#lm 1.7.4

[scuttleton]

LM 1.7.4

Dang Valjean is dreaming about Mancountry (footnote: weird place in Deltarune, the video game)

The temptation to copy/paste this entire dream sequence is so strong but it is so much

I will try to just put a little.

I was in the countryside. Bleak open countryside where there was no grass growing. It did not seem to me to be either light or dark. I was walking with my brother . . . [that] I never think about and I can scarcely remember now. . . . We saw a man who passed close by. He was stark-naked, ashen-hued, mounted on an earthen-hued horse. The man had no hair. We could see his skull and the veins on his skull. In his hand he held a switch as pliant as a vine shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed by and said nothing to us. My brother said to me, ‘Let’s take the sunken road.’ . . . Everything was earth-coloured, even the sky. After a few paces there was now no reply when I spoke. I realized my brother was not with me any more. I entered a village that I saw. . . . The first street I entered was deserted. I turned into a second street. Round the corner where the two streets met, there was a man standing against the wall. I said to this man, ‘What village is this? Where am I?’ The man did not reply. I saw a house with the door open, I went inside. The first room was deserted. I went into the second. Behind the door of this room, a man was standing against the wall. I asked this man, ‘Whose house is this? Where am I?’ The man did not reply. [Repeat with the garden] I wandered through the village . . . All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a living soul . . . But behind every corner, behind every door, behind every tree, stood a man who did not speak. There was never more than one of them to be seen at any one time. These men watched me go by. I left the town and began to walk through the fields. After some time I turned round and saw a large crowd coming after me. I recognized all the men I had seen in the town. They had strange expressions. They did not seem to be hurrying and yet they walked faster than I did. They made no sound as they walked. Within an instant this crowd caught up with me and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earth-coloured. Then the first one I had seen and questioned on entering the town said to me, ‘Where are you going! Don’t you know that you’ve long been dead?’ I opened my mouth to reply, and I saw there was no one around.

...I still included most of it. But how could I not??? So eerie and well-written. It really captured the absurdity of a dream.

Dang, so messed up from his thinking and his dream that he straight up forgot he had even ordered the tilbury.

There was quite a long silence. He stared stupidly at the candle flame, then from round the wick he took some of the molten wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman was waiting. Yet she ventured to raise her voice once more: ‘Monsieur le maire, what am I to reply?’ ‘Tell him, very well, I’m coming.’

Rattling the bars of my cage worried about what will happen to Fantine and Cosette

1.7.5

The post service from Arras to Montreuil-sur-Mer was still operated at that time by small mail-coaches dating back to the Empire. . . . That night, just as it was entering the town, the coach going down to Montreuil-sur-Mer on the Hesdin road collided at a street corner with a little tilbury drawn by a white horse coming from the opposite direction, which had just one person in it, a man wrapped in a cloak. The wheel of the tilbury took quite a severe knock. The postman cried out to this man to stop, but the traveller did not listen and continued on his way at a fast trot.

Oh? Will this stop him from being able to make the journey?

Why was he going to Arras? He kept repeating what he had already said to himself when he hired Scaufflaire’s cabriolet: that whatever the outcome might be, there was no harm in seeing for himself and reaching his own judgement about things.

Mmmm sure buddy

It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He stopped in front of an inn to give the horse a breather and feed it some oats.

Hey wait a minute 🤔 did the book ever say where the Thénardiers' inn was? (Flipping pages) Ah, Montfermeil. Okay.

‘Because that’s a wheel that, like as not, has just done twelve and a half miles but isn’t going to do another half-mile, for sure.’ . . . The collision with the mail-coach had split two spokes and gouged the hub so that the axle nut was no longer holding. . . . Maître Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his doorstep. He came and examined the wheel, and made a face like a surgeon who thinks a limb is broken. ‘Can you repair this wheel immediately?’ ‘Yes, monsieur.’ ‘When will I be able to set off again?’ ‘Tomorrow.’

