Part 5 Book 7 Chapter 2 The Obscurities Which a Revelation C
Marius was quite upset.
The sort of estrangement which he had always felt towards the man beside whom he had seen Cosette, was now explained to him. There was something enigmatic about that person, of which his instinct had warned him.
This enigma was the most hideous of disgraces, the galleys. This M. Fauchelevent was the convict Jean Valjean.
To abruptly find such a secret in the midst of one's happiness resembles the discovery of a scorpion in a nest of turtledoves.
Was the happiness of Marius and Cosette thenceforth condemned to such a neighborhood? Was this an accomplished fact? Did the acceptance of that man form a part of the marriage now consummated? Was there nothing to be done?
Had Marius wedded the convict as well?
In vain may one be crowned with light and joy, in vain may one taste the grand purple hour of life, happy love, such shocks would force even the archangel in his ecstasy, even the demigod in his glory, to shudder.
As is always the case in changes of view of this nature, Marius asked himself whether he had nothing with which to reproach himself. Had he been wanting in divination? Had he been wanting in prudence? Had he involuntarily dulled his wits? A little, perhaps. Had he entered upon this love affair, which had ended in his marriage to Cosette, without taking sufficient precautions to throw light upon the surroundings? He admitted,--it is thus, by a series of successive admissions of ourselves in regard to ourselves, that life amends us, little by little,--he admitted the chimerical and visionary side of his nature, a sort of internal cloud peculiar to many organizations, and which, in paroxysms of passion and sorrow, dilates as the temperature of the soul changes, and invades the entire man, to such a degree as to render him nothing more than a conscience bathed in a mist. We have more than once indicated this characteristic element of Marius' individuality.
He recalled that, in the intoxication of his love, in the Rue Plumet, during those six or seven ecstatic weeks, he had not even spoke to Cosette of that drama in the Gorbeau hovel, where the victim had taken up such a singular line of silence during the struggle and the ensuing flight. How had it happened that he had not mentioned this to Cosette? Yet it was so near and so terrible! How had it come to pass that he had not even named the Thenardiers, and, particularly, on the day when he had encountered Eponine? He now found it almost difficult to explain his silence of that time. Nevertheless, he could account for it. He recalled his benumbed state, his intoxication with Cosette, love absorbing everything, that catching away of each other into the ideal, and perhaps also, like the imperceptible quantity of reason mingled with this violent and charming state of the soul, a vague, dull instinct impelling him to conceal and abolish in his memory that redoubtable adventure, contact with which he dreaded, in which he did not wish to play ny part, his agency in which he had kept secret, and in which he could be neither narrator nor witness without being an accuser.
Moreover, these few weeks had been a flash of lightning; there had been no time for anything except love.
In short, having weighed everything, turned everything over in his mind, examined everything, whatever might have been the consequences if he had told Cosette about the Gorbeau ambush, even if he had discovered that Jean Valjean was a convict, would that have changed him, Marius? Would that have changed her, Cosette? Would he have drawn back? Would he have adored her any the less? Would he have refrained from marrying her? No. Then there was nothing to regret, nothing with which he need reproach himself. All was well. There is a deity for those drunken men who are called lovers. Marius blind, had followed the path which he would have chosen had he been in full possession of his sight. Love had bandaged his eyes, in order to lead him whither? To paradise.
But this paradise was henceforth complicated with an infernal accompaniment.
Marius' ancient estrangement towards this man, towards this Fauchelevent who had turned into Jean Valjean, was at present mingled with horror.
In this horror, let us state, there was some pity, and even a certain surprise.
This thief, this thief guilty of a second offence, had restored that deposit. And what a deposit! Six hundred thousand francs.
He alone was in the secret of that deposit. He might have kept it all, he had restored it all.
