Book 7, Chapter 3 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Book 7, Chapter 3, A Tempest in a Skull. The reader has no doubt already divined that M. Madeleine is no other than Jean Verjean. We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience. The moment has now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man. It can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea. It is heaven. There is a spectacle more grand than heaven. It is the inmost recesses of the soul. To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts and of temptations, the furnace of dreams, the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed. It is the pandemonium of sofisms. It is the battlefield of the passions, penetrate at certain hours past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection and look behind gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There beneath that external silence, battles of giants like those recorded in Homer are in progress. Skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms as in Milton, visionary circles as in Dante.  Allegary one day met with a sinister looking door before which he hesitated. Here is one before us upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let us enter, nevertheless. We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean Vergent after the adventure with little je vais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What the bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was more than a transformation. It was a transfiguration. He succeeded in disappearing, sold the bishop's silver, reserving only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France, came to M. Sorem, conceived the idea which we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe from seizure and inaccessible, and thenceforth established at M. Sorem, happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first half of his existence, belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts, to conceal his name and to sanctify his life, to escape men and to return to God. His two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they formed but a single one there. Both were equally absorbing and imperative, and ruled his slightest actions. In general they conspired to regulate the conduct of his life. They turned him towards the gloom. They rendered him kindly and simple. They counseled him to the same things. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will remember, the man whom all the country of M. Sorem, called M. Madeleine, did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second, his security to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved the bishop's candlesticks, worn mourning for him, summoned and interrogated all the little savoyards who passed that way, collected information regarding the families at Favereau, and saved old Fochelavon's life, despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert. It seemed as we have already remarked, as though he thought, following the example of all those who have been wise, holy, and just, that his first duty was not towards himself. At the same time it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet presented itself. Stupor had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man, whose sufferings we are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert, when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name which he had buried beneath so many layers was so strangely articulated, he was struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his destiny, and through this stupor he felt that shudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault.  As he listened to Javert, the first thought which occurred to him was to go, to run and denounce himself, to take that chant-mathieu out of prison, and place himself there. This was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, We will see, we will see. He repressed this first generous instinct, and recoiled before heroism. It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the bishop's holy words, after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence admirably begun. If this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the same step towards this yawning precipice at the bottom of which lay heaven, that would have been beautiful, but it was not thus. We must render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was carried away at first by the instinct of self-preservation. He rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert's presence, that great danger postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler. He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within, a profound tranquility without. He took no preservative measures, as they may be called. Everything was still confused, and jostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow. He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged his visit through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras, and without having the least in the world made up his mind to this trip. He said to himself that being as he was, beyond the shadows of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the tillberry from scoffler in order to be prepared in any event. He died with a good deal of appetite. On returning to his room he communed with himself. He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented, so unprecedented that in the midst of his reverie he rose from his chair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading himself against possibilities. A moment later he extinguished his light. It embarrassed him. It seemed to him as though he might be seen. By whom? Alas! that on which he desired to close the door had already entered. That which he desired to blind was staring him in the face. His conscience. That is to say, God. Nevertheless he deluded himself at first. He had a feeling of security and of solitude. The bolt once drawn he thought himself impregnable. The candle extinguished. He felt himself invisible. Then he took possession of himself. He sat his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand, and began to meditate in the dark. Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that shant Matthew be? So he resembles me. Is it possible? When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far from suspecting anything. What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done? This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost his power of retaining ideas. They passed like waves, and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them. Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult, which overwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought to draw proof and resolution. His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open. There were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the table. The first hour passed in this manner. Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch a glimpse with precision of the reality, not the whole situation, but some of the details. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary as was this situation, he was completely amassed of it. This only caused an increase of his stupor.  That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self-communion during his sleepless nights was to ever hear that name pronounced. He had said to himself that that would be the end of all things for him, that on the day when that name made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him, and who knows, perhaps even his new soul within him also. He shuddered at the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if anyone had said to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name would ring in his ears, when the hideous words Jean Valjean would suddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light capable of dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name would not menace him, that that light would but produce an obscurity more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the mystery, that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this prodigious incident would have no other result so far as he was concerned, if so it seemed good to him, than that of rendering his existence at once clearer and more impenetrable, and that out of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean the good and worthy citizen, M. Madeline, would emerge more honoured, more peaceful, and more respected than ever. If anyone had told him that he would have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman, well all this was precisely what had just come to pass, all that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these wild fancies to become real things. His reverie continued to grow clearer, he came more and more to an understanding of his position. It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the middle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the very brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead, in order that the gulf might close once more, it was necessary that someone, himself or that other man, should fall into it. He had only let things take their course. The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself, that his place was empty in the galleys, that due what he would it was still awaiting him, that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to it, that this vacant place would await him, and draw him on until he filled it, that this was inevitable and fatal. And then he said to himself that at this moment he had a substitute, that it appeared that a certain Champ Mathieu had that ill luck, and that as regards himself, being present in the galleys in the person of that Champ Mathieu, present in society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the head of that Champ Mathieu, this stone of infamy, which, like the stone of the supple-car, falls once, never to rise again. All this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly took place in him that indescribable movement which no man feels more than two or three times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the conscience which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart, which is composed of irony, of joy, and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of inward laughter. He hastily relighted his candle. "'Well, what then?' he said to himself. "'What am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe, all is over. I head but one partly open door through which my past might invade my life, and behold, that door is walled up for ever. That Javert, who has been annoying me so long, that terrible instinct which seemed to have devined me, which had devined me, good God, and which followed me everywhere, that frightful hunting dog, always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail. Henceforth he is satisfied, he will leave me in peace. He has his genre, vergent. Who knows? It is even probable that he will wish to leave town. And all this has been brought about without any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it. Ah, but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honour people would think to see me, that some catastrophe had happened to me. After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not my fault in the least. It is providence which has done it all. It is because it wishes it so to be, evidently. Have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now? Why should I meddle? It does not concern me. What I am not satisfied, but what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream of my nights, the object of my prayers to heaven, security, I have now attained. It is God who wills it. I can do nothing against the will of God. And why does God will it? In order that I may continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at last that a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone, and to that virtue to which I have returned. Really I do not understand why I was afraid, a little while ago to enter the house of that good cure, and to ask his advice, this is evidently what he would have said to me. It is settled. Let things take their course. Let the good God do as he likes. Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience, bending over what may be called his own abyss. He rose from his chair and began to pace the room. Come, said he, let us think no more about it. My resolve is taken, but he felt no joy. Quite the reverse. One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can this see from returning to the shore. The sailor calls at the tide. The guilty man calls at remorse. God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean. To the expiration of a few moments, do what he would. He resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke, and he who listened, saying that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that mysterious power which said to him, Think, as it said to another condemned man two thousand years ago, March on. Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation. It is certain that people do talk to themselves. There is no living being who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a man, and when it returns from conscience to thought. It is in this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter he said, He exclaimed, Must be understood. One speaks to one's self, talks to one's self, exclaims to one's self, without breaking the external silence. There is a great tumult. Everything about us talks except the mouth. The realities of the soul are none the less realities, because they are not visible and palpable. So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that settled resolve. He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged in his mind was monstrous, that to let things take their course, to let the good God do as he liked, was simply horrible. To allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short, was to do everything, that this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree, that it was a base cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime.  He spit it out with disgust. He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had meant by this. My object is attained. He declared to himself that his life really had an object, but what object? To conceal his name? To deceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had done? Had he not another and grand object, which was the true one? To save not his person, but his soul? To become honest and good once more, to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that alone, which he had always desired, which the bishop had enjoined upon him, to shut the door on his past? But he was not shutting it, great God, he was reopening it by committing an infamous action. He was becoming a thief once more, and the most odious of thieves.  He was becoming an assassin. He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful living death, that death beneath the open sky, which is called the galleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself to save that man, struck down with so melancholy an error, to resume his own name, to become once more out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that was in truth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever, that hell, whence he had just emerged. To fall back there in appearance, was to escape from it, in reality. This must be done. He had done nothing, if he did not do all this. His whole life was useless. All his penitence was wasted. There was no longer any need of saying, what is the use? He felt that the bishop was there, that the bishop was present, all the more because he was dead, that the bishop was gazing fixedly at him, that henceforth, maire Madeleine, with all his virtues would be abominable to him, and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight, that men beheld his mask, but that the bishop saw his face, that men saw his life, but that the bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver the false Jean Valjean, and denounce the real one. Alas, that was the greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant of victories, the last step to take, but it must be done. Sad fate, he would enter into sanctity, only in the eyes of God, when he returned to infamy, in the eyes of men. Well, said he, let us decide upon this, let us do our duty, let us save this man. He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was speaking aloud. He took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He flung in the fire of bundle of bills, which he had against petty and embarrassed tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might have been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment, to M. Lafite, banker Rue d'Artois, Paris. He drew from his secretary a pocket-book, which contained several banknotes, and the passport of which he had made use that same year, when he went to the elections. One who had seen him during the execution of these various acts, into which there entered such grave thought, would have had no suspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his lips move, at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall, as though there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate. When he had finished the letter to M. Lafite, he put it into his pocket, together with the pocket-book, and began his walk once more. His reverie had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his duty clearly, written in luminous letters, which flamed before his eyes, and changed its place, as he altered the direction of his glance. Go, tell your name, denounce yourself. In the same way he beheld, as though they had passed before him invisible forms, the two ideas which had, up to that time, formed the double rule of his soul, the concealment of his name, the sanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct, and he perceived the distance which separated them. He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was necessarily good, while the other might become bad, that the first was self-devotion, and that the other was personality, that the one said my neighbor, and that the other said myself, that one emanated from the light, and the other from darkness. They were antagonistic, he saw them in conflict, in proportion as he meditated.  They had now attained colossal statues, and it seemed to him that he beheld within himself, in that infinity of which we were recently speaking, in the midst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending. He was filled with terror, but it seemed to him that the good thought was getting the upper hand. He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his conscience and of his destiny, that the bishop had marked the first phase of his new life, and that Shump Matthew marked the second, after the grand crisis, the grand test. But the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to fortify him in his resolution. One moment he said to himself that he was, perhaps, taking the matter too keenly, that after all this Shump Matthew was not interesting, and that he had actually been guilty of theft. He answered himself, if this man has indeed stolen a few apples, that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys, and who knows, did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of Jean Valjean overwhelms him, and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not the attorneys for the crown always proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a thief, because he is known to be a convict. In another instant the thought had occurred to him that, when he denounced himself, the heroism of his deed might, perhaps, be taken into consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years, and what he had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on him. But this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he remembered that the theft of the Forty-Sous from Little Jervais put him in the position of a man, guilty of a second offence after conviction, that this affair would certainly come up, and according to the precise terms of the law, would render him liable to penal servitude for life. He turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from earth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself that he must do his duty, that perhaps he should not be more unhappy after doing his duty than after having avoided it, that if he allowed things to take their own course, if he remained at M. Sorem, his consideration, his good name, his good works, the deference and veneration paid to him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity, his virtue, would be seasoned with a crime. And what would be the taste of all these holy things when bound up with this hideous thing? While, if he accomplished his sacrifice, a celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys, the post, the iron necklace, the green cap, unceasing toil, and pitiless shame. At length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus allotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on high, that in any case he must make his choice, virtue without and abomination within, or holiness within, and infamy without. The stirring of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to fail, but his brain grew weary. He began to think of other things, of indifferent matters, in spite of himself. The veins in his temples throbbed violently. He still paced to and fro. Midnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town hall. He counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks, and compared the sound of the two bells. He recalled in this connection the fact that, a few days previously, he had seen in an iron-monger's shop an ancient clock for sale, upon which was written the name, Antoine Albin de Romavie. He was cold, he lighted a small fire. It did not occur to him to close the window. In the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor. He was obliged to make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck. He finally succeeded in doing this. Ah, yes, he said to himself, I had resolved to inform against myself. And then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine. Hold, said he, and what about that poor woman? Here, a fresh crisis declared itself. Fantine, by appearing thus abruptly in his reverie, produced the effect of an unexpected ray of light. It seemed to him as though everything about him were undergoing a change of aspect. He exclaimed, Ah, but I hitherto have considered no one but myself. It is proper for me to hold my tongue, or to denounce myself, to conceal my person, or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an infamous and venerable convict. It is I, it is always I, and nothing but I, but good God, all this is egotism. These are diverse forms of egotism. But it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a little about others? The highest holiness is to think of others. Come, let us examine the matter. The I accepted. The I effaced. The I forgotten. What would be the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested. This Shembe Mathieu is released. I am put back in the galleys. That is well, and what then? What is going on here? Ah, here is a country, a town, here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women, aged grandsires, children, poor people. All this I have created. All these I provide with their living, everywhere where there is a smoking chimney. It is I who have placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the pot. I have created ease, circulation, credit. Before me there was nothing. I have elevated, vivified, informed with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole countryside, lacking me, the soul is lacking. I take myself off, everything dies. And this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite of her fall, the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been, and that child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her mother. Do I not also owe something to this woman, in reparation for the evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies, the child becomes what it can. That is what will take place, if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself? Come, let us see how it will be, if I do not denounce myself. After putting this question to himself, he paused. He seemed to undergo a momentary hesitation and trepidation, but it did not last long, and he answered himself calmly. Well, this man is going to the galleys. It is true. But what the deuce? He has stolen. There is no use in my saying that he has not been guilty of theft, for he has. I remain here. I go on. In ten years I shall have made ten millions. I scatter them over the country. I have nothing of my own. What is that to me? It is not for myself that I am doing it. The prosperity of all goes on augmenting. Industries are aroused and animated. Factories and shops are multiplied. Families, a hundred families, a thousand families, are happy. The district becomes populated. Villages spring up where there were only farms before. Farms rise where there was nothing. Wretchedness disappears, and with wretchedness, debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder, all vices disappear, all crimes.  Ah!  I was absurd. What was that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay attention and not be precipitated about anything. What, because it would have pleased me to play the grand and generous? This is melodrama, after all. Because I should have thought of no one but myself, the idea, for the sake of saving from a punishment, a trifle exaggerated perhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom. A thief, a good for nothing, evidently a whole countryside must perish.   Ah! this is abominable. And without the mother, even having seen her child once more, almost without the child having known her mother, and all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple-thief, who most assuredly has deserved the galleys for something else, if not for that. Finds groupels indeed which save a guilty man, and sacrifice the innocent, which save an old vagabond, who has only a few years to live at most, and who will not be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children.  Let us put it at the worst. Suppose that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it some day, to accept for the good of others these reproaches which weigh only on myself, this evil action which compromises my soul alone, in that lies self-sacrifice, in that alone there is virtue. He rose and resumed his march. This time he seemed to be content. Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth. Truths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him that, after having descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was dazzled as he gazed upon it. Yes, he thought, this is right. I am on the right road. I have the solution. I must end by holding fast to something. My resolve is taken. Let things take their course. Let us no longer vacillate. Let us no longer hang back. This is for the interest of all, not for my own. I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean. I am no longer he. I do not know that man. I no longer know anything. It turns out that someone is Jean Valjean at the present moment. Let him look out for himself. That does not concern me. It is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night, if it halts and descends on a head, so much the worse for that head. He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney-piece, and said, Hold, it has relieved me to come to a decision. I am quite another man now. He proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short. Come, he said, I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the resolution which I have once adopted. There are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean. They must be broken. In this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear witness against me. It is settled. All these things must disappear. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a small key. He inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be seen. So hidden was it in the most somber tones of the design which covered the wallpaper. A secret receptacle opened, a sort of false cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the chimney-piece. In this hiding place there were some rags, a blue linen blouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel shawed with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he passed through D. in October 1815 could easily have recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit. He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks in order to remind himself continually of his starting point. But he had concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the candlesticks which came from the bishop to be seen. He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it. Then with a quick and abrupt movement he took the hole in his arms at once, without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all, rags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire.  After the lapse of a few seconds the room and the opposite wall were lighted up with a fierce, red, tremendous glow. Everything was on fire, the thorn-cudgel snapped and threw its sparks to the middle of the chamber. As the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending over one could have readily recognized a coin, no doubt the Fortesu piece stolen from the little Savillard. He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step. All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone vaguely on the chimney-piece through the glow. Hold! he thought. The whole of Jean-Valjean is still in them. They must be destroyed also. He seized the two candlesticks. They were still fire enough to allow if they're being put out of shape, and converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal. He bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a sense of real comfort. How good warmth is, said he. He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks. A minute more, and they were both in the fire. At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting, Jean-Valjean, Jean-Valjean. His hair rose upright. He became like a man who was listening to some terrible thing. Yes, that's it. Finish, said the voice. Complete what you were about. Destroy these candlesticks. Annihilate this souvenir. Forget the bishop. Forget everything. Destroy this chante-mathieu. Do. That is right. Applaud yourself. So it is settled. Resolved. Fixed. Agreed. Here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has perhaps done nothing.  That is good. Be an honest man yourself. Remain M. Le Maire. Remain honorable and honored. Enrich the town. Nourish the indigent. Rear the orphan. Live happy, virtuous, and admired. And during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch! The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks. But that within him which had spoken had not finished. The voice continued. Jean Valjean. There will be around you many voices, which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark. Well, listen, infamous man. All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God. This voice feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly that he glanced around the room in a sort of terror. Is there anyone here? he demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.   There can be no one. There was someone, but the person who was there was of those whom the human eye cannot see. He placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece. Then he resumed his monotonous and legubrious tramp, which troubled the dreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke him with a start. This tramping to and fro soothed, and at the same time intoxicated him. It sometimes seems on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything, that they may encounter by change of place. After the lapse of a few minutes he no longer knew his position. He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he had arrived in turn. The two ideas which counseled him appeared to him equally fatal. What a fatality! What conjunction that that shant Matthew should have been taken for him, to be overwhelmed by precisely the means which Providence seemed to have employed at first to strengthen his position. There was a moment when he reflected on the future, denounce himself, great God, deliver himself up. With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence, which was so good, so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honour, to liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields. He should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May. He should never more bestow alms on the little children. He should never more experience the sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him.  