Pont-au-Change Volume I: Resurrections

By Arlene C. Harris

October 31, 1855. Celebrated author and social champion Victor Hugo, in exile from France, is forced to relocate to the Isle of Guernsey. En route across the Channel, the trunk containing his unfinished masterpiece, Les Misérables, is lost overboard! But fate deals Hugo a strange blow as he begins to recreate the book with the help of the very people he was destined to immortalize, and he discovers what really happened the night the barricades fell, twenty years before--and all that followed afterwards.

Volume I: Resurrections is the first of six novels in the Pont-au-Change series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arlene C. Harris
• Release date: Mar 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476108308

Arlene C. Harris

Arlene C. Harris started writing at a very early age. Her first works were epic tales involving Snoopy in his "Red Baron" mode teaming up with the cast from "Hogan's Heroes", mainly because at five years old she didn't know there had been not one, but two, World Wars. In 1996 she was the Grand Prize Winner of the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award for her short story "His Best Weapon." Shortly after that, she embarked on her six-book series Pont-au-Change. She has a few more books in the pipeline at this time. Arlene lives in California.

Book preview

Resurrections

Copyright 1996-2019 Arlene C. Harris. All rights reserved worldwide.

nota bene: Despite the fact that some of the characters and institutions and situations described herein are based on actual persons, places, and events, this is a work of fiction; any similarities between them and any persons, places or events other than those intended—living, dead, or otherwise—are entirely coincidental.

PONT-AU-CHANGE

Being the Continuation of

Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables

Volume I: Resurrections

Arlene C. Harris

Cover by Mireille Sillander

Dedication:

To Richard J Dick Mason 1926-1999

The best English teacher I never had, and the best uncle possible. You gave me a pair of candlesticks called encouragement and criticism. I hope you approve of what I’ve done with them.

Contents

Section One: Guernsey, 31 October 1855

Section Two: June 6-7, 1832

Section Three: The Garden of the Soul

Section Four: Winter Approaches

Section Five: Come Together, Fly Apart

Section Six: Calais

Epilogue

Section 1:

Guernsey, 31 October 1855

I

BURIAL AT SEA

IT BEGAN WITH the sound, the sound that overrode all others: louder than the cry of the gulls swooping and circling above the tiny launch rocking in the waters of Saint Peter Port, Guernsey; louder than the bells that rang eight times, in four sets of twin peals; louder than the creak of the wood as the packet ship Dispatch bobbed in the water above its smaller satellite ship—the sound of the wooden trunk clipping the side of the launch on its way into the cold Channel waters resounded in the minds of all who witnessed it: the two sailors who had unceremoniously heaved the trunk over the side to join its owner in the launch; the elderly French gentleman who, flanked by a younger man, stared aghast at the bubbles rising to the surface, marking the grave of his most ambitious dreams; even the white-haired gentleman on the packet ship whose faltered step had jostled the sailor with the trunk, thus causing the tragedy unfolding below them, could not turn away from the sight, nor could his taller, brooding companion—all six men stared at the swirling waters as if they were witnesses to the drowning of a child.

Soon a second sound followed the first, the sound of a heart-rending scream as the old man in the launch scrabbled at the side of the boat, hands clutching at the water as the young man grasped him by the coat and pulled him away. But the scream, matched by the screams of the gulls, shattered the paralysis of the other witnesses. The sailors said little, did little, as if it were hardly their concern. The two old men on the packet ship continued to scan the water.

The waters at that part of the harbor were deep, and it was not even a true harbor that served Guernsey Island. If there had been a harbor the packet ship might have docked at a pier, and the business with the launch would not have been necessary. But the harbor was not meant for such maneuvers, so it was a necessity of landing that one disembark from the larger ships to smaller ones, which then would be rowed to shore. The sailors in the launch did not move, they merely gripped their oars and waited for the two frantic passengers to settle down, lest they capsize the whole and thus be reunited with the old man’s luggage. The elder of the passengers had sunk to his knees in the launch, wracked with sobs, as the younger one tried to console him. The water is too deep, the youth said in French. It’s no use, Father—

My God, my God, the father moaned, rocking, Gone, all gone! My life was in that trunk!

