On a Sunday evening on October of 1815, I was taking care of my old tavern. Due to the weekend day I didn’t have workers or many customers so I didn’t bother myself to clean the place. Then, while I was talking and serving one of the few costumers I had, a fisherman appeared in the street door of my underground tavern asking for food. The old fisherman couldn’t go fishing because he was part of a crowd regarding a man named Jacquin Labarre, so he decided to refuge himself in my tavern.
After serving the starving fisherman, I then heard someone slowly opening the rusty handle of the back court door of my old tavern. Then, the person who had just entered mumbled something in a tough tired voice while dragging his bare feet in the wooden floor. I couldn’t understand anything so I asked out loud: “Who is it?” After a few seconds the demanding voice responded: “One who wants supper and a bed.” When I told the man that he could sup and sleep in this tavern he weakly threw a yellow paper in the wooden table and sat rapidly in a chair near the fire so he could stop the shivering and calm the fatigue.
I saw him set himself slowly, with no energy and I felt miserable and sorry for him. He looked kind of sick or pale and very exhausted. The smelly man also looked dirty because his clothes were patched and his beard was long and messy. The poor man was barefooted and he could hardly walk. I assumed he hadn’t received a morsel of food for maybe a week because he repeatedly asked for something to eat. I was about to get him a glass of cold water and a slice of baguette bread with ham and cheese when the fisherman called me.
I noticed that the fisherman that I had just dished up was looking at the traveler with small strange eyes. He called me to him and told me that he had seen the same dirty but mysterious traveler walking along Bras d´Asse and Escoublon. He warned me about this traveler. I thought about the conversation the fisherman had given me a few seconds ago. Concerned about the old fisherman´s words, without providing the poor man any food, I rejected the mysterious traveler to prevent any possible problem. The traveler, whose name was I believed Jean Valjean, insisted me to let him stay because he had been rejected as well by another inn. Even though I kept feeling sorry for him, I put my hand on his shoulder and repeated to him firmly to go away and he did as I told him. He left as slowly as he had entered and he left from the same door he had come in. I watched him go by through the cold evening and along the long road. I wished I had given him at least a piece of bread as I had given the starving fisherman
WORK CITED:
WORK CITED:
Hugo, Victor. Les Misérables. NewYork: Fawcett Premier, 1961
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