He allowed Marius to slide down upon the shore.
They were in the open air!
The miasmas, darkness, horror lay behind him. The pure, healthful, living, joyous air that was easy to breathe inundated him. Everywhere around him reigned silence, but that charming silence when the sun has set in an unclouded azure sky. Twilight had descended; night was drawing on, the great deliverer, the friend of all those who need a mantle of darkness that they may escape from an anguish. The sky presented itself in all directions like an enormous calm. The river flowed to his feet with the sound of a kiss. The aerial dialogue of the nests bidding each other good night in the elms of the Champs-Elysees was audible. A few stars, daintily piercing the pale blue of the zenith, and visible to revery alone, formed imperceptible little splendors amid the immensity. Evening was unfolding over the head of Jean Valjean all the sweetness of the infinite.
It was that exquisite and undecided hour which says neither yes nor no. Night was already sufficiently advanced to render it possible to lose oneself at a little distance and yet there was sufficient daylight to permit of recognition at close quarters.
For several seconds, Jean Valjean was irresistibly overcome by that august and caressing serenity; such moments of oblivion do come to men; suffering refrains from harassing the unhappy wretch; everything is eclipsed in the thoughts; peace broods over the dreamer like night; and, beneath the twilight which beams and in imitation of the sky which is illuminated, the soul becomes studded with stars. Jean Valjean could not refrain from contemplating that vast, clear shadow which rested over him; thoughtfully he bathed in the sea of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic silence of the eternal heavens. Then he bent down swiftly to Marius, as though the sentiment of duty had returned to him, and, dipping up water in the hollow of his hand, he gently sprinkled a few drops on the latter's face. Marius' eyelids did not open; but his half-open mouth still breathed.
Jean Valjean was on the point of dipping his hand in the river once more, when, all at once, he experienced an indescribable embarrassment, such as a person feels when there is some one behind him whom he does not see.
We have already alluded to this impression, with which everyone is familiar.
He turned round.
Some one was, in fact, behind him, as there had been a short while before.
A man of lofty stature, enveloped in a long coat, with folded arms, and bearing in his right fist a bludgeon of which the leaden head was visible, stood a few paces in the rear of the spot where Jean Valjean was crouching over Marius.
With the aid of the darkness, it seemed a sort of apparition. An ordinary man would have been alarmed because of the twilight, a thoughtful man on account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjean recognized Javert.
The reader has divined, no doubt, that Thenardier's pursuer was no other than Javert. Javert, after his unlooked-for escape from the barricade, had betaken himself to the prefecture of police, had rendered a verbal account to the Prefect in person in a brief audience, had then immediately gone on duty again, which implied-- the note, the reader will recollect, which had been captured on his person--a certain surveillance of the shore on the right bank of the Seine near the Champs-Elysees, which had, for some time past, aroused the attention of the police. There he had caught sight of Thenardier and had followed him. The reader knows the rest.
Thus it will be easily understood that that grating, so obligingly opened to Jean Valjean, was a bit of cleverness on Thenardier's part. Thenardier intuitively felt that Javert was still there; the man spied upon has a scent which never deceives him; it was necessary to fling a bone to that sleuth-hound. An assassin,what a godsend! Such an opportunity must never be allowed to slip. Thenardier, by putting Jean Valjean outside in his stead, provided a prey for the police, forced them to relinquish his scent, made them forget him in a bigger adventure, repaid Javert for his waiting, which always flatters a spy, earned thirty francs, and counted with certainty, so far as he himself was concerned, on escaping with the aid of this diversion.
Jean Valjean had fallen from one danger upon another.
These two encounters, this falling one after the other, from Thenardier upon Javert, was a rude shock.
Javert did not recognize Jean Valjean, who, as we have stated, no longer looked like himself. He did not unfold his arms, he made sure of his bludgeon in his fist, by an imperceptible movement, and said in a curt, calm voice:
"Who are you?"
"I."
"Who is `I'?"
"Jean Valjean."
Javert thrust his bludgeon between his teeth, bent his knees, inclined his body, laid his two powerful hands on the shoulders of Jean Valjean, which were clamped within them as in a couple of vices, scrutinized him, and recognized him. Their faces almost touched. Javert's look was terrible.
Jean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert's grasp, like a lion submitting to the claws of a lynx.
"Inspector Javert," said he, "you have me in your power. Moreover, I have regarded myself as your *er ever since this morning. I did not give you my address with any intention of escaping from you. Take me. Only grant me one favor."
Javert did not appear to hear him. He kept his eyes riveted on Jean Valjean. His chin being contracted, thrust his lips upwards towards his nose, a sign of savage revery. At length he released Jean Valjean, straightened himself stiffly up without bending, grasped his bludgeon again firmly, and, as though in a dream, he murmured rather than uttered this question:
"What are you doing here? And who is this man?"
He still abstained from addressing Jean Valjean as thou.
