Original subtitles

- In the first days of December 1815,

about an hour before sunset,

a man entered the town.

He reported to the gendarmerie.

No one knew him.

Where had he come from?

From the South.

Maybe from the seashore.

Never! All right, all right.

Ah...

- Where were you? How long does it take you to wash some laundry?

So, where were you?

- I missed you. Come here.

Come on! The jug breaks.

Can't you watch what you're doing?

Isn't being late enough for you?

I'll deduct the price of the jug from your wages.

And try to be more pleasant with the customers.

Drinks are on me, guys.

- He's a convict.

Look at him.

- I'm sorry, I can't take you in.

These gentlemen have booked all the rooms.

The stables will do.

- The horses take up all the space. - I need very little.

Well, that's already too much.

- I've been walking since sunrise, I've gone twelve leagues, I'm hungry.

And I have nothing for you.

Just a piece of bread.

- Come on, get out of here.

- Starving bum!

We don't want you here!

Murderer!

Don't move!

What are you doing there, my friend?

I'm trying to sleep.

On the stone, outside?

I've had worse.

Then go to the inn.

Alas,

you have no money?

I only have four sous. - Give them anyway.

We could put you up.

Out of charity.

I knocked on every door.

And everywhere, I was turned away.

There's a house

down the road, there.

Did you knock there?

No.

Then knock there.

Hm?

My cousin's neighbor,

it was him the police were after, the counterfeiter.

Evil is everywhere.

They even arrested his wife.

The prosecutor says he'll get a confession within the week.

What if he's innocent?

Then what is he doing in prison? - Good question.

What should be done with a man accused before he's tried?

Letting him go free means risking that he'll do it again.

If he did commit the act he's accused of.

Putting him in prison means treating him as guilty.

Even if he's innocent.

- Those people are scoundrels, they're everywhere.

One even came into town today.

Yes, miss.

That man could be dangerous.

They say he's horrible, ugly, hairy, and stinks.

A horror.

Definitely a gypsy, a real cutthroat.

- Really? - Just as I said.

Something bad will happen, everyone says so.

- Everyone, that's a lot of people.

- Let me tell the locksmith

to put the old locks back on, we have them here.

- At this hour? - It's just three doors down.

He'll be glad to help. His sister is a friend.

It'll only take a minute.

- Madame Magloire, no need to invent an excuse about the lock

to go see your good friend the locksmith.

Those are slanders, Your Grace.

- A stupid lie spat out by jealous people. - We could put on a latch.

So we're in serious danger?

- You don't live with the door open to every wind.

- Talk to him, he won't listen to me. - If it puts Mme Magloire at ease.

- At least for tonight, until this danger has passed.

They'd even let the devil into this house!

- Locking yourself away isn't just refusing other people.

It's also refusing what we could be or become.

A doctor's door must always stay open.

But you're not a doctor.

- Every man is another man's doctor.

I am a...

Come in!

My name is Jean Valjean.

I spent nineteen years in the penal colony.

I've been free for four days.

Four days I've been walking since Toulon.

Four days I've been hearing: 'Get out.'

Nobody wanted me, I slept outside,

an old woman told me to knock at your house.

I knocked.

- Mme Magloire, set one more place.

- Did you hear me?

I'm a convict.

Here's my passport.

It's used to present me to the authorities when I arrive in town

and get me thrown out.

Will you read it!?

'Spent nineteen years in the penal colony.

'Five years for burglary.

'Fourteen for attempting to escape, this man is dangerous.'

There.

- I see you've been caught in the rain, sir.

You must be tired.

Come closer, the fire will warm you.

You'll have supper

while your bed is being made.

Mme Magloire, put white sheets on the alcove bed.

Please, sir, sit down.

What is this place?

Who are you?

A priest.

A priest?

A good, decent priest.

Who lives with two women, to top it off.

- There are things I refuse to hear, I'll be in the kitchen.

- A man opens his door to you, feeds you, and you slander him?

That wasn't my intention.

That's what you did.

Two men stood there, face to face.

One, the convict,

was rough, but had hidden nothing about his past.

The other, the good priest, was clearly kinder,

but he remained a mystery to everyone.

A few decades earlier,

he had gone to Italy arm in arm with his wife

and returned alone and irritable.

The death of the woman he loved had changed him.

He had left the world and entered religion.

He had convinced himself he must become an unforgiving servant of God,

but his transformation was not yet complete.

And to understand what followed,

we must go back to his first visit here.