Moreover, he had himself revealed his situation. Nothing forced him to this. If any one learned who he was, it was through himself. In this avowal there was something more than acceptance of humiliation, there was acceptance of peril. For a condemned man, a mask is not a mask, it is a shelter. A false name is security, and he had rejected that false name. He, the galley-slave, might have hidden himself forever in an honest family; he had withstood this temptation. And with what motive? Through a conscientious scruple. He himself explained this with the irresistible accents of truth. In short, whatever this Jean Valjean might be, he was, undoubtedly, a conscience which was awakening. There existed some mysterious re-habilitation which had begun; and, to all appearances, scruples had for a long time already controlled this man. Such fits of justice and goodness are not characteristic of vulgar natures. An awakening of conscience is grandeur of soul.
Jean Valjean was sincere. This sincerity, visible, palpable, irrefragable, evident from the very grief that it caused him, rendered inquiries useless, and conferred authority on all that that man had said.
Here, for Marius, there was a strange reversal of situations. What breathed from M. Fauchelevent? distrust. What did Jean Valjean inspire? Confidence.
In the mysterious balance of this Jean Valjean which the pensive Marius struck, he admitted the active principle, he admitted the passive principle, and he tried to reach a balance.
But all this went on as in a storm. Marius, while endeavoring to form a clear idea of this man, and while pursuing Jean Valjean, so to speak, in the depths of his thought, lost him and found him again in a fatal mist.
The deposit honestly restored, the probity of the confession-- these were good. This produced a lightening of the cloud, then the cloud became black once more.
Troubled as were Marius' memories, a shadow of them returned to him.
After all, what was that adventure in the Jondrette attic? Why had that man taken to flight on the arrival of the police, instead of entering a complaint?
Here Marius found the answer. Because that man was a fugitive from justice, who had broken his ban.
Another question: Why had that man come to the barricade?
For Marius now once more distinctly beheld that recollection which had re-appeared in his emotions like sympathetic ink at the application of heat. This man had been in the barricade. He had not fought there. What had he come there for? In the presence of this question a spectre sprang up and replied: "Javert."
Marius recalled perfectly now that funereal sight of Jean Valjean dragging the pinioned Javert out of the barricade, and he still heard behind the corner of the little Rue Mondetour that frightful pistol shot. Obviously, there was hatred between that police spy and the galley-slave.The one was in the other's way. Jean Valjean had gone to the barricade for the purpose of revenging himself. He had arrived late. He probably knew that Javert was a prisoner there.The Corsican vendetta has penetrated to certain lower strata and has become the law there; it is so simple that it does not astonish souls which are but half turned towards good; and those hearts are so constituted that a criminal, who is in the path of repentance, may be scrupulous in the matter of theft and unscrupulous in the matter of vengeance. Jean Valjean had killed Javert. At least, that seemed to be evident.
This was the final question, to be sure; but to this there was no reply. This question Marius felt like pincers. How had it come to pass that Jean Valjean's existence had elbowed that of Cosette for so long a period?
What melancholy sport of Providence was that which had placed that child in contact with that man? Are there then chains for two which are forged on high? And does God take pleasure in coupling the angel with the demon? So a crime and an innocence can be room-mates in the mysterious galleys of wretchedness? In that defiling of condemned persons which is called human destiny, can two brows pass side by side, the one ingenuous, the other formidable, the one all bathed in the divine whiteness of dawn, the other forever blemished by the flash of an eternal lightning? Who could have arranged that inexplicable pairing off? In what manner, in consequence of what prodigy, had any community of life been established between this celestial little creature and that old criminal?
Who could have bound the lamb to the wolf, and, what was still more incomprehensible, have attached the wolf to the lamb? For the wolf loved the lamb, for the fierce creature adored the feeble one, for, during the space of nine years, the angel had had the monster as her point of support. Cosette's childhood and girlhood, her advent in the daylight, her virginal growth towards life and light, had been sheltered by that hideous devotion. Here questions exfoliated, so to speak, into innumerable enigmas, abysses yawned at the bottoms of abysses, and Marius could no longer bend over Jean Valjean without becoming dizzy. What was this man-precipice?
