CHAPTER IV.
IMMORTALE JECUR.
The old formidable struggle, of which we have already seen severalphases, began again. Jacob only wrestled with the angel for one night.Alas! how many times have we seen Jean Valjean caught round the waistin the darkness by his conscience, and struggling frantically againstit. An extraordinary struggle! At certain moments the foot slips,at others the ground gives way. How many times had that conscience,clinging to the right, strangled and crushed him! How many timeshad inexorable truth set its foot on his chest! How many times hadhe, felled by the light, cried for mercy! How many times had thatimplacable light, illumined within and over him by the Bishop,dazzled him when he wished to be blinded! How many times had herisen again in the contest, clung to the rock, supported himself bysophistry, and been dragged through the dust, at one moment throwinghis conscience under him, at another thrown by it! How many times,after an equivocation, after the treacherous and specious reasoningof egotism, had he heard his irritated conscience cry in his ears,"Trickster! wretch!" How many times had his refractory thoughts groanedconvulsively under the evidence of duty! What secret wounds he had,which he alone felt bleeding! What excoriations there were in hislamentable existence! How many times had he risen, bleeding, mutilated,crushed, enlightened, with despair in his heart and serenity in hissoul! And though vanquished, he felt himself the victor, and afterhaving dislocated, tortured, and broken him, his conscience, erectbefore him, luminous and tranquil, would say to him,--"Now go inpeace!" What a mournful peace, alas! after issuing from such a contest.
This night, however, Jean Valjean felt that he was fighting his lastbattle. A crushing question presented itself; predestinations are notall straight; they do not develop themselves in a rectilinear avenuebefore the predestined man; they have blind alleys, zigzags, awkwardcorners, and perplexing cross-roads. Jean Valjean was halting at thismoment at the most dangerous of these cross-roads. He had reached thesupreme crossing of good and evil, and had that gloomy intersectionbefore his eyes. This time again, as had already happened in otherpainful interludes, two roads presented themselves before him, onetempting, the other terrifying; which should he take? The one whichfrightened him was counselled by the mysterious pointing hand whichwe all perceive every time that we fix our eyes upon the darkness.Jean Valjean had once again a choice between the terrible haven andthe smiling snare. Is it true, then? The soul may be cured, but notdestiny. What a frightful thing,--an incurable destiny! The questionwhich presented itself was this: In what way was Jean Valjean goingto behave to the happiness of Cosette and Marius? That happiness hehad willed, he had made; and at this hour, in gazing upon it, hecould have the species of satisfaction which a cutler would have whorecognized his trade-mark upon a knife when he drew it all smokingfrom his chest. Cosette had Marius, Marius possessed Cosette; theypossessed everything, even wealth, and it was his doing. But now thatthis happiness existed and was there, how was he, Jean Valjean, totreat it? Should he force himself upon it and treat it as if belongingto himself? Doubtless Cosette was another man's; but should he, JeanValjean, retain of Cosette all that he could retain? Should he remainthe sort of father, scarce seen but respected, which he had hithertobeen? Should he introduce himself quietly into Cosette's house? Shouldhe carry his past to this future without saying a word? Should hepresent himself there as one having a right, and should he sit down,veiled, at this luminous hearth? Should he smilingly take the handsof these two innocent creatures in his tragic hands? Should he placeon the andirons of the Gillenormand drawing-room his feet, whichdragged after them the degrading shadow of the law? Should he renderthe obscurity on his brow and the cloud on theirs denser? Should hejoin his catastrophe to their two felicities? Should he continue to besilent? In a word, should he be the sinister dumb man of destiny by theside of these two happy beings? We must be accustomed to fatality andto meeting it, to raise our eyes when certain questions appear to usin their terrible nudity. Good and evil are behind this stern note ofinterrogation. What are you going to do? the Sphinx asks. This habitof trial Jean Valjean had, and he looked at the Sphinx fixedly, andexamined the pitiless problem from all sides. Cosette, that charmingexistence, was the raft of this shipwrecked man; what should he do,cling to it, or let it go? If he clung to it, he issued from disaster,he remounted to the sunshine, he let the bitter water drip off hisclothes and hair, he was saved and lived. Suppose he let it go? Thenthere was an abyss. He thus dolorously held counsel with his thoughts,or, to speak more correctly, he combated; he rushed furiously withinhimself, at one moment against his will, at another against hisconvictions. It was fortunate for Jean Valjean that he had been ableto weep, for that enlightened him, perhaps. Still, the beginning wasstern; a tempest, more furious than that which had formerly forced himto Arras, was let loose within him. The past returned to him in theface of the present; he compared and sobbed. Once the sluice of tearswas opened, the despairing man writhed. He felt himself arrested, alas!in the deadly fight between one egotism and one duty. When we thusrecoil inch by inch before our ideal, wildly, obstinately, exasperatedat yielding, disputing the ground, hoping for a possible flight, andseeking an issue, what a sudden and sinister resistance behind us isthe foot of the wall! To feel the holy shadow standing in the way! Theinexorable, invisible,--what a pressure!
