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complain of some one.
He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection, in
which sorrow no longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak;
there is something on the soul like a clot of despair.
Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the
old arm-chair to the fireside, and placed upon the table a
pen, some ink and some paper.
That done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered con-
sciousness, he was thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he
tipped it over painfully towards his mouth, and swallowed
a draught.
As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long
time, the point of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried
away, he was forced to rise and put a few drops of water in
the ink, which he did not accomplish without pausing and
sitting down two or three times, and he was compelled to
write with the back of the pen. He wiped his brow from time
to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he
could not stand, he gazed at the little black gown and all
those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed
minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking
possession of him; he rested his elbows on the table, which
was illuminated by the Bishop’s candles and took up the
pen. His hand trembled. He wrote slowly the few follow-
ing lines:
‘Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy