The talk went on until the clock struck twelve.

“Hallo!” said Tom.  “Time for me to knock out, or the old porter will be in bed.  Good-night!”

“Good-night!”

* * * * *

VICTOR HUGO

Les Miserables

Victor Marie Hugo, the great French poet, dramatist, and novelist, was born at Besancon, on February 26, 1802.  He wrote verses from boyhood, and after minor successes, achieved reputation with “Odes et Poesies,” 1823.  Hugo early became the protagonist of the romantic movement in French literature.  In 1841 he was elected to the Academy.  From 1845 he took an increasingly active part in politics, with the result that from 1852 to 1870 he lived in exile, first in Jersey and then in Guernsey.  “Les Miserables” is not only the greatest of all Victor Hugo’s productions, but is in many respects the greatest work of fiction ever conceived.  An enormous range of matter is pressed into its pages—­by turn historical, philosophical, lyrical, humanitarian—­but running through all the change of scene is the tragedy and comedy of life at its darkest and its brightest, and of human passions at their worst and at their best.  It is more than a novel.  It is a magnificent plea for the outcasts of society, for those who are crushed by the mighty edifice of social order.  Yet throughout it all there is the insistent note of the final triumph of goodness in the heart of man.  The story appeared in 1862, when Hugo was sixty years old, and was written during his exile in Guernsey.  It was translated before publication into nine languages, and published simultaneously in eight of the principal cities of the world.  Hugo died on May 22, 1885.  (See also Vol.  XVII.)

I.—­Jean Valjean, Galley-Slave

Early in October 1815, at the close of the afternoon, a man came into the little town of D——.  He was on foot, and the few people about looked at him suspiciously.  The traveller was of wretched appearance, though stout and robust, and in the full vigour of life.  He was evidently a stranger, and tired, dusty, and wearied with a long day’s tramp.

But neither of the two inns in the town would give him food or shelter, though he offered good money for payment.

He was an ex-convict—­that was enough to exclude him.

In despair he went to the prison, and asked humbly for a night’s lodging, but the jailer told him that was impossible unless he got arrested first.

It was a cold night and the wind was blowing from the Alps; it seemed there was no refuge open to him.

Then, as he sat down on a stone bench in the marketplace and tried to sleep, a lady coming out of the cathedral noticed him, and, learning his homeless state, bade him knock at the bishop’s house, for the good bishop’s charity and compassion were known in all the neighbourhood.