The old symbols of Genesis are eternal; in human society, such as it now exists, and until a broader day shall effect a change in it, there will always be two men, the one superior, the other subterranean; the one which is according to good is Abel; the other which is according to evil is Cain. What was this tender Cain? What was this ruffian religiously absorbed in the adoration of a virgin, watching over her, rearing her, guarding her, dignifying her, and enveloping her, impure as he was himself, with purity?
What was that cess-pool which had venerated that innocence to such a point as not to leave upon it a single spot? What was this Jean Valjean educating Cosette? What was this figure of the shadows which had for its only object the preservation of the rising of a star from every shadow and from every cloud?
That was Jean Valjean's secret; that was also God's secret.
In the presence of this double secret, Marius recoiled. The one, in some sort, reassured him as to the other. God was as visible in this affair as was Jean Valjean. God has his instruments. He makes use of the tool which he wills. He is not responsible to men. Do we know how God sets about the work? Jean Valjean had labored over Cosette. He had, to some extent, made that soul. That was incontestable. Well, what then? The workman was horrible; but the work was admirable. God produces his miracles as seems good to him. He had constructed that charming Cosette, and he had employed Jean Valjean. It had pleased him to choose this strange collaborator for himself. What account have we to demand of him? Is this the first time that the dung-heap has aided the spring to create the rose?
Marius made himself these replies, and declared to himself that they were good. He had not dared to press Jean Valjean on all the points which we have just indicated, but he did not confess to himself that he did not dare to do it. He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette, Cosette was splendidly pure. That was sufficient for him. What enlightenment did he need? Cosette was a light. Does light require enlightenment? He had everything; what more could he desire? All,-- Xis not that enough? Jean Valjean's personal affairs did not concern him.
And bending over the fatal shadow of that man, he clung fast, convulsively, to the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch: "I am nothing to Cosette. Ten years ago I did not know that she was in existence."
Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed. Whatever he was, his part was finished.
Henceforth, there remained Marius to fulfil the part of Providence to Cosette. Cosette had sought the azure in a person like herself, in her lover, her husband, her celestial male. Cosette, as she took her flight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her hideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.
In whatever circle of ideas Marius revolved, he always returned to a certain horror for Jean Valjean. A sacred horror, perhaps, for, as we have just pointed out, he felt a quid divinum in that man. But do what he would, and seek what extenuation he would, he was certainly forced to fall back upon this: the man was a convict; that is to say, a being who has not even a place in the social ladder, since he is lower than the very lowest rung. After the very last of men comes the convict. The convict is no longer, so to speak, in the semblance of the living. The law has deprived him of the entire quantity of humanity of which it can deprive a man.
Marius, on penal questions, still held to the inexorable system, though he was a democrat and he entertained all the ideas of the law on the subject of those whom the law strikes. He had not yet accomplished all progress, we admit. He had not yet come to distinguish between that which is written by man and that which is written by God, between law and right. He had not examined and weighed the right which man takes to dispose of the irrevocable and the irreparable. He was not shocked by the word vindicte. He found it quite simple that certain breaches of the written law should be followed by eternal suffering, and he accepted, as the process of Xivilization, social damnation. He still stood at this point, though safe to advance infallibly later on, since his nature was good, and, at bottom, wholly formed of latent progress.
In this stage of his ideas, Jean Valjean appeared to him hideous and repulsive. He was a man reproved, he was the convict. That word was for him like the sound of the trump on the Day of Judgment; and, after having reflected upon Jean Valjean for a long time, his final gesture had been to turn away his head. Vade retro.
Marius, if we must recognize and even insist upon the fact, while interrogating Jean Valjean to such a point that Jean Valjean had said: "You are confessing me," had not, nevertheless, put to him two or three decisive questions.
It was not that they had not presented themselves to his mind, but that he had been afraid of them. The Jondrette attic? The barricade? Javert? Who knows where these revelations would have stopped? Jean Valjean did not seem like a man who would draw back, and who knows whether Marius, after having urged him on, would not have himself desired to hold him back?
Has it not happened to all of us, in certain supreme conjunctures, to stop our ears in order that we may not hear the reply, after we have asked a question? It is especially when one loves that one gives way to these exhibitions of cowardice. It is not wise to question sinister situations to the last point, particularly when the indissoluble side of our life is fatally intermingled with them. What a terrible light might have proceeded from the despairing explanations of Jean Valjean, and who knows whether that hideous glare would not have darted forth as far as Cosette? Who knows whether a sort of infernal glow would not have lingered behind it on the brow of that angel? The spattering of a lightning-flash is of the thunder also. Fatality has points of juncture where innocence itself is stamped with crime by the gloomy law of the reflections which give color. The purest figures may forever preserve the reflection of a horrible association. Rightly or wrongly, Marius had been afraid. He already knew too much. He sought to dull his senses rather than to gain further light.
In dismay he bore off Cosette in his arms and shut his eyes to Jean Valjean.
That man was the night, the living and horrible night. How should he dare to seek the bottom of it? It is a terrible thing to interrogate the shadow. Who knows what its reply will be? The dawn may be blackened forever by it.
In this state of mind the thought that that man would, henceforth, come into any contact whatever with Cosette was a heartrending perplexity to Marius.
He now almost reproached himself for not having put those formidable questions, before which he had recoiled, and from which an implacable and definitive decision might have sprung.He felt that he was too good, too gentle, too weak, if we must say the word.This weakness had led him to an imprudent concession. He had allowed himself to be touched. He had been in the wrong. He ought to have simply and purely rejected Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean played the part of fire, and that is what he should have done, and have freed his house from that man.
He was vexed with himself, he was angry with that whirlwind of emotions which had deafened, blinded, and carried him away. He was displeased with himself.
What was he to do now? Jean Valjean's visits were profoundly repugnant to him. What was the use in having that man in his house? What did the man want? Here, he became dismayed, he did not wish to dig down, he did not wish to penetrate deeply; he did not wish to sound himself. He had promised, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a promise; Jean Valjean held his promise; one must keep one's word even to a convict, above all to a convict. Still, his first duty was to Cosette. In short, he was carried away by the repugnance which dominated him.
