It was into this house that Jean Valjean had, as Fauchelevent expressed it, fallen from the sky. He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue Polonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of the night was the nuns chanting matins. That hall in the gloom was the chapel. That phantom stretched on the ground was the sister making reparation. That bell which had so strangely surprised him was the gardener's bell attached to the knee of Father Fauchelevent. Cosette once put to bed, the two men had supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a good crackling fire. Then, the only bed in the hut being occupied by the child, each threw himself on a truss of straw. Before he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said he must remain here henceforth. This remark trotted through Fauchelevent's head all night long. To tell the truth, neither of them slept. Jean Valjean, feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his scent, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to Paris. The new storm had stranded him in this cloister. For an unfortunate man in his position, this convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of places: the most dangerous, because no men might enter there, and discovery would leave but one step between the convent and prison; the safest, because who would ever seek him in such a place? To dwell in an impossible place was safety.
On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He understood nothing. How had Madeleine got there, when cloister walls are not to be stepped over? How with a child? Who was that child? Since Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had heard nothing of the town where Madeleine had been mayor. Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions, and one does not question a saint. From a few words the gardener inferred bankruptcy, or a political affair, which last did not displease a peasant with an old fund of Bonapartism. The inexplicable point, to which he returned constantly, was that Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that little girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to them, and still did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had just made its entrance into the hut. He could see nothing clearly but this: Madeleine saved my life. This certainty alone decided his course. It is my turn now. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was a question of thrusting himself under the cart. He made up his mind to save Madeleine. After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a thief? Just the same. If he were an assassin? Just the same. Since he is a saint? Just the same. Father Fauchelevent was an old man who had been an egoist all his life, and who, towards the end of his days, halt, infirm, found it sweet to be grateful. The air of the convent had destroyed all personality in him, and had ended by rendering a good action of some kind absolutely necessary. We have just called him a poor peasant of Picardy. That description is just, but incomplete. He had been a notary, which added trickery to his cunning. Having failed in his business, he had descended to carter and labourer, but something of the notary had lingered. He talked good grammar. The other peasants said he talked almost like a gentleman with a hat.
At daybreak Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an enormous deal of thinking, and beheld Madeleine seated on his truss of straw, watching Cosette's slumbers. Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter? In the first place, you will begin by not setting foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the garden and we are done for. One of the ladies is very ill. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours are being said. That occupies them. We shall be at peace here for today, but I will not answer for tomorrow. The cottage is hidden by a ruin, said Jean Valjean. The nuns never come near it, Fauchelevent added, and then named the real danger: there are the little girls. Just as he opened his mouth to explain, a bell emitted one stroke. The nun is dead. There is the knell. The bell will continue to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours. At recreation hours it suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send them all hither. Those cherubs are devils. To be a man here is to have the plague. You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild beast. Jean Valjean thought, here is Cosette's education already provided, and murmured that this convent would be their salvation. Yes, the difficulty is to remain here. No, said Fauchelevent, the difficulty is to get out. In order to return here it is first necessary to get out. You must not be found here in this fashion. For me, you fall from heaven, because I know you, but the nuns require one to enter by the door. Cannot you get out by the way in which you entered? Jean Valjean turned pale. The very thought of descending again into that terrible street made him shudder. You make your way out of a forest filled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine a friendly counsel that shall advise you to return thither. He pictured the police still swarming, Javert at the corner perhaps. Impossible. Say that I fell from the sky. I believe it, retorted Fauchelevent. The good God must have taken you in his hand and then dropped you. Only, he meant to place you in a man's convent. He made a mistake. Cosette can go out in the vintage basket on the gardener's back, to a deaf fruit-seller in the Rue Chemin-Vert until tomorrow. But how will you manage to get out? No one must see me, said Jean Valjean. Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette. Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear. A third peal: the dead-doctor taking his departure. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. He nails the coffin. A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of the sleeping Cosette, who had the air of an angel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen to gazing at her. He was no longer listening. Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine, Fauchelevent began. Is buried, said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly. A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent buckled the belled knee-cap on again. This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Don't stir from here. He hastened out, crying Coming, and less than ten minutes later tapped at the parlor door. A gentle voice replied: Forever. Forever. That is to say: Enter. The prioress, seated on the only chair, was waiting for Fauchelevent.
