother, while urging the man to eat, explained to him, withgreat minuteness, what these _fruitières_ of Pontarlier were; that theywere divided into two classes: the _big barns_ which belong to the rich,and where there are forty or fifty cows which produce from seven toeight thousand cheeses each summer, and the _associated fruitières_,which belong to the poor; these are the peasants of mid-mountain, whohold their cows in common, and share the proceeds. 'They engage theservices of a cheese-maker, whom they call the _grurin_; the _grurin_receives the milk of the associates three times a day, and marks thequantity on a double tally. It is towards the end of April that the workof the cheese-dairies begins; it is towards the middle of June that thecheese-makers drive their cows to the mountains.'
"The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him drinkthat good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself, because he saysthat wine is expensive. My brother imparted all these details with thateasy gayety of his with which you are acquainted, interspersing hiswords with graceful attentions to me. He recurred frequently tothat comfortable trade of _grurin_, as though he wished the man tounderstand, without advising him directly and harshly, that this wouldafford him a refuge. One thing struck me. This man was what I have toldyou. Well, neither during supper, nor during the entire evening, didmy brother utter a single word, with the exception of a few words aboutJesus when he entered, which could remind the man of what he was, norof what my brother was. To all appearances, it was an occasion forpreaching him a little sermon, and of impressing the Bishop on theconvict, so that a mark of the passage might remain behind. This mighthave appeared to any one else who had this, unfortunate man in hishands to afford a chance to nourish his soul as well as his body, and tobestow upon him some reproach, seasoned with moralizing and advice, ora little commiseration, with an exhortation to conduct himself better inthe future. My brother did not even ask him from what country he came,nor what was his history. For in his history there is a fault, and mybrother seemed to avoid everything which could remind him of it. To sucha point did he carry it, that at one time, when my brother was speakingof the mountaineers of Pontarlier, _who exercise a gentle labor nearheaven, and who_, he added, _are happy because they are innocent_, hestopped short, fearing lest in this remark there might have escaped himsomething which might wound the man. By dint of reflection, I thinkI have comprehended what was passing in my brother's heart. He wasthinking, no doubt, that this man, whose name is Jean Valjean, had hismisfortune only too vividly present in his mind; that the best thingwas to divert him from it, and to make him believe, if only momentarily,that he was a person like any other, by treating him just in hisordinary way. Is not this indeed, to understand charity well? Is therenot, dear Madame, something truly evangelical in this delicacy whichabstains from sermon, from moralizing, from allusions? and is not thetruest pity, when a man has a sore point, not to touch it at all? It hasseemed to me that this might have been my brother's private thought. Inany case, what I can say is that, if he entertained all these ideas, hegave no sign of them; from beginning to end, even to me he was the sameas he is every evening, and he supped with this Jean Valjean with thesame air and in the same manner in which he would have supped with M.Gédéon le Prévost, or with the curate of the parish.
"Towards the end, when he had reached the figs, there came a knock atthe door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little one in her arms. Mybrother kissed the child on the brow, and borrowed fifteen sous which Ihad about me to give to Mother Gerbaud. The man was not paying muchheed to anything then. He was no longer talking, and he seemed very muchfatigued. After poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure, my brothersaid grace; then he turned to the man and said to him, 'You must bein great need of your bed.' Madame Magloire cleared the table verypromptly. I understood that we must retire, in order to allow thistraveller to go to sleep, and we both went upstairs. Nevertheless, Isent Madame Magloire down a moment later, to carry to the man's bed agoat skin from the Black Forest, which was in my room. The nights arefrigid, and that keeps one warm. It is a pity that this skin is old; allthe hair is falling out. My brother bought it while he was in Germany,at Tottlingen, near the sources of the Danube, as well as the littleivory-handled knife which I use at table.
"Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in thedrawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired toour own chambers, without saying a word to each other."