- The sisters work miracles, but we're short of everything, Your Grace.

Bandages, potions, and even food.

We should be able to buy meat now and then.

A sick person has to eat to get well again.

Ah...

- Mr. Director. - Yes?

Excuse me, Your Grace.

What's going on?

That day, the man who was now a bishop was visiting the hospital.

A chore he vowed never to impose on himself again.

Monseigneur Myriel, for that was his real name,

had the title and all the trappings of his office.

His Eminence preferred visiting the rich

and mingling with the powerful.

He lived like a notable, one of those who judge and condemn.

And then, one day, something happened.

No one knows what.

But it did.

He changed.

But even more, he changed.

And what had been a chore to avoid

became a daily event.

- Have a good day, my friend. - Thank you, Your Grace.

- The beds are packed very close together.

It's getting worse and worse.

I'm very worried about the future.

The floor is full, we've put the poor souls in the courtyard.

Not to mention the epidemics to come.

This year, we had typhus.

Try to sleep.

- We ran out of space, and it will happen again.

What do you expect, we have to accept reality.

We won't be able to accept everyone anymore.

- How many beds could fit in my dining room?

- My lord, please. - I'm here.

You mean at the palace?

To understand the director's surprise,

you have to know that the bishop's palace

was a grand manor house, everything about it was imposing.

The bishop's apartments, the galleries, the staircases,

the fountains, the gardens.

Everything was magnificent.

In your dining room?

I'm not quite sure,

but I imagine it could hold

sixty patients.

At least.

Then there must be a mistake, my friend.

You have my quarters and I have yours.

Give me back my house, I'm at home here.

The next day, twenty-six patients were settled in the palace,

and Bishop Myriel took as his home what had been serving as the hospital.

- A man like that, he's a gift from heaven.

He's not the same anymore, he doesn't want bishop's meals.

If I listened to him,

he'd have lunch on oil soup and bread.

You'd think he feeds on the smell of flowers.

- That's not very bishop-like behavior.

Let's not forget it was the emperor who made him bishop.

They say he gave up his carriage and now trots around on a donkey.

- He's going to give the poor his carriage allowance

and his pastoral travel expenses.

What if he were imposing penance on himself

- because he sinned? - This man is different.

He visits the poor as long as he has money.

When he has none left, he visits the rich.

He says that's where he can find some to give away.

- He's managed to win over his flock.

Do you know what nickname they gave him?

'Welcome', 'Bishop Welcome'.

That's what they call you.

- I like that name. 'Welcome' softens the 'Bishop'.

I find you very tolerant.

Here, many mouths talk and very few heads think.

Your Grace,

it's not for you to pick up potatoes.

- A man of the Church must kneel as often as possible

or he ends up believing

- that he's important. - And me?

What do they say about me?

I imagine I'm causing a stir.

- Let them try, they'll have me to deal with.

They know that without you, he'd never answer his mail.

He'd be forgotten by his friends, his cousins

and the bishop's council.

- The other bishops prefer not to hear from me.

To them, I'm an open door, and they don't like fresh air.

- The bigwigs, like the big hats, aren't the fairest.

You write so well, you should write about your brother.

Great men deserve great tributes.

- I don't have that talent, and besides, publishers

would never trust a woman.

And then, Monsignor Bienvenu would have to

reveal his whole life to us.

But there are things he doesn't want to tell.

Monsignor is a holy man.

If you don't write this book, someone else will have to.

Some great author.

Someone like Mr. Châteaubriand.

But I refuse to let him write

that I let you starve to death!

Shall we go into the garden?

It's very practical.

They say a retired minister invented it

because he was bored.

One should never underestimate the virtues of boredom.

- I'm not looking at the object, I'm looking at you.

Hm.

Why didn't you come see me sooner?

- Your letters were meant to set me straight.

Then the tone of your letters changed, so I came.

- Forgive me.

- Besides, I wanted you to have a different memory of me.

- You'll always be the one who defended me to our parents

when I got into fights.

- A saint? - Hey...

- I'll ask whoever writes your life to portray me as a virgin

with barely enough body to have a gender.

A diaphanous creature, fine and transparent.

- 'A diaphanous creature, fine and transparent.'

Not everyone can be a holy man.

- Priest stories don't interest anyone.

Your great author would be better off

finding another character.

In the meantime, the holy man is hungry.

- Are you sure you want to take in that beast?

- Some acts are acts of faith.

- Sit down, miss.

- Let me do my job. - I can make myself useful.

