2398 Les Miserables
‘He will die,’ said the porter.
The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she
called her pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out
the blades, she grumbled:
‘It’s a shame. Such a neat old man! He’s as white as a
chicken.’
She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed
the end of the street; she took it upon herself to request him
to come up stairs.
‘It’s on the second floor,’ said she. ‘You have only to enter.
As the good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is
always unlocked.’
The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.
When he came down again the portress interrogated
him:
‘Well, doctor?’
‘Your sick man is very ill indeed.’
‘What is the matter with him?’
‘Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appear-
ances, has lost some person who is dear to him. People die
of that.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘He told me that he was in good health.’
‘Shall you come again, doctor?’
‘Yes,’ replied the doctor. ‘But some one else besides must
come.’