1.C.4.5. A FIVE-FRANC PIECE FALLS ON THE GROUND AND PRODUCES A
TUMULT
NEAR Saint-Medard's church there was a poor man who was
in the habit of crouching on the brink of a public well which
had been condemned, and on whom Jean Valjean was fond of
bestowing charity. He never passed this man without giving
him a few sous. Sometimes he spoke to him. Those who
envied this mendicant said that he belonged to the police. He
was an ex-beadle of seventy-five, who was constantly mumbling
his prayers.
One evening, as Jean Valjean was passing by, when he had
not Cosette with him, he saw the beggar in his usual place,
beneath the lantern which had just been lighted. The man
seemed engaged in prayer, according to his custom, and was
much bent over. Jean Valjean stepped up to him and placed
his customary alms in his hand. The mendicant raised his
eyes suddenly, stared intently at Jean Valjean, then dropped
his head quickly. This movement was like a flash of lightning.
Jean Valjean was seized with a shudder. It seemed to him
that he had just caught sight, by the light of the street lantern,
not of the placid and beaming visage of the old beadle,
but of a well-known and startling face. He experienced the
same impression that one would have on finding one's self, all
of a sudden, face to face, in the dark, with a tiger. He recoiled,
terrified, petrified, daring neither to breathe, to speak,
to remain, nor to flee, staring at the beggar who had dropped
his head, which was enveloped in a rag, and no longer appeared
to know that he was there. At this strange moment, an instinct
— possibly the mysterious instinct of self-preservation,—
restrained Jean Valjean from uttering a word. The beggar
had the same figure, the same rags, the same appearance as he
had every day. "Bah!" said Jean Valjean, "I am mad! I
am dreaming! Impossible!" And he returned profoundly
troubled.
He hardly dared to confess, even to himself, that the face
which he thought he had seen was the face of Javert.
That night, on thinking the matter over, he regretted not
having questioned the man, in order to force him to raise his
head a second time.
On the following day, at nightfall, he went back. The beggar
was at his post. "Good day, my good man," said Jean
Valjean, resolutely, handing him a sou. The beggar raised
his head, and replied in a whining voice, "Thanks, my good
sir." It was unmistakably the ex-beadle.
Jean Valjean felt completely reassured. He began to laugh.
"How the deuce could I have thought that I saw Javert
there?" he thought. "Am I going to lose my eyesight now?"
And he thought no more about it.
A few days afterwards,— it might have been at eight o'clock
in the evening,— he was in his room, and engaged in making
Cosette spell aloud, when he heard the house door open and
then shut again. This struck him as singular. The old
woman, who was the only inhabitant of the house except himself,
always went to bed at nightfall, so that she might not
burn out her candles. Jean Valjean made a sign to Cosette
to be quiet. He heard some one ascending the stairs. It
might possibly be the old woman, who might have fallen
ill and have been out to the apothecary's. Jean Valjean
listened.
The step was heavy, and sounded like that of a man; but the
old woman wore stout shoes, and there is nothing which so
strongly resembles the step of a man as that of an old woman.
Nevertheless, Jean Valjean blew out his candle.
He had sent Cosette to bed, saying to her in a low voice,
"Get into bed very softly"; and as he kissed her brow, the
steps paused.
Jean Valjean remained silent, motionless, with his back
towards the door, seated on the chair from which he had not
stirred, and holding his breath in the dark.
After the expiration of a rather long interval, he turned
round, as he heard nothing more, and, as he raised his eyes
towards the door of his chamber, he saw a light through the
keyhole. This light formed a sort of sinister star in the blackness
of the door and the wall. There was evidently some
one there, who was holding a candle in his hand and
listening.
Several minutes elapsed thus, and the light retreated. But
he heard no sound of footsteps, which seemed to indicate that
the person who had been listening at the door had removed
his shoes.
Jean Valjean threw himself, all dressed as he was, on his
bed, and could not close his eyes all night.
At daybreak, just as he was falling into a doze through
fatigue, he was awakened by the creaking of a door which
opened on some attic at the end of the corridor, then he heard
the same masculine footstep which had ascended the stairs on
the preceding evening. The step was approaching. He sprang
off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole, which was tolerably
large, hoping to see the person who had made his way by
night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed.
It was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without pausing,
in front of Jean Valjean's chamber. The corridor was too
dark to allow of the person's face being distinguished; but
when the man reached the staircase, a ray of light from without
made it stand out like a silhouette, and Jean Valjean had a
complete view of his back. The man was of lofty stature,
clad in a long frock-coat, with a cudgel under his arm. The
formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert.
Jean Valjean might have attempted to catch another
glimpse of him through his window opening on the boulevard,
but he would have been obliged to open the window: he dared
not.
It was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like
himself. Who had given him that key? What was the meaning
of this?
When the old woman came to do the work, at seven o'clock
in the morning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her,
but he did not question her. The good woman appeared as
usual.
As she swept up she remarked to him:—
"Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last
night?"
At that age, and on that boulevard, eight o'clock in the
evening was the dead of the night.
"That is true, by the way," he replied, in the most natural
tone possible. "Who was it?"
"It was a new lodger who has come into the house," said
the old woman.
"And what is his name?"
"I don't know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name
of that sort."
"And who is this Monsieur Dumont?"
The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and
answered:—
"A gentleman of property, like yourself."
Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean
thought he perceived one.
When the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a
hundred francs which he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and
put it in his pocket. In spite of all the precautions which he
took in this operation so that he might not be heard rattling
silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from his hands and rolled
noisily on the floor.
When darkness came on, he descended and carefully scrutinized
both sides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The
boulevard appeared to be absolutely deserted. It is true that
a person can conceal himself behind trees.
He went up stairs again.
"Come." he said to Cosette.
He took her by the hand, and they both went out.