Anyway, I came here a few months, more or less, after that scruffy bear of a man put his foot on my forty-sous piece, just outside of Digne. Up until that point I had never really realized that there was anything concrete about the word "bad", at least in relation to people. Sure, I'd had bad bread, bad weather, bad days, the works. But I'd never really met a bad person, I guess. When that great oaf took my forty-sous piece, he wasn't just stealing from a little runt of a kid; he was opening my eyes. Maybe I should thank him for that. Then again, maybe I shouldn't. In any case, I completed the instinctive French pilgrimage to Paris a couple years before I normally would have. Consequently, I was exceptionally young and impressionable when I arrived within the walls of that strange new world.
As luck would have it, I immediately fell in with an unscrupulous group of gamins, and spent the first year of my Parisian life picking pockets--with poor skill--and smashing lamps. That doesn't sound too horrible, now, does it? What really made it a piece of sour luck for me, though, was the horrid old rogue of a ringleader, Scabin. Scabin had one eye, walked with a crutch, and was missing three fingers on his left hand. He had a disgusting cough like an old man on his deathbed, and he had a singular fragrance about him faintly reminiscent of a particularly pungent pile of fresh cow manure on a hot summer day. Scabin even had his own entourage of flies. Scabin couldn't outcharm a skunk to save his life.
What Scabin could do, however, was steal. What he did even better than that was train potential thieves. After my first "initiation" year, when he and the "upperclassmen" decided I was good enough for their training, he began teaching me the tricks of the trade. Within the time of three years, I became modestly good. I daresay I was a bit like that fool Montparnasse, for a time, with the fancy clothes I was so particular about stealing. Perhaps Scabin isn't entirely responsible for making what I am today, but he did give me a swift kick in the right direction.
Eventually, I became better than Scabin and his little students. I grew weary of providing for them, those sluggish oafs, and struck out on my own. I did moderately well; I acquired an apartment in a shady part where people didn't ask questions, and I even risked one or two mistresses. It was really the laundress that can be held accountable for my change from a dandy to a shade of the night, in a roundabout way.
Therese contrasted with her occupation in such a way as to give her the beauty of a rose in a garbage heap. As I ponder over my bittersweet memories, I don't know where or why I ever saw true beauty in her. Perhaps, though, my knowledge of her true colors, so to speak, can be held accountable for her change. At the time, I was young and hot blooded; she was blonde, fair skinned, and in comparison with her middle aged coworkers, buxom. That was really all I needed to know. You, reader, can probably imagine with ease how this obsession will turn out; I would fall madly in love and have my naive, soft heart shattered. Of course you know that. I, on the other hand, did not think of my life in terms of the common events in a book. I deemed myself in love, therefore nothing bad could happen.
If only I had known then, I could have altered the blatantly obvious turn of events, and perhaps I would not be telling you this story now. Naturally, I didn't know. And, so I did it. I went ahead and fell in love with her, and had my heart broken in turn. I had worked up the courage to propose to her, when she informed me, in a surprised manner, "Oh, didn't you know? I'm already marrying the butcher, Gautier Pepan, silly!" With a toss of her hair and a foolish giggle, she trotted down the street, out of my sight and out of my reach.
What was a lovesick Parisian to do?
Vengeance was the only thing my corrupt mind could think of. I knew then, instantly, that she had always been aware of what our relationship would have led up to. She had probably practiced that toss of her hair, that single, cold phrase which cut me to the bone and deeper still. And so it was that I became a murderer.
I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of much that I've done in the course of my weary life. That murder, however, signaled the second significant change in my life. I took to more difficult, almost savage burglaries. After one or two close scrapes with jail, I took to finding different ways to go about doing things. I picked up ventriloquism, which became my sole form of communication. I learned, from a few practiced old codgers, how to glide through the shadows like a panther, and how to escape like the wind through a net. I became unstoppable. If I set my mind on something, I could get it. It was just a matter of careful planning and measured silence.
It was around that time that I fell in with Thenardier.
Apparently, he had heard of my "talents", and desired my membership in his little gang. Though I did just fine as a lone wolf, I saw the benefits of working with a group. I even recognized a few of the members as being fellow students in Scabin's little "school", namely Brujon and Babet. For reasons I could not then divine, I joined Patron-Minette. When asked my name, I was stumped for an answer. So many years had slipped past with human contact kept at a minimum, I had not held onto much of a name. No burglar named Petit could hope to elict any fear from the locals. So, for lack of name on hand, I conjured one up from some dark corner of my mind.
Thus it was that I became known as Claquesous of Patron-Minette. It wasn't really a bad life, I suppose. It quickly became clear to me that though this gang was good enough, they were not quite at my level. Time and time again, I wondered why I even bothered. I only showed up when it suited me, or when I knew they could use some shadowy assistance; what that gang produced as a whole, I could have easily considered one night's work. I was bemused at my reluctancy to vanish one day and not be seen evermore by Thenardier or his ilk. Perhaps I know now.
Perhaps I know.
It is growing late; I must be on my way. I shall seal this letter in a bottle, tightly, and strap a rock to it. With any luck, it should be slowly carried down the Seine, once I've thrown it in. Because you are reading this now, I suppose it has survived the turbulent waters. If it doesn't survive, then it's just another man's worthless life lost in the rabble and the river of Paris. I am going to the Corinth. I have heard there is some insurrection or another going on in that area. Patron-Minette has been broken up, and I am a lone wolf once more. At last, I truly understand why I failed to leave that gang: it is my innate and overwhelming desire to belong.
Years upon years of attempting to lead a hermit's life in so crowded a world as Paris have left me shivering and cynical. I have heard that the leader, Enjolras or something of the sort, is in need of aid; perhaps, just perhaps, I may be allowed to fight with and for something that is good, and is right. If they will not accept me, who will? Will I at last feel the warmth of acceptance, or will I die in disgrace? My social behavior skills have been wretchedly eroded away. I no longer know what is acceptable, and what is not.
I can only hope, I suppose, that I do not err too greatly.
Petit Gervais (Claquesous)
5th of June, 1832