第 三百三十九 章 · CONCUSSION IN THE ABSOLUTE

They did not open their lips again during the whole space of their

ride.

What did Jean Valjean want? To finish what he had begun; to warn

Cosette, to tell her where Marius was, to give her, possibly, some

other useful information, to take, if he could, certain final measures.

As for himself, so far as he was personally concerned, all was over; he

had been seized by Javert and had not resisted; any other man than

himself in like situation would, perhaps, have had some vague thoughts

connected with the rope which Thénardier had given him, and of the bars

of the first cell that he should enter; but, let us impress it upon the

reader, after the Bishop, there had existed in Jean Valjean a profound

hesitation in the presence of any violence, even when directed against

himself.

Suicide, that mysterious act of violence against the unknown which may

contain, in a measure, the death of the soul, was impossible to Jean

Valjean.

At the entrance to the Rue de l’Homme Armé, the carriage halted, the

way being too narrow to admit of the entrance of vehicles. Javert and

Jean Valjean alighted.

The coachman humbly represented to “monsieur l’Inspecteur,” that the

Utrecht velvet of his carriage was all spotted with the blood of the

assassinated man, and with mire from the assassin. That is the way he

understood it. He added that an indemnity was due him. At the same

time, drawing his certificate book from his pocket, he begged the

inspector to have the goodness to write him “a bit of an attestation.”

Javert thrust aside the book which the coachman held out to him, and

said:

“How much do you want, including your time of waiting and the drive?”

“It comes to seven hours and a quarter,” replied the man, “and my

velvet was perfectly new. Eighty francs, Mr. Inspector.”

Javert drew four napoleons from his pocket and dismissed the carriage.

Jean Valjean fancied that it was Javert’s intention to conduct him on

foot to the post of the Blancs-Manteaux or to the post of the Archives,

both of which are close at hand.

They entered the street. It was deserted as usual. Javert followed Jean

Valjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean knocked. The door opened.

“It is well,” said Javert. “Go upstairs.”

He added with a strange expression, and as though he were exerting an

effort in speaking in this manner:

“I will wait for you here.”

Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This mode of procedure was but little in

accord with Javert’s habits. However, he could not be greatly surprised

that Javert should now have a sort of haughty confidence in him, the

confidence of the cat which grants the mouse liberty to the length of

its claws, seeing that Jean Valjean had made up his mind to surrender

himself and to make an end of it. He pushed open the door, entered the

house, called to the porter who was in bed and who had pulled the cord

from his couch: “It is I!” and ascended the stairs.

On arriving at the first floor, he paused. All sorrowful roads have

their stations. The window on the landing-place, which was a

sash-window, was open. As in many ancient houses, the staircase got its

light from without and had a view on the street. The street-lantern,

situated directly opposite, cast some light on the stairs, and thus

effected some economy in illumination.

Jean Valjean, either for the sake of getting the air, or mechanically,

thrust his head out of this window. He leaned out over the street. It

is short, and the lantern lighted it from end to end. Jean Valjean was

overwhelmed with amazement; there was no longer any one there.

Javert had taken his departure.