Hence we have never finished with our conscience. Make up your mind,Brutus; make up your mind, Cato. It is bottomless, for it is God. Youcast into this pit the labor of your whole life,--your fortune, yourwealth, your success, your liberty, or your country, your comfort, yourrepose, your joy. More, more, more! Empty the vase, tread over theurn, you must, end by throwing in your heart. There is a barrel likethis somewhere in the Hades of old. Is it not pardonable to refuse atlast? Can that which is inexhaustible have any claim? Are not endlesschains beyond human strength? Who then would blame Sisyphus and JeanValjean for saying, It is enough! The obedience of matter is limitedby friction: is there not a limit to the obedience of the soul? Ifperpetual motion be impossible, why is perpetual devotion demanded?The first step is nothing, it is the last that is difficult. Whatwas the Champmathieu affair by the side of Cosette's marriage? Whatdid it bring with it? What is returning to the hulks by the side ofentering nothingness? Oh, first step to descend, how gloomy thou art!oh, second step, how black thou art! How could he help turning his headaway this time? Martyrdom is a sublimation, a corrosive sublimation,it is a torture which consecrates. A man may consent to it for thefirst hour; he sits on the throne of red-hot iron, the crown of red-hotiron is placed on his head,--he accepts the red-hot globe, he takesthe red-hot sceptre, but he still has to don the mantle of flame, andis there not a moment when the miserable flesh revolts and he fliesfrom the punishment? At length Jean Valjean entered the calmness ofprostration; he wished, thought over, and considered the alternations,the mysterious balance of light and shadow. Should he force his galleyson these two dazzling children, or consummate his own irremediabledestruction? On one side was the sacrifice of Cosette, on the other hisown.
On which solution did he decide? What determination did he form?What was in his inner self the definitive reply to the incorruptibleinterrogatory of fatality? What door did he resolve on opening? Whichside of his life did he make up his mind to close and condemn? Amidall those unfathomable precipices that surrounded him, which was hischoice? What extremity did he accept? To which of these gulfs did henod his head? His confusing reverie lasted all night; he remained tilldaybreak in the same position, leaning over the bed, prostrate beneaththe enormity of fate, perhaps crushed, alas! with hands convulsed, andarms extended at a right angle like an unnailed crucified man thrownwith his face on the ground. He remained thus for twelve hours,--thetwelve hours of a long winter's night, frozen, without raising hishead or uttering a syllable. He was motionless as a corpse, while histhoughts rolled on the ground or fled away; sometimes like a hydra,sometimes like the eagle. To see him thus you would have thought hima dead man; but all at once he started convulsively, and his mouthpressed to C
osette's clothes, kissed them; then one saw that he wasalive.
What One, since Jean Valjean was alone and nobody was there?
The One who is in the darkness.
BOOK VII.
THE LAST DROP IN THE BITTER CUP.