408 Les Miserables
‘I, Monsieur le Maire.’
He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his
portress.
‘Well!’ he replied, ‘what is it?’
‘Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o’clock in the morning.’
‘What is that to me?’
‘The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.’
‘What cabriolet?’
‘The tilbury.’
‘What tilbury?’
‘Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?’
‘No,’ said he.
‘The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le
Ma ire.’
‘What coachman?’
‘M. Scaufflaire’s coachman.’
‘M. Scaufflaire?’
That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of
lightning had passed in front of his face.
‘Ah! yes,’ he resumed; ‘M. Scaufflaire!’
If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she
would have been frightened.
A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame
of the candle with a stupid air, and from around the wick he
took some of the burning wax, which he rolled between his
fingers. The old woman waited for him. She even ventured to
uplift her voice once more:—
‘What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?’
‘Say that it is well, and that I am coming down.’