What extremity did he accept?
To which of the gulfs did he nod his head?
His dizzy reverie lasted all night long.
He remained there until daylight, in the same attitude, bent double over that bed, prostrate beneath the enormity of fate, crushed, perchance, alas! with clenched fists, with arms outspread at right angles, like a man crucified who has been un-nailed, and flung face down on the earth.
There he remained for twelve hours, the twelve long hours of a long winter’s night, ice-cold, without once raising his head, and without uttering a word.
He was as motionless as a corpse, while his thoughts wallowed on the earth and soared, now like the hydra, now like the eagle.
Any one to behold him thus motionless would have pronounced him dead; all at once he shuddered convulsively, and his mouth, glued to Cosette’s garments, kissed them; then it could be seen that he was alive.
Who could see?
Since Jean Valjean was alone, and there was no one there.
The One who is in the shadows.
BOOK SEVENTH.—THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP
CHAPTER I—THE SEVENTH CIRCLE AND THE EIGHTH HEAVEN
The days that follow weddings are solitary.
People respect the meditations of the happy pair. And also, their tardy slumbers, to some degree.
The tumult of visits and congratulations only begins later on.
On the morning of the 17th of February, it was a little past midday when Basque, with napkin and feather-duster under his arm, busy in setting his antechamber to rights, heard a light tap at the door.
There had been no ring, which was discreet on such a day.
Basque opened the door, and beheld M. Fauchelevent.
He introduced him into the drawing-room, still encumbered and topsy-turvy, and which bore the air of a field of battle after the joys of the preceding evening.
“Dame, sir,” remarked Basque, “we all woke up late.”
“Is your master up?” asked Jean Valjean.
“How is Monsieur’s arm?” replied Basque.
“Better.
Is your master up?”
“Which one? the old one or the new one?”
“Monsieur Pontmercy.”
“Monsieur le Baron,” said Basque, drawing himself up.
A man is a Baron most of all to his servants.
He counts for something with them; they are what a philosopher would call, bespattered with the title, and that flatters them.
Marius, be it said in passing, a militant republican as he had proved, was now a Baron in spite of himself.
A small revolution had taken place in the family in connection with this title.
It was now M. Gillenormand who clung to it, and Marius who detached himself from it.
But Colonel Pontmercy had written:
“My son will bear my title.”
Marius obeyed.
And then, Cosette, in whom the woman was beginning to dawn, was delighted to be a Baroness.
“Monsieur le Baron?” repeated Basque. “I will go and see.
I will tell him that M. Fauchelevent is here.”
“No. Do not tell him that it is I.
Tell him that some one wishes to speak to him in private, and mention no name.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Basque.
“I wish to surprise him.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Basque once more, emitting his second “ah!” as an explanation of the first.
And he left the room.
Jean Valjean remained alone.
The drawing-room, as we have just said, was in great disorder.
It seemed as though, by lending an ear, one might still hear the vague noise of the wedding.
On the polished floor lay all sorts of flowers which had fallen from garlands and head-dresses.
The wax candles, burned to stumps, added stalactites of wax to the crystal drops of the chandeliers.
Not a single piece of furniture was in its place.