convicts, and fell on the bed, dressed as he room. They were solid, and old silver. With was, into a sound sleep. Midnight struck as the bishop came back to his chamber. A few moments afterward all in the house slept. THE MAN AWAKES As the cathedral clock struck two Jean Valjean awoke. What awakened him was too good a bed. For nearly twenty years he had not slept in a bed, and, although he had not undressed, the sensation was too novel not to disturb his sleep. He had slept something more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away he was not accustomed to give many hours to repose. He opened his eyes and looked for a moment into the obscurity about him. He was in one of those moods in which the ideas we have in our minds are perturbed. There was a kind of vague ebb and flow in his brain. His oldest and his latest memories floated about pell-mell and crossed each other confusedly, losing their own shapes, swelling beyond measure, then disappearing all at once, as if in a muddy and troubled stream. Many thoughts came to him, but there was one which continually presented itself, and which drove away all others. What that thought was we shall tell directly. He had noticed the six silver plates and the large ladle that Madame Magloire had put on the table. Those six silver plates took possession of him. There they were, within a few steps. At the very moment that he passed through the middle room to reach the one he was now in, the old servant was placing them in a little cupboard at the head of the bed. He had marked that cupboard well-on the right, coming from the dining the big ladle, they would bring at least two hundred francs-double what he had got for nineteen years' labor. True, he would have got more if the government had not robbed him. His mind wavered a whole hour, and a long one, in fluctuation and in struggle. The clock struck three. He opened his eyes, rose up hastily in bed, reached out his arm and felt his haversack, which he had put into the corner of the alcove; then he thrust out his legs and placed his feet on the ground, and found himself, he knew not how, seated on his bed. He remained for some time lost in thought in that attitude, which would have had a rather ominous look had any one seen him there in the dusk, he only awake in the slumbering house. All at once he stooped down, took off his shoes and put them softly upon the mat in front of the bed; then he resumed his thinking posture and was still again. In that hideous meditation the ideas which we have been pointing out troubled his brain without ceasing, entered, departed, returned and became a sort of weight upon him; and then he thought, too-he knew not why, and with that mechanical obstinacy that belongs to reverie-of a convict named Brevet whom he had known in the galleys, and whose trowsers were only held up by a single knit cotton suspender. The checked pattern of that suspender came continually before his mind. He continued in this situation, and would perhaps have remained there until daybreak if the clock had not struck the quarter or the half hour. The clock seemed to say to him: "Come along!" He rose to his feet, hesitated for a moment longer and listened ; all was still in the house. He walked straight | and cautiously toward the window, which he could discern. The night was not very dark; there was a full moon, across which large clouds were driving before the wind. This produced alternations of light and shadeout of doors eclipses and illuminations, and in doors a kind of glimmer. This glimmerenough to enable him to find his way-changing with the passing clouds, resembled that sort of livid light which falls through the window of a dungeon before which men are passing and repassing. On reaching the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no bars, opened into the garden, and was fastened, according to the fashion of the country, with a little wedge only. He opened it; but, as the cold, keen air rushed into the room, he closed it again immediately. He looked into the garden with that absorbed look which studies rather than sees. The garden was enclosed with a white wall, quite low and readily scaled. Beyond, against the sky, he distinguished the tops of trees at equal distances apart, which showed that this wall separated the garden from an avenue or a lane planted with trees. When he had When he had taken this observation, he turned like a man whose mind is made up, went to his alcove, took his haversack, opened it, fumbled in it, took out something which he laid upon the bed, put his shoes into one of his pockets, tied his bundle, swung up it upon his shoulders, put on his cap and pulled the visor down over his eyes, felt for his stick and went and put it in the corner of the window, then returned to the bed and resolutely took up the object which he had laid on it. It looked like a short iron bar pointed at one end like a spear. It would have been hard to distinguish in the darkness for what use this piece of iron had been made. Could it be a lever? Could it be a club? In the daytime it would have been seen to be nothing but a miner's drill. At that time the convicts were sometimes employed in quarrying stone on the high hills that surround Toulon, and they often had miners' tools in their possession. Miners' drills are of solid iron, terminating at the lower end in a point, by means of which they are sunk into the rock. He took the drill in his right hand, and, holding his breath, with stealthy steps he moved toward the door of the next room, which was the bishop's. On reaching the door, he found it unlatched: the bishop had not closed it. WHAT HE DOES. Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound. He pushed the door. He pushed it lightly with the end of his finger with the stealthy and timorous carefulness of a cat. The door yielded to the pressure with a silent imperceptible movement, which made the opening a little wider. He waited a moment, and then pushed the door again more boldly. It yielded gradually and silently. The opening was now wide enough for him to pass through; but there was a small table near the door. with which it formed a troublesome angle and which barred the entrance. Jean Valjean saw the obstacle. At all hazards the opening must be made still wider. He so determined, and pushed the door a third time, harder than before. This time a rusty hinge suddenly sent out into the darkness a harsh and prolonged creak. Jean Valjean shivered. The noise of this hinge sounded in his ears as clear and terrible as the trum pet of the judgment-day. In the fantastic | advanced, carefully avoiding the furniture. exaggeration of the first moment he almost At the farther end of the room he could imagined that this hinge had become ani- hear the equal and quiet breathing of the mate and suddenly endowed with a terrible sleeping bishop. Suddenly he stopped. He life, and that it was barking like a dog to was near the bed; he had reached it sooner warn everybody and rouse the sleepers. He than he thought. stopped, shuddering and distracted, and dropped from his tip-toes to his feet. He felt the pulses of his temples beat like trip-hammers, and it appeared to him that his breath came from his chest with the roar of wind from a cavern. It seemed impossible that the horrible sound of this incensed hinge had not shaken the whole house with the shock of an earthquake the