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any part in the oblations of the faithful. The ties both of religious and of private friendship were dissolved; he found himself a profane object of abhorrence to the persons whom he the most esteemed, or by whom he had been the most tenderly beloved; and, as far as an expulsion from à respectable society could imprint on his character a mark of disgrace, he was shunned or suspected by the generality of mankind. The situation of these unfortunate exiles was in itself very painful and melancholy; but (as it usually happens) their apprehensions far exceeded their sufferings. The benefits of the Christian communion were those of eternal life; nor could they erase from their minds the awful opinion that to those ecclesiastical governors by whom they were condemned the Deity had committed the keys of Hell and of Paradise. . . . The gates of reconciliation and of heaven were seldom shut against the returning penitent; but a severe and solemn form of discipline was instituted, which, while it served to expiate his crime, might powerfully deter the spectators from the imitation of his example. Humbled by a public confession, emaciated by fasting, and clothed in sackcloth, the penitent lay prostrate at the door of the assembly, imploring with tears the pardon of his offences and soliciting the prayers of the faithful. If the fault was of a very heinous nature, whole years of penance were esteemed an inadequate satisfaction to the Divine justice; and it was always by slow and painful gradations that the sinner, the heretic, or the apostate, was readmitted into the bosom of the church. A sentence of perpetual excommunication was, however, reserved for some crimes of an extraordinary magnitude, and particularly for the inexcusable relapses of those penitents who had already experienced and abused the clemency of their ecclesiastical superiors.

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The bishops, whose paternal care extended itself to the government of both worlds, were sensible of the importance of these prerogatives. . . . From the imperious declamations of Cyprian we should naturally conclude that the doctrines of excommunication and penance formed the most essential part of religion. . . . The acquisition of such absolute command over the consciences and understanding of a congregation, however obscure or despised by the world, is more truly grateful to the pride of the human heart than the possession of the most despotic power imposed by arms and conquest on a reluctant people. The bishop was the perpetual censor of the morals of his people. . . . They boldly censured and excommunicated the subordinate tyrants who were not invested with the majesty of the purple. St. Athanasius excommunicated one of the ministers of Egypt, and the interdict which he pronounced of fire and water was solemnly transmitted to the churches of Cappadocia. Under the reign of the younger Theodosius, the polite and eloquent Synesius, one of the descendants of Hercules, . . . vanquished the monster of Libya, the president Andronicus, who abused the authority of a venal office, invented new modes of rapine and torture, and aggravated the guilt of oppression by that of sacrilege. After a fruitless attempt to reclaim the haughty magistrate by mild and religious admonition, Synesius proceeds to inflict the last sentence of ecclesiastical justice, which devotes Andronicus, with his associates and their families, to the abhorrence of earth and heaven. In that sentence the impenitent sinners, more cruel than Phalaris or Sennacherib, more destructive than war, pestilence, or a cloud of locusts, are deprived of the name and privileges of Christians, of the participation of the sacraments, and of the hope of Paradise. The bishop exhorts the clergy, the magistrates, and the people to renounce all society with the enemies of Christ, to exclude them from their houses and tables, and to refuse them the common offices of life and the decent

rights of burial. The church of Ptolemais, obscure and contemptible as she may appear, addresses this declaration to all her sister churches of the world; and the profane who reject her decrees will be involved in the guilt and punishment of Andronicus and his impious followers. These spiritual terrors were enforced by a dexterous application to the Byzantine court. The trembling president implored the mercy of the church, and the descendant of Hercules enjoyed the satisfaction of raising a prostrate tyrant from the ground.

Such principles and such examples insensibly prepared the triumph of the Roman pontiffs, who have trampled on the necks of kings.

822. CHRONICLE OF THE CID. (Ante 1280, transl. Southey, ed. Morley, pp. 24, 31.) . . . XVIII. Then King Don Ferrando knighted the Cid, Rodrigo (Ruydiez) of Bivar, in the great mosque of Coimbra. . . . The King took him into his favor, and gave him the city to keep; which he kept, and did much evil to the Moors till the day of his death. And the King departed, and went to Compostella to return thanks to Santiago. . . . And then the chief nobles who wished ill to the Cid had the way open to do him evil with the King. And they said to the King, "Sir, Ruydiez hath broken your faith, and the oath and promise which you made to the King of Toledo; and he hath done this for no other reason but that the Moors of Toledo may fall upon us here, and slay both you and us." And the King believed what they said, and was wroth against the Cid, having no love towards him. . . . And the King went out from Burgos and came nigh unto Bivar; and the Cid came up to him and would have kissed his hand, but the King withheld it, and said angrily unto him, "Ruydiez, quit my land." . . . And the King replied full wrathfully, "Go out of my kingdom without any delay." And the Cid made answer, "Give me then thirty days' time, as is the right of the hidalgos." And the King said he would not, but that, if he were not gone in nine days' time, he would come and look for him. The Counts were well pleased at this; but all the people of the land were sorrowful. And then the King and the Cid parted. . . .