The sailors on the Dispatch made ready to debark, continuing on to England, but there was a flurry of argument from the two old men who had witnessed the accident, a series of robust Gallic gestures and orders barked with the clipped assurance of one who did not doubt such orders would be carried out, and in a moment the sailors at the oars had been ordered to bring the launch back alongside its mother ship; the two elderly men, with a surprising agility that belied their apparent ages, clambered down into the launch and sat side by side on the bench between the rowers and the two grief-stricken men.

The launch made its way toward shore, the early October sun filtering out through the layers of low clouds surrounding the tiny island. The two newcomers faced away from the sun, away from the island, and regarded nothing but the man who wept and the man who consoled him.

The gentleman with the white hair, the one who had bumped the sailor’s arm, was an imposing figure, stout but fit, his large hands perched atop the stout cane he had planted in front of him. His face was round, lined with age and the attendant experiences age put upon a man, not all bad, not all good; his beard was clipped, neat, precise, almost military in its symmetry. He appeared to be well into his sixth decade, yet he was no ancient relic; from the way he had descended from the packet ship into the launch he was still as vigorous as a man half his age.

His companion seemed a dark twin of the first, opposite in appearance, yet similar in attitude—this gray-haired, olive-skinned man was all angles, jutting nose, thin lips; his chin was bare but his cheeks were covered by two enormous, slate-gray sideburns; his narrow eyes were a matching shade of gray and his expression no less granite. He, too, sat with his walking stick before him, his strong, vein-lined hands clasping its rounded, leaden tip. Both men were dressed in dark clothes, and wore tall hats and warm gloves against the biting winds of la Manche. He appeared to be of an age with the other.

The white-haired man cleared his throat before speaking; his voice was gentle, but firm, like a priest’s. Monsieur, he began, and then he stopped. Monsieur, I beg your pardon. It was I who caused the trunk to fall into the water; I lost my balance, the boat heaved so—nevertheless it is my fault entirely, and I will make whatever reparations you deem necessary to the replacement of your property.

Slowly, painfully, the elderly man turned to regard the speaker. He was only fifty-three, but in his grief he appeared much older. His was a gentle face, with a high forehead and receding hairline, full lips, piercing eyes, majestic nose; his manner was that of a statesman uncomfortable with his post. The younger man beside him, apparently in his thirties, sported dark wavy hair and dark whiskers and a sad expression unrelated to the current tragedy. His hands were on his father’s shoulders.

Replace? The older man’s eyes flashed with inner fire. There is no replacement for that trunk! My life was in there, the dream of my soul, the child of my conscience—ah, Dieu, Dieu, he cried, collapsing in a heap, weeping anew, wasn’t Léopoldine enough, or must all my children drown?

This outburst shocked the two gentlemen profoundly. They exchanged fearful glances as the bereaved man continued, Thirty years, I have worked on it, shaping it, molding it, seeking its dark corners and exposing its great gleaming rays that would illuminate the world—the world, gentlemen! Everything I ever believed, ever wanted to convey, the core of my soul bared before mankind, that was what was in the trunk! A thousand pages of manuscript, written in ink dearer than my own blood, on paper dearer than my own flesh, the great work of my life, vanished—

Father— The younger man glared at the two intruders, and found his gaze met by both of theirs; the white-haired man conveyed sorrow and sympathy while the other’s stare was cold, glaring, penetrating, seeming to reach into the young man and turn him inside out.

A manuscript? The latter’s expression was incredulous. The trunk contained a manuscript?

Not just ‘a’ manuscript, monsieur, the son replied boldly, despite the harrowing gaze, but many manuscripts, all my father’s unfinished works. All the furniture, the luggage, everything else remains on Jersey for the present, to follow later, but my father’s work has always accompanied him!

Brussels couldn’t lose it, his father muttered, desolate, that bandit Napoléon le petit could not stifle it, the June Days couldn’t destroy it, but here, in this last refuge, during a simple crossing from one haven to another....

The white haired man bowed his head in profound regret. His companion ventured, Monsieur is a writer, then?

A writer? the young man cried. He is the writer, France’s writer! He is France itself! Can it be that there are Frenchmen in the world who do not recognize Victor Hugo?

