Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [111]
Progressively as the tilbury went forward, he felt something within him which shrank back.
At daybreak he was in the open country, the city of M—sur M—was a long way behind. He saw the horizon growing lighter; he beheld, without seeing them, all the frozen figures of a winter dawn pass before his eyes. Morning as well as evening has its spectres. He did not see them, but, unawares, and by a kind of insight which was almost physical, those black outlines of trees and hills added to the tumultuous state of his soul an indescribable gloom and apprehension.
Every time he passed one of the isolated houses that stood here and there by the side of the road, he said to himself: “But yet, there are people there who are sleeping!”
The trotting of the horse, the rattling of the harness, the wheels upon the pavement, made a gentle, monotonous sound. These things are charming when one is joyful, and mournful when one is sad.
It was broad day when he arrived at Hesdin. He stopped before an inn to let his horse breathe and to have some oats given him.
This horse was, as Scaufflaire had said, of that small breed of the Boulonnais which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck, but which has an open chest, a large rump, fine and slender legs, and a firm foot, a homely race, but strong and sound. The excellent animal had made twelve miles in two hours, without breaking a sweat.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stable-boy who brought the oats stooped down suddenly and examined the left wheel.
“Have you gone far so?” said the man.
He answered, almost without breaking up his train of thought:
“Why?”
“Have you come far?” said the boy.
“Twelve miles from here.”
“Ah!”
“Why do you say: ah?”
The boy stooped down again, was silent a moment, with his eye fixed on the wheel, then he rose up saying:
“To think that this wheel has just come twelve miles, that is possible, but it is very sure that it won’t go a half mile now.”
He sprang down from the tilbury.
“What are you saying, my friend?”
“I say that it is a miracle that you have come twelve miles without tumbling, you and your horse, into some ditch on the way. Look for yourself.”
The wheel in fact was badly damaged. The collision with the mail waggon had broken two spokes and loosened the hub so that the nut no longer held.
“My friend,” said he to the stable-boy, “is there a wheelwright here?”
“Certainly, monsieur.”
“Do me the favour to go for him.”
“There he is, close by. Hallo, Master Bourgaillard!”
Master Bourgaillard the wheelwright was on his own door-step. He came and examined the wheel, and made such a grimace as a surgeon makes at the sight of a broken leg.
“Can you mend that wheel on the spot?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“When can I start again?”
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow!”
“It is a good day’s work. Is monsieur in a great hurry?”
“A very great hurry. I must leave in an hour at the latest.”
“Impossible, monsieur.”
“I will pay whatever you like.”
“Impossible.”
“Well! in two hours.”
“Impossible to-day. There are two spokes and a hub to be repaired. Monsieur cannot start again before to-morrow.”
He felt an immense joy.
It was evident that Providence was involved. It was Providence that had broken the wheel of the tilbury and stopped him on his way. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had made all possible efforts to continue his journey; he had faithfully and scrupulously exhausted every means, he had shrunk neither before the season, nor from fatigue, nor from expense; he had nothing for which to reproach himself. If he went no further, it no longer concerned him. It was now not his fault; it was, not the act of his conscience, but the act of Providence.ap
He breathed. He breathed freely and with a full chest for the first time since Javert’s visit. It seemed to him that the iron hand which had gripped his heart for twenty hours was relaxed.
It appeared to him that now God was for him, was manifestly for him.
He said to himself that he had done all that he could, and that now he had only to retrace his steps,