This chapter is inspired mostly by the 1998 movie, which showed Valjean and Cosette helping out at a church-sponsored soup kitchen similar to the one here. According to my research, soupe populaire is apparently the French term for soup kitchen.
November 19, 1829
Feast Day of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, patron saint of the homeless
At least once a month, but more often during cold weather, our church runs a soupe populaire. They serve hot soup and bread, and poor people can come and eat for free. Papa always goes and helps them hand out soup, but he doesn't always take me with him. Today, though, he did. It was held in the church courtyard, and we went this afternoon. Papa left me at a table with a few women slicing up bread, and he went over to the other side of courtyard to help the men who were making soup. They cooked it over outdoor fires, in big heavy kettles, but Papa could move them around easily. I watched, and with all the other men, it took two of them to move a kettle, but Papa could manage it by himself.
Some other women who were working in the church kitchen brought loaves of bread out to me, and it was my job to cut them up into slices and hand them out. Papa doesn't usually take me with him to the soupe populaire, I think because a lot of the people who come to eat are rather rough men that he doesn't want me being exposed to. But many hungry women and children come, too. It was so sad to see them, especially the children – their tattered clothes, their hungry faces, their chapped hands. I got a good look at all their hands as I was giving out bread, and for some reason, I couldn't stop staring. Their poor little hands, so calloused and dirty.
Isn't it strange how one detail, like a child's hands, can suddenly bring back the most vivid memories? I could suddenly see my own hands as they used to look, all red from chilblains and rough from hard work, before that day when Papa found me and first took my hand in his. I remembered that when I lived at the inn, one my chores was to do the cooking, and whenever I could, I saved any spare cooking oil or animal fat — even the smallest amounts — and when Madame wasn't looking, I rubbed it into my hands. It made them ache a little less.
Too often I forget how much poverty there is in Paris. There are so many children, a lot of them younger than I am, living on the streets, fending for themselves. There are even girls my age who have to sell their bodies to survive. The thought alone makes me shudder. It certainly makes me put my own problems into perspective. Those boys and girls, without homes or families – many of them probably don't know exactly how old they are either, and do they sit around feeling sorry for themselves because of it? No, they're too busy begging for food and searching for a warm place to sleep. If they had a father like mine, would they complain that he was too secretive or too protective? No, they would thank God to have somebody taking care of them.
My hands aren't red and chapped anymore. They haven't been for a long time. I wear gloves now, and a few weeks ago, when the weather first started getting cold, Papa bought me a little bottle of lotion, for me to rub on my hands to keep them from getting chapped. At some point, I remembered that I happened to have that bottle on me, in my apron pocket. When we had given out all the bread, I looked around and saw a little girl, probably about nine or ten, sitting on a bench nearby. She was devouring her bread and soup so hungrily, as if she hadn't eaten a proper meal all day. Oh, I remember what that's like.
Her poor hands were so red and raw, so when she was done eating, I went over to her and held out the little bottle of hand lotion. She took it from me and sniffed it. I suppose she thought it was for eating, and then I felt foolish. Of course she wouldn't know what it was unless I explained it.
"You put it on your hands," I told her, "and it'll make them feel better. Here, I'll show you." I took her tiny hands in mine and rubbed some lotion on them, showing her how it drove away the pain and cold. I did the same thing with a few other children, until I'd used up all the lotion in the bottle. I didn't notice if Papa was watching me, but he must've been, because on the walk home later, I slipped my hand into his and said, "Papa... I used up all that hand lotion you bought for me."
He squeezed my hand in his, kissed my temple, and said softly, "I know you did, darling. I'm so proud of you." I can remember Papa rubbing lotion into my hands once, during our earliest days together, when my hands were still so red and cracked. I can remember him picking the fleas off me, too.
I can't stop thinking about all those children, especially that little girl who was so hungry. I can't stop wondering — why was I lucky enough to be saved from that sort of life, when there are still so many other children who haven't been so lucky? What did I do that they didn't? It's so hard to understand. It reminds me of what Papa always says: There, but for the grace of God, go I. I could still be trapped in the old miserable life that I lived at the inn. I don't think about that often, but it's true. I could still be there, hungry and unhappy, but I'm not, because one day, a strange man came and took me away and said that he was going to take care of me from then on — and he always has.
Another one of my chores at the inn was to knit, crochet, and darn. That was how I spent so many long evenings. I still enjoy crocheting, and I can do it rather well. I think I'll ask Papa to buy me some more yarn, so I could crochet some caps and scarves to hand out, when he takes me to soupe populaire again. Papa can be so... frustrating sometimes, but I still want him to be proud of me.
Writing this now, I can't stop looking at my hands. I can't stop thinking about the story in the Book of Genesis, about Abraham and the three travelers who came to his tent. He didn't know that they were angels. He had something so wonderful right there under his nose, and he'd taken it for granted.