Everything seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he read those books. Never more should he write on that little table of white wood, his old portraits, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God, instead of that the convict gang, the iron necklace, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp-bed, all those horrors which he knew so well. At his age, after having been what he was, if he were only young again, but to be addressed in his old age as thou, by any one who pleased, to be searched by the convict guard, to receive the galley sergeant's cudgelings, to wear iron-bound shoes on his bare feet, to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of the roundsmen who visits the gang, to submit to the curiosity of strangers who would be told, that man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean, who is mayor of M. Sorem, and at night, dripping with perspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their eyes, to remount, two by two, the latter staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant's whip. Oh, what misery! Can destiny then be as malicious as an intelligent being, and to become as monstrous as the human heart? And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heart-rending dilemma, which lay at the foundation of his reverie. Should he remain in paradise, and become a demon? Should he return to hell, and become an angel? What was to be done? Great God, what was to be done? The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more. They assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality, which is peculiar to despair. The name of Romavie recurred incessantly to his mind, with the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past. He thought that Romavie was a little grove near Paris, where young lovers go to Pluck-Lylics in the month of April. He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly.  At intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself for the last time, and definitely the problem over which he had, in a manner, fallen prostrate with fatigue. Aught he to denounce himself? Aught he to hold his peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into smoke. He only felt that, to whatever course of action he made up in his mind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being able to escape the fact that he was entering a sepulchre on the right hand, as much as on the left, that he was passing through a death agony, the agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue. Alas, all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no further advanced than at the beginning. Thus did the unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity, had also long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to him dripping with darkness, and overflowing with shadows in the depths, all studded with stars. Chapter 4 Forms Assumed by Suffering During Sleep Three o'clock in the morning had just struck, and he had been walking thus for five hours almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair. There he fell asleep and had a dream. This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text. Of whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it. It is the gloomy adventure of an ailing soul. Here it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed, the dream I had that night. I was in a plain, a vast gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night. I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the brother of whom I must say I never think, and whom I now hardly remember. We were conversing, and we met some passersby. We were talking of the neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window. There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth-color. The man had no hair. We could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch, which was as supple as a vine shoot, and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us. My brother said to me, Let us take the hollow road. There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces I received no reply when I spoke. I perceived that my brother was no longer with me. I entered a village which I aspired. I reflected that it must be Romainville. Why Romainville? The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street.  I said this to the man. What country is this? Where am I? The man made no reply. I saw the door of a house open and I entered. The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man. Whose house is this? Where am I? The man replied not. The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man. What garden is this? Where am I? The man did not answer. I strolled into the village and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted. All the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or strolling in the gardens. Behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass. I left the town and began to ramble about the fields. After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue. The first one whom I had seen and questioned on entering the town said to me. Where are you going? Do you not know that you have been dead this long time? I opened my mouth to reply and I perceived that there was no one near me. He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window which had been left open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was still black night. He rose. He went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet. From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp harsh noise which made him drop his eyes resounded from the earth. Below him he perceived two red stars whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness. As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, Holt said he, there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now. But this confusion vanished. A second sound similar to the first roused him thoroughly. He looked and recognized the fact that these two stars were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horse's hoofs on the pavement. What vehicle is this? He said to himself, who is coming here so early in the morning? At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber. He shuddered from head to foot and cried in a terrible voice. Who is there? Someone said, I, Monsieur Le Maire. He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his fortress. Well, he replied, what is it? Monsieur Le Maire, it is just five o'clock in the morning. What is that to me? The cabriolet is here, Monsieur Le Maire. What cabriolet? The tilbury. What tilbury? Did not Monsieur Le Maire order a tilbury? No, said he. The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur Le Maire. What coachman? Monsieur Schofler's coachman. Monsieur Schofler? That name sent a shudder over him as though a flash of lightning had passed in front of his face. Ah, yes, he resumed. Monsieur Schofler. If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have been frightened. A tolerably long silence ensued.  The old woman waited for him. She even ventured to uplift her voice once more. What am I to say, Monsieur Le Maire? Say that it is well and that I am coming down. CHAPTER V. HINDRANCES The posting service from Arras to Montreux-sur-Mer was still operated at this period by small mail wagons of the time of the empire. These mail wagons were two-wheel cabriolets, upholstered inside with fawn-colored leather hung on springs, and having but two seats, one for the post-boy, the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed with those long, offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a distance, and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The dispatch box, an immense, oblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black, and the cabriolet yellow. These vehicles which have no counterparts nowadays had something distorted and hunchbacked about them, and when one saw them passing in the distance and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled the insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though with but little coarselet, drag a great train behind them. But they travelled at a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Maras at one o'clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at Montreux-sur-Mer a little before five o'clock in the morning. That night the wagon which was descending to Montreux-sur-Mer by the Hezden Road collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering the town, with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, which was going in the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a man, enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the traveller paid no heed, and pursued his road at full gallop. "'That man is in a devilish hurry,' said the postman. "'The man, thus hastening on, was the one whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity. Wither was he going, he could not have told. Why was he hastening? He did not know. He was driving at random, straight ahead. Wither. To Arras, no doubt. But he might have been going elsewhere as well. At times he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into the night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward. Something drew him on. No one could have told what was taking place within him. Everyone will understand it. What man is there who has not entered, at least once in his life, into that obscure cavern of the unknown? However, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan, done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive. He was, more than ever, as he had been at the first moment. Why was he going to Arras? He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired Schoflair's Cabriolet, that whatever the result was to be, there was no reason why he should not see with his own eyes, and judge of matters for himself. That this was even prudent, that he must know what took place, that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and scrutinized. That one made mountains out of everything from a distance. That, at any rate, when he should have seen that Chalmethie, some wretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys in his stead. That Javer would indeed be there, and that Brevet, that Chynaldieu, that Coshpie, old convicts who had known him. But they certainly would not recognize him. Pa, what an idea! That Javer was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth, that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Chalmethie, and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures. That, accordingly, there was no danger. That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from it. That after all he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in his own hand. That he was master of it. He clung to this thought. At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras. Nevertheless, he was going thither. As he meditated, he whipped up his horse which was proceeding at that fine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues in a half an hour. In proportion, as the Cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him drawback. At daybreak he was in the open country, the town of Montreser Merle, far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white. He stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes, but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the evening. He did not see them. But without his being aware of it, and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical. These black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul. Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself, and yet there are people there within who are sleeping. The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the road, produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming when one is joyous, and legibrious when one is sad. It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hezden.  The horse belonged, as Scuffler had said, to that small race of the Boulanet which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large cropper, thin, fine legs, and solid hoofs, a homely, but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had traveled five leagues in two hours, and had not a drop of sweat on his loins. He did not get out of the Tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel. Are you going far in this condition? said the man. He replied with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie. Why? Have you come from a great distance? went on the man. Five leagues? Ah! Why do you say ah? The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment with his eyes fixed on the wheel. Then he rose erect and said, Because, though this wheel has traveled five leagues it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league. He sprang out of the Tilbury. What is that you say, my friend? I say that it is a miracle that you should have traveled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here. The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by the mail wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that the nut no longer held firm. My friend, he said to the stableman, is there a wheel right here? Certainly, sir. Do me the service to go and fetch him. He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Borghayard! Master Borghayard, the wheel-right, was standing on his own threshold. He came, examined the wheel, and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken. Can you repair this wheel immediately? Yes, sir. When can I set out again? Tomorrow. Tomorrow! There is a long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir? In a very great hurry I must set out again in an hour at the latest. Impossible, sir. I will pay whatever you ask. Impossible. Well, in two hours then. Impossible today. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before tomorrow morning. The matter cannot wait until tomorrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it? How so?  Certainly, sir. Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once. A spare wheel? Yes. I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together half-hazard. In that case sell me a pair of wheels. Not all wheels fit all axles, sir. Try, nevertheless. It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cartwheels. We are but a poor country here. Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have? The wheel-right had seen at the first glance that the Tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders. You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well. If I had one, I would not let it to you. Well, sell it to me then. I have none. What, not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see. We live in a poor country. There is in truth, added the wheel-right, an old collage under the shed yonder which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month. Never, that is to say. I might let that to you for what matters it to me, but the bourgeois must not see it pass, and then, it is a collage, it would require two horses. I will take two post-horses. Where is Mr. going? To Arras. And Mr. wishes to reach there to-day? Yes, of course. By taking two post-horses? Why not? Doesn't make any difference whether Mr. arrives at four o'clock to-morrow morning. Certainly not. There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses. Mr. has his passport? Yes. Well, by taking post-horses, Mr. cannot reach Arras before to-morrow. We are on a cross-road. The relays are badly served, the horses are in the fields. The season for plowing is just beginning, heavy teams are required, and horses are seized upon everywhere, from the post as well as elsewhere. Mr. will have to wait three or four hours, at the least, every relay. And then they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend. Come, then, I will go on horseback, unharness the cabriolet. Someone can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood. Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle? That is true, you remind me of that. He will not bear it. Then... But I can surely hire a horse in the village. A horse to travel at Arras in one stretch? Yes. That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You would have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But you will not find one for sale nor to let for five hundred francs or for a thousand. What am I to do? The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man, and set it on your journey to-morrow. Tomorrow will be too late. The deuce. Is there not a mail wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass? Tonight. Both the posts pass at night, the one going as well as the one coming. What? It will take you a day to mend this wheel? A day, and a good long one. If you set two men to work? If I set ten men to work. What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes? That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub, and the felly is in a bad state too. Is there anyone in this village who lets out teams? No. Is there another wheel-right? The stableman and the wheel-right replied in concert with a toss of the head. No. He felt an immense joy. It was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it who had broken the wheel of the Tilbury and who was stopping him on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons. He had just made every possible effort to continue the journey. He had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means. He had been deterred neither by the season nor fatigue nor by the expense. He had nothing with which to reproach himself.  It did not concern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the act of his own conscience, but the act of Providence. He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of his lungs for the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed to him that the hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the past twenty hours had just released him. It seemed to him that God was for him now and was manifesting himself. He said himself that he had done all he could and that now he had nothing to do but retrace his steps quietly. If his conversation with the wheel-right had taken place in the chamber of the inn, it would have had no witnesses. No one would have heard him. Things would have rested there, and it is probable that we should not have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about to peruse. But this conversation had taken place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are always people who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he was questioning the wheel-right, some people who were passing back and forth halted around them. After listening for a few minutes, a young lad to whom no one had paid any heed detached himself from the group and ran off. At the moment when the traveller, after the inward deliberation which we have just described, resolved to retrace his steps, this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman. Monsieur, said the woman, my boy tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet. These simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child, made the perspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the hand which had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness behind him, ready to seize him once more. He answered, yes, my good woman, I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire. And he hastened to add, but there is none in the place. Certainly there is, said the old woman. Where? interpolated the wheel-right. At my house, replied the old woman. He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again. The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-car. The wheel-right and the stableman, in despair the prospect of the traveller escaping their clutches, interfered. It was a frightful old trap. It rests flat on the axle. It is an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs. The rain came into it. The wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture. It would not go much further than the tilbury. A regular ramshackle old stage wagon the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it, et cetera, et cetera. All this was true, but this trap, this ramshackle old vehicle, this thing, whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to harass. He paid what was asked, left the tilbury with the wheel-right to be repaired, intending to reclaim it on his return, had the white horse put to the cart, climbed into it, and resumed the road which he had been travelling since morning. At the moment when the cart moved off he admitted that he had felt a moment previously. A certain joy in the thought that he should not go whether he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort of wrath and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back? After all, he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one was forcing him to it. And assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose. As he left Hesdon he heard a voice shouting to him, Stop! He halted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish and convulsive element resembling hope. It was the old woman's little boy. Monsieur, said the latter, it was I who got the cart for you. Well, you have not given me anything. He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost odious.  He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed. He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdon. He wanted to make it good. The little horse was courageous and pulled for two, but it was the month of February. There had been rain, the roads were bad, and then it was no longer the Tilbury, the cart was very heavy, and in addition there were many ascents. He took nearly four hours to go from Hesdon to St. Paul, four hours for five leagues. At St. Paul he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he came to and led to the stable as he had promised scoflair. He stood beside the manger while the horse was eating. He thought of sad and confusing things. The innkeeper's wife came to the stable. Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast? Come, that is true. I even have a good appetite. He followed the woman who had a rosy, cheerful face. She led him to the public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth. Make haste, said he, I must start again. I am in a hurry. A big, Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste. He looked at the girl with a sensation of comfort. That is what ailed me, he thought. I had not breakfasted. His breakfast was served. He seized the bread, took a mouthful, and then slowly replaced it on the table, and did not touch it again. A carter was eating at another table. He said to this man, Why is their bread so bitter here? The carter was a German, and did not understand him. He returned to the stable and remained near the horse. An hour later he had quitted St. Paul and was directing his course towards Tank, which is only five leagues from Arras. What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in the morning he watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fields pass by, and the way in which the landscape, broken at every turn of the road, vanished. This is a sort of contemplation which sometimes suffices to the soul and almost relieves it from thought. It is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the first and last time. To travel is to be born and to die at every instant. Perhaps in the vaguest region of his mind he did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence. All the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us. The dark and bright intervals are intermingled. After a dazzling moment, an eclipse, we look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing. Each event is a turn in the road, and all at once we are old.  We distinguish an obscure door, the gloomy horse of life which has been drawing us halts. And we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadows. Twilight was falling when the children who were coming out of school beheld this traveller enter Tank. It is true that the days were still short. He did not halt at Tank as he emerged from the village. A labourer who was mending the road with stones raised his head and said to him, That horse is very much fatigued. The poor beast was in fact going at a walk. Are you going to harass? added the road-mender. Yes. If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early. He stopped his horse and asked the labourer, How far is it from here to harass? Nearly seven good leagues. How is that? The posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter. Ah, return the road-mender, so you don't know that the road is under repair. You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on. There is no way to proceed further. Really? You will take the road on the left, leading to currency. You will cross the river. When you reach Camlin you will turn to the right. That is the road to Monsayna Loy which leads to harass. But it is night, and I shall lose my way. You do not belong in these parts? No. And besides it is all crossroads. Stop, sir. Resumed the road-mender.  Your horse is tired. Return to tank. There is a good inn there. Sleep there. You can reach harass tomorrow. I must be there this evening. That is different, but go to the inn all the same and get an extra horse. The stable-boy will guide you through the crossroads. He followed the road-mender's advice, retraced his steps, and half an hour later he passed the same spot again but this time at full speed with a good horse to aid. A stable-boy, who called himself a postillian, was seated on the shaft of the cariol. Still he felt that he had lost time. Night had fully come. They turned into the crossroad. The way became frightfully bad. The cart lurched from one rut to the other. He said to the postillian, Keep it a tried, and you shall have a double fee. In one of the jolts the wiffle-tree broke. There is the wiffle-tree broken, sir, said the postillian. I don't know how to harness my horse now. This road is very bad at night. If you wish to return and sleep at tank we could be in a wrasse early to-morrow morning. He replied, Have you a bit of rope and a knife? Yes, sir. He cut a branch from a tree and made a wiffle-tree of it. This caused another loss of twenty minutes, but they set out again at a gallop. The plain was gloomy, low-hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched themselves away like smoke. There were whitish gleams in the clouds, a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced a sound in all quarters of the horizon, as if some one moving furniture. Everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night? He was stiff with cold. He had eaten nothing since the night before. He vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the neighborhood of Dang, eight years previously, and it seemed but yesterday. The hour struck from a distant tower. He asked the boy, what time is it? Seven o'clock, sir. We shall reach Arras at eight. We have but three leagues still to go. At that moment he for the first time indulged in this reflection, thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner, that all this trouble which he was taking was perhaps useless, that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial, that he should at least have informed himself of that, that he was foolish to go thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not. Then he sketched out some calculations in his mind that, ordinarily, the sittings of the court of ascises began at nine o'clock in the morning, that it could not be a long affair, that the theft of the apples would be very brief, that there would then remain only a question of identity, four or five depositions, and very little for the lawyers to say, that he should arrive after all was over. The pastilian whipped up the horses. They had crossed the river, and left Mose Alloy behind them. The night grew more profound. CHAPTER VI. SISTER SAMPLICE. PUT TO THE PROOF. But at that moment Fontine was joyous. She had passed a very bad night, her cough was frightful, her fever had doubled in intensity, she had had dreams. In the morning when the doctor paid his visit she was delirious. He assumed an alarmed look, and ordered that he should be informed as soon as Mr. Madeleine arrived. All the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plates in her sheets, murmuring the while in a low voice, calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up again and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth. Each time that Sister Samplice asked her how she felt, she replied invariably, well, I should like to see Mr. Madeleine. Some months before this, at the moment when Fontine had just lost her last modesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow of herself. Now she was the specter of herself. Physical suffering had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of five and twenty had a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which the gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent shoulder blades, frail limbs, a clay-y skin, and her golden hair was growing out sprinkled with gray. Alas, how illness improvises old age! At midday the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook his head. Mr. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o'clock. As exactness is kindness, he was exact. About half past two Fontine began to be restless. In the course of twenty minutes she asked the nun more than ten times, what time is it, Sister? Three o'clock struck. At the third stroke Fontine set up in bed, she who could, in general, hardly turn over, joined her yellow fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of those profound sighs which seemed to throw off dejection. Then Fontine turned and looked at the door. No one entered. The door did not open. She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the door, motionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter-past three. Fontine fell back on her pillow. She said nothing, but began to plate the sheets once more. Half an hour passed. Then an hour. No one came. Every time the clock struck Fontine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back again. Her thought was clearly perceptible, but she uttered no name. She made no complaint. She blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way. One would have said that something dark was descending upon her. She was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then. Five o'clock struck. Then the sister heard her say very low and gently, he is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away to-moral. Sister Semplis herself was surprised at Mr. Medlin's delay. In the meantime Fontine was staring at the tester of her bed. She seemed to be endeavouring to recall something. All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what Fontine was singing. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the foe-borgs through. Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue. I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.  Haste to the city, buy linen, buy a needle, buy thread. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the foe-borgs through. Dear holy Virgin beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star. I prefer the child thou hast granted me. Madam, what shall I do with this linen fine? Make of it clothes for thy newborn babe. Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue. I love my love and corn-flowers are blue. Wash this linen, wear, in the stream. Make of it, soiling not, spoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine which I will embroider and fill with flowers. Madam, the child is no longer here. What is to be done? Then make of it a winding sheet in which to bury me. Lovely things we will buy as we stroll the foe-borgs through. Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue. I love my love, corn-flowers are blue. This song was an old cradle romance with which she had in former days lulled her little cassette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her child. She sang it in so sad a voice, and to so sweet an air, that it was enough to make anyone, even a nun, weep. The sister, accustomed as she was to austerities, felt a tear spring to her eyes. The clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it. She no longer seemed to pay attention to anything about her. Sister Sam Police sent a serving maid to inquire of the portraits of the factory, whether the mare had returned, and if he would not come to the infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes. Fantine was still motionless, and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. The servant informed Sister Sam Police in a very low tone that the mare had set out that morning before six o'clock, in a little tilbury, harnessed to a white horse, cold as the weather was, that he had gone alone without even a driver, that no one knew what road he had taken, that people said he had been seen to turn into the road to arrest, that others asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris, that when he went away he had been very gentle, as usual, and that he had merely told the portraits not to expect him that night. While the two women were whispering together, with their backs turned to Fantine's bed, the sister interrogating, the servant conjecturing, Fantine, with the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies, which unite the free movements of health with the frightful emaciation of death, had raised herself to her knees in bed, with her shriveled hands resting on the bolster, and her head thrust through the opening of the curtains, and was listening. All at once she cried, "'You are speaking of Mr. Madlen. Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come?' Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they heard the voice of a man. They wheeled round in a fright. "'Answer me!' cried Fantine. The servant stammered. The portraits told me that he could not come to-day. Be calm, my child, said the sister. Lie down again." Fantine, without changing her attitude, continued in a loud voice and with an accent that was both imperious and heart-rending. "'He cannot come? Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering it to each other there. I want to know it.'" The servant made hasten to say in the nun's ear, "'Say that he is busy with the city council.'" Sister Sanplice blushed faintly, for it was a lie that the maid had proposed to her. On the other hand it seemed to her that the mere communication of the truth to the invalid would, without doubt, deal her a terrible blow, and that this was a serious matter in Fantine's present state. When her flush did not last long, the sister raised her calm, sad eyes to Fantine and said, "'Mr. Le Maire has gone away.'" Fantine raised herself and crouched on her heels in the bed. Her eyes sparkled, indescribable joy beamed from that melancholy face. "'Gone!' she cried. He has gone to get cassette." Then she raised her arms to heaven and her white face became ineffable. Her lips moved. She was praying in a low voice. When her prayer was finished, Sister, she said, "'I am willing to lie down again. I will do anything you wish. I was naughty just now. I beg your pardon for having spoken so loud. It is very wrong to talk loudly. I know that well, my good sister, but you see I am very happy. The good God is good. Mr. Madeleine is good. Just think! He has gone to Mofermai to get my little cassette.'" She lay down again with the nun's assistance, helped the nun to arrange her pillow, and kissed the little silver cross which she wore in her neck, and which Sister Semplice had given her. My child, said the sister, "'Try to rest now, and do not talk any more.' Funtine took the sister's hand in her moist hands, and the latter was pained to feel that perspiration. He set out this morning for Paris. In fact, he need not even go through Paris. Mofermai is a little to the left as you come tense. Do you remember how he said to me yesterday when I spoke to him of that, soon, soon? He wants to give me a surprise, you know. He made me sign a letter, so that she could be taken from the tenardiers. They cannot say anything, can they? They will give back Cazette, for they have been paid. The authorities will not allow them to keep the child since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that I must not talk, sister. I am extremely happy. I am doing well. I am not ill at all anymore. I am going to see Cazette again. I am even quite hungry. It is nearly five years since I saw her last. You cannot imagine how much attached one gets to children, and then she will be so pretty, you will see. If you only knew what pretty little rosy fingers she had. In the first place, she will have very beautiful hands. She had ridiculous hands when she was only one year old, like this. She must be a big girl now. She is seven years old. She is quite a young lady. I call her Cazette, but her name is really Euphraisee. Stop. This morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece and I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see Cazette again soon. Mon Dieu, how wrong it is not to see one's children for years. Why not to reflect that life is non-eternal? Oh, how good Mr. Lemaire is to go. It is very cold. It is true, he had on his cloak at least. He will be here tomorrow, will he not? Tomorrow will be a festival day. Tomorrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it.  I took that journey on foot once. It was very long for me. But the diligence goes very quickly. He will be here tomorrow with Cazette. How far is it from here to Mont-Fermaye? The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, Oh, I think that he will be here tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, said Fontaine, I shall see Cazette tomorrow. You see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill. I am mad. I could dance, if anyone wished it. A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not have understood the change. She was all rosy now. She spoke in a lively and natural voice. Her whole face was one smile. Now and then she talked, she laughed softly. The joy of a mother is almost infantile. Well, resumed the nun, now that you are happy, mind me, and do not talk any more. Fontaine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice, Yes, lie down again and be good, for you are going to have your child, Sister Sam please is right, everyone here is right. And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to stare all about her with wide open eyes and a joyous air, and she said nothing more. The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall into a dose. Between seven and eight o'clock the doctor came, not hearing any sound, he thought Fontaine was asleep, entered softly, and approached the bed on tiptoe. He opened the curtains a little, and by the light of the taper he saw Fontaine's big eyes gazing at him. She said to him, She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed, will she not, sir? The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added, See, there is just room. The doctor took Sister Sam please aside, and she explained matters to him, that Mr. Medlin was absent for a day or two, and that in their doubt they had not thought it well to un-deceive the invalid, who believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermoy, that it was possible after all that her guess was correct. The doctor approved. He returned to Fontaine's bed, and she went on.  Give me your hand, said the doctor. She stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh. Ah, hold, in truth you did not know it, I am cured, Cosette will arrive tomorrow. The doctor was surprised. She was better, the pressure on her chest had decreased, her pulse had regained its strength, a sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor worn-out creature. Doctor, she went on. Did the sister tell you that Monsieur Le Maire has gone to get that might of a child? The doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emotions should be avoided. He prescribed an infusion of pure chinchonna, and in case the fever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he took his departure he said to the sister, she is doing better. If good luck willed that the Maire should actually arrive tomorrow with the child, who knows? There are crises so astounding. Great joy has been known to arrest maladies. I know well that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all those things are such mysteries we may be able to save her. Book 7, Chapter 7 of Les Miserables, translated by Isabelle F. Hapgood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Coming by Tamara Hamilton. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Book 7. The Jean-Mathieu Affaire. Chapter 7. The traveller, on his arrival, takes precautions for departure. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cart, which we left on the road, entered the port-cauchère of the Hôtel de la Poste in Erras. The man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted from it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the people of the inn, sent back the extra horse, and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable. Then he opened the door of a billiard-room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there, and leaned his elbows on the table. He had taken fourteen hours for the journey which he had counted on making in six. He did himself the justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom he was not sorry. The landlady of the Hôtel entered. Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper? He made a sign of the head in the negative. The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued. Here he broke his silence. Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow morning? Oh, Monsieur, he must rest for two days at least! He inquired. Is not the posting-station located here? Yes, sir. The hostess conducted him to the office. He showed his passport, and inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to Montressor-Mer by the mail wagon. The seat beside the post-boy chants to be vacant. He engaged it and paid for it. Monsieur, said the clerk, do not fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o'clock in the morning. This done he left the hotel and began to wonder about the town. He was not acquainted with Arras. The streets were dark, and he walked on at random, but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the pastor's buy. He crossed the Little River Crencho and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was passing along with Lantern. After some hesitation he decided to apply to this man, not without having first glanced behind and in front of him, as though he feared lest someone should hear the question which he was about to put. Monsieur, said he, where is the courthouse, if you please? You do not belong in town, sir? replied the bourgeois who was an oldish man. Well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the courthouse. That is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture, for the courthouse is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the prefecture. Is it there that the assizes are held? he asked. Certainly, sir. As you see, the prefecture of today was the bishop's palace before the Revolution. Monsieur de Conzi, who was bishop in 82, built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is held. On the way the bourgeois said to him, if Monsieur desires to witness a case it is rather late, the sittings generally close at six o'clock. When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to him four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy building. Upon my word, sir, you are in luck. You have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows? That is the court of assizes. There is a light there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case?  