CART
One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself on his
elbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse; his breath
was short and halted at times; he recognized the fact that he was
weaker than he had ever been before. Then, no doubt under the pressure
of some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort, drew himself up into
a sitting posture and dressed himself. He put on his old workingman’s
clothes. As he no longer went out, he had returned to them and
preferred them. He was obliged to pause many times while dressing
himself; merely putting his arms through his waistcoat made the
perspiration trickle from his forehead.
Since he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber, in
order to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.
He opened the valise and drew from it Cosette’s outfit.
He spread it out on his bed.
The Bishop’s candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He
took from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.
Then, although it was still broad daylight,—it was summer,—he lighted
them. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted in broad daylight
in chambers where there is a corpse.
Every step that he took in going from one piece of furniture to another
exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was not ordinary
fatigue which expends the strength only to renew it; it was the remnant
of all movement possible to him, it was life drained which flows away
drop by drop in overwhelming efforts and which will never be renewed.
The chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front of
that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius, in which he
had read Cosette’s reversed writing on the blotting book. He caught
sight of himself in this mirror, and did not recognize himself. He was
eighty years old; before Marius’ marriage, he would have hardly been
taken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore on his
brow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark of
death. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there. His
cheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color which would
lead one to think that it already had earth upon it; the corners of his
mouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients sculptured on tombs. He
gazed into space with an air of reproach; one would have said that he
was one of those grand tragic beings who have cause to complain of some
one.
He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection, in which sorrow
no longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak; there is something on
the soul like a clot of despair.
Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old armchair to
the fireside, and placed upon the table a pen, some ink and some paper.
That done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness, he
was thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he tipped it over painfully
towards his mouth, and swallowed a draught.
As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time, the point
of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was forced to rise
and put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did not accomplish
without pausing and sitting down two or three times, and he was
compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped his brow from
time to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not
stand, he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession of
him; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated by the
Bishop’s candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled. He wrote
slowly the few following lines:
“Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband was
right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away; but there is
a little error in what he believed, though he was in the right. He is
excellent. Love him well even after I am dead. Monsieur Pontmercy, love
my darling child well. Cosette, this paper will be found; this is what
I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see the figures, if I have the
strength to recall them, listen well, this money is really thine. Here
is the whole matter: White jet comes from Norway, black jet comes from
England, black glass jewellery comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest,
the most precious, the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as
well as in Germany. What is needed is a little anvil two inches square,
and a lamp burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was
formerly made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine. It does
not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better. Buckles are made
with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means of this wax, to a
little framework of black iron. The glass must be violet for iron
jewellery, and black for gold jewellery. Spain buys a great deal of it.
It is the country of jet . . .”
Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of
those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.
“Oh!” he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God
alone], “all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile which
passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without even seeing
her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice, to touch her
dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then to die! It is
nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without seeing her. She
would smile on me, she would say a word to me, would that do any harm
to any one? No, all is over, and forever. Here I am all alone. My God!
My God! I shall never see her again!” At that moment there came a knock
at the door.