CHAPTER VII.
SOMETIMES ONE IS STRANDED WHERE HE THINKS TO LAND.
He set out once again; still, if he had not left his life in thefontis, he seemed to have left his strength there. This supreme efforthad exhausted him, and his fatigue was now so great that he was obligedto rest every three or four paces to take breath, and leaned againstthe wall. Once he was obliged to sit down on the banquette in order toalter Marius's position, and believed that he should remain there. Butif his vigor were dead his energy was not so, and he rose again. Hewalked desperately, almost quickly, went thus one hundred yards withoutraising his head, almost without breathing, and all at once ran againstthe wall. He had reached an elbow of the drain, and on arriving headdown at the turning, came against the wall. He raised his eyes, andat the end of the passage down there, far, very far away, perceived alight. But this time it was no terrible light, but white, fair light.It was daylight. Jean Valjean saw the outlet. A condemned soul thatsuddenly saw from the middle of the furnace the issue from Gehennawould feel what Jean Valjean felt. It would fly wildly with the stumpsof its burnt wings toward the radiant gate. Jean Valjean no longerfelt fatigue, he no longer felt Marius's weight, he found again hismuscles of steel, and ran rather than walked. As he drew nearer, theoutlet became more distinctly designed; it was an arch, not so tall asthe roof, which gradually contracted, and not so wide as the gallery,which grew narrower at the same time as the roof became lowered. Thetunnel finished inside in the shape of a funnel,--a faulty reduction,imitated from the wickets of houses of correction, logical in a prison,but illogical in a drain, and which has since been corrected.
Jean Valjean reached the issue and then stopped; it was certainly theoutlet, but they could not get out. The arch was closed by a stronggrating, and this grating, which apparently rarely turned on itsoxidized hinges, was fastened to the stone wall by a heavy lock, which,red with rust, seemed an enormous brick. The key-hole was visible,as well as the bolt deeply plunged into its iron box. It was one ofthose Bastille locks of which ancient Paris was so prodigal. Beyondthe grating were the open air, the river, daylight, the bank,--verynarrow but sufficient to depart,--the distant quays, Paris,--that gulfin which a man hides himself so easily,--the wide horizon, and liberty.On the right could be distinguished, down the river, the Pont de Jéna,and at the left, up stream, the Pont des Invalides; the spot wouldhave been a favorable one to await night and escape. It was one ofthe most solitary points in Paris, the bank facing the Gros-Caillou.The flies went in and out through the grating bars. It might be abouthalf-past eight in the evening, and day was drawing in: Jean Valjeanlaid Marius along the wall on the dry part of the way, then walkedup to the grating and seized the bars with both hands; the shock wasfrenzied, but the effect _nil._ The grating did not stir. Jean Valjeanseized the bars one after the other, hoping he might be able to breakout the least substantial one and employ it as a lever to lift, thegate off the hinges or break the lock, but not a bar stirred. A tiger'steeth are not more solidly set in their sockets. Without a lever it wasimpossible to open the grating, and the obstacle was invincible.
Must he finish, then, there? What should he do? What would become ofhim? He had not the strength to turn back and recommence the frightfuljourney which he had already made. Moreover, how was he to cross againthat slough from which he had only escaped by a miracle? And after theslough, was there not the police squad, which he assuredly would notescape twice; and then where should he go, and what direction take?Following the slope would not lead to his object, for if he reachedanother outlet he would find it obstructed by an iron plate or agrating. All the issues were indubitably closed in that way; accidenthad left the grating by which they entered open, but it was plain thatall the other mouths of the sewer were closed. They had only succeededin escaping into a prison.
It was all over, and all that Jean Valjean had done was useless: Godopposed it. They were both caught in the dark and immense web of death,and Jean Valjean felt the fearful spider already running along theblack threads in the darkness. He turned his hack to the grating andfell on the pavement near Marius, who was still motionless, and whosehead had fallen between his knees. There was no outlet; that was thelast drop of agony. Of whom did he think in this profound despondency?Neither of himself nor of Marius! He thought of Cosette.