________________________________________________
_ One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself
on his elbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse;
his breath was short and halted at times; he recognized the fact
that he was weaker than he had ever been before. Then, no doubt
under the pressure of some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort,
drew himself up into a sitting posture and dressed himself.
He put on his old workingman's clothes. As he no longer went out,
he had returned to them and preferred them. He was obliged to pause
many times while dressing himself; merely putting his arms through his
waistcoat made the perspiration trickle from his forehead.
Since he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber,
in order to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.
He opened the valise and drew from it Cosette's outfit.
He spread it out on his bed.
The Bishop's candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He
took from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.
Then, although it was still broad daylight,--it was summer,--
he lighted them. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted
in broad daylight in chambers where there is a corpse.
Every step that he took in going from one piece of furniture
to another exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was
not ordinary fatigue which expends the strength only to renew it;
it was the remnant of all movement possible to him, it was life
drained which flows away drop by drop in overwhelming efforts
and which will never be renewed.
The chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front
of that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius,
in which he had read Cosette's reversed writing on the blotting book.
He caught sight of himself in this mirror, and did not recognize himself.
He was eighty years old; before Marius' marriage, he would have hardly
been taken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore
on his brow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark
of death. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there.
His cheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color
which would lead one to think that it already had earth upon it;
the corners of his mouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients
sculptured on tombs. He gazed into space with an air of reproach;
one would have said that he was one of those grand tragic beings
who have cause to complain of some one.
He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection,
in which sorrow no longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak;
there is something on the soul like a clot of despair.
Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old
arm-chair to the fireside, and placed upon the table a pen,
some ink and some paper.
That done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness,
he was thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he tipped it over
painfully towards his mouth, and swallowed a draught.
As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time,
the point of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was
forced to rise and put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did
not accomplish without pausing and sitting down two or three times,
and he was compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped
his brow from time to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not stand,
he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession
of him; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated
by the Bishop's candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled.
He wrote slowly the few following lines:
"Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband
was right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away;
but there is a little error in what he believed, though he was in
the right. He is excellent. Love him well even after I am dead.
Monsieur Pontmercy, love my darling child well. Cosette, this paper
will be found; this is what I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see
the figures, if I have the strength to recall them, listen well,
this money is really thine. Here is the whole matter: White jet
comes from Norway, black jet comes from England, black glass jewellery
comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest, the most precious,
the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as well as in Germany.
What is needed is a little anvil two inches square, and a lamp
burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was formerly
made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine.
It does not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better.
Buckles are made with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means
of this wax, to a little framework of black iron. The glass must
be violet for iron jewellery, and black for gold jewellery.
Spain buys a great deal of it. It is the country of jet . .
."
Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of
those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.
"Oh!" he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God
alone], "all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile
which passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without
even seeing her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice,
to touch her dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then
to die! It is nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without
seeing her. She would smile on me, she would say a word to me,
would that do any harm to any one? No, all is over, and forever.
Here I am all alone. My God! My God! I shall never see her again!"
At that moment there came a knock at the door. _
Read next: VOLUME V: BOOK NINTH - SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN: CHAPTER IV. A Bottle of Ink Which Only Succeeded in Whitening
Read previous: VOLUME V: BOOK NINTH - SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN: CHAPTER II. Last Flickerings of a Lamp Without Oil
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