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and have begun again at midday, and my ‘good morning’
would have lied, and my ‘good night’ would have lied, and
I should have slept on it, I should have eaten it, with my
bread, and I should have looked Cosette in the face, and I
should have responded to the smile of the angel by the smile
of the damned soul, and I should have been an abominable
villain! Why should I do it? in order to be happy. In order
to be happy. Have I the right to be happy? I stand outside of
life, Sir.’
Jean Valjean paused. Marius listened. Such chains of
ideas and of anguishes cannot be interrupted. Jean Valjean
lowered his voice once more, but it was no longer a dull
voice—it was a sinister voice.
‘You ask why I speak? I am neither denounced, nor pur-
sued, nor tracked, you say. Yes! I am denounced! yes! I am
tracked! By whom? By myself. It is I who bar the passage to
myself, and I drag myself, and I push myself, and I arrest
myself, and I execute myself, and when one holds oneself,
one is firmly held.’
And, seizing a handful of his own coat by the nape of the
neck and extending it towards Marius:
‘Do you see that fist?’ he continued. ‘Don’t you think
that it holds that collar in such a wise as not to release it?
Well! conscience is another grasp! If one desires to be hap-
py, sir, one must never understand duty; for, as soon as one
has comprehended it, it is implacable. One would say that it
punished you for comprehending it; but no, it rewards you;
for it places you in a hell, where you feel God beside you.
One has no sooner lacerated his own entrails than he is at