CHAPTER II.
THE LAST FLUTTERINGS OF THE LAMP WITHOUT OIL.
One day Jean Valjean went down his staircase, took three steps in thestreet, sat down upon a post, the same one on which Gavroche had foundhim sitting in thought on the night of June 5; he stayed there a fewminutes, and then went up again. This was the last oscillation of thependulum; the next day he did not leave his room; the next to that hedid not leave his bed. The porter's wife, who prepared his poor mealsfor him, some cabbage or a few potatoes and a little bacon, looked atthe brown earthenware plate and exclaimed,--
"Why, poor dear man, you ate nothing yesterday!"
"Yes, I did," Jean Valjean answered.
"The plate is quite full."
"Look at the water-jug: it is empty."
"That proves you have drunk, but does not prove that you have eaten."
"Well," said Jean Valjean, "suppose that I only felt hungry for water?"
"That is called thirst, and if a man does not eat at the same time itis called fever."
"I will eat to-morrow."
"Or on Trinity Sunday. Why not to-day? Who-ever ever thought ofsaying, I will eat to-morrow? To leave my plate without touching it; myrashers were so good."
Jean Valjean took the old woman's hand.
"I promise you to eat them," he said, in his gentle voice.
"I am not pleased with you," the woman replied.
Jean Valjean never saw any other human creature but this good woman:there are in Paris streets through which people never pass, and houseswhich people never enter, and he lived in one of those streets andone of those houses. During the time when he still went out he hadbought at a brazier's for a few sous a small copper crucifix, which hesuspended from a nail opposite his bed; that gibbet is ever good tolook on. A week passed thus, and Jean Valjean still remained in bed.The porter's wife said to her husband, "The old gentleman upstairsdoes not get up; he does not eat, and he will not last long. He has asorrow, and no one will get it out of my head but that his daughter hasmade a bad match."
The porter replied, with the accent of marital sovereignty,--
"If he is rich, he can have a doctor; if he is not rich, he can't. Ifhe has no doctor, he will die."
"And if he has one?"
"He will die," said the porter.
The porter's wife began digging up with an old knife the grass betweenwhat she called her pavement, and while doing so grumbled,--
"It's a pity--an old man who is so tidy. He is as white as a pullet."
She saw a doctor belonging to the quarter passing along the bottom ofthe street, and took upon herself to ask him to go up.
"It's on the second floor," she said; "you will only have to go in,for, as the old gentleman no longer leaves his bed, the key is alwaysin the door."
The physician saw Jean Valjean and spoke to him: when he came downagain the porter's wife was waiting for him.
"Well, doctor?"
"He is very ill."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Everything and nothing. He is a man who, from all appearances, haslost a beloved person. People die of that."
"What did he say to you?"
"He told me that he was quite well."
"Will you call again, doctor?"
"Yes," the physician replied, "but some one beside me ought to cometoo."