Oops

Val once again trying to bribe people to do what is actually impossible LOL money can't make the parts you need get made within an impossible time limit

Covering every basis... Are there wheels to buy, is there a gig to hire out to him, is there a gig he could buy, he can't saddle this horse because it won't accept a rider, so is there a different horse he could take, etc etc etc... so of course....

It was obvious that providence was intervening. It was providence that had broken the wheel of the tilbury and was preventing him from continuing his journey. He had not given in at the first challenge, as it were. He had made every possible effort to continue his journey. He had honestly and scrupulously exhausted every alternative. . . . It seemed to him that God was now on his side and was coming out in his favour.

I figured that's how he think

He told himself that he had done everything within his power, and all he could do now was to go home quietly. If his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a room inside the inn there would have been no witnesses, no one would have heard him, things would have gone no further, and we probably would not have had to relate any of the events of which you are going to read. But this conversation had taken place in the street. Any discussion in the street inevitably attracts a circle of onlookers. . . . After listening for a few minutes, a young lad no one had noticed broke away from the group and ran off. Just as the traveller was deciding to turn back, after the inward deliberations we have described above, this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman. ‘Monsieur,’ said the woman, ‘my boy tells me you wish to hire a gig.’

HAHAHA

God said jk

Dismayed that the traveller should escape them, the wheelwright and the stable-hand spoke out: it was a frightful rattletrap, it was unsprung, resting directly on the axle – admittedly the seats were suspended inside with leather thongs – it let the rain in, the wheels were rusted and corroded with damp, it would not go much further than the tilbury, a real boneshaker! This gentleman would be very unwise to go anywhere in it, et cetera. All this was true, but this rattletrap, this boneshaker, this thing whatever it was, had two wheels and was mobile, and could go to Arras.

In the words of @/littleblueclown, it has four two wheels and drives

As the cart moved off, he confessed to himself that he had felt a certain joy a moment earlier at the thought that he would not be going where he was going. He considered this joy with a sort of anger, and found it absurd. Why feel joyful at turning back? After all, he was making this journey of his own free will. No one was forcing him to make it. And certainly nothing would happen that was not something he wanted.

lol

As he left Hesdin he heard a voice shouting, ‘Stop! Stop!’ He stopped the cart with a jerk, which had a vague feverishness and convulsiveness about it, resembling hope. It was the old woman’s little boy. ‘Monsieur,’ said the lad, ‘it was I who found you the cart.’ ‘Well?’ ‘You’ve not given me anything.’ He who gave to all, and so readily, found this claim unreasonable, almost outrageous. ‘Ah! you, young man,’ said he, ‘you shall have nothing.’ He whipped the horse and set off at a fast trot.

JSHDJFKTK VAL DON'T TAKE IT OUT ON HIM

‘That’s what was wrong with me,’ he thought. ‘I hadn’t eaten.’ His food came. He fell on the bread, took a bite, and then slowly put it back on the table and did not touch it again. A carter was eating at another table. He said to this man, ‘Why is their bread so bitter here?’ The carter was German and did not understand.

Bro's gotten picky in his old spoiled age

As he came out of the village a road-mender laying stones on the road looked up and said, ‘That’s a very tired horse.’ Indeed, the poor beast was going at no more than a walking pace. ‘Is it Arras you’re going to?’ added the road-mender. ‘Yes.’ ‘You won’t make very good time at that rate.’ He stopped the horse and asked the road-mender, ‘How much further is it from here to Arras?’ ‘Near enough a good seventeen miles.’ ‘How so? In the post book it’s marked as only thirteen.’ ‘Ah!’ replied the road-mender. ‘Don’t you know the road’s under repair? You’ll find it blocked a quarter of an hour from here. Impossible to go any further.’

Stars above it just keeps happening

‘And what’s more, it’s all cross-country. Listen, monsieur,’ the road-mender went on, ‘do you want my advice? Your horse is tired. Go back to Tinques. You’ll find a good inn there. Stay the night. Go to Arras tomorrow.’ ‘I must be there this evening.’ ‘That’s different. Then go to the inn in any case and hire a trace horse there. The tracer will guide you cross-country.’ He followed the road-mender’s advice, went back, and half an hour later drove past the same spot but this time at a fast trot with a good trace horse.

AND THERE KEEPS BEING A WAY OUT

They turned into the country lane. The roadway became terrible. The cart lurched from one rut to another. He said to the postilion, ‘Keep going at a trot, and I’ll double your tip.’ A jolt, and the swingle-bar broke. ‘Monsieur, that’s the swingle-bar broken,’ said the postilion. ‘I don’t know how to harness my horse now. This road’s very bad at night. If you’d only go back and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras early tomorrow morning.’

Oh my stars

He replied, ‘Have you a piece of string and a knife?’ ‘Yes, monsieur.’ He cut a branch from a tree and made a swingle-bar out of it. This was another twenty minutes’ delay, but they set off again at a gallop.

A lesser man would have given up 15 times over by now, holy smokes

‘. . . We’ll be at Arras by eight. We’ve only another seven and a half miles to go.’ At that moment it occurred to him for the first time – he found it odd that it had not occurred to him sooner – that all the trouble he was taking might well prove useless. He did not even know what time the trial was. He should at least have enquired about that. It was absurd to keep pressing on like this without knowing whether it would serve any purpose. Then he made a few rough calculations in his head. Usually the sittings of the court of assizes began at nine o’clock in the morning. It could not take too long, this case: the theft of the apples, that would be very brief, then it would just be a question of identification, four or five statements, not much for the lawyers to say. He was going to arrive after it was all over.

I'm no mathematician, but if he got there at 8 and the trial would start at 9....

How would he arrive by the time it's over?

[les-mis-daily-doodles]

don’t you know that you’ve long been dead?

[lmchaptertitlebracket]

Round 5, Matchup 2: I.vii.4 vs IV.xii.3

Which chapter title do you prefer?

Forms Assumed by Suffering During Sleep

Night Begins To Descend Upon Grantaire

Voting ended onOct 27, 2025

[pilferingapples]

LM 1.7.4

On a slightly more serious note about today's chapter , this bit is VERY intriguing:

This nightmare struck him so forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. (Hapgood translation)

Which confirms that Our Narrator is someone who Valjean knew well enough, at least, to leave something to on purpose! To me this is a strong argument that it's the Pontmercies writing this after Valjean's death; who else does he even know?? Simplice maybe? It could be her... ( the "us" in another novel might make me assume there have to be at least two people here, but I'm familiar with this Plural I thing here. So it COULD be multiple people, or just one!)

The other striking thing about this is it suggests that Valjean is keeping some kind of diary--and somehow manages to keep it with him through all the subsequent arrests, escapes, and moves. Incredible. I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached with this green velvet ribbon . But it does give an easy excuse for how we know a Lot of the things here !

[lesmisletters-daily]

Forms Assumed By Suffering During Sleep

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.7.4

Three o’clock in the morning had just struck, and he had been walking thus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair.

There he fell asleep and had a dream.

This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text.

Of whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it: it is the gloomy adventure of an ailing soul.

Here it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed, “The Dream I had that Night.”

“I was in a plain; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night.

“I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the brother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly remember.

“We were conversing and we met some passers-by. We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window.

“There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.

“My brother said to me, ‘Let us take to the hollow road.’

“There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke: I perceived that my brother was no longer with me.

“I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be Romainville. (Why Romainville?)

“The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street. Behind the angle formed by the two streets, a man was standing erect against the wall. I said to this man:—

“‘What country is this? Where am I?’ The man made no reply. I saw the door of a house open, and I entered.

“The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, ‘Whose house is this? Where am I?’ The man replied not.

“The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man, ‘What garden is this? Where am I?’ The man did not answer.

“I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass.

“I left the town and began to ramble about the fields.

“After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue.

“Then the first one whom I had seen and questioned on entering the town said to me:—

“‘Whither are you going! Do you not know that you have been dead this long time?’

