Woe to him who believes nothing.
One is not unoccupied because one is absorbed.
There is visible labor and invisible labor.
To contemplate is to labor，to think is to act.
Folded arms toil，clasped hands work.
A gaze fixed on heaven is a work.
Thales remained motionless for four years.
He founded philosophy.
In our opinion，cenobites are not lazy men，and recluses are not idlers.
To meditate on the Shadow is a serious thing.
Without invalidating anything that we have just said，we believe that a perpetual memory of the tomb is proper for the living.On this point，the priest and the philosopher agree.
We must die.The Abbe de la Trappe replies to Horace.
To mingle with one's life a certain presence of the sepulchre，——this is the law of the sage；and it is the law of the ascetic.In this respect，the ascetic and the sage converge.
There is a material growth；we admit it.
There is a moral grandeur；we hold to that.
Thoughtless and vivacious spirits say：——
'What is the good of those motionless figures on the side of mystery？What purpose do they serve？
What do they do？'
Alas！
In the presence of the darkness which environs us，and which awaits us，in our ignorance of what the immense dispersion will make of us，we reply：
'There is probably no work more divine than that performed by these souls.'
And we add：'There is probably no work which is more useful.'
There certainly must be some who pray constantly for those who never pray at all.
In our opinion the whole question lies in the amount of thought that is mingled with prayer.
Leibnitz praying is grand，Voltaire adoring is fine.
Deo erexit Voltaire.
We are for religion as against religions.
We are of the number who believe in the wretchedness of orisons，and the sublimity of prayer.
Moreover，at this minute which we are now traversing，——a minute which will not，fortunately，leave its impress on the nineteenth century，——at this hour，when so many men have low brows and souls but little elevated，among so many mortals whose morality consists in enjoyment，and who are busied with the brief and misshapen things of matter，whoever exiles himself seems worthy of veneration to us.
The monastery is a renunciation.
Sacrifice wrongly directed is still sacrifice.
To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur of its own.
Taken by itself，and ideally，and in order to examine the truth on all sides until all aspects have been impartially exhausted，the monastery，the female convent in particular，——for in our century it is woman who suffers the most，and in this exile of the cloister there is something of protestation，——the female convent has incontestably a certain majesty.
This cloistered existence which is so austere，so depressing，a few of whose features we have just traced，is not life，for it is not liberty；it is not the tomb，for it is not plenitude；it is the strange place whence one beholds，as from the crest of a lofty mountain，on one side the abyss where we are，on the other，the abyss whither we shall go；it is the narrow and misty frontier separating two worlds，illuminated and obscured by both at the same time，where the ray of life which has become enfeebled is mingled with the vague ray of death；it is the half obscurity of the tomb.
We，who do not believe what these women believe，but who，like them，live by faith，——we have never been able to think without a sort of tender and religious terror，without a sort of pity，that is full of envy，of those devoted，trembling and trusting creatures，of these humble and august souls，who dare to dwell on the very brink of the mystery，waiting between the world which is closed and heaven which is not yet open，turned towards the light which one cannot see，possessing the sole happiness of thinking that they know where it is，aspiring towards the gulf，and the unknown，their eyes fixed motionless on the darkness，kneeling，bewildered，stupefied，shuddering，half lifted，at times，by the deep breaths of eternity.
BOOK EIGHTH.——CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM
Ⅰ WHICH TREATS OF THE MANNER OF ENTERING A CONVENT
It was into this house that Jean Valjean had，as Fauchelevent expressed it，'fallen from the sky.'
He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue Polonceau.
That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of the night，was the nuns chanting matins；that hall，of which he had caught a glimpse in the gloom，was the chapel.That phantom which he had seen stretched on the ground was the sister who was making reparation；that bell，the sound of which had so strangely surprised him，was the gardener's bell attached to the knee of Father Fauchelevent.
Cosette once put to bed，Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent had，as we have already seen，supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a good，crackling fire；then，the only bed in the hut being occupied by Cosette，each threw himself on a truss of straw.
Before he shut his eyes，Jean Valjean said：
'I must remain here henceforth.'
This remark trotted through Fauchelevent's head all night long.
To tell the truth，neither of them slept.
Jean Valjean，feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his scent，understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to Paris.
Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded him in this cloister.
Jean Valjean had，henceforth，but one thought，——to remain there.
Now，for an unfortunate man in his position，this convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of places；the most dangerous，because，as no men might enter there，if he were discovered，it was a flagrant offence，and Jean Valjean would find but one step intervening between the convent and prison；the safest，because，if he could manage to get himself accepted there and remain there，who would ever seek him in such a place？To dwell in an impossible place was safety.
On his side，Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains.