I have not come on any business. I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers. It is different, said the bourgeois. Stop, sir, here is the door where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase. He conformed to the bourgeois' directions, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people, and where groups intermingled with lawyers in their gowns were whispering together here and there. It is always a heartbreaking thing to see these congregations of men robed in black, murmuring together in low voices, on the threshold of the halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words. Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups seemed to the passing and thoughtful observers so many somber hives where buzzing spirits construct in conser all sorts of dark edifices. This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of the Episcopal Palace, and served as the large hall of the Palace of Justice. A double-leaved door which was closed at that moment separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting. The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer whom he met. What stage have they reached, sir? he asked. It is finished, said the lawyer. Finished. This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round.  No, I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced? Of course, nothing else was possible. To penal servitude? For life. He continued in a voice so weak that it was barely audible. Then his identity was established? What identity? replied the lawyer. There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child. The infanticide was proved. The jury threw out the question of premeditation and she was condemned for life. So it was a woman, said he. Why, certainly, the limousine woman. What are you speaking? Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still lighted? For another case, which was begun about two hours ago. What other case? Oh, this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of black guard, a man arrested for a second offense, a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's a bandit's fizz for you. I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone. Is there any way of getting into the courtroom, sir? said he. I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out. And when the hearing is resumed, you might make an effort. Where is the entrance? Through yonder large door. The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had in turn pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled he breathed freely once more, but he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure. He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket of the session was very heavy. The President had appointed for the same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide. And now they had reached the verdict, the old offender, the return horse. This man had stolen apples. But that did not appear to be entirely proved. What had been proved was that he had already been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. However the man's examination and the depositions of the witnesses had been completed. But the lawyer's plea and the speech of the public prosecutor were still to come. It could not be finished before midnight. The man would probably be condemned. The Attorney General was very clever and never missed his culprits. He was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses. An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Assizes. He inquired of this usher. Will the door be open soon, sir? It will not be opened at all, replied the usher. What? It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing suspended? The hearing has just begun again, replied the usher. But the door will not be opened again. Why? Because the hall is full. What? There is not room for one more? Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now. The usher added after a pause. There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Mr. Le Président. But Mr. Le Président only admits public functionaries to them. So saying, the usher turned his back. He retired with bowed head, traversed the anti-chamber, and slowly descended the stairs as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not yet ended, and every moment he encountered some new phase of it. On reaching the landing-place he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his pocket-book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote rapidly by the light of the street lantern this line. Mr. Madeleine, mayor of Montreser-mer. Then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way through the crowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative manner, Take this to Mr. Le Président. The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed. CHAPTER VIII. an entrance by favour. Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of Montreser-mer enjoyed a sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bosporus-Lignées. It had eventually passed the confines of a small district, and had been spread abroad through two or three neighbouring departments. Besides the service which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black-jet industry, there was not one of the 140 communes of the Arrondies-Mann of Montreser-mer, which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other Arrondies-Manns. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds the linen factory at Boulogne, the flag-spinning industry at Vervant, and the hydraulic manufacturer of cloth at Bubeir-sur-Cranche, everywhere the name of M. Madeline was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douay envied the happy little town of Montreser-mer, its mayor. The counsellor of the royal court of Douay, who was presiding over the session of the Assays at Arras, was acquainted and common with the rest of the world with this name which was so profoundly and universally honoured. When the Usher, discreetly opening the door which connected the council chamber with the courtroom, bent over the back of the president's armchair and handed to him the paper on which was inscribed the line, which we have just perused, adding, The gentleman desires to be present at the trial. The president, with a quick and differential movement, seized the pen and wrote a few words at the bottom of the paper, returning it to the Usher, saying, Admit him. The unhappy man, whose history we are relating, had remained near the door of the hall, in the same place, in the same attitude in which the Usher had left him. In the midst of his reverie, he heard one of them saying to him, We'll mon sur du the honne to follow me. It was the same Usher who had turned his back on him, but a moment previously, and who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the Usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light he could read it. The president of the court of Assize presents his respects to M. Madeline. He crushed the paper in his hands as though the words contained for him a strange and bitter aftertaste. He followed the Usher. A few minutes later, he found himself alone in a sort of wainscotted cabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles placed upon a table with a green cloth. The last words of the Usher who had just quitted him still rang in his ears. On sur, you are now in the council chamber. You have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself in his occult room behind the president's chair. These words were mingled in his thoughts with a vague memory of narrow corridors and dark staircases which he had recently traversed. The Usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment, when there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where judges deliberated and condemned.  He stared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and that it should be he. He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours. He was worn out by the jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that he felt nothing. He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which contained, under glass, an ancient autograph letter of Jean-Niglès Pâché, mayor of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no doubt, the 9th of June of the year, too, and in which Pâché forwarded to the commune the list of ministers and deputies held an arrest by them. Any spectator who had chance to see him at that moment and who had watched him would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter struck him as very curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He read it without paying any attention to it and unconsciously. He was thinking of Fontaine and Cozet. As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the court of a size. He had almost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained fixed on that brass handle, and grew terrified, little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples. At a certain moment, he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, Pardoux, who compels me to this. He then wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber. He was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and grantings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns, similar to the night taper of invalid. The corridor through which he had approached, he breathed, listened, not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued. When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath. He staggered. He leaned against the wall. The stone was cold. The perspiration lay ice cold on his brow. He straightened himself up with a shiver. Then, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something else too, for chance, he meditated. He meditated all night long. He meditated all the day. He heard within him but one voice which said, Alas, a quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head. Side with agony dropped his arms and retraced his steps. He walked slowly as though crushed. It seemed as though someone had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back. He re-entered the council chamber. The first thing he got sight of was the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished brass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger. He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door. Had he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like some confused murmur, but he did not listen. And he did not hear. Suddenly without knowing how it happened he found himself near the door. He grasped the knob convulsively and the door opened. He was in the courtroom.