At every jolt over the pavement, a drop of blood trickled from Marius’
hair.
Night had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6, Rue des
Filles-du-Calvaire.
Javert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance of the
number on the carriage gate, and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten
iron, embellished in the old style, with a male goat and a satyr
confronting each other, he gave a violent peal. The gate opened a
little way and Javert gave it a push. The porter half made his
appearance yawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in his hand.
Everyone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in the
Marais, especially on days when there is a revolt. This good, old
quarter, terrified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber, as
children, when they hear the Bugaboo coming, hide their heads hastily
under their coverlet.
In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius out of
the carriage, Jean Valjean supporting him under the armpits, and the
coachman under the knees.
As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand under the
latter’s clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his breast, and assured
himself that his heart was still beating. It was even beating a little
less feebly, as though the movement of the carriage had brought about a
certain fresh access of life.
Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government, and the
presence of the porter of a factious person.
“Some person whose name is Gillenormand?”
“Here. What do you want with him?”
“His son is brought back.”
“His son?” said the porter stupidly.
“He is dead.”
Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Javert, and whom
the porter was surveying with some horror, made a sign to him with his
head that this was not so.
The porter did not appear to understand either Javert’s words or Jean
Valjean’s sign.
Javert continued:
“He went to the barricade, and here he is.”
“To the barricade?” ejaculated the porter.
“He has got himself killed. Go waken his father.”
The porter did not stir.
“Go along with you!” repeated Javert.
And he added:
“There will be a funeral here to-morrow.”
For Javert, the usual incidents of the public highway were
categorically classed, which is the beginning of foresight and
surveillance, and each contingency had its own compartment; all
possible facts were arranged in drawers, as it were, whence they
emerged on occasion, in variable quantities; in the street, uproar,
revolt, carnival, and funeral.
The porter contented himself with waking Basque. Basque woke Nicolette;
Nicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.
As for the grandfather, they let him sleep on, thinking that he would
hear about the matter early enough in any case.
Marius was carried up to the first floor, without any one in the other
parts of the house being aware of the fact, and deposited on an old
sofa in M. Gillenormand’s antechamber; and while Basque went in search
of a physician, and while Nicolette opened the linen-presses, Jean
Valjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder. He understood and
descended the stairs, having behind him the step of Javert who was
following him.
The porter watched them take their departure as he had watched their
arrival, in terrified somnolence.
They entered the carriage once more, and the coachman mounted his box.
“Inspector Javert,” said Jean, “grant me yet another favor.”
“What is it?” demanded Javert roughly.
“Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you like
with me.”
Javert remained silent for a few moments, with his chin drawn back into
the collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front:
“Driver,” said he, “Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.”