Towards the end of October, 1823, the inhabitants of Toulon behold the entry into their port, after heavy weather, of the ship Orion. It flies colours which procure the regulation salute of eleven guns, which it returns, shot for shot. It has been calculated that the civilised world, in the course of four and twenty hours, discharges one hundred and fifty thousand useless shots. At six francs the shot, that comes to nine hundred thousand francs a day, three hundred millions a year, which vanish in smoke. This is a mere detail. All this time the poor were dying of hunger. The year 1823 is what the Restoration called the epoch of the Spanish war. A grand family affair for the house of Bourbon: France succouring Madrid, a false return to national traditions, the Duc d'Angouleme compressing the Holy Office in a triumphal attitude contradicted by his peaceable air. Little bloodshed, little honour won, shame for some, glory for no one. The trumpets give back a cracked sound. History approves of France for making a difficulty about accepting this false triumph. It seemed as though generals and not battles had been won. A debasing war, in which the Bank of France could be read in the folds of the flag. From a still more serious point of view, this war wounded the military spirit and enraged the democratic spirit. France is made to arouse the soul of nations, not to stifle it. As for the Bourbons, they took it for a success. They did not perceive the danger that lies in having an idea slain to order. 1830 had its germ in 1823. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the soldier for the consent of the nation. It is not permitted to fall asleep, either in the shadow of a machineel tree, nor in the shadow of an army.
Let us return to the ship Orion. Accidents of the sea have brought it into Toulon. A ship of the line is one of the most magnificent combinations of the genius of man with the powers of nature. It deals with solid, liquid, and fluid at once. Against the wind it has its canvas; against the water, wood; against the rocks, iron; against the shadows, its light; against immensity, a needle. There comes an hour, nevertheless, when the gale breaks that yard like a straw, and all that majesty is engulfed in a majesty which is superior. Every time that immense force is displayed to culminate in an immense feebleness it affords men food for thought. Hence the quays of Toulon are covered, from morning until night, with idlers staring at the Orion. The ship has been ailing. Barnacles, a scraping that affected the bolts, a leak off the Balearic Isles, an equinoctial gale: it has run back to repair. It anchors near the Arsenal. One morning the crowd witnesses an accident. A topman bending the sails loses his balance, seizes the foot-rope, and remains hanging over a dizzy sea, swaying like a stone in a sling. Not one of the sailors, recently levied fishermen, dares to go to him. He does not shout, for fear of exhausting his strength. Heads are turned aside that his fall may not be seen. There are moments when a bit of rope is life itself, and it is a terrible thing to see a living being detach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit.
All at once a man is seen climbing into the rigging with the agility of a tiger-cat. He is dressed in red. He wears a green cap. He is a life convict. A gust carries away the cap and shows a perfectly white head. He is not a young man. He has asked the officer's permission to risk his life; at an affirmative sign he has broken the chain riveted to his ankle with one blow of a hammer, caught up a rope, and dashed into the rigging. No one notices, at the instant, with what ease that chain has been broken. It is only later that the incident is recalled. He runs out along the yard, fastens the rope, descends. Instead of one man suspended over the gulf, there are two. The spider brings life, not death. He moors the sailor, drags him up, carries him to the main-top, and leaves him with his comrades. The crowd breaks into applause. Old convict-sergeants weep. Women embrace each other on the quay. All voices cry, with a sort of tender rage, pardon for that man. He begins at once to descend. At a certain moment they think they see him hesitate and stagger. The crowd utters a loud shout. The convict has fallen into the sea, between the Orion and the frigate Algesiras. He does not rise. He disappears without leaving a ripple, as though he had fallen into a cask of oil. They sound. They dive. In vain. The search continues until evening. They do not even find the body. On the following day the Toulon newspaper prints these lines. Yesterday, a convict belonging to the detachment on board of the Orion, on his return from rendering assistance to a sailor, fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been found. This man was committed under the number 9,430, and his name was Jean Valjean.
