singing on his way,
tossing his bits of money in his hands; drops a forty-sous piece near
Jean Valjean, who, in a mood of inexplicable evil, places his huge foot
upon it, nor listened to the child's entreaty, "My piece, monsieur;"
and eager and more eager grows a child whose little riches were
invaded, "My piece, my white piece, my silver;" and in his voice are
tears--and what can be more touching than a child's voice touched with
tears? "My silver;" and the lad shook the giant by the collar of his
blouse--"I want my silver, my forty-sous piece"--and began to cry. A
little lad a-sobbing! Jean Valjean, you who for so many years "have
talked but little and never laughed;" Jean Valjean, pity the child;
give him his coin. You were bought of the bishop for good. But in
terrible voice he shouts: "Who is there? You here yet? You had better
take care of yourself;" and the little lad runs, breathless and
sobbing. Jean Valjean hears his sobbing, but made no move for
restitution until the little Savoyard has passed from sight and
hearing, when, waking as from some stupor, he rises, cries wildly
through the night, "Petit Gervais! Petit Gervais!" and listened,
and--no answer. Then he ran, ran toward restitution. Too late! too
late! "Petit Gervais! Petit Gervais! Petit Gervais!" and, to a
priest passing, "Monsieur, have you seen a child go by--a little
fellow--Petit Gervais is his name?" And he calls him again through the
empty night; and the lad hears him not. There is no response, and for
the first time since he passed to the galleys, Jean Valjean's heart
swells, and he bursts into tears; for he was horrified at himself. His
hardness had mastered him, even when the bishop's tenderness had thawed
his winter heart. Jean Valjean was now afraid of himself, which is
where moral strength has genesis. He goes back--back where? No
matter, wait. He sees in his thought--in his thought he sees the
bishop, and wept, shed hot tears, wept bitterly, with more weakness
than a woman, with more terror than a child, and his life seemed
horrible; and he walks--whither? No matter. But, past midnight, the
stage-driver saw, as he passed, a man in the attitude of prayer,
kneeling upon the pavement in the shadow before the bishop's door; and
should you have spoken, "Jean Valjean!" he would not have answered you.
He would not have heard. He is starting on a pilgrimage of manhood
toward God. He saw the bishop; now he sees God, and he