Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

The Journey’s End
    Years ago I stole a loaf of bread to feed my hungry family. I was sent to prison and sentenced to hard labor. I traded my name for a number. I was no longer Jean Valjean. For nineteen years, I was known as number 24,601. That was a dark, lonely time for me.
    Now I am old and dying. I write this for my daughter, Cosette. When she reads it she will know the truth. I hope she can forgive me. I hope she will understand why Idid not tell her everything sooner.
    At the time my story begins, I was the breadwinner in my sister’s household. Her husband was dead, and she had seven children.
    One year the winter was very hard. I didn’t have work, and we had no food. I couldn’t let the children starve, so I broke the baker’s window and stole a loaf of bread. I was twenty-five years old when I lost my freedom.
    In October of 1815 I was released from prison. Nineteen years of my life had been spent behind bars.
    My first taste of freedom filled me with joy. I was free to walk anywhere!
    That first day, I walked many miles. By nightfall my bones ached from the cold, damp air. And I was exhausted.
    I stopped at the best inn in the town of Digne. I entered and the innkeeper called, “What can I do for you, monsieur?”
    â€œI want a meal and a bed,” I replied. “I have money.”
    The few francs I had earned in prison were more than enough to pay for food and lodging.
    â€œIn that case, you’re welcome,” said the innkeeper.
    I sat down and waited for my dinner. I waited. And waited.
    The innkeeper was watching me. He had sent a boy out half an hour ago. At that very moment, the boy was at the police station finding out about me.
    â€œWill dinner be ready soon?” I finally asked. I was faint with hunger.
    Just then the boy returned. He handed the innkeeper a scrap of paper. The innkeeper frowned after reading it. He walked over to me.
    â€œI’m sorry, monsieur,” he said. “I can’t have you here.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked. “Would you like me topay in advance? I have money.”
    â€œYou may have the money,” he replied. “But I don’t have the room.”
    â€œThen put me in the stable,” I begged. I needed sleep desperately.
    But even the stable was too good for me. The innkeeper had found out that my name was Jean Valjean. He knew that I carried yellow identity papers, the passport of an ex-convict.
    Soon everyone in town knew who I was. No one would rent to me. No one would even give me a glass of water.
    I sat outside in the dark and shivered. I had no strength left. But God was watching over me that night. A kind woman stopped and told me to knock at the bishop’s house. The good bishop opened his door to me.
    The bishop of Digne lived with his sister and a housekeeper. He was a small man of about seventy-five. He lived a quiet, simplelife. He had very little, for he gave all his money to the poor.
    I told the bishop I was a convict and explained why. I showed him my yellow passport.
    â€œSee,” I said. “It says I am a dangerous man. I was given five years for robbery and fourteen more for trying to escape four times.”
    I waited for the bishop to tell me to leave. Instead he invited me to sit at his table. The good silver was laid out. Two silver candlesticks graced the table.
    â€œThis isn’t my house, but Christ’s,” he told me. “You are hungry and thirsty, so you are welcome. Everything in my house is yours.”
    I had never known anyone so generous. What kind of man was this? How could he open his home to me so freely? It scared me. Maybe that’s why I did what I did.
    I tossed and turned that night. I hadn’t slept in a bed for years. At two in the morning, I was wide awake. I had one thought on my mind—the bishop’s silver.
    It took me an hour to decide. But in the end I did it. I took my shoes off, tiptoed to the cupboard and stole the