الفصل الفصل 305 · MARIUS HAGGARD, JAVERT LACONIC

Let us narrate what was passing in Marius’ thoughts.

Let the reader recall the state of his soul. We have just recalled it,

everything was a vision to him now. His judgment was disturbed. Marius,

let us insist on this point, was under the shadow of the great, dark

wings which are spread over those in the death agony. He felt that he

had entered the tomb, it seemed to him that he was already on the other

side of the wall, and he no longer beheld the faces of the living

except with the eyes of one dead.

How did M. Fauchelevent come there? Why was he there? What had he come

there to do? Marius did not address all these questions to himself.

Besides, since our despair has this peculiarity, that it envelops

others as well as ourselves, it seemed logical to him that all the

world should come thither to die.

Only, he thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.

However, M. Fauchelevent did not speak to him, did not look at him, and

had not even the air of hearing him, when Marius raised his voice to

say: “I know him.”

As far as Marius was concerned, this attitude of M. Fauchelevent was

comforting, and, if such a word can be used for such impressions, we

should say that it pleased him. He had always felt the absolute

impossibility of addressing that enigmatical man, who was, in his eyes,

both equivocal and imposing. Moreover, it had been a long time since he

had seen him; and this still further augmented the impossibility for

Marius’ timid and reserved nature.

The five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mondétour lane; they

bore a perfect resemblance to members of the National Guard. One of

them wept as he took his leave. Before setting out, they embraced those

who remained.

When the five men sent back to life had taken their departure, Enjolras

thought of the man who had been condemned to death.

He entered the tap-room. Javert, still bound to the post, was engaged

in meditation.

“Do you want anything?” Enjolras asked him.

Javert replied: “When are you going to kill me?”

“Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present.”

“Then give me a drink,” said Javert.

Enjolras himself offered him a glass of water, and, as Javert was

pinioned, he helped him to drink.

“Is that all?” inquired Enjolras.

“I am uncomfortable against this post,” replied Javert. “You are not

tender to have left me to pass the night here. Bind me as you please,

but you surely might lay me out on a table like that other man.”

And with a motion of the head, he indicated the body of M. Mabeuf.

There was, as the reader will remember, a long, broad table at the end

of the room, on which they had been running bullets and making

cartridges. All the cartridges having been made, and all the powder

used, this table was free.

At Enjolras’ command, four insurgents unbound Javert from the post.

While they were loosing him, a fifth held a bayonet against his breast.

Leaving his arms tied behind his back, they placed about his feet a

slender but stout whip-cord, as is done to men on the point of mounting

the scaffold, which allowed him to take steps about fifteen inches in

length, and made him walk to the table at the end of the room, where

they laid him down, closely bound about the middle of the body.

By way of further security, and by means of a rope fastened to his

neck, they added to the system of ligatures which rendered every

attempt at escape impossible, that sort of bond which is called in

prisons a martingale, which, starting at the neck, forks on the

stomach, and meets the hands, after passing between the legs.

While they were binding Javert, a man standing on the threshold was

surveying him with singular attention. The shadow cast by this man made

Javert turn his head. He raised his eyes, and recognized Jean Valjean.

He did not even start, but dropped his lids proudly and confined

himself to the remark: “It is perfectly simple.”