3.V.9.3. A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT'S
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 arm-chair 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.