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he had hired Scaufflaire’s cabriolet: that, whatever the result
was to be, there was no reason why he should not see with
his own eyes, and judge of matters for himself; that this was
even prudent; that he must know what took place; that no
decision could be arrived at without having observed and
scrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything
from a distance; that, at any rate, when he should have seen
that Champmathieu, some wretch, his conscience would
probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the gal-
leys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there; and that
Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Cochepaille, old convicts who
had known him; but they certainly would not recognize
him;—bah! what an idea! that Javert was a hundred leagues
from suspecting the truth; that all conjectures and all sup-
positions were fixed on Champmathieu, and that there is
nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures; that
accordingly there was no danger.
That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should
emerge from it; that, after all, he held his destiny, however
bad it might be, in his own hand; that he was master of it.
He clung to this thought.
At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have pre-
ferred not to go to Arras.
Nevertheless, he was going thither.
As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was
proceeding at that fine, regular, and even trot which accom-
plishes two leagues and a half an hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt some-
thing within him draw back.