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light of the air-hole died out ten or twelve paces from the
point where Jean Valjean stood, and barely cast a wan pallor
on a few metres of the damp walls of the sewer. Beyond, the
opaqueness was massive; to penetrate thither seemed horri-
ble, an entrance into it appeared like an engulfment. A man
could, however, plunge into that wall of fog and it was nec-
essary so to do. Haste was even requisite. It occurred to Jean
Valjean that the grating which he had caught sight of under
the flag-stones might also catch the eye of the soldiery, and
that everything hung upon this chance. They also might de-
scend into that well and search it. There was not a minute to
be lost. He had deposited Marius on the ground, he picked
him up again,— that is the real word for it,—placed him on
his shoulders once more, and set out. He plunged resolutely
into the gloom.
The truth is, that they were less safe than Jean Valjean
fancied. Perils of another sort and no less serious were
awaiting them, perchance. After the lightning-charged
whirlwind of the combat, the cavern of miasmas and traps;
after chaos, the sewer. Jean Valjean had fallen from one cir-
cle of hell into another.
When he had advanced fifty paces, he was obliged to
halt. A problem presented itself. The passage terminated in
another gut which he encountered across his path. There
two ways presented themselves. Which should he take?
Ought he to turn to the left or to the right? How was he to
find his bearings in that black labyrinth? This labyrinth, to
which we have already called the reader’s attention, has a
clue, which is its slope. To follow to the slope is to arrive at