CHAPTER IX.
MARIUS APPEARS DEAD TO A CONNAISSEUR.
He let Marius slip down on to the bank. They were outside: themiasmas, the darkness, the horror, were behind him; the healthy, pure,living, joyous, freely respirable air inundated him. All around himwas silence, but it was the charming silence of the sun setting inthe full azure. Twilight was passing, and night, the great liberator,the friend of all those who need a cloak of darkness to escape froman agony, was at hand. The sky presented itself on all sides like anenormous calm, and the river rippled up to his feet with the sound ofa kiss. The aerial dialogue of the nests bidding each other good-nightin the elms of the Champs Élysées was audible. A few stars, faintlystudding the pale blue of the zenith, formed in the immensity littleimperceptible flashes. Night unfolded over Jean Valjean's head all thesweetness of infinitude. It was the undecided and exquisite hour whichsays neither yes nor no. There was already sufficient night for a manto lose himself in it a short distance off, and yet sufficient daylightto recognize any one close by. Jean Valjean was for a few secondsirresistibly overcome by all this august and caressing serenity. Thereare minutes of oblivion in which suffering gives up harassing thewretch; all is eclipsed in the thought; peace covers the dreamer likenight, and under the gleaming twilight the soul is lit with stars inimitation of the sky which is becoming illumined. Jean Valjean couldnot refrain from contemplating the vast clear night above him, andpensively took a bath of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic silenceof the eternal heavens. Then, as if the feeling of duty returned tohim, he eagerly bent down over Marius, and lifting some water in thehollow of his hand, softly threw a few drops into his face. Marius'seyelids did not move, but he still breathed through his parted lips.Jean Valjean was again about to plunge his hand into the river, whenhe suddenly felt an indescribable uneasiness, as when we feel there issome one behind us without seeing him. He turned round, and there wasreally some one behind him, as there had been just before.
A man of tall stature, dressed in a long coat, with folded arms, andcarrying in his right hand a "life-preserver," whose leaden knobcould be seen, was standing a few paces behind Jean Valjean, who wasleaning over Marius. It was with the help of the darkness a species ofapparition; a simple man would have been frightened at it owing to thetwilight, and a thoughtful one on account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjeanrecognized Javert. The reader has doubtless guessed that the trackerof Thénardier was no other than Javert. Javert, after his unhoped-forescape from the barricade, went to the Préfecture of Police, made averbal report to the prefect in person in a short audience, and thenimmediately returned to duty, which implied--the note found on himwill be remembered--a certain surveillance of the right bank of theriver at the Champs Élysées, which had for some time past attracted theattention of the police. There he perceived Thénardier and followedhim. The rest is known.
It will be also understood that the grating so obligingly opened forJean Valjean was a clever trick on the part of Thénardier. He feltthat Javert was still there,--the watched man has a scent which neverdeceives him,--and it was necessary to throw a bone to this greyhound.An assassin,--what a chance! he could not let it slip. Thénardier,on putting Jean Valjean outside in his place, offered a prey to thepoliceman, made him loose his hold, caused himself to be forgotten ina greater adventure, recompensed Javert for his loss of time,--whichalways flatters a spy,--gained thirty francs, and fully intended forhis own part to escape by the help of this diversion.
Jean Valjean had passed from one reef to another.
These two meetings one upon the other, felling from Thénardier onJavert, were rude. Javert did not recognize Jean Valjean, who, as wehave said, no longer resembled himself. He did not unfold his arms, butmade sure his "life-preserver" by an imperceptible movement, and said,in a sharp, calm voice,--
"Who are you?"
"Myself."
"What do you mean?"
"I am Jean Valjean."
Javert placed his life-preserver between his teeth, bent his knees,bowed his back, laid his two powerful hands on Jean Valjean'sshoulders, which they held as in two vises, examined and recognizedhim. Their faces almost touched, and Javert's glance was terrific. JeanValjean remained inert under Javert's gripe, like a lion enduring theclaw of a lynx.
"Inspector Javert," he said, "you have me. Besides, since this morningI have considered myself your prisoner. I did not give you my addressin order to try to escape you. Take me, but grant me one thing."
Javert did not seem to hear, but kept his eyeballs fixed on JeanValjean. His wrinkled chin thrust up his lips toward his nose, a signof stern reverie. At length he loosed his hold of Jean Valjean, drewhimself up, clutched his cudgel, and, as if in a dream, muttered ratherthan asked this question,--
"What are you doing here, and who is that man?"
Jean Valjean replied, and the sound of his voice seemed to awakenJavert,--
"It is of him that I wished to speak. Do with me as you please, buthelp me first to carry him home. I only ask this of you."
Javert's face was contracted in the same way as it always was when anyone believed him capable of a concession; still he did not say no. Hestopped again, took from his pocket a handkerchief, which he dipped inthe water, and wiped Marius's ensanguined forehead.
"This man was at the barricade," he said in a low voice, and as ifspeaking to himself; "he was the one whom they called Marius."
He was a first-class spy, who had observed everything, listened toeverything, heard everything, and picked up everything, when hebelieved himself a dead man; who spied even in his death agony, and,standing on the first step of the sepulchre, took notes. He seizedMarius's hand, and felt his pulse.
"He is wounded," said Jean Valjean.
"He is a dead man," said Javert.
Jean Valjean replied,--
"No; not yet."
"Then you brought him from the barricade here?" Javert observed.
His preoccupation must have been great for him not to dwell on thisalarming escape through the sewers, and not even remark Jean Valjean'ssilence after his question. Jean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have asole thought; he continued,--
"He lives in the Marais, in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, with hisgrandfather. I do not know his name."
Jean Valjean felt in Marius's pocket, took out the portfolio, openedit at the page on which Marius had written in pencil, and offeredit to Javert. There was still sufficient floating light in the airto be able to read, and Javert, besides, had in his eyes the felinephosphorescence of night-birds. He deciphered the few lines written byMarius, and growled, "Gillenormand, No. 6, Rue des Filles du Calvaire."Then he cried, "Driver!"
Our readers will remember the coachman waiting above in case ofneed. A moment after the hackney, which came down the incline leadingto the watering-place, was on the bank. Marius was deposited on theback seat, and Javert sat down by Jean Valjean's side on the frontone. When the door was closed the fiacre started off rapidly alongthe quays in the direction of the Bastille. They quitted the quay andturned into the streets; and the driver, a black outline on his seat,lashed his lean horses. There was an icy silence in the hackney coach;Marius motionless, with his body reclining in one corner, his head onhis chest, his arms pendent, and his legs stiff, appeared to be onlywaiting for a coffin. Jean Valjean seemed made of gloom, and Javert ofstone; and in this fiacre full of night, whose interior, each time thatit passed a lamp, seemed to be lividly lit up as if by an intermittentflash, accident united and appeared to confront the three immobilitiesof tragedy,--the corpse, the spectre, and the statue.