Volume 4/Book 15/Chapter 3

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Les Misérables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Fifteenth: The Rue de L'Homme Arme, Chapter 3: While Cosette and Toussaint are Asleep
(Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'épopée rue Saint-Denis, Livre quinzième: La rue de l'Homme-Armé, Chapitre 3: Pendant que Cosette et Toussaint dorment)

General notes on this chapter[edit]

French text[edit]

Jean Valjean rentra avec la lettre de Marius.

Il monta l'escalier à tâtons, satisfait des ténèbres comme le hibou qui tient sa proie, ouvrit et referma doucement sa porte, écouta s'il n'entendait aucun bruit, constata que, selon toute apparence, Cosette et Toussaint dormaient, plongea dans la bouteille du briquet Fumade trois ou quatre allumettes avant de pouvoir faire jaillir l'étincelle, tant sa main tremblait; il y avait du vol dans ce qu'il venait de faire. Enfin, sa chandelle fut allumée, il s'accouda sur la table, déplia le papier, et lut.

Dans les émotions violentes, on ne lit pas, on terrasse pour ainsi dire le papier qu'on tient, on l'étreint comme une victime, on le froisse, on enfonce dedans les ongles de sa colère ou de son allégresse; on court à la fin, on saute au commencement; l'attention a la fièvre; elle comprend en gros, à peu près, l'essentiel; elle saisit un point, et tout le reste disparaît. Dans le billet de Marius à Cosette, Jean Valjean ne vit que ces mots:

«...Je meurs. Quand tu liras ceci, mon âme sera près de toi.»

En présence de ces deux lignes, il eut un éblouissement horrible; il resta un moment comme écrasé du changement d'émotion qui se faisait en lui, il regardait le billet de Marius avec une sorte d'étonnement ivre; il avait devant les yeux cette splendeur, la mort de l'être haï.

Il poussa un affreux cri de joie intérieure.—Ainsi, c'était fini. Le dénouement arrivait plus vite qu'on n'eût osé l'espérer. L'être qui encombrait sa destinée disparaissait. Il s'en allait de lui-même, librement, de bonne volonté. Sans que lui, Jean Valjean, eût rien fait pour cela, sans qu'il y eût de sa faute, «cet homme» allait mourir. Peut-être même était-il déjà mort.—Ici sa fièvre fit des calculs.—Non. Il n'est pas encore mort. La lettre a été visiblement écrite pour être lue par Cosette le lendemain matin; depuis ces deux décharges qu'on a entendues entre onze heures et minuit, il n'y a rien eu; la barricade ne sera sérieusement attaquée qu'au point du jour; mais c'est égal, du moment où «cet homme» est mêlé à cette guerre, il est perdu; il est pris dans l'engrenage.—Jean Valjean se sentait délivré. Il allait donc, lui, se retrouver seul avec Cosette. La concurrence cessait; l'avenir recommençait. Il n'avait qu'à garder ce billet dans sa poche. Cosette ne saurait jamais ce que «cet homme» était devenu. «Il n'y a qu'à laisser les choses s'accomplir. Cet homme ne peut échapper. S'il n'est pas mort encore, il est sûr qu'il va mourir. Quel bonheur!»

Tout cela dit en lui-même, il devint sombre.

Puis il descendit et réveilla le portier.

Environ une heure après, Jean Valjean sortait en habit complet de garde national et en armes. Le portier lui avait aisément trouvé dans le voisinage de quoi compléter son équipement. Il avait un fusil chargé et une giberne pleine de cartouches. Il se dirigea du côté des halles.

English text[edit]

Jean Valjean went into the house with Marius' letter.

He groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the darkness as an owl who grips his prey, opened and shut his door softly, listened to see whether he could hear any noise,—made sure that, to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were asleep, and plunged three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter before he could evoke a spark, so greatly did his hand tremble. What he had just done smacked of theft. At last the candle was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the table, unfolded the paper, and read.

In violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the earth, so to speak, the paper which one holds, one clutches it like a victim, one crushes it, one digs into it the nails of one's wrath, or of one's joy; one hastens to the end, one leaps to the beginning; attention is at fever heat; it takes up in the gross, as it were, the essential points; it seizes on one point, and the rest disappears. In Marius' note to Cosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words:—

"I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee."

In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled; he remained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the change of emotion which was taking place within him, he stared at Marius' note with a sort of intoxicated amazement, he had before his eyes that splendor, the death of a hated individual.

He uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over. The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope. The being who obstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man had taken himself off of his own accord, freely, willingly. This man was going to his death, and he, Jean Valjean, had had no hand in the matter, and it was through no fault of his. Perhaps, even, he is already dead. Here his fever entered into calculations. No, he is not dead yet. The letter had evidently been intended for Cosette to read on the following morning; after the two discharges that were heard between eleven o'clock and midnight, nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked seriously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from the moment when "that man" is concerned in this war, he is lost; he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered. So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette once more. The rivalry would cease; the future was beginning again. He had but to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know what had become of that man. All that there requires to be done is to let things take their own course. This man cannot escape. If he is not already dead, it is certain that he is about to die. What good fortune!

Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy.

Then he went down stairs and woke up the porter.

About an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the complete costume of a National Guard, and with his arms. The porter had easily found in the neighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment. He had a loaded gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.

He strode off in the direction of the markets.

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