II

THE WHITE MAN BECOMES WHITER

AT L’HÔTEL d’Europe, the inn that stood on Quay Street at the harbor’s edge, the three older men huddled by the fire of a private alcove, clasping hot cider; the fourth man, M. Hugo’s son François-Victor, when he was satisfied his father would be well looked after, had gone to town to see about finding a suitable house to let. Hugo’s manner had changed, eased, somewhat, from utter dejection to enforced resignation over the loss of what he referred to as The Bishop’s Manuscript. It was on learning that the two gentlemen in question were likewise unhappy but voluntary exiles from France, the three fell to natural discussions.

The celebrated Victor Hugo, poet, critic, novelist, statesman, peer of France, author of Notre-Dame de Paris, of Hérnani, of Les Châtiments, pulled a blanket over his slack shoulders, his eyes downcast, devoid of the life’s fire that had spurred him to speak for those among his countrymen whose voice would not otherwise be heard. You must forgive me, gentlemen, he whispered hoarsely, holding the cup close to him yet not drinking any cider, allowing the steam to lick at his face and dampen his forehead, for my reaction. I have lost manuscripts before. I know the story I would have told, I know it in my heart, in the fiber of my being, but I will not be able to complete it. I never really expected to complete it, it has changed so much from its beginning, as I have changed during its telling. And I have not written on it in ten years, nearly, as I have had to abandon my literary efforts to devote my time and energy to my political writings.... He pulled the blanket tight around him, warding off the chill only he could feel. All the lacings of my own life I had woven into its fabric. It was nice to dream, one day, that I would hold its leather-bound frame in my hands, that others would read it and come to know the people who are as close to me as my own family, as any I might take into my own household... but I digress, gentlemen; your pardon, please. I am not a man of quiet words, or contained emotions. I am normally a man of unrestricted passions—I confess the shock of the matter is still with me.

I know your writings are passionate, said the white-haired man, who had introduced himself appropriately enough as M. Leblanc. I have read your dissertations on the lives of the unfortunate, the dispossessed, the miserable wretches chained to the slavery of poverty and despair. I read with great interest your work Le dernier jour d’un condemne, and the account of Claude Gereux. I know your opinions of such matters, your charity towards those whose lives can only be made better solely because they cannot be made worse. He looked up; his gaze was no less piercing than his companion’s, but it was less intrusive—gently probing, seeking admittance rather than demanding it. If it is as you say, and the work I have regrettably torn from you would have been of that temperament and disposition, I have committed a graver injustice than you have led me to believe. He set his cider glass down on the table beside him. If there is any way I can assist you in the reconstruction of the lost manuscript, then Monsieur, I place myself at your disposal.

The other gentleman, seated in the farthest corner of the little room, close to the hearth, a dark man in darker surroundings, raised his eyes to regard his associate. His expression required no translation, but he muttered a single word—Incroyable!—under his breath. This man had introduced himself as M. Lenoir.

The man whose previous work had endeared a nation, and alienated an emperor, smiled sadly. In that trunk were several hundred handwritten pages, numerous clippings from newspapers and manuscripts that no longer exist anywhere else—all of it irreplaceable. Perhaps I could reconstruct parts of it in my head, other parts from other ideas I have entertained... but it would not have the scope, the depth, the intensity such a tale would require.

He sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, hunched over his still-untouched drink. You recognized my name well enough, you know what I have done, what I have said, on behalf of France and her people. You know my politics, my passions, my dreams and desires for the betterment of mankind. Once I wrote a book to save a church; because of it, the cathedral of Notre-Dame has been saved, and remains the jewel on the Île de la Cité. For some time I have aspired to write a book that would similarly save a soul. Not any one particular soul, you understand; but if I could bring about a change in a man’s life simply by bringing to his attention the plagues of mankind that can be eased merely by the application of simple human compassion, if even only one man’s life can be changed for the better by it, then there resides hope for all mankind.

The two gentlemen exchanged meaningful glances. A worthy ambition, said M. Leblanc.

Newspaper clippings? asked M. Lenoir. Of what?