“I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near me.”

He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was still black night.

He rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet.

From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from the earth.

Below him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness.

As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, “Hold!” said he, “there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now.”

But this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first roused him thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stars were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horse’s hoofs on the pavement.

“What vehicle is this?” he said to himself. “Who is coming here so early in the morning?”

At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.

He shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice:—

“Who is there?”

Some one said:—

“I, Monsieur le Maire.”

He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.

“Well!” he replied, “what is it?”

“Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o’clock in the morning.”

“What is that to me?”

“The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.”

“What cabriolet?”

“The tilbury.”

“What tilbury?”

“Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?”

“No,” said he.

“The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire.”

“What coachman?”

“M. Scaufflaire’s coachman.”

“M. Scaufflaire?”

That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had passed in front of his face.

“Ah! yes,” he resumed; “M. Scaufflaire!”

If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have been frightened.

A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle with a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him. She even ventured to uplift her voice once more:—

“What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?”

“Say that it is well, and that I am coming down.”

[cliozaur]

The one about dreams before dreams became a thing thanks to Freud and Jung. Hugo knew nothing about those two (of course), therefore he asserted that dreams held no significance, especially concerning Valjean's predicament.

The most intriguing thing in this chapter is this: “It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us.” What? Valjean bequeathed his papers to the author? This practice, common since the eighteenth century, involves claiming that an author obtained or was given private papers, correspondence, or diaries, thereby presenting authentic content. However, Hugo doesn't extensively employ this technique here. It’s the only instance (or one of the few) he mentioned Valjean’s papers. Why did he do this?

Valjean dreams about his lost brother. He had a brother, really? Another Jean? A spare Jean? The dream unfolds in an eerie manner, involving a deceased brother, a naked horseman, an empty road, and a conclusion where the dreamer is revealed to be dead. One can only wonder what Freud and Jung would have made of such a dream.

After enduring numerous trials, making choices, and ultimately deciding to leave things unchanged, Valjean, half-asleep, surrenders to his fate embodied by M. Scaufflaire's coachman, embarking on a journey to Arras.

Now I want an alternative version of Les Misérables told from the perspective of Valjean's papers!

[norwegianalien]

“There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.»

… is anyone else imagining that ridiculous picture of Putin on a horse… but he is holding a nintendo switch…

[dolphin1812]

It’s so devastating that Valjean’s memories of his childhood and early life only show up when he’s especially stressed. I know that it’s a response to trauma, but it’s so heartbreaking that we only learned that he – the protagonist! – had a brother this far in. Even his writing specifies how much he doesn’t think about him and how little he remembers of him.

His dream is also very telling (although Hugo says not to put too much stock in dreams). When he is told that he’s dead, it seems to reflect that Valjean, in a way, is; he hasn’t lived as him for many years, and he’s so thoroughly buried parts of that life that he doesn’t even remember them all. The “earthen” hues of the faces of the people passing him add to this idea of a burial, as if everything were occurring underground. The mysterious horseman at the beginning may even be a representation of death, as Jean is separated from his brother after he passes. The area they walk through is notably devoid of all life as well; Valjean mentions that there are no trees, no grass, or other plants. At the same time, the dream stresses his isolation. Valjean can’t communicate with the vast majority of the people in his dream; his appearance is different; he can’t seem to move at their speed. It reflects, in some ways, his distance from society, both as Valjean (an outcast criminal) and Madeleine (a beloved mayor, but not someone who has friends, family, or other close relationships). Additionally, as Valjean, he found society threatening. He was rejected everywhere he went and needed something to blame, so society as a whole was an appropriate target. In his dream, he’s surrounded by the people there, resurrecting this image of a threatening group of people that hasn’t been present for him specifically since Digne.

Another interesting facet of this letter is that it comes from Valjean himself. If we’ve been zooming in on him the past few chapters, then we can’t get much more direct than his own words. They also indicate the importance of this day to him: he recalls the night of his dream as “that Night,” informing us ahead of time that whatever happens will be extremely significant.