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we must again insist that he knew nothing of that frightful
drain which he was traversing; and had any one asked him
in what he was, he would have answered: ‘In the night.’
His instinct served him well. To descend was, in fact,
possible safety.
He left on his right the two narrow passages which
branch out in the form of a claw under the Rue Laffitte and
the Rue Saint-Georges and the long, bifurcated corridor of
the Chaussee d’Antin.
A little beyond an affluent, which was, probably, the Mad-
eleine branch, he halted. He was extremely weary. A passably
large air-hole, probably the man-hole in the Rue d’Anjou,
furnished a light that was almost vivid. Jean Valjean, with
the gentleness of movement which a brother would exer-
cise towards his wounded brother, deposited Marius on
the banquette of the sewer. Marius’ blood-stained face ap-
peared under the wan light of the air-hole like the ashes at
the bottom of a tomb. His eyes were closed, his hair was
plastered down on his temples like a painter’s brushes dried
in red wash; his hands hung limp and dead. A clot of blood
had collected in the knot of his cravat; his limbs were cold,
and blood was clotted at the corners of his mouth; his shirt
had thrust itself into his wounds, the cloth of his coat was
chafing the yawning gashes in the living flesh. Jean Valjean,
pushing aside the garments with the tips of his fingers, laid
his hand upon Marius’ breast; his heart was still beating.
Jean Valjean tore up his shirt, bandaged the young man’s
wounds as well as he was able and stopped the flowing
blood; then bending over Marius, who still lay unconscious