I was supposed to stay a few days, it's been three months.

You're at home here.

Hm...

Since you're a priest, you won't ask me for money?

- God is your host, here or elsewhere, He is everywhere.

- Not there.

That's a shame.

It's a place that deserves His presence.

- Don't get me started on that, you'd throw me out.

You can speak freely.

Nothing will deprive you of shelter or food.

Admit that the gods

rarely show themselves, especially where they're needed.

Not yours, not the others.

My sister shares

your doubts about God's existence.

As for me, I admit I try to believe as much as I can.

- It's never too late to meet God.

Of God or of man,

which created the other?

Under the varnish of the gods, you find man.

- He's no better than the other.

My God...

- If he's yours, teach him some manners.

I forbid you to blaspheme.

- You said this was a house where one could be honest,

- without fear of being thrown out. - And I repeat it.

I've had my share of lies.

Too many for me to be fed with nonsense

they give to small fry, to the miserable.

They get fed legends to swallow:

the soul, immortality, paradise.

They chew it all up, and spread it on their dry bread.

He who has nothing has God.

Well, no.

- He who has nothing has nothing. - What about the Gospels?

'Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.'

'Blessed are you who hunger now, for you shall be filled.'

'Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.'

It's gibberish.

The poor aren't happy.

To sacrifice earth for paradise,

is to let go of the prey for the shadow.

- I can't make the bed for such a man.

Sir is our guest!

- The poor aren't happy. They're not pretty either.

It's better to be the tooth than the grass.

I'll help you clear the table.

Please.

Thank you.

- Wait, miss, I'll help you.

We need to alert the gendarmes.

We'll do as my brother wishes.

- Your Grace doesn't know those men.

He attacked me.

He's just an unfortunate man.

- These poor souls have no business being here.

These poor souls are already here.

Why do you say that?

- An unwed mother who puts her child in boarding care

to find a way to feed her, isn't she a poor soul?

A woman who, on the day her little girl falls ill,

cannot care for her or even see her before she's buried,

isn't she a poor soul?

A mother who has cried so much

that she has no tears left, isn't she a poor soul?

- You are My Lord's sister. - Then I am both.

- I'm saying, miss, that you're mixing everything up

and that there is, on the other side of this wall,

what comes closest to an angel

and a demon.

I'm going to bed.

Could you bring me up a hot brick?

- Of course. Let your herbal tea steep, I'll bring it to you.

And barricade yourself in.

We know nothing about him.

My Lord didn't ask what his story was.

Yet his fault lies in his story.

- That's why my brother didn't mention it to him.

Some guilty people are too focused on their misery.

It's best to distract them by making them believe they're

- just like everyone else. - But he's an animal.

A beast.

A man.

Good night, Mme Magloire.

- Do you think I'll be able to sleep

with a convict under our roof?

The latch, mademoiselle.

Remember to lock it.

Do I scare you?

You startled me.

Isn't my brother with you?

- I was looking for the latrine while he gets us some wine.

Why did you defend me?

- Because I know some mistakes haunt you for the rest of your life.

Come.

Let me help with your arm.

And I agree with you, how could we be happy

when children work like beasts of burden

and women sell their teeth for 40 francs?

The price of a bunch of asparagus.

When it's not their teeth, it's the rest, body and soul.

It's going to be a cold night.

- Isn't it always cold for people like you and me?

- The maid is right, lock your door.

- I have too little time left to live in fear.

Besides, what could happen to me?

I've been dead for a long time.

- I'm glad you like the wine.

Have some biscuits too.

How about we go for a walk outside?

- This way. - Right behind you.

- Earlier, you tried to make yourself hated. Why?

I give people what they expect.

I understand.

I doubt it.

- How do you expect to be forgiven

if you're at war with everyone?

I neither ask for nor grant forgiveness.

- But being mean takes effort, doesn't it?

You have paid your debt to society,

your rights today are the same as mine.

- You have a right to a roof over your head, while I have to sleep outside.

- You won't be sleeping outside. - One exception doesn't change the rule.

What I see in your servant's eyes,

I see in every gaze.

I love these moments.

They make me accept infinity.

The day ends and announces another, everything will start again.

The spectacle of nature has always seemed invigorating to me.

And this is the hour when scents rise up.

The world's energy nourishes us

and the sky becomes permission.

It all depends on who you are.

You believe that some people's happiness

is built on the misery of others.

- Stars aren't enough to ease suffering.

Those above praise the heavens, while those below see only night.

