exceedingly cold

DAY had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more-days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky-line and dip immediately from view.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle, undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hairline that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail--the main trail--that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.

stretch of woods

The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and mustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.
He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of rigger-heads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.

consciousness of a condition

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, traveling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded as he rubbed his numb nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.
At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolfdog, gray-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for traveling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take; a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.

automatically

The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at-the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.
Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.

in turn was covered

Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom,--no creek could contain water in that arctic winter,--but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice. half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.
That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected a while, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait.

turned to ice

In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. l his was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice-particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.

returning warmth

He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape being singed.

the generations of his ancestry

When the man had finished, be filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other hand, there was no keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whiplash and of harsh and menacing throat-sounds that threatened the whiplash. So, the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man, it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whiplashes and the dog swung in at the man's heel and followed after.

the tiniest dry twigs

The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, tee man broke through. It was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature--he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high-water deposit of dry firewood--sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last-year's grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred of birch bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.

followed upon the striking

At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too; far south an its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it arid Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was. pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but, instead struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating, He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wandered whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.

reached in his pocket

Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they
were passing through his mind. He made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open,
where no treacherous tree could blot it out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs
from the high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but
he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs and bits of
green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically,
even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered
strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in
its eyes, for it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire was slow in coming.
When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birch bark. He knew
the bark was there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its
crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And
all the time in his consciousness, was the knowledge that each instant his feet were
freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm.
He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his
hands with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do
it; and all the while the do,g sat in the snow, its wolf-brush of a tail curled around
warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man
And the man, as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great surge of envy as
he regarded the creature that was warm ant secure in its natural covering.

involving the whole tree

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his
mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in
the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on
the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs.
No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a
twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree--an imperceptible agitation, so far
as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the
tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them.
This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an
avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was
blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.
The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a
moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm.
Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would
have been in no danger now. The trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up to him
to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even if he
succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes His feet must be badly frozen by now, and
there would be some time before the second fire Was ready.

his numb fingers

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire
was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In
another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrier, and then he
could remove his wet toot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by
the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had
been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after
fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved
himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to
do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But
it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not
thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could
scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and
from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it.
The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising
life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice;
the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the moccasin
strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a
moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath
-knife.

his body chilled

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew
stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow,
pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the
flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is seventy-five below zero, a man must not
fail in his first attempt to build a fire--that is, if his feet are wet. If his feet are
dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation.
But the circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is
seventy-five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze the harder.
All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had told him about it the previous
fall, and now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his
feet. To build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had
quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the
surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of
the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he,
being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body
recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide
away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour, he
pumped that blood, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into the
recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze
the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to
freeze. Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it
lost its blood.

FANTINE HAPPY

She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself. That simple question, "And Cosette?" was put with so profound a faith, with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:--

"I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of celestial forms."

He raised his glance to the crucifix.

"But," she resumed, "tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place her on my bed against the moment of my waking?"

He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to recall.

Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his appearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.

"Calm yourself, my child," said the doctor; "your child is here."

the sense of duty

The satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean caused all that was in his soul to
appear in his countenance. The depths having been stirred up, mounted to the surface. The
humiliation of having, in some slight degree, lost the scent, and of having indulged, for a
few moments, in an error with regard to Champmathieu, was effaced by pride at having so well
and accurately divined in the first place, and of having for so long cherished a just
instinct. Javert's content shone forth in his sovereign attitude. The deformity of triumph
overspread that narrow brow. All the demonstrations of horror which a satisfied face can
afford were there.

Javert was in heaven at that moment. Without putting the thing clearly to himself, but with
a confused intuition of the necessity of his presence and of his success, he, Javert,
personified justice, light, and truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil.
Behind him and around him, at an infinite distance, he had authority, reason, the case
judged, the legal conscience, the public prosecution, all the stars; he was protecting
order, he was causing the law to yield up its thunders, he was avenging society, he was
lending a helping hand to the absolute, he was standing erect in the midst of a glory. There
existed in his victory a remnant of defiance and of combat. Erect, haughty, brilliant, he
flaunted abroad in open day the superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel. The terrible
shadow of the action which he was accomplishing caused the vague FLASH of the social sword
to be visible in his clenched fist; happy and indignant, he held his heel upon crime, vice,
rebellion, perdition, hell; he was radiant, he exterminated, he smiled, and there was an
incontestable grandeur in this monstrous Saint Michael.

Javert, though frightful, had nothing ignoble about him.

Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the sense of duty, are things which may become
hideous when wrongly directed; but which, even when hideous, remain grand: their majesty,
the majesty peculiar to the human conscience, clings to them in the midst of horror; they
are virtues which have one vice,--error. The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the full
flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance. Without himself
suspecting the fact, Javert in his formidable happiness was to be pitied, as is every
ignorant man who triumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face,
wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good.

on the point of dying

"No, sister, I must see her. I may, perhaps, be in haste."

The nun did not appear to notice this word "perhaps," which communicated an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor's speech. She replied, lowering her eyes and her voice respectfully:--

"In that case, she is asleep; but Monsieur le Maire may enter."

He made some remarks about a door which shut badly, and the noise of which might awaken the sick woman; then he entered Fantine's chamber, approached the bed and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep. Her breath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is peculiar to those maladies, and which breaks the hearts of mothers when they are watching through the night beside their sleeping child who is condemned to death. But this painful respiration hardly troubled a sort of ineffable serenity which overspread her countenance, and which transfigured her in her sleep. Her pallor had become whiteness; her cheeks were crimson; her long golden lashes, the only beauty of her youth and her virginity which remained to her, palpitated, though they remained closed and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an indescribable unfolding of wings, all ready to open wide and bear her away, which could be felt as they rustled, though they could not be seen. To see her thus, one would never have dreamed that she was an invalid whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather something on the point of soaring away than something on the point of dying.

The branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower, and seems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time. The human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives in which the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul.

M. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed, gazing in turn upon the sick woman and the crucifix, as he had done two months before, on the day when he had come for the first time to see her in that asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude-- she sleeping, he praying; only now, after the lapse of two months, her hair was gray and his was white.

The sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed, with his finger on his lips, as though there were some one in the chamber whom he must enjoin to silence.

She opened her eyes, saw him, and said quietly, with a smile:--

"And Cosette?"

Fantine's eyes

Fantine's eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped her hands with an
expression which contained all that is possible to prayer in the way of violence and
tenderness.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "bring her to me!"

Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little child who is carried.

"Not yet," said the doctor, "not just now. You still have some fever. The sight of your
child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be cured first."

She interrupted him impetuously:--

"But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that doctor is! The idea! I
want to see my child!"

"You see," said the doctor, "how excited you become. So long as you are in this state I
shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough to see her; it is necessary that you
should live for her. When you are reasonable, I will bring her to you myself."

two or three days

He uttered the word indifferently, and as though his mind were on something else.

The sister felt chilled by something strange of which she caught a glimpse in all this.

He inquired:--

"Can I see her?"

"Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her?" said the sister, hardly venturing to put the question.

"Of course; but it will take two or three days at least."

"If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time," went on the sister, timidly, "she would not know that Monsieur le Maire had returned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience; and when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact a lie."

M. Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments; then he said with his calm gravity:--

broad daylight

"Yes," responded the sister; "but now, Mr. Mayor, she will see you and will not see her child. What shall we say to her?"

He reflected for a moment.

"God will inspire us," said he.

"But we cannot tell a lie," murmured the sister, half aloud.

It was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full on M. Madeleine's face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it.

"Good God, sir!" she exclaimed; "what has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white!"

"White!" said he.

Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. M. Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said:--

"Well!"

me expressly from Montfermeil

The poor mother bowed her head.

"I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should never have spoken as
I have just done; so many misfortunes have happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what
I am saying. I understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like, but I
swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her; I
have not taken my eyes from her since yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to
me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should
desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly from Montfermeil? I am not
angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen white things, and
persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I
have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that there is nothing the
matter with me any more; but I am going to behave as though I were ill, and not stir, to
please these ladies here. When it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, `She must have
her child.'"

M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned towards him; she was making a
visible effort to be calm and "very good," as she expressed it in the feebleness of illness
which resembles infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no
difficulty about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she could not
refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.

"Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were to go and get her
for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas! she will not
recognize me. She must have forgotten me by this time, poor darling! Children have no
memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow,
and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those Thenardiers keep
her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such
questions as that to myself during all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I
am happy. Oh, how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le Maire? Is
not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that diligence! Could she not be
brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me;
you are the master; it could be so if you chose!"

A COUNTER-BLOW

CHAPTER I IN WHAT MIRROR M. MADELEINE CONTEMPLATES HIS HAIR



the day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and feverish night, filled with happy visions; at daybreak she fell asleep. Sister Simplice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona. The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending over her drugs and phials, and scrutinizing things very closely, on account of the dimness which the half-light of dawn spreads over all objects. Suddenly she raised her head and uttered a faint shriek. M. Madeleine stood before her; he had just entered silently.

"Is it you, Mr. Mayor?" she exclaimed.

He replied in a low voice:--

"How is that poor woman?"

