第 三百三十八 章 · RETURN OF THE SON WHO WAS PRODIGAL OF HIS LIFE

At every jolt over the pavement, a drop of blood trickled from Marius’

hair.

Night had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6, Rue des

Filles-du-Calvaire.

Javert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance of the

number on the carriage gate, and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten

iron, embellished in the old style, with a male goat and a satyr

confronting each other, he gave a violent peal. The gate opened a

little way and Javert gave it a push. The porter half made his

appearance yawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in his hand.

Everyone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in the

Marais, especially on days when there is a revolt. This good, old

quarter, terrified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber, as

children, when they hear the Bugaboo coming, hide their heads hastily

under their coverlet.

In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius out of

the carriage, Jean Valjean supporting him under the armpits, and the

coachman under the knees.

As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand under the

latter’s clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his breast, and assured

himself that his heart was still beating. It was even beating a little

less feebly, as though the movement of the carriage had brought about a

certain fresh access of life.

Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government, and the

presence of the porter of a factious person.

“Some person whose name is Gillenormand?”

“Here. What do you want with him?”

“His son is brought back.”

“His son?” said the porter stupidly.

“He is dead.”

Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Javert, and whom

the porter was surveying with some horror, made a sign to him with his

head that this was not so.

The porter did not appear to understand either Javert’s words or Jean

Valjean’s sign.

Javert continued:

“He went to the barricade, and here he is.”

“To the barricade?” ejaculated the porter.

“He has got himself killed. Go waken his father.”

The porter did not stir.

“Go along with you!” repeated Javert.

And he added:

“There will be a funeral here to-morrow.”

For Javert, the usual incidents of the public highway were

categorically classed, which is the beginning of foresight and

surveillance, and each contingency had its own compartment; all

possible facts were arranged in drawers, as it were, whence they

emerged on occasion, in variable quantities; in the street, uproar,

revolt, carnival, and funeral.

The porter contented himself with waking Basque. Basque woke Nicolette;

Nicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.

As for the grandfather, they let him sleep on, thinking that he would

hear about the matter early enough in any case.

Marius was carried up to the first floor, without any one in the other

parts of the house being aware of the fact, and deposited on an old

sofa in M. Gillenormand’s antechamber; and while Basque went in search

of a physician, and while Nicolette opened the linen-presses, Jean

Valjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder. He understood and

descended the stairs, having behind him the step of Javert who was

following him.

The porter watched them take their departure as he had watched their

arrival, in terrified somnolence.

They entered the carriage once more, and the coachman mounted his box.

“Inspector Javert,” said Jean, “grant me yet another favor.”

“What is it?” demanded Javert roughly.

“Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you like

with me.”

Javert remained silent for a few moments, with his chin drawn back into

the collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front:

“Driver,” said he, “Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.”