But the stars are there.

- Some lights bring out the darkness.

- I'd never seen things that way before.

Your wall is in bad shape.

Over there, near the stairs.

Have it repaired or someone will slip into your place.

Why climb over the wall

when the door is open?

I'll walk you to your room.

Between the ladle and the cutlery, it's worth 200 francs.

That's twice what I earned in nineteen years.

There you go.

All the justice in the world, crammed into a closet.

I haven't slept under the same roof as a woman

for nineteen years.

Do you really think a latch is going to stop me?

The only question you need to ask yourself is,

'What time is he coming?'

This way.

Please, sir.

Will that do for you?

I had a glass of water brought up for you.

Tomorrow morning, you'll have a cup of milk from our cow.

I milk her myself.

I tell you I'm a convict, and you call me 'sir'.

Who says I didn't commit murder?

Have a good night, sir.

Whatever his fate, whenever he peers into the darkness,

the one who has known the chain sees the same faces again.

The same proof of the world's darkness.

Aaah...!

He remains forever prey to the laughter of darkness.

Fff...

Gue...

'Jean Valjean' had collapsed fully clothed onto the bed.

His whole story came back to him.

Everything that had brought him there.

He had lost his father and mother at a very young age.

All he had left of his family was a sister.

She already had five children when she became a widow.

He stayed and provided for them.

He hired himself out as a laborer to bring bread home

Tree pruner.

Day laborer. Lumberjack.

He took any job he could get.

- Don't touch anything, go get the others.

Hurry up!

Then one winter turned harsh.

Food began to run out.

Five children, no bread.

What do you expect would happen?

That loaf of bread sealed his fate.

Stop!

If you're here, it's because society doesn't want you anymore,

that you're guilty.

If you die, no one will miss you.

So, don't stand out.

Come on, get to work.

The penal colony,

is not just the loss of freedom.

It is also forced labor.

Every day of the year.

Year after year.

The stone wears you down.

It drains you dry.

It destroys you.

Identity dissolves into dust.

Men become ghosts.

Time is measured by the marks it leaves on faces.

Yet it is the scars you cannot see

that run the deepest.

The ones that let hope slip away.

Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf of bread.

Claude Gueux had stolen a loaf of bread.

What are you doing?

Mr. Director.

I'm judging someone.

- Four out of five thefts are caused by hunger.

Good morning, Mr. Director.

Claude Gueux

was a quiet man. Shock and cry

But the prison director

had separated him from his only friend without giving him a reason.

Lift it! Lift it!

My legs! My legs!

The weeks went by,

and every time Claude asked him

about the reason for his decision...

- Go on! - Take those!

The other gave him the same answer.

'Because.'

'Because.'

The director was one of those men who like to abuse

the power they have.

Why?

Because.

- The spark that such lighters strike from such stones

often starts fires.

- Ah! - Go on, Claude, make him bleed!

- Make him bleed, come on!

Come on! Come on!

Come on! Hit him!

Finish that bitch off! Go on, do it!

Bleed him!

Finish him off!

This is the kind of event that every convict witnesses

every day of his sentence.

The humiliations of one

sometimes help to understand the behavior of the other.

And what Claude had endured

was in many ways similar to what Jean had endured.

Where he should have found hope,

trust, friendship,

he found nothing.

Do you know what Claude told the judge

when the judge asked him: 'Why did you do that?'

'Because.'

'Because.'

'Because.'

Hey! 'Because.'

'Because.'

Come on, guys, I'm in a good mood today.

I'll write a twenty-line letter for a bronze coin.

Whoever adds a pinch of tobacco, I'll make him a lover,

a prince, a literary man.

So, he tried to flee.

To leave.

To be free.

To escape this hell.

With every escape attempt, he risked his life.

Once.

Twice. Three times.

But even that, he lost the taste for.

Don't squirm, it's your turn.

You'd rather have a bowl of diarrhea than freedom?

Are you gonna wait out your sentence,

spend half your money at a secondhand shop

to try to make people forget who you are.

Have you seen what we look like when we get out of here?

The decent folks only have to look at your eyes.

You'll be marked, like all of us.

Might as well make a break for it while we still have the strength.

- Escaping means looking over your shoulder all the time,

jumping at every sound, being afraid of everything.

Of the smoking roof.

Of the man passing by. Of the barking dog.

Of the path, of the bush.

Of sleep.

It's another punishment.

Another wear and tear.

Another emptiness.

All my escape attempts

only earned me more time added to my sentence.

