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other that of himself.
At what solution should he arrive? What decision did he
come to?
What resolution did he take? What was his own inward
definitive response to the unbribable interrogatory of fatal-
ity? What door did he decide to open? Which side of his life
did he resolve upon closing and condemning? Among all
the unfathomable precipices which surrounded him, which
was his choice? What extremity did he accept? To which of
the gulfs did he nod his head?
His dizzy revery lasted all night long.
He remained there until daylight, in the same attitude,
bent double over that bed, prostrate beneath the enormity
of fate, crushed, perchance, alas! with clenched fists, with
arms outspread at right angles, like a man crucified who has
been un-nailed, and flung face down on the earth. There he
remained for twelve hours, the twelve long hours of a long
winter’s night, ice-cold, without once raising his head, and
without uttering a word. He was as motionless as a corpse,
while his thoughts wallowed on the earth and soared, now
like the hydra, now like the eagle. Any one to behold him
thus motionless would have pronounced him dead; all at
once he shuddered convulsively, and his mouth, glued to
Cosette’s garments, kissed them; then it could be seen that
he was alive.
Who could see? Since Jean Valjean was alone, and there
was no one there.
The One who is in the shadows.