Kabanata Kabanata 360 · LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL

One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the

street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where

Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the

6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went upstairs again.

This was the last oscillation of the pendulum. On the following day he

did not leave his apartment. On the day after that, he did not leave

his bed.

His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or

potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and

exclaimed:

“But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!”

“Certainly I did,” replied Jean Valjean.

“The plate is quite full.”

“Look at the water jug. It is empty.”

“That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have

eaten.”

“Well,” said Jean Valjean, “what if I felt hungry only for water?”

“That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it

is called fever.”

“I will eat to-morrow.”

“Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say: ‘I will eat

to-morrow’? The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it! My

lady-finger potatoes were so good!”

Jean Valjean took the old woman’s hand:

“I promise you that I will eat them,” he said, in his benevolent voice.

“I am not pleased with you,” replied the portress.

Jean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman. There

are streets in Paris through which no one ever passes, and houses to

which no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets and one of

those houses.

While he still went out, he had purchased of a coppersmith, for a few

sous, a little copper crucifix which he had hung up on a nail opposite

his bed. That gibbet is always good to look at.

A week passed, and Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room. He

still remained in bed. The portress said to her husband:—“The good man

upstairs yonder does not get up, he no longer eats, he will not last

long. That man has his sorrows, that he has. You won’t get it out of my

head that his daughter has made a bad marriage.”

The porter replied, with the tone of marital sovereignty:

“If he’s rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him go

without. If he has no doctor he will die.”

“And if he has one?”

“He will die,” said the porter.

The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her

pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she

grumbled:

“It’s a shame. Such a neat old man! He’s as white as a chicken.”

She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of

the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come upstairs.

“It’s on the second floor,” said she. “You have only to enter. As the

good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked.”

The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.

When he came down again the portress interrogated him:

“Well, doctor?”

“Your sick man is very ill indeed.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances, has lost

some person who is dear to him. People die of that.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me that he was in good health.”

“Shall you come again, doctor?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “But some one else besides must come.”