All of this has cost me too much.

The years go by, those I loved have forgotten me.

I don't know where they are, or even if they're alive.

I don't even remember their faces anymore.

- Then, he withdrew into his own conscience.

And set himself up as a court.

He began by judging himself.

He admitted he was not an innocent man unjustly punished.

- Watch out! - That he had been wrong.

Ouch! Ah!

- Let me go! Let me go!

- Then he wondered if he was the only one at fault

in this fatal story.

If his punishment was not some kind of assault

by the strong against the weak.

A crime by society against the individual.

A crime that started again every day.

A crime that had gone on for nineteen years.

That ought to speak to the citizens.

- I already told you to stop shitting ink!

- Ouch!

Want some more?

How do you like that?

These questions asked and answered,

he judged society and condemned it.

He condemned it to his hatred.

Oh!

- What's gotten into you?

Come on, Jean!

Yes, yes, Jean!

- If the millet grain under the millstone could think,

it would probably think what this man thought.

Human society had done him nothing but harm.

The man was still good when he arrived at the penal colony.

He felt himself becoming bad.

No! No!

Good morning, Mrs. Magloire.

Good morning, Your Grace.

That awful man is the talk of the whole town.

Everyone's gossiping and talking your ear off.

- Luckily, you're not like them.

No, I'm not like them.

I'm learning to read.

Maybe one day, I'll be able to discuss the great authors with you

- and understand what you're saying. - I don't doubt it.

I don't doubt it.

Your Grace, I tell you again:

these flowers are useless, we'd be better off with lettuce.

- I don't agree with you, Mrs. Magloire.

Beauty is as useful as utility.

Maybe even more.

Bring me a chair, my dignity won't reach that branch.

- You deserve for me to skip your breakfast.

I found a basket.

I put it on the edge of the well.

- That's the silverware basket. - Maybe.

- Your Grace, where did the silverware go?

I don't know.

- My God, it must have been the man from yesterday who stole it.

I saw the way he was looking at the silverware last night.

There, I knew it!

He's not here anymore, he's gone!

Your Grace!

Your Grace.

The man's gone, and the silverware's been stolen.

I told you, those men are monsters.

- Was that silverware really ours?

Mrs. Magloire,

I had kept that silverware wrongly, and for a very long time.

It belonged to the poor.

And what was that man?

A poor man, obviously.

Alas, Jesus,

it's neither for me nor for miss, we don't care.

But it's for Your Grace, what will he eat with now?

Let's call the gendarmes.

Your Grace is too kind, he'll end up with nothing left.

I mean, you can't let yourself be robbed blind.

Now you've got wooden cutlery. A bishop is entitled to comfort.

Mrs. Magloire,

An opulent priest is a contradiction.

Your comfort is a luxury

that would keep shouting in my ears, over and over:

'Men are hungry, they're cold, there are poor people.'

And there always will be.

That's no reason to go without the essentials.

Much less to let yourself be robbed.

I have everything I need.

- Help me, miss. When you have a big heart, you deserve honors and gilding.

- I agree with you.

My brother has a heart of gold.

But don't confuse gold and gilding.

If you think about it, gilding rarely covers gold.

- Was there a theft, yes or no?

When there's theft, there are gendarmes.

Can you imagine, sweet Jesus, welcoming such a man?

It's a blessing he only stole.

It makes you shudder when you think about it.

- No need to imagine dramas that haven't happened.

But they will happen.

That's why we need to call the gendarmes.

Think of the others.

Of the next people that animal will rob.

Of the old women he'll frighten. Of the good men he'll betray.

We have to turn him in, out of charity!

I mean that he...

Come in!

Stop.

Thank God.

Well done, gentlemen, we were about to...

Ah, there you are!

And so?

You didn't want to wake us,

but to leave without saying goodbye...

- We saw that guy running with a bag, like he was fleeing, so we caught him.

He showed us his yellow passport when he arrived in town.

He's a repeat offender.

- Release is not freedom, then.

You get out of the penal colony, but not out of the sentence.

- Your Grace, here's what was in the bag.

Silver cutlery.

The bishopric's coat of arms is on the napkin wrapped around them,

so I thought that...

It's a misunderstanding.

Those pieces do come from here, but they were given as a gift.

And you had forgotten...

'Monseigneur', isn't that a priest?

- Be quiet. That's His Grace the bishop.

The candlesticks.

In that case.

Sorry for disturbing you, Your Grace.

No.You didn't disturb me. Gentlemen.

