tures for eternity.

In the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended, ecstasy
was still possible to him when gazing at Cosette. The reflection of that
sweet face lighted up his pale visage.

The doctor felt of his pulse.

"Ah! it was you that he wanted!" he murmured, looking at Cosette and
Marius.

And bending down to Marius' ear, he added in a very low voice:

"Too late."

Jean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenely, almost without
ceasing to gaze at Cosette.

These barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth:

"It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live."

All at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength are
sometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked with a firm step to
the wall, thrusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried to help him,
detached from the wall a little copper crucifix which was suspended
there, and returned to his seat with all the freedom of movement of
perfect health, and said in a loud voice, as he laid the crucifix on the
table:

"Behold the great martyr."

Then his chest sank in, his head wavered, as though the intoxication of
the tomb were seizing hold upon him.

His hands, which rested on his knees, began to press their nails into
the stuff of his trousers.

Cosette supported his shoulders, and sobbed, and tried to speak to him,
but could not.

Among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies
tears, they distinguished words like the following:

"Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you only to
lose you again?"

It might be said that agony writhes. It goes, comes, advances towards
the sepulchre, and returns towards life. There is groping in the action
of dying.

Jean Valjean rallied after this semi-swoon, shook his brow as though
to make the shadows fall away from it and became almost perfectly lucid
once more.

He took a fold of Cosette's sleeve and kissed it.

"He is coming back! doctor, he is coming back," cried Marius.

"You are good, both of you," said Jean Valjean. "I am going to tell you
what has caused me pain. What has pained me, Monsieur Pontmercy, is that
you have not been willing to touch that money. That money really belongs
to your wife. I will explain to you, my children, and for that reason,
also, I am glad to see you. Black jet comes from England, white jet
comes from Norway. All this is in this paper, which you will read. For
bracelets, I invente