“Marius!” cried the old man. “Marius! My little Marius! my child! my well-beloved son!
You open your eyes, you gaze upon me, you are alive, thanks!”
And he fell fainting.
BOOK FOURTH.—JAVERT DERAILED CHAPTER I
Javert passed slowly down the Rue de l’Homme Arme.
He walked with drooping head for the first time in his life, and likewise, for the first time in his life, with his hands behind his back.
Up to that day, Javert had borrowed from Napoleon’s attitudes, only that which is expressive of resolution, with arms folded across the chest; that which is expressive of uncertainty—with the hands behind the back—had been unknown to him.
Now, a change had taken place; his whole person, slow and sombre, was stamped with anxiety.
He plunged into the silent streets.
Nevertheless, he followed one given direction.
He took the shortest cut to the Seine, reached the Quai des Ormes, skirted the quay, passed the Greve, and halted at some distance from the post of the Place du Chatelet, at the angle of the Pont Notre-Dame.
There, between the Notre-Dame and the Pont au Change on the one hand, and the Quai de la Megisserie and the Quai aux Fleurs on the other, the Seine forms a sort of square lake, traversed by a rapid.
This point of the Seine is dreaded by mariners.
Nothing is more dangerous than this rapid, hemmed in, at that epoch, and irritated by the piles of the mill on the bridge, now demolished.
The two bridges, situated thus close together, augment the peril; the water hurries in formidable wise through the arches.
It rolls in vast and terrible waves; it accumulates and piles up there; the flood attacks the piles of the bridges as though in an effort to pluck them up with great liquid ropes.
Men who fall in there never reappear; the best of swimmers are drowned there.
Javert leaned both elbows on the parapet, his chin resting in both hands, and, while his nails were mechanically twined in the abundance of his whiskers, he meditated.
A novelty, a revolution, a catastrophe had just taken place in the depths of his being; and he had something upon which to examine himself. Javert was undergoing horrible suffering.
For several hours, Javert had ceased to be simple.
He was troubled; that brain, so limpid in its blindness, had lost its transparency; that crystal was clouded.
Javert felt duty divided within his conscience, and he could not conceal the fact from himself.
When he had so unexpectedly encountered Jean Valjean on the banks of the Seine, there had been in him something of the wolf which regains his grip on his prey, and of the dog who finds his master again.
He beheld before him two paths, both equally straight, but he beheld two; and that terrified him; him, who had never in all his life known more than one straight line.
And, the poignant anguish lay in this, that the two paths were contrary to each other.
One of these straight lines excluded the other.
Which of the two was the true one?
His situation was indescribable.
To owe his life to a malefactor, to accept that debt and to repay it; to be, in spite of himself, on a level with a fugitive from justice, and to repay his service with another service; to allow it to be said to him,
“Go,” and to say to the latter in his turn:
“Be free”; to sacrifice to personal motives duty, that general obligation, and to be conscious, in those personal motives, of something that was also general, and, perchance, superior, to betray society in order to remain true to his conscience; that all these absurdities should be realized and should accumulate upon him,—this was what overwhelmed him.
One thing had amazed him,—this was that Jean Valjean should have done him a favor, and one thing petrified him,—that he, Javert, should have done Jean Valjean a favor.
Where did he stand?
He sought to comprehend his position, and could no longer find his bearings.
What was he to do now?
To deliver up Jean Valjean was bad; to leave Jean Valjean at liberty was bad.
In the first case, the man of authority fell lower than the man of the galleys, in the second, a convict rose above the law, and set his foot upon it.
In both cases, dishonor for him, Javert.
There was disgrace in any resolution at which he might arrive.
Destiny has some extremities which rise perpendicularly from the impossible, and beyond which life is no longer anything but a precipice.
Javert had reached one of those extremities.
One of his anxieties consisted in being constrained to think.
The very violence of all these conflicting emotions forced him to it.
Thought was something to which he was unused, and which was peculiarly painful.
In thought there always exists a certain amount of internal rebellion; and it irritated him to have that within him.
Thought on any subject whatever, outside of the restricted circle of his functions, would have been for him in any case useless and a fatigue; thought on the day which had just passed was a torture.
Nevertheless, it was indispensable that he should take a look into his conscience, after such shocks, and render to himself an account of himself.
What he had just done made him shudder.
He, Javert, had seen fit to decide, contrary to all the regulations of the police, contrary to the whole social and judicial organization, contrary to the entire code, upon a release; this had suited him; he had substituted his own affairs for the affairs of the public; was not this unjustifiable?
Every time that he brought himself face to face with this deed without a name which he had committed, he trembled from head to foot.