Ladies.

- I have no taste for gallows or scaffolds.

- Punishment is necessary, or else it's chaos.

And those men never stay innocent for very long.

Look at the counterfeit money case.

You doubted the culprit, but the prosecutor got a confession.

- Oh? - Yes.

That prosecutor is very clever.

He made the old woman believe that the husband was sleeping elsewhere

by showing her letters from a supposed mistress.

The woman believed him and denounced her husband.

- Where will that couple be tried? - At the assizes court.

- Ah. And where will the prosecutor be tried?

- Good day, Your Grace. - Good day, gentlemen.

Your Grace.

- Would you like a glass of water?

- Mrs. Magloire, isn't it time to milk the cow

and collect our eggs?

Goodbye, sir.

- Would you like to come sit down?

I have not always been the man I am today.

One day in Italy, many years ago, I...

I lost the person I loved most in the world.

That day, I was nothing but anger and violence.

I blamed the whole world.

I entered the religious life

as others choose hatred.

My faith was that of those who want to fight and evangelize.

A faith full of certainties.

Narrow-minded.

A missionary's faith.

Wherever I went, I had to convince

and impose my faith.

I had learned that a hermit with the worst reputation

was at death's door.

He had been presented to me as an enemy of the Church.

A Convention member who had voted for the king's death.

I saw it as another chance to prove my worth.

To convince a lost soul to make peace with God.

I was promised great misfortune for coming to see you.

Plenty of both.

- I no longer have the energy for such welcomes.

People like to keep seeing you as they wish.

I have my reputation.

- You don't have much time left to change it.

- I am indeed at the end of my road.

But ending is a simple matter.

I will die here tonight.

Under the open sky.

I am leaving because I want to.

My time has come.

I want to be free, even in my agony.

- If you're certain, it would be a pity

that we met for nothing.

- If you came hoping to hear my confession, Father,

you'll have eaten dust for nothing.

- If I'm here, it's because you lost your way

and because you need me.

- I admit I voted for the tyrant's end.

But it was also voting for the end of prostitution for women,

the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child.

By voting for the republic, I voted for that.

I voted for fraternity, for harmony.

Dawn.

- Maybe. But you're forgetting the Terror.

There was '89, but there was also '93.

- A cloud formed over 1,500 years.

It finally burst, and now you're putting the thunderbolt on trial?

- That lightning hasn't always struck the right place.

- I will weep with you over the children of kings

if you weep with me over the little ones of the people.

- I weep for all. - Likewise.

But if the scales must tip, let them tip toward the people.

It has been longer that he has suffered.

Not believing in the virtues of holy water,

in the virgin birth

or in the resurrection of a crucified man with a crown of thorns

does not mean not believing at all.

The human race exists.

- I often see again the nobility of that face.

Time written in his hands.

That tear shed for the human race.

God is in those moments.

That man reconciled me with the world.

Men are mothers, but they don't know it.

Don't forget.

Never forget.

What, then?

- That you promised me you'd become an honest man with that money.

Jean Valjean.

My brother.

- Monseigneur's sister: - Jean Valjean was running away.

He didn't know what, but he was fleeing.

He felt a kind of anger.

He didn't know against whom.

He watched with concern as the kind of dreadful calm

that the injustice of his misfortune had given him began to shake.

Your arm.

Go on!

My brother.

- A child: - Ah, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine

Aristocrats to the lantern Ah, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine

We'll hang the aristocrats

Despotism will die out

Freedom will triumph

Ah, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine

We have no more nobles or priests

Ah, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine

Equality will reign everywhere

Hi.

Hi.

My coin, sir, it rolled under your foot.

My forty-sous coin.

It's mine.

It's... my coin!

Who are you?

My name is Petit-Gervais, I'm a chimney sweep.

You took my money.

Give it back!

Go away.

Not without my coin! Go away, I said!

Petit!

Petit!

Come back, I'll give you your coin back!

Petit!

Petit!

Petit!!

Petit!!

Petit!!

Petit!!

Jean Valjean:

A man's story is not just one man's story.

It's also the story of everyone he meets.

Those people are sometimes forgotten.

Because their fate is less memorable,

less extraordinary, less dramatic.

Yet among them are truly exceptional souls.

Souls who restore hope by narrowing the gap

between what is and what should be.

They do more than just show the way.

They show you what's possible.

They give you back your innocence.

The dikes had broken.

And since being the worst was no longer an option,

from then on, he would have to be the best of men.