The door creaked as it opened, allowing a chilling draught to enter the room, remaining to dance for only a second and then leaving a faint bitterness in its wake. Even as it passed through the cracks in the plastering of the wall, the seven children, so pale and so thin it caused anyone who looked at them to wince in pity, shivered. The man who entered the room with the wind however, did not show any sign that he felt the cold that ate away at the inhabitants of this room so mercilessly.
Jean Valjean hardly felt or noticed anything, it seemed. He spoke very infrequently, and when he did it would never be about something so regular as the cold. This was what happened each year; Faverolles would frost over when winter arrived. It would be bitter and miserable, and he would walk up and down the half frozen lanes, offering himself in houses and farms for any kind of work that needed to be done, whether it was as a reaper, workman, teamster or labourer. He would work every day of the week, for that was the only way to earn enough sous to feed the family. But soon enough spring would come and once again he was a pruner, earning eighteen sous a day and about sixteen out of those eighteen going into the seven mouths of his nieces and nephews. And so life continued. He did not complain, or wish for anything different. For indeed, this was how life was.
Occasionally, he would look up and for a moment a certain loving light would dawn in his eyes as he gazed at one of the little girls and boys, so sweet and innocent. But those moments never lasted and soon enough, the light would die again and he would resort to gazing down at the floor, as if no though ever crossed his mind.
This winter though was different, surely the air was colder than normal, and he was certain that the wind had never had such a harsh bite. He was having trouble finding work, for strong and able as he was, other families in a similar situation to this one did not wish to give their own precious sous for such work. Each year the children grew bigger and hungrier and there was only so much his sister could do to earn money.
As he closed the door shut, his sister Jeanne rushed over to him, and the children watched expectantly with their wide eyes set deeply into their gaunt faces.
"Thank goodness you're home. I was beginning to worry that I would have to send the children to bed without anything to eat. I have been so busy with taking care of them, and I searched all over the house, there is not a sous to be found. How much did you earn today?"
Valjean stared silently at his sister, his long hair hanging across his face. A blank expression creased his features and one who did not know him would not have guessed he had understood the question.
"Jean? What is the matter? Why do you not answer me?"
"The Farmer did not want his fence fixed. I earned nothing today." He finally admitted in a low, grumbling voice.
His sister gazed at him, a look of surprise and then despair casting a shadow on her face. "Not a sous?" She asked.
"Not a sous."
Valjean stared long and hard at his sister, until she finally turned away without another word. He simply stared down at the wooden floorboards and watched regretfully out of the corner of his eye as his sister made a pretence of being calm and sent the seven frail children to bed. He quietly watched the hope for something to ease the hunger die and the glint leave their eyes. One by one, they solemnly lowered their heads submissively and in turn said goodnight to their mother before trudging to their bedroom. He knew all too well that no-one in the family had eaten anything since Saturday, the day before and it had been his responsibility to bring home their meal, however scant. These thoughts crossed his mind and the guilt rested on his shoulders, but he did not say anything to give a hint that they were there.
Wordlessly, his sister sat on a chair in the corner of the room and stared in despair at the opposite wall. She would never dare to criticise him, but he knew the blame was there. With a heavy step and his head lowered, he hurriedly shut himself in his own room. Through the thin walls, he could hear the sniffs and sighs of the seven children.
In the dark of the night, Jean Valjean tossed and turned restlessly. It was not hunger that kept him awake, he was used to that -even when the children were fed, he often went hungry. The reason for his insomnia was the memory of those small faces as they were told they would not eat this evening. He knew very well that they had been kept idly inside for risk of the cold harming them. The small fire in the main room did little to warm anyone and the only real warmth they had hoped to receive this day was from food. Although he seldom did anything to prove it, he felt deeply responsible for these children. To see them losing all faith in anything could would be something more painful than anything the cold could do for them. He did not love them, his heart was too hard or that, but their images kept him awake even so.
He did not know how long the thoughts plagued his mind, but with the action of throwing of the blanket and putting on his outdoor coat (he did not change for bed during the winter) he resolved to put an end to this starvation.
Faverolles was crueller at night than it ever was in the day. As Jean Valjean strode through the small town, he kept his steps soft and looked around in every direction, as if something or someone was hunting him. The thought to button his coat against the cold did not occur to him; it was not that that bothered him.
All too soon, he was standing in front of the baker's shop on the Place de l'Eglise. He stared almost insanely through the barred window. Loaves of bread left over from earlier today appeared to stare back at him. A single loaf of bread filled his vision. This would feed his family, this bread would be enough to feed the seven children for the moment. It might not be enough to fill himself or his sister, but it was the children he was thinking of. Only a single sheet of glass stood between him and that bread. Just one sheet….
Before he knew it, the glass was shattered and fell in glittering shards onto the window sill. For a second, he stood, staring at the cracked pane. A heavy shouting erupted somewhere upstairs and just as Maubert Isabeau dashed into the room, Jean Valjean reached into the gap, grabbed the bread and was away.
He did not look back. Beyond the thunderous slapping of his shoes against the street, he heard the front door of the bakers open and slam shut and he tried so hard not to listen to the shouts that pursued him. Along the street some lights were lit. In other houses, people poked their heads out of windows, themselves unwilling to use up precious candles.
Finally, he was tempted to glance back and the sight of at least ten people ferociously pursuing him only made him run faster. A couple doors opened ahead of him as more people, most still in their night clothes, came out. That was when he knew there would be no hope, but he ran on all the same. If he continued this way, someone would surely catch him sooner than otherwise, while throwing the loaf of bread high into the air, giving it up in surrender, he turned into a side street. This led him straight into a dead end. Somehow, he slowed to an abrupt halt and stared up at the wall, so cold and heartless. He had no hope of scaling the wall, especially with the intense pain that he only then noticed. Looking down, he saw hot sticky blood streaming down his arm, pooling out of many different cuts. Some shards of glass still rested in his skin.
No sooner had he taken this into account then his hunters turned and entered this alleyway. Instantly the pain was forgotten. He was breathing heavily, staring through the strands of hair hanging in his face. His hand twitched towards his gun, then stopped. He could not use it, not like this. All he could do was watch as the men closed in on him.
It did not take long for the flame in his head to cool down. He could not say what had made him act so impulsively, even he did not understand the reason in it. Everyone knew all very well that a starving family was no excuse for stealing. After that night, all he felt was shame and regret. He had no anger at that point, the anger came later. The trial came and he was found guilty. He took the blows as they came, in the same way he had taken everything his entire life. Silently and without defiance. He was sentenced five years for his crime. Five years! The galleys would surely destroy him, if he was banished from society once, he did not see any hope in that same society taking him in again. After what he could only recall as days of blur, he found himself at the Bicêtre, chained into a long line with other condemned creatures. His name was taken away from him. 24601 was his new identity. They put an iron collar on him, and took him to Toulon. Soon enough, he stopped asking himself, what would have happened if he had not gone out that night. There was no use thinking about it, and it certainly no longer mattered to anyone else. Perhaps his sister and her seven children still thought of it, but they did not exist to him any more. He did not exist to himself any more. He cast away Jean Valjean. Now, he was simply 24601.