Jean Valjean replied, and the sound of his voice appeared to rouse Javert:
"It is with regard to him that I desire to speak to you. Dispose of me as you see fit; but first help me to carry him home. That is all that I ask of you."
Javert's face contracted as was always the case when any one seemed to think him capable of making a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say "no."
Again he bent over, drew from his pocket a handkerchief which he moistened in the water and with which he then wiped Marius' blood-stained brow.
"This man was at the barricade," said he in a low voice and as though speaking to himself. "He is the one they called Marius."
A spy of the first quality, who had observed everything, listened to everything, and taken in everything, even when he thought that he was to die; who had played the spy even in his agony, and who, with his elbows leaning on the first step of the sepulchre, had taken notes.
He seized Marius' hand and felt his pulse.
"He is wounded," said Jean Valjean.
"He is a dead man," said Javert.
Jean Valjean replied:
"No. Not yet."
"So you have brought him thither from the barricade?" remarked Javert.
His preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not to insist on this alarming rescue through the sewer, and for him not to even notice Jean Valjean's silence after his question.
Jean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have but one thought. He resumed:
"He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with his grandfather. I do not recollect his name."
Jean Valjean fumbled in Marius' coat, pulled out his pocket-book, opened it at the page which Marius had pencilled, and held it out to Javert.
There was still sufficient light to admit of reading. Besides this, Javert possessed in his eye the feline phosphorescence of night birds. He deciphered the few lines written by Marius, and muttered: "Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-duCalvaire, No. 6."
Then he exclaimed: "Coachman!"
The reader will remember that the hackney-coach was waiting in case of need.
Javert kept Marius' pocket-book.
A moment later, the carriage, which had descended by the inclined plane of the watering-place, was on the shore. Marius was laid upon the back seat, and Javert seated himself on the front seat beside Jean Valjean.
The door slammed, and the carriage drove rapidly away, ascending the quays in the direction of the Bastille.
They quitted the quays and entered the streets. The coachman, a black form on his box, whipped up his thin horses. A glacial silence reigned in the carriage. Marius, motionless, with his body resting in the corner, and his head drooping on his breast, his arms hanging, his legs stiff, seemed to be awaiting only a coffin; Jean Valjean seemed made of shadow, and Javert of stone, and in that vehicle full of night, whose interior, every time that it passed in front of a street *, appeared to be turned lividly wan, as by an intermittent flash of lightning, chance had united and seemed to be bringing face to face the three forms of tragic immobility, the corpse, the spectre, and the statue.