Hugo gestured broadly, turning his face to the friendly warmth of the fireplace. Oh, this and that. Items culled from a long habit of exposing injustice. It began in 1823, when I came upon a notice of a kindly bishop in Digne who had succored a released convict. He noted the shocked expressions on his countrymen’s faces and said consolingly, Yes, very unconventional, but true, I assure you: I had in print where the Bishop of Digne, Monseigneur de Miollis—or as I had renamed him, Monseigneur Myriel—took in a man who had spent time at Toulon, a man who in some accounts is called Pierre Maurin, in others the name is understood to be Jean Tréjean, or some such; memory, it seems, fails the eyewitnesses, he added with a Parisian shrug worthy of any tradesman or gamin, but you understand it is the message, not the messenger, that concerns me.

He babbled on, the energy of the subject warming him as the fire never could, animating him out of his lethargy. There were other items, in passing: that a man might spend twenty years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread, as that poor man had done; that a woman might be forced by poverty and tragedy into the slavery of prostitution; that the law, on arresting such women, would deprive them of both their liberty and their industry. This I myself have seen. And that the children of such men and such women are born without hope of rising from their mean beginnings, a candle snuffed out, a dream diminished.... He smiled feebly. A novel left uncompleted.

Hugo turned away from the fire to address the men directly, but hesitated, his mouth slack, at the paleness of M. Leblanc and the dark, furrowed brow of M. Lenoir. Have I offended your senses, gentlemen? Then consider that there are certain conditions in our present society that greatly offend me, and so long as such offenses against God and man are allowed to continue unchecked, then such stories must be told. He sat back resolutely in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and set a gaze on them that dared them to deny the vision he had created for the work that would remain ever unfinished.

Lenoir leaned forward in his chair, his clasped hands dangling between his knees. Leblanc’s eyes darted one way, then the other, searching for something to catch hold on, a drowning man flailing for a line; his hands shook as he set his drink down on the table, but he did not turn around to confront the penetrating stare of M. Lenoir.

Finally, M. Lenoir intoned, Do as you must.

Leblanc closed his eyes, nodding, affirming something to himself, or to God. Then he raised his gaze to met M. Hugo’s. Monsieur, he began in an even voice, clear like a bell and with some of the same mordant tones, it seems I may be of some use to you in the recovery of your work that it was my misfortune to condemn to a watery grave. I can help you reconstruct your novel, the parts you may have read in the newspapers you cited, and many other things that you would never have discovered on your own. He stood up, drew himself up straight for a moment, and then moved to the fireplace, setting his great hands on the mantle, leaning against it for support, gazing longingly into the embers. For you see, monsieur, I am the ex-convict the bishop saved. I am that man.

He turned to the wide-eyed exile, his expression one of ineffable sadness mingled with the resolution of a man who, after having spent a night waiting in Gethsemane, had realized with immense relief that the long wait was over. And the name, monsieur, is not Tréjean. It is Valjean. Jean Valjean.

III

ECHOES OF THE PAST, SHADOWS OF THE FUTURE

FRANÇOIS-VICTOR RETURNED a half-hour later, but his father, looking pink and healthy and declaring himself quite recovered from the shock of the loss of his work, dismissed him, intending to spend the rest of the night conversing with two brothers in the struggle. And knowing his father’s temperament, and temper, François-Victor retreated, leaving the elderly trio in possession of the field. No one disturbed them, not even the porter, for their discussion ceased the moment the man’s hand touched the doorknob as he plied them with coffee and dinner and dessert, and some fine port (of which neither Leblanc nor his companion, whose name of Lenoir had been rendered doubly suspicious, partook) and all manner of light nourishment which the men hardly touched in their elaborations. Hugo, however, devoured the story that unfolded before him, mostly at his prodding as Leblanc, or Valjean, as he may now be addressed, seemed reluctant to divulge anything that might cast himself in a good light. Occasionally, but not often, Lenoir would interrupt, urging Valjean to respond, to elaborate, sometimes even offering a correction or a clarification, but mostly he remained in his quiet corner, a sentinel over the delicate recollections that had to be caught and examined before they vanished like vapor before the intensity of Hugo’s enthusiasm and the reluctant candor of a man whose very life Hugo had sought to fictionalize into posterity.

Near to the time of the false dawn, when even the innkeeper sat catching a quick snooze by the front door, his dogs at his feet, Hugo had finally run out of paper. He set the pen down, blotting the last of his frantic notes on the end table he’d drawn up to his knees to use as a desk. He sat back, satisfied, his arms behind his head, and gazed at the man who stood before the fireplace with his hands behind his back and his head down, regarding his own shoes.

