Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [275]
The fireplace and the table, with the two chairs, were exactly opposite Marius. The furnace was hidden; the room was now lighted only by the candle ; the least thing upon the table or the mantel made a great shadow. A broken water-pitcher masked the half of one wall. There was in the room a calm which was inexpressibly hideous and threatening. The approach of some appalling thing could be felt.
Jondrette had let his pipe go out—a sure sign that he was intensely absorbed—and had come back and sat down. The candle made the savage ends and corners of his face stand out prominently. There were contractions of his brows, and abrupt openings of his right hand, as if he were replying to the last counsels of a dark interior monologue. In one of these obscure replies which he was making to himself, he drew the table drawer out quickly towards him, took out a long carving knife which was hidden there, and tried its edge on his nail. This done, he put the knife back into the drawer, and shut it.
Marius, for his part, grasped the pistol on his right side, pulled it out, and cocked it.
The pistol in cocking gave a little, clear, sharp sound.
Jondrette started, and half rose from his chair.
“Who is there?” cried he.
Marius held his breath; Jondrette listened a moment, then began to laugh, saying:—
“What a fool I am! It is the partition cracking.”
Marius kept the pistol in his hand.
17 (18)
MARIUS’ TWO CHAIRS FACE EACH OTHER
JUST THEN the distant and melancholy vibration of a bell shook the windows. Six o‘clock struck on Saint Médard.
Jondrette marked each stroke with a nod of his head. At the sixth stroke, he snuffed the candle with his fingers.
Then he began to walk about the room, listened in the hall, walked, listened again: “Provided he comes!” muttered he; then he returned to his chair.
He had hardly sat down when the door opened.
The mother Jondrette had opened it, and stood in the hall making a horrible, amiable grimace, which was lighted up from beneath by one of the holes of the dark lantern.
“Come in,” said she.
“Come in, my benefactor,” repeated Jondrette, rising precipitately.
Monsieur Leblanc appeared.
He had an air of serenity which made him singularly venerable.
He laid four louis upon the table.
“Monsieur Fabantou,” said he, “that is for your rent and your pressing wants. We will see about the rest.”
“God reward you, my generous benefactor!” said Jondrette, and rapidly approaching his wife:
“Send away the fiacre!”
She slipped away, while her husband was lavishing bows and offering a chair to Monsieur Leblanc. A moment afterwards she came back and whispered in his ear:
“It is done.”
The snow which had been falling ever since morning, was so deep that they had not heard the fiacre arrive, and did not hear it go away.
Meanwhile Monsieur Leblanc had taken a seat.
Jondrette had taken possession of the other chair opposite Monsieur Leblanc.
Now, to form an idea of the scene which follows, let the reader call to mind the chilly night, the solitudes of La Salpêtrière covered with snow, and white in the moonlight, like immense shrouds, the flickering light of the street lamps here and there reddening these tragic boulevards and the long rows of black elms, not a passer-by perhaps within a mile around, the Gorbeau tenement at its deepest degree of silence, horror, and night, in that tenement, in the midst of these solitudes, in the midst of this darkness, the vast Jondrette garret lighted by a candle, and in this den two men seated at a table, Monsieur Leblanc tranquil, Jondrette smiling and terrible, his wife, the she-wolf, in a corner, and, behind the partition, Marius, invisible, alert, losing no word, missing no movement, his eye on the watch, the pistol in his grasp.
Marius, moreover, was experiencing nothing but an emotion of horror, not fear. He clasped the butt of the