by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER XI.
WHAT HE DID.
Jean Valjean listened, but there was not a sound; he pushed the doorwith the tip of his finger lightly, and with the furtive restlessgentleness of a cat that wants to get in. The door yielded to thepressure, and made an almost imperceptible and silent movement, whichslightly widened the opening. He waited for a moment, and then pushedthe door again more boldly. It continued to yield silently, and theopening was soon large enough for him to pass through. But there wasnear the door a small table which formed an awkward angle with it, andbarred the entrance.
Jean Valjean noticed the difficulty: the opening must be increased atall hazards. He made up his mind, and pushed the door a third time,more energetically still. This time there was a badly-oiled hinge,which suddenly uttered a hoarse prolonged cry in the darkness. JeanValjean started; the sound of the hinge smote his ear startlingly andformidably, as if it had been the trumpet of the day of judgment. Inthe fantastic exaggerations of the first minute, he almost imaginedthat this hinge had become animated, and suddenly obtained a terriblevitality and barked like a dog to warn and awaken the sleepers. Hestopped, shuddering and dismayed, and fell back from tip-toes on hisheels. He felt the arteries in his temples beat like two forge hammers,and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his lungs with thenoise of the wind roaring out of a cavern. He fancied that the horribleclamor of this irritated hinge must have startled the whole house likethe shock of an earthquake; the door he opened had been alarmed andcried for help; the old man would rise, the two aged females wouldshriek, and assistance would arrive within a quarter of an hour, thetown would be astir, and the gendarmerie turned out. For a moment hebelieved himself lost.
He remained where he was, petrified like the pillar of salt, and notdaring to make a movement. A few minutes passed, during which the doorremained wide open. He ventured to look into the room, and found thatnothing had stirred. He listened; no one was moving in the house, thecreaking of the rusty hinge had not awakened any one. The first dangerhad passed, but still there was fearful tumult within him. But he didnot recoil, he had not done so even when he thought himself lost; heonly thought of finishing the job as speedily as possible, and enteredthe bed-room. The room was in a state of perfect calmness; here andthere might be distinguished confused and vague forms, which by daywere papers scattered over the table, open folios, books piled on asofa, an easy-chair covered with clothes, and a priedieu, all of whichwere at this moment only dark nooks and patches of white. Jean Valjeanadvanced cautiously and carefully, and avoided coming into collisionwith the furniture. He heard from the end of the room the calm andregular breathing of the sleeping Bishop. Suddenly he stopped, for hewas close to the bed; he had reached it sooner than he anticipated.
Nature at times blends her effects and scenes with our actions, witha species of gloomy and intelligent design, as if wishing to make usreflect. For nearly half an hour a heavy cloud had covered the sky,but at the moment when Jean Valjean stopped at the foot of the bed,this cloud was rent asunder as if expressly, and a moonbeam passingthrough the tall window suddenly illumined the Bishop's pale face.He was sleeping peacefully, and was wrapped up in a long garment ofbrown wool, which covered his arms down to the wrists. His head wasthrown back on the pillow in the easy attitude of repose, and his hand,adorned with the pastoral ring, and which had done so many good deeds,hung out of bed. His entire face was lit up by a vague expression ofsatisfaction, hope, and beatitude--it was more than a smile and almosta radiance. He had on his forehead the inexpressible reflection of aninvisible light, for the soul of a just man contemplates a mysteriousheaven during sleep. A reflection of this heaven was cast over theBishop, but it was at the same time a luminous transparency, for theheaven was within him, and was conscience.
At the moment when the moonbeam was cast over this internal light,the sleeping Bishop seemed to be surrounded by a glory, which wasveiled, however, by an ineffable semi-light. The moon in the heavens,the slumbering landscape, the quiet house, the hour, the silence,the moment, added something solemn and indescribable to this man'svenerable repose, and cast a majestic and serene halo round his whitehair and closed eyes, his face in which all was hope and confidence,his aged head, and his infantine slumbers. There was almost a divinityin this unconsciously august man. Jean Valjean was standing in theshadow with his crow-bar in his hand, motionless and terrified by thisluminous old man. He had never seen anything like this before, and suchconfidence horrified him. The moral world has no greater spectaclethan this,--a troubled, restless conscience, which is on the point ofcommitting a bad action, contemplating the sleep of a just man.
This sleep in such isolation, and with a neighbor like himself,possessed a species of sublimity which he felt vaguely, butimperiously. No one could have said what was going on within him, noteven himself. In order to form any idea of it we must imagine what isthe most violent in the presence of what is gentlest. Even in his facenothing could have been distinguished with certainty, for it displayeda sort of haggard astonishment. He looked at the Bishop, that was all,but what his thoughts were it would be impossible to divine; what wasevident was, that he was moved and shaken, but of what nature was thisemotion? His eye was not once removed from the old man, and the onlything clearly revealed by his attitude and countenance was a strangeindecision. It seemed as if he were hesitating between two abysses,the one that saves and the one that destroys; he was ready to dashout the Bishop's brains or kiss his hand. At the expiration of a fewminutes his left arm slowly rose to his cap, which he took off; thenhis arm fell again with the same slowness, and Jean Valjean recommencedhis contemplation, with his cap in his left hand, his crow-bar in hisright, and his hair standing erect on his savage head.
The Bishop continued to sleep peacefully beneath this terrific glance.A moonbeam rendered the crucifix over the mantel-piece dimly visible,which seemed to open its arms for both, with a blessing for one and apardon for the other. All at once Jean Valjean put on his cap again,then walked rapidly along the bed, without looking at the Bishop, andwent straight to the cupboard. He raised his crow-bar to force thelock, but as the key was in it, he opened it, and the first thing hesaw was the plate-basket, which he seized. He hurried across the room,not caring for the noise he made, re-entered the oratory, opened thewindow, seized his stick, put the silver in his pocket, threw away thebasket, leaped into the garden, bounded over the wall like a tiger, andfled.