My God, Hugo exclaimed, the truth is more than I could have ever envisioned! Monsieur, what you have lived through, it is a miracle you still have your health—to fall off a prison ship and survive, to survive an ambush by no less than seven armed criminals, to flee through the streets of Paris into a convent, of all places! To rise to the position of Mayor, from a position of obscurity—monsieur, even I myself needed four ballots to be elected to the Assembly! And after all that, to likewise survive that poor abortion of an émeute in ‘32, and to survive, after all that, a mile-long trek through the sewers, with an unconscious man on your back!

Valjean did not answer; he merely shrugged.

Hugo, however, remained supremely enthused. And to elude that dolt of a police inspector for twenty years, that is true genius. Valjean turned his head, frowning. Ah, no, of course, Hugo quickly added, from what you’ve said, he wasn’t a dolt, no, he was intelligent enough, and it is to your credit that you managed to foil the industry of a smart man rather than a stupid one... but it is precisely such men as that inspector, I can’t recall his name at the moment— Valjean did not provide one, but Hugo continued nonetheless: —it is precisely that sort of closed-minded public official that should be removed from office, the kind who interprets only the letter of the law, and not the spirit, who encompasses not even the mote of the element of compassion, bah! He threw his hands up. I myself have seen too many such men, in positions of power, in position to abuse it and deny justice to those who need it most! Hugo sprang from his chair, pacing the room wildly, gesticulating as he spoke, I had a newspaper account of him, too, you know—I kept it as an anecdote, to show that there exist such men, that it is to France’s shame that there exist in Her employ such narrow-focused men in positions of government that would prefer to throw themselves into the Seine rather than admit that one considered beneath him is in reality so much farther above him—

Valjean raised his hand in protest. Monsieur—

No, it is true, shouted Hugo. I have known such men in my life, when I was a member of the Assembly, and toured the prisons; I was deeply concerned myself with such matters, and I tell you I have known such pig-headed individuals such as that Inspector, ah, Something—

Javert, came the deep voice from the hearth. Hugo turned to that voice.

Lenoir’s gray eyes narrowed to slits and his gaze bored into Hugo’s marrow and chilled the writer as no look he had ever seen. And Lenoir rose to his feet, his great walking stick tapping on the hearthstone as he approached Hugo, stopping only when the two were face to face. Lenoir towered over Hugo, nearly a full head taller than the writer, and it was his manner, his bearing, the way he carried himself, that Hugo recognized not as being of a military origin—for his father, General Joseph Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo, had been such a man—but of a government mien, of a man born and bred to government service, to the police.

Hugo’s expression softened while Lenoir continued to scrutinize him. Javert, Hugo repeated.

The dark man’s thin lips parted into a smile that, though small, was fierce, terrible. He made a sound, a noiseless laugh that disconcerted Hugo and sent him slinking backwards, groping for his chair, unable to release himself from the grip of those gray eyes. When Hugo fell back into his chair, at once mortified and confused, Lenoir looked away, breaking his hold on Hugo’s will, and turned to the embers of the dying fire, and Valjean. I think, monsieur, that were I that man you described, I might take offense at that description. He glanced over his shoulder momentarily, and then returned his attention to the hearth. Twenty years ago, I was that man. But that man is dead.

Dead, repeated Hugo, suddenly remembering. Yes, dead! Drowned in the Seine, his body recovered under a boat by the Pont-Neuf! A suicide! Positively identified! But you, you are alive! How is that possible?

Javert, for indeed it was he who spoke, leaned on his stout staff and thought for a moment. You would put this in your book?

Of course! My good God, monsieur, what a story that must be! For you two to be allies, after having been adversaries for so long....

No, said Javert. I allow that Valjean might dispense of his own story as he likes, but I do not consent. That—how did you put it? Pig-headed? Closed-minded? Dolt?

Your pardon, monsieur—

Javert waved it away. That man was myself, once. And he died, and I prefer him to remain dead. Javert drowned in the Seine, one of many who commit la morte Parisienne.

Hugo spread his arms out wide, complacently. If you wish it, I shall leave it as it is. If that is what you choose people to believe I will not correct the impression.

