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CHAPTER VIII—AN ENTRANCE BY FAVOR
Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. enjoyed a
sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue
had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais; it had eventually passed the
confines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two or
three neighboring departments. Besides the service which he had rendered
to the chief town by resuscitating the black jet industry, there was not
one out of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement of M. sur
M. which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need
contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other arrondissements. It
was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and
his funds the linen factory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at
Frevent, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche.
Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras
and Douai envied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor.
The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over this
session of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted, in common with the rest
of the world, with this name which was so profoundly and universally
honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which connected the
council-chamber with the court-room, bent over the back of the Pr�sident's
arm-chair and handed him the paper on which was inscribed the line which
we have just perused, adding: "The gentleman desires to be present at the
trial," the Pr�sident, with a quick and deferential movement, seized a pen
and wrote a few words at the bottom of the paper and returned it to the
usher, saying, "Admit him."
The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the door
of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the usher
had left him. In the midst of his revery he heard some one saying to him,
"Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?" It was the same usher who
had turned his back upon him but a moment previously, and who was now
bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the usher handed him the
paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light, he could
"The Pr�sident of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M.
He crushed the paper in his hand as though those words contained for him a
strange and bitter aftertaste.
He followed the usher.
A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wainscoted cabinet
of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles, placed upon a table with a
green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him still
rang in his ears: "Monsieur, you are now in the council-chamber; you have
only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself
in the court-room, behind the Pr�sident's chair." These words were mingled
in his thoughts with a vague memory of narrow corridors and dark
staircases which he had recently traversed.
The usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to
collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment when
there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of
life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the
very place where the judges deliberated and condemned. With stupid
tranquillity he surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment, where so
many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring with his name, and
which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall, then
he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and that it
should be he.
He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he was worn out by the
jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that
he felt nothing.
He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which
contained, under glass, an ancient autograph letter of Jean Nicolas Pache,
mayor of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no doubt, the
9th of June, of the year II., and in which Pache forwarded to the commune
the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by them. Any spectator
who had chanced to see him at that moment, and who had watched him, would
have imagined, doubtless, that this letter struck him as very curious, for
he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He
read it without paying any attention to it, and unconsciously. He was
thinking of Fantine and Cosette.
As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of
the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had almost
forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained
fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by little
became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his
hair and trickled down upon his temples.
At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of
authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which
does so well convey, "Pardieu! who compels me to this?" Then he wheeled
briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in
front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in
that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor,
broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and
there by lanterns similar to the night taper of invalids, the corridor
through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened; not a sound in
front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued.
When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The
same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was
out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall. The stone was
cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow; he straightened himself
up with a shiver.
Then, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something
else, too, perchance, he meditated.
He had meditated all night long; he had meditated all the day: he heard
within him but one voice, which said, "Alas!"
A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed with
agony, dropped his arms, and retraced his steps. He walked slowly, and as
though crushed. It seemed as though some one had overtaken him in his
flight and was leading him back.
He re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing he caught sight of was
the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished brass,
shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze
into the eye of a tiger.
He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step
and approached the door.
Had he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like
a sort of confused murmur; but he did not listen, and he did not hear.
Suddenly, without himself knowing how it happened, he found himself near
the door; he grasped the knob convulsively; the door opened.
He was in the court-room.