Chương Chương 109 · A FIVE-FRANC PIECE FALLS ON THE GROUND AND PRODUCES A TUMULT

Near Saint-Médard’s church there was a poor man who was in the habit of

crouching on the brink of a public well which had been condemned, and

on whom Jean Valjean was fond of bestowing charity. He never passed

this man without giving him a few sous. Sometimes he spoke to him.

Those who envied this mendicant said that he belonged to the police. He

was an ex-beadle of seventy-five, who was constantly mumbling his

prayers.

One evening, as Jean Valjean was passing by, when he had not Cosette

with him, he saw the beggar in his usual place, beneath the lantern

which had just been lighted. The man seemed engaged in prayer,

according to his custom, and was much bent over. Jean Valjean stepped

up to him and placed his customary alms in his hand. The mendicant

raised his eyes suddenly, stared intently at Jean Valjean, then dropped

his head quickly. This movement was like a flash of lightning. Jean

Valjean was seized with a shudder. It seemed to him that he had just

caught sight, by the light of the street lantern, not of the placid and

beaming visage of the old beadle, but of a well-known and startling

face. He experienced the same impression that one would have on finding

one’s self, all of a sudden, face to face, in the dark, with a tiger.

He recoiled, terrified, petrified, daring neither to breathe, to speak,

to remain, nor to flee, staring at the beggar who had dropped his head,

which was enveloped in a rag, and no longer appeared to know that he

was there. At this strange moment, an instinct—possibly the mysterious

instinct of self-preservation,—restrained Jean Valjean from uttering a

word. The beggar had the same figure, the same rags, the same

appearance as he had every day. “Bah!” said Jean Valjean, “I am mad! I

am dreaming! Impossible!” And he returned profoundly troubled.

He hardly dared to confess, even to himself, that the face which he

thought he had seen was the face of Javert.

That night, on thinking the matter over, he regretted not having

questioned the man, in order to force him to raise his head a second

time.

On the following day, at nightfall, he went back. The beggar was at his

post. “Good day, my good man,” said Jean Valjean, resolutely, handing

him a sou. The beggar raised his head, and replied in a whining voice,

“Thanks, my good sir.” It was unmistakably the ex-beadle.

Jean Valjean felt completely reassured. He began to laugh. “How the

deuce could I have thought that I saw Javert there?” he thought. “Am I

going to lose my eyesight now?” And he thought no more about it.

A few days afterwards,—it might have been at eight o’clock in the

evening,—he was in his room, and engaged in making Cosette spell aloud,

when he heard the house door open and then shut again. This struck him

as singular. The old woman, who was the only inhabitant of the house

except himself, always went to bed at nightfall, so that she might not

burn out her candles. Jean Valjean made a sign to Cosette to be quiet.

He heard some one ascending the stairs. It might possibly be the old

woman, who might have fallen ill and have been out to the apothecary’s.

Jean Valjean listened.

The step was heavy, and sounded like that of a man; but the old woman

wore stout shoes, and there is nothing which so strongly resembles the

step of a man as that of an old woman. Nevertheless, Jean Valjean blew

out his candle.

He had sent Cosette to bed, saying to her in a low voice, “Get into bed

very softly”; and as he kissed her brow, the steps paused.

Jean Valjean remained silent, motionless, with his back towards the

door, seated on the chair from which he had not stirred, and holding

his breath in the dark.

After the expiration of a rather long interval, he turned round, as he

heard nothing more, and, as he raised his eyes towards the door of his

chamber, he saw a light through the keyhole. This light formed a sort

of sinister star in the blackness of the door and the wall. There was

evidently some one there, who was holding a candle in his hand and

listening.

Several minutes elapsed thus, and the light retreated. But he heard no

sound of footsteps, which seemed to indicate that the person who had

been listening at the door had removed his shoes.

Jean Valjean threw himself, all dressed as he was, on his bed, and

could not close his eyes all night.

At daybreak, just as he was falling into a doze through fatigue, he was

awakened by the creaking of a door which opened on some attic at the

end of the corridor, then he heard the same masculine footstep which

had ascended the stairs on the preceding evening. The step was

approaching. He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole,

which was tolerably large, hoping to see the person who had made his

way by night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed.

It was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without pausing, in front

of Jean Valjean’s chamber. The corridor was too dark to allow of the

person’s face being distinguished; but when the man reached the

staircase, a ray of light from without made it stand out like a

silhouette, and Jean Valjean had a complete view of his back. The man

was of lofty stature, clad in a long frock-coat, with a cudgel under

his arm. The formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert.

Jean Valjean might have attempted to catch another glimpse of him

through his window opening on the boulevard, but he would have been

obliged to open the window: he dared not.

It was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like himself.

Who had given him that key? What was the meaning of this?

When the old woman came to do the work, at seven o’clock in the

morning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her, but he did not

question her. The good woman appeared as usual.

As she swept up she remarked to him:—

“Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night?”

At that age, and on that boulevard, eight o’clock in the evening was

the dead of the night.

“That is true, by the way,” he replied, in the most natural tone

possible. “Who was it?”

“It was a new lodger who has come into the house,” said the old woman.

“And what is his name?”

“I don’t know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort.”

“And who is this Monsieur Dumont?”

The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered:—

“A gentleman of property, like yourself.”

Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean thought he perceived

one.

When the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a hundred francs

which he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and put it in his pocket. In

spite of all the precautions which he took in this operation so that he

might not be heard rattling silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from

his hands and rolled noisily on the floor.

When darkness came on, he descended and carefully scrutinized both

sides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The boulevard appeared to be

absolutely deserted. It is true that a person can conceal himself

behind trees.

He went upstairs again.

“Come.” he said to Cosette.

He took her by the hand, and they both went out.

BOOK FIFTH—FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK