Les Misérables: The Story of Jean Valjean (Jean Valjean)

Before there was a hero, there was a man… a wretch.

JEAN VALJEAN

To me.

In the first days of December 1815,

about an hour before sunset, a man entered the town.

He presented himself at the gendarmerie.

No one knew him.

Where did he come from?

From the South.

From the shores of the sea, perhaps.

Men laugh, hubbub.

Never! Well, well.

Where were you? How long does it take you to wash laundry?

That's true, where were you?

I missed you. Come on, come here.

Come!

Can't you pay attention?

Isn't it enough that you're late?

I will deduct the price of the jug from your wages.

And try to be more pleasant with the customers.

It's my round, guys.

He's a convict.

Look at him.

I'm sorry, I cannot receive you.

These gentlemen

have reserved all the rooms.

The stables will do.

- The horses take up all the space. - I need little.

Well, that's already too much.

I walked from sunrise, I did twelve leagues, I'm hungry.

And I have nothing for you.

Just a piece of bread.

Come on, go away.

Starving wretch!

We don't want you here!

Murderer!

Don't move!

What are you doing there, my friend?

I'm trying to sleep.

On the stone, outside?

I've known worse.

Go to the inn.

Alas,

you have no money?

- I only have four coins. - Give them anyway.

We could lodge you.

Out of charity.

I knocked on all the doors.

And everywhere, they drove me away.

There is a house

down the road, there.

Did you knock there?

No.

Knock there.

My cousin's neighbor,

it was him the gendarmes were looking for, the counterfeiter.

Evil is everywhere.

They even arrested his wife.

The prosecutor says he will obtain confessions within the week.

And if he is innocent?

- In that case, what is he doing in prison? - Good question.

What should be done with a man accused before he is judged?

To leave him free is to take the risk that he reoffends.

If he has committed the act he is accused of.

To put him in prison is to treat him as guilty.

And that, even if he is innocent.

These people are rogues, there are some everywhere.

One even arrived in town today.

Yes, miss.

This man would be dangerous.

They say he is horrible: ugly, hairy, stinking.

Horrible. Certainly a gypsy, a man of sack and rope.

- Really? - As I say.

There will be misfortunes, everyone says so.

Everyone, that is many people.

Let me tell the locksmith

to put back the old bolts, we have them there.

- At this hour? - It's three houses from here.

He will be glad to be useful. His sister is a friend.

It's a matter of a minute.

Madame Magloire, it is useless to invent the pretext of the bolt

to go see your good friend the locksmith.

These are slanders, Monseigneur.

- A foolishness spat by jealous people. - We could put a latch.

Are we therefore in great danger?

One does not live with the door open to all winds.

- Speak to him, he doesn't listen to me. - If that reassures Mme Magloire.

At least for this night, until this danger is removed.

One would even let the devil enter this house!

To shut oneself in is not only to refuse the other.

It is also to refuse what one could be or become.

The door of a doctor must always remain open.

But you are not a doctor.

Every man is a doctor of the other.

I am a...

Come in!

My name is Jean Valjean.

I spent nineteen years in the galleys.

I have been free for four days.

Four days that I have been walking from Toulon.

Four days that I have been hearing: "Go away."

No one wanted me, I lay down outside,

a good woman told me to knock at your house.

I knocked.

Mrs Magloire, set one more place.

Did you hear me?

I am a convict.

Here is my passport.

It serves to present me to the authorities upon my arrival in town

and to have me driven away.

Will you read!?

"Has remained nineteen years in the penal colony."

"Five years for burglary."

"Fourteen for having tried to escape, this man is dangerous."

There.

I see that you have received the rain, sir.

You must be tired.

Come closer, the fire will warm you.

You will have supper

while your bed is made.

Mrs Magloire, put white sheets on the alcove bed.

Please, sir, sit down.

What is this here?

Who are you?

A priest.

A priest?

A good priest.

Who lives with two women, moreover.

There are things I refuse to hear, I will be in the kitchen.

A man opens his door to you, feeds you, and you slander him?

That was not my intention.

That is what you did.

Two men were there, face to face.

One, the convict, was rough, but had hidden nothing of his past.

The other, the good priest, was more evidently kind,

but he remained a mystery to all.

Some decades earlier,

he had gone to Italy on the arm of his wife

to return alone and sour.

The death of the one he loved had changed him.

He had left the world to enter religion.

He had convinced himself he must become a pitiless servant of God,

but his transformation was not yet complete.

And to understand what follows,

it is fitting to return to his first visit to this place.

The sisters work miracles, but we lack everything, Monseigneur.

Bandages, potions and even food.

It would be necessary to be able to buy meat from time to time.

A sick man must be able to eat to recover health.

- Mister director. - Yes?

Excuse me, Monseigneur.

What is happening?

That day, the one who was now bishop was visiting the hospital.

A chore he promised himself never to impose again.

Monseigneur Myriel, for that was his real name,

had the title and all the attributes of his function.

His Eminence preferred to visit the rich

and to frequent the powerful.

He lived as a notable, one of those who judge and condemn.

And then, one day, something happened.

No one knows what.

But it occurred.

He changed.

But better still, he changed.

And what was a chore to avoid

became a daily event.

- Good day, my friend. - Thank you, Monseigneur.

The beds are very close to one another.

It is getting worse and worse.

I am very worried about the future.

The floor is full, we have installed unfortunates in the courtyard.

Not to mention the epidemics to come.

This year, we had typhus.

Try to sleep.

Space was lacking and this will happen again.

What do you want, one must resign oneself to reality.

We will no longer be able to accept everyone.

How many beds could my dining room hold?

- Monseigneur, please. - I am here.

You mean at the palace?

To understand the director's surprise, one must know that the episcopal palace

was a seigneurial residence, in the open air.

The bishop's apartments, the galleries, the staircases,

the fountains, the gardens.

Everything was grand.

In your dining room?

I do not know very well,

but I imagine it could hold

sixty patients.

At least.

Then there is an error, my friend.

You have my lodging and I have yours.

Give me back my house, I am here at home.

The next day, twenty-six patients were installed in the palace,

and Monseigneur Myriel took as lodging what served as a hospital.

A man like that is a gift from heaven.

He is no longer the same, he no longer wants bishop's meals.

If I were to listen to him,

he would breakfast on an oil soup and bread.

One would think he feeds on the smell of flowers.