Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing, but the only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her.
She could not endure that terrible face; she felt her life quitting her; she hid her face in both hands, and shrieked in her anguish:— 'Monsieur Madeleine, save me! ' Jean Valjean—we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise—had risen.
He said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices:— 'Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come. ' Then he addressed Javert, and said:— 'I know what you want. ' Javert replied:— 'Be quick about it!
' There lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, 'Be quick about it! ' he said 'Bequiabouit.
' No orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered: it was no longer a human word: it was a roar. He did not proceed according to his custom, he did not enter into the matter, he exhibited no warrant of arrest.
In his eyes, Jean Valjean was a sort of mysterious combatant, who was not to be laid hands upon, a wrestler in the dark whom he had had in his grasp for the last five years, without being able to throw him.
This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying, 'Be quick about it!
' As he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step; he hurled at Jean Valjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook, and with which he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him. It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very