door pushed by him had taken the alarm, and had called out; the old man would arise; the two old women would scream; help would come; in a quarter of an hour the town would be alive with it and the gen-d'armes in pursuit. For a moment he thought he was lost. He stood still, petrified like the pillar of salt, not daring to stir. Some minutes passed. The door was wide he ventured a look into the room. Nothing had moved. He listened. Nothing was stirring in the house. The noise of the rusty hinge had wakened nobody. This first danger was over, but still he felt within him a frightful tumult. Nevertheless, he did not flinch. Not even when he thought he was lost had he flinched. His only thought was to make an end of it quickly. He took one step and was in the room. open; A deep calm filled the chamber. Here and there indistinct, confused forms could be distinguished, which by day were papers scattered over a table, open folios, books piled on a stool, an arm-chair with clothes on it, a prie-Dieu, but now were only dark corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean Nature sometimes joins her effects and her appearances to our acts with a sort of serious and intelligent appropriateness, as if she would compel us to reflect. For nearly a half hour a great cloud had darkened the sky. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused before the bed the cloud broke, as if purposely, and a ray of moonlight, crossing the high window, suddenly lighted up the bishop's pale face. He slept tranquilly. He was almost entirely dressed, though in bed, on account of the cold nights of the lower Alps, with a dark woollen garment which covered his arms to the wrists. His head had fallen on the pillow in the unstudied attitude of slumber; over the side of the bed hung his hand, ornamented with the pastoral ring, and which had done so many good deeds, so many pious acts. His entire countenance was lit up with a expression of content, hope and happiness. It was more than a smile, and almost a radiance. On his forehead rested the indescribable reflection of an unseen light. The souls of the upright in sleep have vision of a mysterious heaven. A reflection from this heaven shone upon the bishop. But it was also a luminous transparency, for this heaven was within him this heaven was his conscience. At the instant when the moonbeam overlay, so to speak, this inward radiance, the sleeping bishop appeared as if in a halo. But it was very mild and veiled in an ineffable twilight. The moon in the sky, nature drowsing, the garden without a pulse, the quiet house, the a vague hour, the moment, the silence, added something strangely solemn and unutterable to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped his white locks and his closed eyes with a serene and majestic glory-this face where all was hope and confidence, this old man's head and infant's slumber. There was something of divinity almost in this man, thus unconsciously august. Jean Valjean was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect, motionless, terrified, at this radiant figure. He had never seen anything comparable to it. This confidence filled him with fear. The moral world has no greater spectacle than this-a troubled and restless conscience, on the verge of committing an evil deed, contemplating the sleep of a good man. This sleep, in this solitude, with a neighbor such as he, contained a touch of the sublime which he felt vaguely but powerfully. None could have told what was within him, not even himself. To attempt to realize it, the utmost violence must be imagined in the presence of the most extreme mildness. In his face nothing could be distinguished with certainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment. He saw it, that was all. But what were his thoughts? It would have been impossible to guess. was clear that he was moved and agitated. But of what nature was this emotion? He did not remove his eyes from the old man. The only thing which was plain from his attitude and his countenance was a strange indecision. You would have said he was hesitating between two realms-that of the doomed, and that of the saved. He appeared ready either to cleave this skull or to kiss this hand. In a few moments he raised his It left hand slowly to his forehead and took off his hat; then, letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean Valjean resumed his contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right and his hair bristling on his fierce-looking head. Under this frightful gaze the bishop still slept in profoundest peace. The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moonlight, apparently extending its arms toward both, with a benediction for one and a pardon for the other. Suddenly, Jean Valjean put on his cap, then passed quickly, without looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard which he perceived near its head. He raised the drill to force the lock; the key was in it: he opened it. The first thing he saw was the basket of silver; he took it, crossed the room with hasty stride, careless of noise, reached the door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran across the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger, and fled. "Yes," said she, "but there is nothing in it. The silver?" "Ah!" said the bishop; "it is the silver, then, that troubles you? I do not know where that is." "Good heavens! it is stolen. That man who came last night stole it;" and in the twinkling of an eye, with all the agility of which her age was capable, Madame Magloire ran to the oratory, went into the alcove and came back to the bishop. The bishop was bending with some sadness over a cochlearia Des Guillons, which the basket had broken in falling. He looked up at Madame Magloire's cry: "Well," said the bishop, then wooden plates." In a few minutes he was breakfasting at the same table at which Jean Valjean sat the night before. While breakfasting, Monseigneur Bienvenu pleasantly remarked to his sister, who said nothing, and Madame Magloire, who was grumbling to herself, that there was really no need even of a wooden spoon or fork to dip a piece of bread into a cup of milk.' "Was there ever such an idea?" said Madame Magloire to herself as she went backward and forward. "To take in a man like that, and to give him a bed beside him! and yet what a blessing it was that he did nothing but steal! Oh my stars! it makes the chills run over me when I think of it!" Just as the brother and sister were rising door. "Come in," said the bishop. The door opened. A strange, fierce group appeared on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth by the collar. The three men were gen-d'armes; the fourth, Jean Valjean. "Now, first, did this silver belong to us?" from the table there was a knock at the Madame Magloire did not answer. After a moment the bishop continued: "Madame Magloire, I have for a long time wrongfully withheld this silver: it belonged to the poor. Who was this man? A poor man, evidently." "Alas, alas!" returned Madame Magloire; "it is not on my account or mademoiselle's -it is all the same to us-but it is on yours, monseigneur. What is monsieur going to eat from now?" The bishop looked at her with amazement: A brigadier of gen-d'armes, who appeared to head the group, was near the door. He advanced toward the bishop, giving a military salute. "Monseigneur," said he. |