The old woman saw him fumble in his pocket and draw thence a case, scissors, and thread; then he began to rip the lining of one of the skirts of his coat, and from the opening he took a bit of yellowish paper, which he unfolded.
The old woman recognized, with terror, the fact that it was a bank-bill for a thousand francs.
It was the second or third only that she had seen in the course of her existence.
She fled in alarm.
A moment later, Jean Valjean accosted her, and asked her to go and get this thousand-franc bill changed for him, adding that it was his quarterly income, which he had received the day before.
“Where?” thought the old woman.
“He did not go out until six o’clock in the evening, and the government bank certainly is not open at that hour.”
The old woman went to get the bill changed, and mentioned her surmises.
That thousand-franc note, commented on and multiplied, produced a vast amount of terrified discussion among the gossips of the Rue des Vignes Saint-Marcel.
A few days later, it chanced that Jean Valjean was sawing some wood, in his shirt-sleeves, in the corridor. The old woman was in the chamber, putting things in order.
She was alone. Cosette was occupied in admiring the wood as it was sawed. The old woman caught sight of the coat hanging on a nail, and examined it.
The lining had been sewed up again.
The good woman felt of it carefully, and thought she observed in the skirts and revers thicknesses of paper.
More thousand-franc bank-bills, no doubt!
She also noticed that there were all sorts of things in the pockets.
Not only the needles, thread, and scissors which she had seen, but a big pocket-book, a very large knife, and—a suspicious circumstance—several wigs of various colors.
Each pocket of this coat had the air of being in a manner provided against unexpected accidents.
Thus the inhabitants of the house reached the last days of winter.
CHAPTER V—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.