他把马吕斯轻轻放在河滩上。
他们出来了！
腐烂的气息、黑暗、恐怖已在他的后面。健康、纯洁、新鲜、欢快、可以随意呼吸的空气已充满他的周围。四周一片寂静，这是太阳在碧空西沉时令人心旷神怡的寂静。黄昏来临，夜开始了，这是个大救星，是一切需要以黑影作大衣逃出苦难的人的朋友。苍穹广阔安详，在他脚下河水潺潺，有如接吻。可以听到爱丽舍广场上榆树丛中鸟巢在空中对话，互道晚安。寥寥几颗明星（在浅蓝色的天顶上稍稍有点惹人注目，这只有沉思冥想者才能发现）在无边无际的天空中发出难以辨认的微弱的闪光。夜把无极的一切温存撒在冉阿让的头上。
这是明暗难辨的绝妙时辰，天已黑了，数步之外人就看不清，然而在走近时却还有足够的余晖来辨认。
有几秒钟冉阿让情不自禁地被这庄严而又抚慰人的宁静所侵袭，人每每有这样一种忘怀的时刻，痛苦不再折磨悲惨的人，思想里一切都消逝了，和平就象夜幕笼罩下梦想着的人，在黄昏的余晖里，有如在明亮的天空里那样，心里布满了星星。冉阿让情不自禁地仰望头上这辽阔皎洁的夜色，他堕入冥想，在永恒苍穹庄严的寂静中，他沉浸在祈祷和出神之中，于是突然间，好象又恢复了责任感，他弯腰向着马吕斯，又用手心捧了点水，轻轻地洒几滴在他的脸上。马吕斯的眼睛没睁开，但半开的嘴还有呼吸。
冉阿让正要把手重新伸入河中，忽然间，他感到一种不知什么的干扰，好象有什么人在他身后似的，虽然还没看见。
我们曾在别处提到过这种大家都知道的感觉。
他转过头来。
正象刚才一样，确有一个人在他后面。
一个魁梧的大个子，裹着一件长大衣，两臂交叉在胸前，右拳握着一根可以见到铅锤头的闷棍，站在正蹲在马吕斯身旁的冉阿让后面几步的地方。
由于在薄暮中，这真象鬼魂出现似的，一个普通人在黄昏时见到是要害怕的，一个深思熟虑的人害怕的是闷棍。
冉阿让认出来这是沙威。
读者一定猜到了追捕德纳第的不是别人就是沙威。沙威出乎他的意料离开街垒之后，就到了警署，向警署署长本人作了口头汇报，在简短的接见以后，他就立刻复职，他的职责包括，我们还该记得他身上的字条，监视爱丽舍广场的右河滩，那儿最近已引起*当局的注意。他在那里见到了德纳第并追踪他。其余的事我们都已知道了。
我们也明白了这扇门如此殷勤地在冉阿让面前打开，是德纳第在耍手腕。德纳第感到沙威一直在这儿，凡是被监视的人都有灵敏的嗅觉，得扔根骨头给这警犬。送上一个凶手，这该是多么意外的收获呀！这是替罪羊，从来不会被拒绝的。德纳第把冉阿让放出去替代他，同时给警察一个猎物，使他放弃追踪，使自己在一桩更大的案件中被忘记，使沙威没有白等，这总会使密探得意，而自己又挣了三十法郎。至于他本人，打算就这样来转移视线脱身。
冉阿让从一个暗礁又撞到另一个暗礁上。
这两次接连的相遇，从德纳第掉到沙威手中，实在使人难堪。
沙威没认出冉阿让，我们已经说过，因为冉阿让已很不象他本人了。沙威不垂下手臂，而用一种觉察不出的动作使拳头抓稳闷棍，并用简短镇定的声音说：
“您是谁？”
“是我。”
“是谁，您？”
“冉阿让。”
沙威用牙咬住闷棍，屈膝弯腰，用两只强大的手放在冉阿让肩上，象两把老虎钳似的把他夹紧，仔细观察，认出了他。他们的脸几乎相碰，沙威的目光令人感到恐怖。
冉阿让在沙威的紧握下毫不动弹，好象狮子在忍受短尾山猫的爪子。
“侦察员沙威，”他说，“您抓住我了。其实，从今天早晨起我早已把自己看作是您的犯人了，我丝毫没有在给了您地址后又设法从您那儿逃脱的打算，您抓住我吧！只是请答应我一件事。”
沙威好象没有听见似的，他眼睛盯住冉阿让，耸起的下巴把嘴唇推向鼻子，这是一种凶狠的沉思着的表现。后来，他放下冉阿让，一下子直起身来，一把抓住闷棍，并且似梦非梦，不象在问而是含含糊糊地说：
“您在这儿干什么？这人又是谁？”
他一直不再用“你”这种称呼来和冉阿让说话。
冉阿让回答时，他的声音好象把沙威唤醒了似的：
“我正想和您说说他的事，您可以随意处理我，但先帮我把他送回家，我只向您要求这一件事。”
沙威的面部起了皱，在旁人看来这是他每次有可能让步时的表现，他并没有拒绝。
他重新弯下腰，从口袋里抽出一块手帕，在水中浸湿，拭去了马吕斯额上的血迹。
“这人曾是街垒里的，”他轻声地好象在自言自语，“就是那个别人管他叫马吕斯的人。”
头等密探，在以为自己要死的时候，还在观察一切，听着一切，听到了一切并收集了一切。在垂死之前还在侦察，靠在坟墓的第一级石阶上，他还在记录。
他抓住了马吕斯的手寻找他的脉搏。
“是一个受了伤的人。”冉阿让说。
“是一个死人。”沙威说。
冉阿让回答：
“不，还没有死。”
“您把他从街垒带到这儿来的吗？”沙威说。
他的心事一定很重，因而他一点也没有追究这个使人不安的从阴沟里把人救出来的事，也没有注意到冉阿让对他的问话默不作答。
冉阿让也好象只有一个念头，他说：
“他住在沼泽区受难修女街，他的外祖父家里……我不记得他外祖父的名字了。”
冉阿让在马吕斯的衣服里搜寻，把笔记本抽出来，翻出马吕斯用铅笔写的一页，递给沙威。
空中还有足够的浮光可以看出字迹。况且沙威的眼睛有着夜鸟那种象猫一样的磷光。他看清了马吕斯写的几行字，嘴里咕哝着：“吉诺曼，受难修女街六号。”
于是他叫了一声：“车夫！”
我们还记得有辆车在等着，以备不时之需。
沙威留下了马吕斯的笔记本。
不久，马车从饮马处斜坡上下来，到了河滩，马吕斯被放在后座长凳上，沙威和冉阿让并排坐在前面长凳上。
车门又关上，马车向前飞跑，上了河岸向巴士底狱的方向驶去。
他们离开河岸到了大街。车夫，象一个黑影坐在他的座位上，鞭打着他那两匹瘦弱的马。车中是冰冷的沉默，马吕斯，一动不动，身体靠在后座角上，头垂在胸前，双臂挂着，两腿僵硬，仿佛只等着一口棺材了。冉阿让就象一个亡魂，沙威好象石像；在漆黑的车中，每次经过路灯时，车内如被间隔的闪电照成灰暗的苍白色，命运把他们结合在一起，好象在使这三个一动不动的悲剧性的尸体、幽灵、石像在共同凄惨地对质。
