第 一百一十三 章 · THE GROPINGS OF FLIGHT

In order to understand what follows, it is requisite to form an exact

idea of the Droit-Mur lane, and, in particular, of the angle which one

leaves on the left when one emerges from the Rue Polonceau into this

lane. Droit-Mur lane was almost entirely bordered on the right, as far

as the Rue Petit-Picpus, by houses of mean aspect; on the left by a

solitary building of severe outlines, composed of numerous parts which

grew gradually higher by a story or two as they approached the Rue

Petit-Picpus side; so that this building, which was very lofty on the

Rue Petit-Picpus side, was tolerably low on the side adjoining the Rue

Polonceau. There, at the angle of which we have spoken, it descended to

such a degree that it consisted of merely a wall. This wall did not

abut directly on the street; it formed a deeply retreating niche,

concealed by its two corners from two observers who might have been,

one in the Rue Polonceau, the other in the Rue Droit-Mur.

Beginning with these angles of the niche, the wall extended along the

Rue Polonceau as far as a house which bore the number 49, and along the

Rue Droit-Mur, where the fragment was much shorter, as far as the

gloomy building which we have mentioned and whose gable it intersected,

thus forming another retreating angle in the street. This gable was

sombre of aspect; only one window was visible, or, to speak more

correctly, two shutters covered with a sheet of zinc and kept

constantly closed.

The state of the places of which we are here giving a description is

rigorously exact, and will certainly awaken a very precise memory in

the mind of old inhabitants of the quarter.

The niche was entirely filled by a thing which resembled a colossal and

wretched door; it was a vast, formless assemblage of perpendicular

planks, the upper ones being broader than the lower, bound together by

long transverse strips of iron. At one side there was a carriage gate

of the ordinary dimensions, and which had evidently not been cut more

than fifty years previously.

A linden-tree showed its crest above the niche, and the wall was

covered with ivy on the side of the Rue Polonceau.

In the imminent peril in which Jean Valjean found himself, this sombre

building had about it a solitary and uninhabited look which tempted

him. He ran his eyes rapidly over it; he said to himself, that if he

could contrive to get inside it, he might save himself. First he

conceived an idea, then a hope.

In the central portion of the front of this building, on the Rue

Droit-Mur side, there were at all the windows of the different stories

ancient cistern pipes of lead. The various branches of the pipes which

led from one central pipe to all these little basins sketched out a

sort of tree on the front. These ramifications of pipes with their

hundred elbows imitated those old leafless vine-stocks which writhe

over the fronts of old farm-houses.

This odd espalier, with its branches of lead and iron, was the first

thing that struck Jean Valjean. He seated Cosette with her back against

a stone post, with an injunction to be silent, and ran to the spot

where the conduit touched the pavement. Perhaps there was some way of

climbing up by it and entering the house. But the pipe was dilapidated

and past service, and hardly hung to its fastenings. Moreover, all the

windows of this silent dwelling were grated with heavy iron bars, even

the attic windows in the roof. And then, the moon fell full upon that

façade, and the man who was watching at the corner of the street would

have seen Jean Valjean in the act of climbing. And finally, what was to

be done with Cosette? How was she to be drawn up to the top of a

three-story house?

He gave up all idea of climbing by means of the drain-pipe, and crawled

along the wall to get back into the Rue Polonceau.

When he reached the slant of the wall where he had left Cosette, he

noticed that no one could see him there. As we have just explained, he

was concealed from all eyes, no matter from which direction they were

approaching; besides this, he was in the shadow. Finally, there were

two doors; perhaps they might be forced. The wall above which he saw

the linden-tree and the ivy evidently abutted on a garden where he

could, at least, hide himself, although there were as yet no leaves on

the trees, and spend the remainder of the night.

Time was passing; he must act quickly.

He felt over the carriage door, and immediately recognized the fact

that it was impracticable outside and in.

He approached the other door with more hope; it was frightfully

decrepit; its very immensity rendered it less solid; the planks were

rotten; the iron bands—there were only three of them—were rusted. It

seemed as though it might be possible to pierce this worm-eaten

barrier.

On examining it he found that the door was not a door; it had neither

hinges, cross-bars, lock, nor fissure in the middle; the iron bands

traversed it from side to side without any break. Through the crevices

in the planks he caught a view of unhewn slabs and blocks of stone

roughly cemented together, which passers-by might still have seen there

ten years ago. He was forced to acknowledge with consternation that

this apparent door was simply the wooden decoration of a building

against which it was placed. It was easy to tear off a plank; but then,

one found one’s self face to face with a wall.