Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

In 1815 M. Charles François Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—. He was a man of about seventy-five years of age, and had held the see of D— since 1806. Although the following details in no way affect our narrative, it may not be useless to quote the rumors that were current about him at the moment when he came to the diocese, for what is said of men, whether it be true or false, often occupies as much space in their life, and especially in their destiny, as what they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Aix parliament. It was said that his father, who intended that he should be his successor, married him at the age of eighteen or twenty, according to a not uncommon custom in parliamentary families. Charles Myriel, in spite of this marriage (so people said), had been the cause of much tattle. He was well built, though of short stature, elegant, graceful, and witty: and the earlier part of his life was devoted to the world and to gallantry. The Revolution came, events hurried on, and the parliamentary families, decimated and hunted down, became dispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy in the early part of the Revolution, and his wife, who had been long suffering from a chest complaint, died there, leaving no children. What next took place in M. Myriel’s destiny? Did the overthrow of the old French society, the fall of his own family, and the tragic spectacles of ’93, more frightful perhaps to the emigrés who saw them from a distance with the magnifying power of terror, cause ideas of renunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of one of the distractions and affections which occupied his life, suddenly assailed by one of those mysterious and terrible blows which often prostrate, by striking at his heart, a man whom public catastrophes could not overthrow by attacking him in his existence and his fortune? No one could have answered these questions; all that was known was that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1815, Monsieur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was bishop of Digne. He was an elderly man of about seventy-five and he had occupied the seat of Digne since 1806.

There is something we might mention that has no bearing whatsoever on the tale we have to tell-not even on the background. Yet it may well serve some purpose, if only in the interests of precision, to jot down here the rumors and gossip that had circulated about him the moment he first popped up in the diocese. True or false, what is said about people often has as much bearing on their lives and especially on their destinies as what they do. Monsieur Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Aix parliament, a member of the noblesse de robe. They reckoned his father had put him down to inherit his position and so had married him off very early in the piece when he was only eighteen or twenty, as they used to do quite a lot in parliamentary families. Charles Myriel, married or no, had, they said, set tongues wagging. He was a good-looking young man, if on the short side, elegant, charming, and witty; he had given the best years of his life thus far to worldly pursuits and love affairs. Then the Revolution came along, events spiraled, parliamentary families were wiped out, chased away, hunted, scattered. Monsieur Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy soon after the Revolution broke out. His wife died there of the chest infection she’d had for ages. They had no children. What happened next in the destiny of Monsieur Myriel? The collapse of the old society in France, the fall of his own family, the tragic scenes of ’93, which were, perhaps, even more frightening for emigres’ watching them from afar with the magnifying power of dread-did these things cause notions of renunciation and solitude to germinate in his mind? Was he, in the middle of the distractions and amorous diversions that filled his life, suddenly hit by one of those mysterious and terrible jolts that sometimes come and strike at the heart, bowling over the man public calamities couldn’t shake, threatening as these did only his existence and his fortune? No one could say; all that was known was that, when he came back from Italy, he was a priest.

In 1815 Monsieur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne. He was then about seventy-five and had presided over the diocese of Digne since 1806.

Although it in no way concerns our story, it might be worthwhile, if only for the sake of accuracy, to mention the rumors and gossip about him that were making the rounds when he first came to the diocese. Whether true or false. what is said about men often has as much influence on their lives, and particularly on their destinies, as what they do.

M. Myriel was the son of a judge of the Superior Court of Aix, with the rank acquired by many in the legal profession. It was said that his father, expecting him to inherit his position, had arranged a marriage for the son at the early age of eighteen or twenty, following the custom among these privileged families. Despite his marriage, Charles Myriel had attracted a great deal of attention. Handsome, though not very tall, he was elegant, graceful, and witty. His early years had been devoted to worldly pleasures. With the Revolution, events moved quickly. Hunted down, decimated, or forced into exile, these families were soon dispersed. At the first outbreak of the Revolution, M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy. After a protracted illness his wife ultimately died there of a lung disease. They had no children. What happened next to M. Myriel? The collapse of the old French society, the downfall of his own family, the tragic scenes of 1793, still more terrifying perhaps to the exiles who witnessed them from afar, magnified by horror — did these inspire him with thoughts of renunciation and solitude? In the midst of the flirtations and diversions that consumed his life at that time was he suddenly overcome by one of those mysterious, inner blows that sometimes strike the heart of the man who could not be shaken by public disasters of his life and fortune? Who could say? We do know that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1815, M. Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—. He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age; he had occupied the see of D— since 1806.

Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to the nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families. In spite of this marriage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegant, graceful, intelligent; the whole of the first portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry.

The Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation; the parliamentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were dispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning of the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from which she had long suffered. He had no children. What took place next in the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French society of the olden days, the fall of his own family; the tragic spectacles of ’93, which were, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants who viewed them from a distance, with the magnifying powers of terror—did these cause the ideas of renunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of these distractions, these affections which absorbed his life, suddenly smitten with one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by striking to his heart, a man whom public catastrophes would not shake, by striking at his existence and his fortune? No one could have told: all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1815, M. Charles François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—. He was a man of seventy-five, and had occupied the bishopric of D— since 1806. Although it in no manner concerns, even in the remotest degree, what we have to relate, it may not be useless, were it only for the sake of exactness in all things, to notice here the reports and gossip which had arisen on his account from the time of his arrival in the diocese.

Be it true or false, what is said about men often has as much influence upon their lives, and especially upon their destinies, as what they do.

M. Myriel was the son of a counsellor of the Parlement of Aix; of the rank given to the legal profession. His father, intending him to inherit his place, had contracted a marriage for him at the early age of eighteen or twenty, according to a widespread custom among parliamentary families. Charles Myriel, notwithstanding this marriage, had, it was said, been an object of much attention. His person was admirably moulded; although of slight figure, he was elegant and graceful; all the earlier part of his life had been devoted to the world and to its pleasures. The revolution came, events crowded upon each other; the parliamentary families, decimated, hunted, and pursued, were soon dispersed. M. Charles Myriel, on the first outbreak of the revolution, emigrated to Italy. His wife died there of a lung complaint with which she had been long threatened. They had no children. What followed in the fate of M. Myriel? The decay of the old French society, the fall of his own family, the tragic sights of ’93, still more fearful, perhaps, to the exiles who beheld them from afar, magnified by fright—did these arouse in him ideas of renunciation and of solitude? Was he, in the midst of one of the reveries or emotions which then consumed his life, suddenly attacked by one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by smiting to the heart, the man whom public disasters could not shake, by aiming at life or fortune? No one could have answered; all that was known was that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In the year 1815 Monseigneur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne. He was then about seventy-five, having held the bishopric since 1806.

Although it has no direct bearing on the tale we have to tell, we must nevertheless give some account of the rumours and gossip concerning him which were in circulation when he came to occupy the diocese. What is reported of men, whether it be true or false, may play as large a part in their lives, and above all in their destiny, as the things they do. Monseigneur Myriel was the son of a counsellor of the Parliament of Aix, a member of the noblesse de robe. It was said of him that his father, intending him to inherit his office, had arranged for him to marry at a very early age, about eighteen or twenty, following the custom that was fairly widespread in parliamentary families. Charles Myriel, it was said, had attracted much gossip despite this marriage. He was good-looking although of small stature, elegant, graceful, and entertaining; his early life was wholly devoted to worldly matters and affairs of gallantry. Then had come the revolution, and in the rush of those events the decimated and persecuted parliamentary families had been scattered. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy, and here his wife died of the chest complaint that had long afflicted her. There were no children. What happened after this to Monseigneur Myriel? Did the collapse of the old French social order, the downfall of his own family, the tragic events of ’93 — perhaps even more fearful to an émigré witnessing them at a distance — inspire in him thoughts of renunciation and solitude? Amid the distractions and frivolities that occupied his life, did it happen that he was suddenly overtaken by one of those mysterious and awful revulsions which, striking to the heart, change the nature of a man who cannot be broken by outward disasters affecting his life and fortune? No one can say. All that is known is that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1815, Mr. Charles François Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—. He was a man of seventy-five, and had occupied the see of D— since 1806. Although this incident, in no way, affects the essence itself of our narrative, it may not be useless, if only for precision in all things, to advert here to the reports and gossip which had been current about him from the time of his arrival in the diocese.

