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 upstairs again.
“Come.” he said to Cosette. He took her by the hand, and they both went out.
BOOK FIFTH.—FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK