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Marius was laid upon the back seat, and Javert seated him-
self 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 coach-
man, 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 droop-
ing 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
lantern, appeared to be turned lividly wan, as by an inter-
mittent flash of lightning, chance had united and seemed to
be bringing face to face the three forms of tragic immobil-
ity, the corpse, the spectre, and the statue.