by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER III.
A PEN IS TOO HEAVY FOR THE MAN WHO LIFTED FAUCHELEVENT'S CART.
One evening Jean Valjean had a difficulty in rising on his elbow; hetook hold of his wrist and could not find his pulse; his breathing wasshort, and stopped every now and then, and he perceived that he wasweaker than he had ever yet been. Then, doubtless, under the pressureof some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort, sat up, and dressedhimself. He put on his old workman's clothes; for, as he no longer wentout, he had returned to them and preferred them. He was compelled topause several times while dressing himself; and the perspiration pouredoff his forehead, merely through the effort of putting on his jacket.Ever since he had been alone he had placed his bed in the anteroom,so as to occupy as little as possible of the deserted apartments. Heopened the valise and took out Cosette's clothing, which he spreadon his bed. The Bishop's candlesticks were at their place on themantel-piece; he took two wax candles out of a drawer and put themup, and then, though it was broad summer daylight, he lit them. Wesometimes see candles lighted thus in open day in rooms where dead menare lying. Each step he took in going from one article of furnitureto another exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was notordinary fatigue, which expends the strength in order to renew it; itwas the remnant of possible motion; it was exhausted life falling dropby drop in crushing efforts which will not be made again.
One of the chairs on which he sank was placed near the mirror, so fatalfor him, so providential for Marius, in which he had read Cosette'sreversed writing on the blotting-book. He saw himself in this mirror,and could not recognize himself. He was eighty years of age; beforeMarius's marriage he had looked scarce fifty, but the last year hadreckoned as thirty. What he had on his forehead was no longer thewrinkle of age, but the mysterious mark of death, and the lacerationof the pitiless nail could be traced on it. His cheeks were flaccid;the skin of his face had that color which makes one think that theearth is already over it; the two corners of his mouth drooped as inthat mask which the ancients sculptured on the tomb. He looked atspace reproachfully, and he resembled one of those tragic beings whohave cause to complain of some one. He had reached that stage, thelast phase of dejection, in which grief no longer flows; it is, so tospeak, coagulated, and there is on the soul something like a clot ofdespair. Night had set in, and he with difficulty dragged a table andthe old easy-chair to the chimney, and laid on the table, pen, ink,and paper. This done he feinted away, and when he regained his senseshe was thirsty. As he could not lift the water-jar, he bent down withan effort and drank a mouthful. Then he turned to the bed, and, stillseated, for he was unable to stand, he gazed at the little black dressand all those dear objects. Such contemplations last hours which appearminutes. All at once he shuddered, and felt that the cold had struckhim. He leaned his elbows on the table which the Bishop's candlesticksillumined, and took up the pen. As neither the pen nor the ink had beenused for a long time, the nibs of the pen were bent, the ink was driedup, and he was therefore obliged to put a few drops of water in theink, which he could not do without stopping and sitting down twice orthrice, and was forced to write with the back of the pen. He wiped hisforehead from time to time, and his hand trembled as he wrote the fewfollowing lines:--
"COSETTE,---I bless you. I am about to explain to you. Your husbanddid right in making me understand that I ought to go away; still, hewas slightly in error as to what he believed, but he acted rightly. Heis a worthy man, and love him dearly when I am gone from you. MonsieurPontmercy, always love my beloved child. Cosette, this paper will befound: this is what I wish to say to you; you shall see the figures ifI have the strength to remember them; but listen to me, the money isreally yours. This is the whole affair. White jet comes from Norway,black jet comes from England, and black beads come from Germany. Jetis lighter, more valuable, and dearer; but imitations can be made inFrance as well as in Germany. You must have a small anvil two inchessquare, and a spirit lamp to soften the wax. The wax used to be madewith resin and smoke-black, and costs four francs the pound; but Ihit on the idea of making it of gum-lac and turpentine. It only coststhirty sous, and is much better. The rings are made of violet glass,fastened by means of the wax on a small black iron wire. The glass mustbe violet for iron ornaments, and black for gilt ornaments. Spain buyslarge quantities; it is the country of jet---"
Here he stopped, the pen slipped from his fingers, he burst into one ofthose despairing sobs which rose at times from the depths of his being.The poor man took his head between his hands and thought.
"Oh!" he exclaimed internally (lamentable cries heard by God alone),"it is all over. I shall never see her again; it is a smile whichflashed across me, and I am going to enter night without even seeingher. Oh! for one moment, for one instant to hear her voice, to touchher, to look at her,--her, the angel, and then die! Death is nothing,but the frightful thing is to die without seeing her! She would smileon me, say a word to me, and would that do any one harm? No, it is allover forever. I am now all alone. My God! my God! I shall see her nomore."
At this moment there was a knock at his door.