True or false, whatever is said of men, as much as their actions, tells a their lives, and, especially, on their destinies. Mr. Myriel was the son of a counsellor of the Parlement of Aix; of the nobility sprung from the bar. It was said that his father, intending for him a reversion of his office, had contracted a marriage for him at the early age of eighteen or twenty, according to a wide-spread custom among parliamentary families. marriage, had, it was said, been the subject of much scandal. In person, though slight in stature, he was well moulded—elegant and graceful; all the earlier part of his life had been devoted to the world and to its pleasures. The revolution came, events crowded upon each other; the parliamentary families, decimated, hunted and pursued, were soon dispersed. Mr. Charles Myriel, on the first outbreak of the revolution, emigrated to Italy. His wife died there, of a breast complaint, under which he had long labored. They had no children. What followed in the fate of Mr. Myriel? The decay of the old French social system, the fall of his own family, the tragic sights of ’93, still more fearful, perhaps, to the exiles who beheld them from afar, magnified by fright—did these arouse in him ideas of unworldliness and of solitude? Was he, in the midst of one of the reveries or emotions which then absorbed his life, suddenly attacked by one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by smiting to the heart, the man whom public disaster could not shake, by aiming at life or fortune? No one could have answered; all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1815, Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was bishop of Digne. He was an old man of about seventy-five. He had been bishop of Digne since 1806.

If only for the sake of being accurate in every particular, although this circumstance in no way impinges on the basic substance of what we are about to relate, it may be worth mentioning here the rumours and gossip circulating about him at the time of his arrival in the diocese. True or false, what is said about men often figures as large in their lives, and above all in the fate that befalls them, as what they do. Monsieur Myriel was the son of a councillor in the parliament at Aix – judicial aristocracy. It was reported that his father, intending that his son should inherit his position, had married him off very young, aged eighteen or twenty, a fairly common practice among parliamentary families. This marriage, it was said, did not prevent Charles Myriel from being much talked about. He was good-looking, though rather short in stature, elegant, charming, witty. His entire early life was devoted to fashionable society and amorous intrigue. The Revolution came. Events moved fast. Decimated, driven out, hunted down, the parliamentary families scattered. During the very first days of the Revolution, Monsieur Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy. There, his wife died of a chest ailment that had long afflicted her. They had no children. What then happened to Monsieur Myriel? The collapse in France of the old world, the downfall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of ’93, perhaps even more terrifying for the emigres watching from afar with magnifying horror – did these give rise in him to thoughts of renunciation and solitude? Was he, in the midst of one of those distractions and attachments that filled his existence, suddenly dealt one of those mysterious and terrible blows that by striking at the heart sometimes fell a man who would be left unshaken by public catastrophes that strike at his way of life and his fortune? No one could have said. All anyone knew was that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

En 1815, M. Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel était évêque de Digne. C’était un vieillard d’environ soixante-quinze ans; il occupait le siège de Digne depuis 1806.

Quoique ce détail ne touche en aucune manière au fond même de ce que nous avons à raconter, il n’est peut-être pas inutile, ne fût-ce que pour être exact en tout, d’indiquer ici les bruits et les propos qui avaient couru sur son compte au moment où il était arrivé dans le diocèse. Vrai ou faux, ce qu’on dit des hommes tient souvent autant de place dans leur vie et surtout dans leur destinée que ce qu’ils font. M. Myriel était fils d’un conseiller au parlement d’Aix; noblesse de robe. On contait de lui que son père, le réservant pour hériter de sa charge, l’avait marié de fort bonne heure, à dix-huit ou vingt ans, suivant un usage assez répandu dans les familles parlementaires. Charles Myriel, nonobstant ce mariage, avait, disait-on, beaucoup fait parler de lui. Il était bien fait de sa personne, quoique d’assez petite taille, élégant, gracieux, spirituel; toute la première partie de sa vie avait été donnée au monde et aux galanteries. La révolution survint, les événements se précipitèrent, les familles parlementaires décimées, chassées, traquées, se dispersèrent. M. Charles Myriel, dès les premiers jours de la révolution, émigra en Italie. Sa femme y mourut d’une maladie de poitrine dont elle était atteinte depuis longtemps. Ils n’avaient point d’enfants. Que se passa-t-il ensuite dans la destinée de M. Myriel? L’écroulement de l’ancienne société française, la chute de sa propre famille, les tragiques spectacles de 93, plus effrayants encore peut-être pour les émigrés qui les voyaient de loin avec le grossissement de l’épouvante, firent-ils germer en lui des idées de renoncement et de solitude? Fut-il, au milieu d’une de ces distractions et de ces affections qui occupaient sa vie, subitement atteint d’un de ces coups mystérieux et terribles qui viennent quelquefois renverser, en le frappant au cœur, l’homme que les catastrophes publiques n’ébranleraient pas en le frappant dans son existence et dans sa fortune? Nul n’aurait pu le dire; tout ce qu’on savait, c’est que, lorsqu’il revint d’Italie, il était prêtre.