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MARIUS HAGGARD, JAVERT LACONIC
Let us narrate what was passing in Marius' thoughts.
Let the reader recall the state of his soul.
We have just recalled it, everything was a vision to him now.
His judgment was disturbed. Marius, let us insist on this
point, was under the shadow of the great, dark wings which are
spread over those in the death agony. He felt that he had entered
the tomb, it seemed to him that he was already on the other side
of the wall, and he no longer beheld the faces of the living except
with the eyes of one dead.
How did M. Fauchelevent come there?
Why was he there?
What had he come there to do?
Marius did not address all these questions to himself.
Besides, since our despair has this peculiarity, that it envelops
others as well as ourselves, it seemed logical to him that all
the world should come thither to die.
Only, he thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.
However, M. Fauchelevent did not speak to him, did not look
at him, and had not even the air of hearing him, when Marius raised
his voice to say:
"I know him."
As far as Marius was concerned, this attitude of M. Fauchelevent
was comforting, and, if such a word can be used for such impressions,
we should say that it pleased him.
He had always felt the absolute impossibility of addressing
that enigmatical man, who was, in his eyes, both equivocal and
imposing.
Moreover, it had been a long time since he had seen him; and
this still further augmented the impossibility for Marius' timid
and reserved nature.
The five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mondetour
lane; they bore a perfect resemblance to members of the National
Guard. One of them wept as he took his leave.
Before setting out, they embraced those who remained.
When the five men sent back to life had taken their departure,
Enjolras thought of the man who had been condemned to death.
He entered the tap-room. Javert, still bound to the post,
was engaged in meditation.
"Do you want anything?"
Enjolras asked him.
"Javert replied:
"When are you going to kill me?"
"Wait.
We need all our cartridges just at present."
"Then give me a drink," said Javert.
Enjolras himself offered him a glass of water, and, as Javert
was pinioned, he helped him to drink.
"Is that all?" inquired Enjolras.
"I am uncomfortable against this post," replied
Javert. "You are not tender to have left me to pass the night
here. Bind me as you please, but you surely might lay me out on
a table like that other man."
And with a motion of the head, he indicated the body of M.
Mabeuf.
There was, as the reader will remember, a long, broad table
at the end of the room, on which they had been running bullets
and making cartridges.
All the cartridges having been made, and all the powder used,
this table was free.
At Enjolras' command, four insurgents unbound Javert from
the post. While they were loosing him, a fifth held a bayonet
against his breast.
Leaving his arms tied behind his back, they placed about his
feet a slender but stout whip-cord, as is done to men on the point
of mounting the scaffold, which allowed him to take steps about
fifteen inches in length, and made him walk to the table at the
end of the room, where they laid him down, closely bound about
the middle of the body.
By way of further security, and by means of a rope fastened
to his neck, they added to the system of ligatures which rendered
every attempt at escape impossible, that sort of bond which is
called in prisons a martingale, which, starting at the neck, forks
on the stomach, and meets the hands, after passing between the
legs.
While they were binding Javert, a man standing on the threshold
was surveying him with singular attention.
The shadow cast by this man made Javert turn his head.
He raised his eyes, and recognized Jean Valjean.
He did not even start, but dropped his lids proudly and confined
himself to the remark:
"It is perfectly simple."
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