Valjean fussed with the buttons of his waistcoat. In all honesty, monsieur, perhaps it’s better all around that we are both dead. For if I continue in your book how would you explain the man accompanying me?

Hugo frowned. You want me to fabricate a death for you, monsieur?

After a pause, Valjean nodded. That would be best. He looked up at Javert. You agree?

It is sensible. Javert retreated back to his corner. Hugo noted that the former policeman limped slightly in his left leg, that the stout cane tipped with lead was functional rather than ornamental or affectational. And he noted that Valjean, in common with many who had served long years on a chain gang, dragged his left leg slightly, though nearly forty years had passed since Valjean’s release in 1815....

Hugo gasped at the thought. Forty years! He turned to Valjean, amazed. Monsieur, forgive me for asking, but you must be of quite an advanced age, if all happened as you have said.

Valjean, his eyes still humbly lowered, replied, I am in my eighty-sixth year.

Hugo remained in awe. Valjean appeared to have only reached his sixtieth year; this from a man who had spent nearly twenty years in prison! And Javert appeared the older of the two, but hardly what one might term frail. Before the question could be raised, Javert offered, I am ten years the junior. Merely seventy-six.

Hugo shook his head, as if to clear it of such astonishing facts. Messieurs, what you have told me is incredible! Half an hour ago I was content to take a spate of notes to serve as the framework for the reconstruction of Les Misères—

Javert drew himself up. The what?

That is the title, monsieur. Originally I called it simply The Bishop’s Manuscript, but I call it now Les Misères—

No, said Javert. It came out short, like a bark, not quite an order, something more than a request.

Hugo’s face darkened as the blood rushed to his cheeks. No? No?

Valjean held his hands up to Javert placatingly, and then turned to Hugo. Perhaps, since you are writing less of the condition itself and more of those existing under that condition, you might wish to elaborate your title. It is not misery you seek to expose, but those who require deliverance from it, the legions of oppressed, of downtrodden, the wretched poor, les misérables.

Hugo’s fists shook at his sides. How dare this stranger, this man of such a temperament and character, or excess and lack thereof, respectively, think he might dictate to him, Hugo, how to title the book he had spent his entire life preparing to deliver! But Valjean presented a calming influence, soothing the ruffled feathers of the artist’s ego with a practiced hand. Javert remained intractable, an attitude that under other circumstances Hugo would have resisted simply for the sake of argument and exercise. It was the reverse of his situation regarding his most famous novel to that point, Notre-Dame de Paris, retitled in the English translations as The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. In that case, the greater scope of the title had been diminished by the narrowed focus on one of its characters. In the case of the work at hand, the work resurrected from the depths no less miraculously than Javert from the black, churning rapids between the Pont Notre-Dame and the Pont-au-Change, Valjean was quite correct: to call the book Miseries would be like calling Melville’s triumphant Moby Dick, a book Hugo had just finished reading to great admiration for the writer, Whaling. But it was the manner in which Javert had gone about it that annoyed Hugo, and the ends certainly did not justify the means, and it concerned him why Javert should so strongly dislike that title, but....

Les Misérables, Hugo repeated at last. Yes, I see what you mean.... He took the sheaf of notes and straightened them up, tapping them into neat order. But if I am to complete this work, you must allow me some freedom. A novel must end where it ends, one cannot simply tack on an ending with penny nails.

In which case, said Valjean, I must insist that you not publish this work until after both M. Javert and myself are dead. Before Hugo could protest, he added, Also, that you change our names, and the names of my family. It would not do to expose them to the possibility of scandal. I would not allow it. I would fight it with everything I have left to me. I—

Do not agitate yourself, monsieur. Hugo waved his arms before him. There is no need to be alarmed. Of course I will change the names of all involved. Even the treacherous innkeeper, Thénardier, if you like.

That would be best, Valjean repeated.

Then are we agreed? I will even draw up a paper stipulating to all this—

No! This time it was Valjean who barked. We can neither of us sign anything. If we signed ourselves Leblanc and Lenoir, it would be a forgery, and if we signed as Javert and Valjean....

Then you would expose yourselves, Hugo finished, nodding. Yes. But surely there is one thing more we have to agree to? In answer to their puzzled expressions he said, "Surely there is the question of royalties, from the publication of the work? You will want an