A cliff-edge trail crossed the craggy Northern coast to Picardy. An afternoon’s hike toward viewing the seals. Scrambling on hands and knees up one steep rise, climbing some farmer’s fence into a pasture overhanging the mad Atlantic as it slammed into rocks below, I began to understand how you might’ve imagined the waifs and pawns of misery. I had no knowledge of poor Fantine, knew nothing about Javert’s determination to track down Jean Valjean. We Schultz women followed plaques marked “On the Path of Victor Hugo” when we staggered into a seaside village to find seal-watching time long passed.  Time for wine or Stella.  Time to appreciate a good loaf of French bread.  Time for naps and dreaming dreams. How little we knew about tales that grew out of high peaks and dark crevices.