"Not so bad just now; but we have been very uneasy."

She explained to him what had passed: that Fantine had been very ill the day before, and that she was better now, because she thought that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child. The sister dared not question the mayor; but she perceived plainly from his air that he had not come from there.

"All that is good," said he; "you were right not to undeceive her."

inquiring for the mayor

He had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighboring post for a corporal
and four soldiers, had left the soldiers in the courtyard, had had Fantine's room pointed
out to him by the portress, who was utterly unsuspicious, accustomed as she was to seeing
armed men inquiring for the mayor.

On arriving at Fantine's chamber, Javert turned the handle, pushed the door open with the
gentleness of a sick-nurse or a police spy, and entered.

Properly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in the half-open door, his hat on his
head and his left hand thrust into his coat, which was buttoned up to the chin. In the bend
of his elbow the leaden head of his enormous cane, which was hidden behind him, could be
seen.

Thus he remained for nearly a minute, without his presence being perceived. All at once
Fantine raised her eyes, saw him, and made M. Madeleine turn round.

The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glance, Javert, without stirring,
without moving from his post, without approaching him, became terrible. No human sentiment
can be as terrible as joy.

It was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul.

session of the court

The messenger himself was a very clever member of the police, who, in two words, informed
Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The order of arrest, signed by the district-
attorney, was couched in these words: "Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur
Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M., who, in this day's session of the court, was recognized as
the liberated convict, Jean Valjean."

Any one who did not know Javert, and who had chanced to see him at the moment when he
penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what had taken
place, and would have thought his air the most ordinary in the world. He was cool, calm,
grave, his gray hair was perfectly smooth upon his temples, and he had just mounted the
stairs with his habitual deliberation. Any one who was thoroughly acquainted with him, and
who had examined him attentively at the moment, would have shuddered. The buckle of his
leather stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape of his neck. This betrayed
unwonted agitation.

Javert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform;
methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of his coat.

That he should have set the buckle of his stock awry, it was indispensable that there should
have taken place in him one of those emotions which may be designated as internal
earthquakes.

sighing of

"One, two, three, four--she is seven years old. In five years she will have a white veil,
and openwork stockings; she will look like a little woman. O my good sister, you do not know
how foolish I become when I think of my daughter's first communion!"

She began to laugh.

He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one listens to the sighing of
the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind absorbed in reflection which had no
bottom. All at once she ceased speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically.
Fantine had become terrible.

She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to a sitting posture,
her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her face, which had been radiant but a moment
before, was ghastly, and she seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on
something alarming at the other extremity of the room.

"Good God!" he exclaimed; "what ails you, Fantine?"

She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which she seemed to see. She
removed one hand from his arm, and with the other made him a sign to look behind him.

He turned, and beheld Javert.

full speed

Immediately after Champmathieu had been set at liberty, the district-attorney shut himself
up with the President. They conferred "as to the necessity of seizing the person of M. Le
Maire of M. sur M." This phrase, in which there was a GREat deal of of, is the district-
attorney's, written with his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney-general.
His first emotion having passed off, the President did not offer many objections. Justice
must, after all, take its course. And then, when all was said, although the President was a
kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was, at the same time, a devoted and almost an
ardent royalist, and he had been shocked to hear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the Emperor, and
not Bonaparte, when alluding to the landing at Cannes.

The order for his arrest was accordingly despatched. The district-attorney forwarded it to
M. sur M. by a special messenger, at full speed, and entrusted its execution to Police
Inspector Javert.

The reader knows that Javert had returned to M. sur M. Immediately after having given his
deposition.

Javert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the order of arrest and the
command to produce the prisoner.

see my daughter

She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath, and began to listen
with rapture.

There was a child playing in the yard--the child of the portress or of some work-woman. It
was one of those accidents which are always occurring, and which seem to form a part of the
mysterious stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child--a little girl-- was going and
coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Alas! in what
are the plays of children not intermingled. It was this little girl whom Fantine heard
singing.

"Oh!" she resumed, "it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice."

The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine listened for a while
longer, then her face clouded over, and M. Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: "How
wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance,
that he has."

But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She continued to talk to
herself, with her head resting on the pillow: "How happy we are going to be! We shall have a
little garden the very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will
play in the garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell. She will
run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first
communion. Ah! When will she take her first communion?"

She began to reckon on her fingers.

Montfermeil is quite pretty

He took her hand. "Cosette is beautiful," he said, "Cosette is well. You shall see her soon;
but calm yourself; you are talking with too much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms
out from under the clothes, and that makes you cough."

In fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.

Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too passionate lamentations
the confidence which she was desirous of inspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent
things.

"Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are
the Thenardiers prosperous? There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs
is a sort of a cook-shop."

M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with anxiety; it was evident that
he had come to tell her things before which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having
finished his visit, retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them.

But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed:--

"I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!"

This is what had taken place

the half-hour after midnight had just struck when M. Madeleine quitted the Hall of Assizes
in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set out again by the mail-wagon, in which he
had engaged his place. A little before six o'clock in the morning he had arrived at M. Sur
M., and his first care had been to post a letter to M. Laffitte, then to enter the infirmary
and see Fantine.

However, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Assizes, when the district
-attorney, recovering from his first shock, had taken the word to deplore the mad deed of
the honorable mayor of M. sur M., to declare that his convictions had not been in the least
modified by that curious incident, which would be explained thereafter, and to demand, in
the meantime, the condemnation of that Champmathieu, who was evidently the real Jean
Valjean. The district-attorney's persistence was visibly at variance with the sentiments of
every one, of the public, of the court, and of the jury. The counsel for the defence had
some difficulty in refuting this harangue and in establishing that, in consequence of the
revelations of M. Madeleine, that is to say, of the real Jean Valjean, the aspect of the
matter had been thoroughly altered, and that the jury had before their eyes now only an
innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemas, not very fresh, unfortunately,
upon judicial errors, etc., etc.; the President, in his summing up, had joined the counsel
for the defence, and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champmathieu out of the case.

Nevertheless, the district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Valjean; and as he had no
longer Champmathieu, he took Madeleine.

The Elves

A shoemaker, through no fault of his own, had become so poor that he had only leather enough for a single pair of shoes. He cut them out one evening, then went to bed, intending to finish them the next morning. Having a clear conscience, he went to bed peacefully, commended himself to God, and fell asleep. The next morning, after saying his prayers, he was about to return to his work when he found the shoes on his workbench, completely finished. Amazed, he did not know what to say. He picked up the shoes in order to examine them more closely. They were so well made that not a single stitch was out of place, just as if they were intended as a masterpiece. A customer soon came by, and he liked the shoes so much that he paid more than the usual price for them.
　　The shoemaker now had enough money to buy leather for two pairs of shoes. That evening he cut them out, intending to continue his work the next morning with good cheer. But he did not need to do so, because when he got up they were already finished. Customers soon bought them, paying him enough that he now could buy leather for four pairs of shoes. Early the next morning he found the four pairs finished. And so it continued; whatever he cut out in the evening was always finished the following morning. He now had a respectable income and with time became a wealthy man.
At first the girl did not know what she should do, but finally they convinced her to accept. It would not be right, they said, to decline such an invitation.
　　Three elves came and led her to a hollow mountain where the little people lived. Everything there was small, but more ornate and splendid than can be described. The new mother was lying in a bed of ebony decorated with pearl buttons. The covers were embroidered with gold. The cradle was made of ivory, and the bathtub of gold. The girl stood in as godmother, and then wanted to go back home, but the elves asked her fervently to stay with them for three days. She to do so, and the time passed pleasantly and joyfully. The little people did everything to make her happy.
　　Finally she wanted to return home. They filled her pockets with gold and led her outside the mountain. She arrived home. Wanting to begin her work, she picked up the broom that was still standing in the corner and started to sweep. Then some strange people came out of the house and asked her who she was and what she was doing there. It was not three days, as she thought, that she had spent in the mountain with the little men, but rather seven years. In the meantime her former employers had died.

How I Learn Chinese

Over the years I’ve gotten quite a few questions about this to learn chinese, so I thought I’d write a series of entries that explain everything. I’d like to stress from the beginning that the method I used is not going to work for everybody. It’s not “the right method.” It’s simply the method I used. This post will focus on my formal education in the States.

I decided to start learning Chinese while I was an exchange student in Japan. When I went to Japan I was still a microbiology major. I had to write an essay about why I wanted to go to Japan in order to get into the program, and among my reasons I listed all the advances the Japanese were making in biotechnology, which led to my belief that knowing Japanese would help me as a scientist. It was while I was in Japan that I decided I would abandon microbiology altogether to go the linguistics route. At that point I made a lot of practical decisions which would set the course that I’m still on now.

I don’t remember what all the stimuli were for the decisions I made that night, but I recall vividly the intense excitement for my new course of action. That high made me surer than I’d ever been about what career path I wanted to take.

The important thing was that I knew before I went to China what my weaknesses were. I didn’t realize how profoundly those weaknesses would impact my attempts at communication. But more on that in the next post in this series.

Fortunately I found the chinese-online by chance. It’s never too late to learn a novel study meothod. Via the means of learn chinese online, my spoken Chinese were improved greatly. Great thanks to Chinese Online!