LES MISERABLES (Illustrated Edition). Victor Hugo

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      “How far is it from here to Arras?”

      “Nearly seven good leagues.”

      “How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter.”

      “Ah!” returned the road-mender, “so you don’t know that the road is under repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on; there is no way to proceed further.”

      “Really?”

      “You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will cross the river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right; that is the road to Mont-Saint-Eloy which leads to Arras.”

      “But it is night, and I shall lose my way.”

      “You do not belong in these parts?”

      “No.”

      “And, besides, it is all cross-roads; stop! sir,” resumed the road-mender; “shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired; return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can reach Arras to-morrow.”

      “I must be there this evening.”

      “That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an extra horse; the stable-boy will guide you through the cross-roads.”

      He followed the road-mender’s advice, retraced his steps, and, half an hour later, he passed the same spot again, but this time at full speed, with a good horse to aid; a stable-boy, who called himself a postilion, was seated on the shaft of the cariole.

      Still, he felt that he had lost time.

      Night had fully come.

      They turned into the cross-road; the way became frightfully bad; the cart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion:— “Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee.”

      In one of the jolts, the whiffle-tree broke.

      “There’s the whiffle-tree broken, sir,” said the postilion; “I don’t know how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; if you wish to return and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras early to-morrow morning.”

      He replied, “Have you a bit of rope and a knife?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.

      This caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again at a gallop.

      The plain was gloomy; low-hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish gleams in the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced a sound in all quarters of the horizon, as of some one moving furniture; everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!

      He was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before; he vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the neighborhood of D——, eight years previously, and it seemed but yesterday.

      The hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy:—

      “What time is it?”

      “Seven o’clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but three leagues still to go.”

      At that moment, he for the first time indulged in this reflection, thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner: that all this trouble which he was taking was, perhaps, useless; that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should, at least, have informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not; then he sketched out some calculations in his mind: that, ordinarily, the sittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o’clock in the morning; that it could not be a long affair; that the theft of the apples would be very brief; that there would then remain only a question of identity, four or five depositions, and very little for the lawyers to say; that he should arrive after all was over.

      The postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river and left Mont-Saint-Eloy behind them.

      The night grew more profound.

CHAPTER VI—SISTER SIMPLICE PUT TO THE PROOF

      But at that moment Fantine was joyous.

      She had passed a very bad night; her cough was frightful; her fever had doubled in intensity; she had had dreams: in the morning, when the doctor paid his visit, she was delirious; he assumed an alarmed look, and ordered that he should be informed as soon as M. Madeleine arrived.

      All the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plaits in her sheets, murmuring the while, in a low voice, calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up again and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth.

      Each time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt, she replied invariably, “Well. I should like to see M. Madeleine.”

      Some months before this, at the moment when Fantine had just lost her last modesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow of herself; now she was the spectre of herself. Physical suffering had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of five and twenty had a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which the gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent shoulder-blades, frail limbs, a clayey skin, and her golden hair was growing out sprinkled with gray. Alas! how illness improvises old-age!

      At mid-day the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook his head.

      M. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o’clock. As exactness is kindness, he was exact.

      About half-past two, Fantine began to be restless. In the course of twenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times, “What time is it, sister?”

      Three o’clock struck. At the third stroke, Fantine sat up in bed; she who could, in general, hardly turn over, joined her yellow, fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of those profound sighs which seem to throw off dejection. Then Fantine turned and looked at the door.

      No one entered; the door did not open.

      She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the door, motionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three. Fantine fell back on her pillow.

      She said nothing, but began to plait the sheets once more.

      Half an hour passed, then an hour, no one came; every time the clock struck, Fantine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back again.

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