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Cid Ruydiez entered Burgos, having sixty streamers in his company. And men and women went forth to see him, and the men of Burgos and the women of Burgos were at their windows, weeping, so great was their sorrow; and they said with one accord, “God, how good a vassal, if he had but a good Lord!" and willingly would each have bade him come in. But no one dared so to do. For King Don Alfonso in his anger had sent letters to Burgos, saying that no man should give the Cid a lodging, and that whosoever disobeyed should lose all that he had, and moreover the eyes in his head. Great sorrow had these Christian folk at this; and they hid themselves when he came near them, because they did not dare speak to him. Moreover, the King had given orders that no food should be sold them in Burgos, so that they could not buy even a pennyworth. And my Cid went to his inn, and, when he came to the door, he found it fastened, for fear of the King. And his men called out with a loud voice; but those within made no answer. And the Cid rode up to the door, and took his foot out of the stirrup, and gave it a kick, but the door did not open with it; for it was well secured. A little girl of nine years old then came out of one of the houses, and said unto him: "O Cid, the King hath forbidden us to receive you. We dare not open our doors to you; for we should lose our houses and all that we have, and the eyes in our head. Cid, such harm suffered by us would not help you; but God and all his Saints be with you." And, when she had said this, she returned into the house.

And, when the Cid knew what the King had done, he turned away from the door and rode up to St. Mary's, and there he alighted and knelt down, and prayed with all his heart. And then he mounted again and rode out of the town, and pitched his tent near Arlanzon, upon the Glera, that is to say, upon the sands. My Cid Ruydiez, he who in a happy hour first girt on his sword, took up his lodging upon the sands, because there was none who would receive him within their door...

823. VICTOR HUGO. Les Misérables. (Book II, Ch. I.) At the beginning of October, 1815, and about an hour before sunset, a man traveling on foot entered the little town of D. The few inhabitants, who were at the moment at their windows or doors, regarded this traveler with a species of inquietude. It would be difficult to meet a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of middle height, muscular and robust, and in the full vigor of life. He might be forty-six to forty-eight years of age. A cap with a leather peak partly concealed his sunburnt face, down which the perspiration streamed. His shirt of coarse yellow calico, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, allowed his hairy chest to be seen; he had on a neck-cloth twisted like a rope, trousers of blue ticking worn and threadbare, white at one knee and torn at the other; an old gray ragged blouse, patched at one elbow with a rag of green cloth; on his back a large new well-filled and well-buckled knapsack, and a large knotty stick in his hand. His stockingless feet were thrust into iron-shod shoes, his hair was clipped, and his beard long. . . . His hair was cut close and yet was bristling, for it was beginning to grow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time. No one knew him; he was evidently passing through the town. Where did he come from? . ... The man must have been walking all day, for he seemed very tired. . . . He must have been very thirsty, for the children that followed him saw him stop and drink again at the fountain on the market-place.

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On reaching the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left and proceeded to the Mayor's office. He went in and came out again a quarter of an hour after. . . . There was at that time at D. a capital inn, with the sign of the Cross of Colbas. This inn was kept by a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man highly respected. . . . The man proceeded to this inn, which was the best in the town, and entered the kitchen, the door of which opened on the street. All the ovens were heated, and a large fire blazed cheerily in the chimney. . . . The landlord, on hearing the door open and a stranger enter, said, without raising his eyes from his stew-pans, "What do you want, sir?" "Supper and a bed," the man replied. Nothing easier," said mine host. At this moment he looked up, took in the stranger's appearance, and added, “On

paying."

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The man drew a heavy leathern purse from the pocket of his blouse, and replied, "I have money." "In that case I am at your service," said the host. While going backwards and forwards, the landlord still inspected his guest. . . . While the new-comer had his back turned to warm himself, the worthy landlord took a pencil from his pocket, and then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which lay on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded up the paper, and handed it to a lad who seemed to serve both as turnspit and page. The landlord whispered a word in the boy's ear, and he ran off in the direction of the Mayor's house. The traveler had seen nothing of all this, and he asked again whether supper would

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be ready soon. The boy came back with the paper in his hand, and the landlord eagerly unfolded it, like a man who is expecting an answer. He read it carefully, then shook his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. At last he walked up to the traveler, who seemed plunged in anything but a pleasant reverie. "I cannot make room for you, sir,” he said. The man half turned on his stool. "What do you mean? Are you afraid I shall bilk you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you." "It is not that." "What is it then?" "You have money." "Yes," said the man. "But I have not a spare bedroom." The man continued quietly, "Put me in the stables.” . . . “Well,” the man continued, "a corner in the loft and a truss of straw; we will see to that after supper." "I cannot give you any supper." This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, seemed to the stranger serious. He rose. "Nonsense, I am dying of hunger. I have been on my legs since sunrise, and have walked twelve leagues. I can pay, and demand food." "I have none," said the landlord. The man burst into a laugh, and turned to the chimney and the oven. . . . As he was opening his mouth to reply, the landlord continued in the same low voice: “Come, enough of this. Do you wish me to tell you your name? It is Jean Valjean. Now do you wish me to tell you who you are? On seeing you come in, I suspected something, so I sent to the police office, and this is the answer I received. Can you read?" While saying this, he handed the stranger the paper which had traveled from the inn to the office and back again. The man took a glance at it, and mine host continued after a moment's silence: "I am accustomed to be polite with everybody. Be off." The man stooped, picked up his knapsack, and went off.

He walked along the high street haphazard, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not look back once; had he done so, he would have seen the landlord of the Cross of Colbas in his doorway surrounded by all his guests and the passers-by, talking eagerly and pointing to him; and, judging from the looks of suspicion and terror, he might have guessed that erelong his arrival would be the event of the whole town. He saw nothing of all this, for men who are oppressed do not look back, as they know only too well that an evil destiny is following them. He walked on thus for a long time, turning down streets he did not know, and forgetting his fatigue, as happens in sorrow. All at once he was sharply assailed by hunger: night was approaching, and he looked round to see whether he could not discover a shelter. The best inn was closed against him, and he sought some very humble pot-house, some wretched den. . . . The traveler did not dare enter by the street door: he slipped into the yard, stopped once again, and then timidly raised the latch and opened the door. "Who's there?" the landlord asked. "Some one who wants a supper and bed." "Very good. They are to be had here." He went in, and all the topers turned to look at him. . . . One of the men seated at the table was a fishmonger. . . . This fishmonger had been half an hour previously one of the party surrounding Jacquin Labarre. . . . He made an imperceptible sign to the landlord from his seat, and the latter went up to him, and they exchanged a few whispered words. The man had fallen back into his reverie. The landlord went up to the chimney, laid his hand sharply on the man's shoulder, and said to him, "You must be off from here." The stranger turned, and replied gently, "Ah, you know?" "Yes." "I was turned out of the other inn." "And so you will be out of this." "Where would you have me go?" "Somewhere else." The man took his knapsack and stick and went away. As he stepped out, some boys who had followed him from the

Cross of Colbas, and seemed to have been waiting for him, threw stones at him.

The man entered a small street, in which there are numerous gardens. He saw a single-storied house, whose window was illuminated. . . . He tapped very gently on a window-pane, but was not heard; he tapped a second time. . . . He tapped a third time. The husband rose, took the lamp, and walked to the front door. . . . "I beg your pardon, sir," the traveler said, "but would you, for payment, give me a plateful of soup and a corner to sleep in in your garden outhouse?" "Who are you?" the owner of the cottage asked. . . . "Why do you not go to the inn?" . . . The traveler continued, with some hesitation, "I do not know why, but he refused to take me in." . . . The peasant's face assumed a suspicious look, he surveyed the new-comer from head to foot, and all at once exclaimed with a sort of shudder, "Can you be the man?" . . . He took another look at the stranger, placed the lamp on the table, and took down his gun. . . . After examining the man for some minutes as if he had been a viper, the peasant returned to the door and said, "Be off!" "For mercy's sake," the man continued, "a glass of water." "A charge of shot!" the peasant said. Then he violently closed the door, and the stranger heard two bolts fastened. . . .

Worn out with fatigue and hopeless, he sat down on the stone bench at the door of this printing-office. An old lady who was leaving the church at the moment saw the man stretched out in the darkness. "What are you doing there, my friend?" she said. . . . The "good woman" touched the man's arm and pointed to a small house next to the Bishop's Palace. "You have," she continued, "knocked at every door. Have you done so there?" "No." "Then do it." On this evening the Bishop of D., after his walk in the town, had remained in his bedroom till a late hour. . . . There was a rather loud rap at the front door. "Come in," said the Bishop. The door was thrown open wide, as if some one were pushing it energetically and resolutely. A man entered whom we already know; it was the traveler whom we saw just now wandering about in search of a shelter. . . . The Bishop fixed a quiet eye on the man, as he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the new-comer what he wanted. The man leaned both his hands on his stick, looked in turn at the two aged females and the old man, and, not waiting for the Bishop to speak, said in a loud voice: "Look here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a galleyslave, and have spent nineteen years in the bagne. I was liberated four days ago, and started for Pontarlier, which is my destination. I have been walking for four days since I left Toulon, and to-day I have marched twelve leagues. This evening on coming into the town I went to the inn, but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the police office. I went to another inn, and the landlord said to me, 'Be off!' It was the same everywhere, and no one would have any dealings with me. . . I am very tired and frightfully hungry; will you let me stay here?"

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"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will lay another knife and fork." The man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the table. "Wait a minute," he continued, as if he had not comprehended, "that will not do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave, a convict, and have just come from the bagne?" He took from his pocket a large yellow paper, which he unfolded. "Here is my passport, yellow as you see, which turns me out wherever I go. Will you read it? . . . This is what is written in my passport: 'Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, native of'—but

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