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which are sparely illuminated, which adds to horror.
Jean Valjean often said afterwards, that, although many
funereal spectres had crossed his path in life, he had never
beheld anything more blood-curdling and terrible than that
enigmatical form accomplishing some inexplicable mystery
in that gloomy place, and beheld thus at night. It was alarm-
ing to suppose that that thing was perhaps dead; and still
more alarming to think that it was perhaps alive.
He had the courage to plaster his face to the glass, and
to watch whether the thing would move. In spite of his re-
maining thus what seemed to him a very long time, the
outstretched form made no movement. All at once he felt
himself overpowered by an inexpressible terror, and he fled.
He began to run towards the shed, not daring to look be-
hind him. It seemed to him, that if he turned his head, he
should see that form following him with great strides and
waving its arms.
He reached the ruin all out of breath. His knees were giv-
ing way beneath him; the perspiration was pouring from
him.
Where was he? Who could ever have imagined any-
thing like that sort of sepulchre in the midst of Paris! What
was this strange house? An edifice full of nocturnal mys-
tery, calling to souls through the darkness with the voice
of angels, and when they came, offering them abruptly that
terrible vision; promising to open the radiant portals of
heaven, and then opening the horrible gates of the tomb!
And it actually was an edifice, a house, which bore a num-
ber on the street! It was not a dream! He had to touch the