At every jolt over the pavement, a drop of blood trickled from Marius’ hair. Night had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.
Javert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance of the number on the carriage gate, and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten iron, embellished in the old style, with a male goat and a satyr confronting each other, he gave a violent peal.
The gate opened a little way and Javert gave it a push. The porter half made his appearance yawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in his hand. Everyone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in the Marais, especially on days when there is a revolt.
This good, old quarter, terrified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber, as children, when they hear the Bugaboo coming, hide their heads hastily under their coverlet.
In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius out of the carriage, Jean Valjean supporting him under the armpits, and the coachman under the knees.
As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand under the latter’s clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his breast, and assured himself that his heart was still beating.
It was even beating a little less feebly, as though the movement of the carriage had brought about a certain fresh access of life. Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government, and the presence of the porter of a factious person. 'Some person whose name is Gillenormand?
' 'Here. What do you want with him? ' 'His son is brought back. ' 'His son? ' said the porter stupidly. 'He is dead. ' Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Javert, and whom the porter was surveying with some horror,