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under the armpits, and the coachman under the knees.
As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand
under the latter’s clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his
breast, and assured himself that his heart was still beating. It
was even beating a little less feebly, as though the movement
of the carriage had brought about a certain fresh access of
life.
Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the govern-
ment, and the presence of the porter of a factious person.
‘Some person whose name is Gillenormand?’
‘Here. What do you want with him?’
‘His son is brought back.’
‘His son?’ said the porter stupidly.
‘He is dead.’
Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Jav-
ert, and whom the porter was surveying with some horror,
made a sign to him with his head that this was not so.
The porter did not appear to understand either Javert’s
words or Jean Valjean’s sign.
Javert continued:
‘He went to the barricade, and here he is.’
‘To the barricade?’ ejaculated the porter.
‘He has got himself killed. Go waken his father.’
The porter did not stir.
‘Go along with you!’ repeated Javert.
And he added:
‘There will be a funeral here to-morrow.’
For Javert, the usual incidents of the public highway were
categorically classed, which is the beginning of foresight and