Marius turned over all this confusion of ideas in his mind, passing from one to the other, and moved by all of them. Hence arose a profound trouble.
It was not easy for him to hide this trouble from Cosette, but love is a talent, and Marius succeeded in doing it.
However, without any apparent object, he questioned Cosette, who was as candid as a dove is white and who suspected nothing; he talked of her childhood and her youth, and he became more and more convinced that that convict had been everything good, paternal and respectable that a man can be towards Cosette. All that Marius had caught a glimpse of and had surmised was real. That sinister nettle had loved and protected that lily.
马吕斯的心里乱极了。
对珂赛特身旁的这人他为什么一直都有着反感，从此就得到了解释，他的本能使他察觉到这人有着一种不知怎样的谜，这个谜，就是最丑的耻辱棗苦役。割风先生就是苦役犯冉阿让。
在他的幸福中突然发现这样一个秘密，正如在斑鸠巢中发现了一只蝎子。
马吕斯和珂赛特的幸福是否从此就得和这人有关？这是否是一个既成的事实？接纳这个人是已缔结婚姻的一个部分？
是否已毫无办法了？
难道马吕斯也娶了这个苦役犯？
尽管头上戴着光明和欢乐的冠冕，尽管在享受一生中黄金时刻的美满爱情，遇到这种打击，即使是欢欣得出神的天使，或是在荣光中神化的人也会被迫战栗起来。
马吕斯扪心自问，是否应归咎自己？这是一个人在这种突然的彻底改变时经常产生的现象。他是否缺少预见？是否太不谨慎？是否无意中鲁莽从事？可能有一点。他是否不够小心，没有把四周的情况了解清楚，就一头钻进这个以和珂赛特结婚告终的爱情故事里？他察觉到，经过一系列的自我观察，生活就是如此一点一点地把我们矫正过来；他察觉到，他的性情具有妄想和梦幻的一面，内在的烟雾是很多体质的特征，当恋爱和痛苦达到极端时，它就扩大了，心灵的温度变了，烟雾就侵占全身，使他只能有一个混沌的意识。我们不止一次地指出过马吕斯个性中这样一种独特的成分。他回想起在卜吕梅街当他陶醉在恋爱中时，在那心醉神迷的六七个星期里，他竟没有向珂赛特提起过戈尔博破屋中那谜一样的悲剧，其中的受害人在斗争里古怪地坚持缄默，后来又潜逃了。他怎么一点也没有向珂赛特谈到？而这是不久前发生的，又是这样骇人！怎么他连德纳第的名字也没有向她提过，尤其是当他遇到爱潘妮的那一天？现在他几乎无法理解他当时的沉默。其实他是意识到的。他想起当时他昏头昏脑，他为珂赛特而感到陶醉，爱情淹没了一切，彼此都陶醉在理想的境界中，也可能有那么一点不易察觉的理智混入了这强烈而又迷人的心境中，有一个模糊的隐隐约约的本能，想隐瞒消除记忆中他害怕接触的这一可怕的遭遇，他不愿在里面担任任何角色，他逃避这件事，他不能既当这件事的叙述者或证明人而同时又不成为揭发人。何况这几个星期一闪就过去了；除了相亲相爱之外，无暇他顾。最后他把一切衡量了一下，在反复检查思考之后，他认为即使他把戈尔博的埋伏绑架案告诉珂赛特，向她提出了德纳第的名字，其后果又该如何呢？即使他发现了冉阿让是一个苦役犯，这样能使自己发生变化吗？会使珂赛特发生变化吗？他是否会退缩？他是否会对珂赛特爱得少一点？他是否会不娶她？不会。这些对已经做了的事会有一点改变吗？不会。因此没有什么可后悔的，没有什么可自责的。一切都很好。这些被称作情人的陶醉者有一个上帝护卫着他们。盲目的马吕斯遵循了一条他清醒时也会选择的路。爱情蒙住了他的眼睛，把他带到什么地方去了呢？带进了天堂。
但这个天堂由于有地狱相随，从此变得复杂了。
过去马吕斯对这个人，这个变成冉阿让的割风的反感现在则又夹杂了厌恶。
在这厌恶中，我们可以说，也有点同情，甚至还有一定的惊奇的成分。
这个盗贼，这个惯犯，归还了一笔款子。一笔什么样的款子？六十万法郎。他是惟一知道这笔钱的秘密的人。他本可全部留下，但他却全部归还了。
此外，他自动暴露了他的身分。没有什么来迫使他暴露。如果有人知道他的底细，那也是由于他自己。他承认了，不仅要忍受耻辱，还要准备灾难临头。对判了刑的人来说，一个假面具不是假面具，而是一个避难所。他拒绝了这个避难所。一个假姓名意味着安全，但他抛弃了这个假姓名。他这个苦役犯尽可永远藏身在一个清白的人家；但他拒绝了这种诱惑。出自什么动机？出自良心的不安。他自己已用无法抑制的真实语气阐述了。总之，不论这冉阿让是个什么样的人，他肯定是个对良心悔悟的人。他心里开始有一种不知什么样的神秘的要重新做人的要求；而且，根据一切现象来看，在很久以前良心上的不安就已支配着这个人。这样极端公正和善良的心是不属于庸俗的人的。良心的觉醒就是灵魂的伟大。
冉阿让是诚实的。这种诚实看得见，摸得到，无可怀疑，单凭他付出的痛苦代价就足以证明，因而一切查问都已没有必要，可以绝对相信这个人所说的一切。这时，对马吕斯来说，位置是古怪地颠倒过来了。割风先生使人产生什么感觉？怀疑。
而从冉阿让那里得出的是什么？信任。
马吕斯经过苦思冥想，对冉阿让作了一份总结，查清了他的功和过，他设法想得到平衡。但这一切就象在一场风暴里一样。马吕斯力图对这个人得出一个明确的看法，可以说他一直追逐到冉阿让的思想深处，失去了线索，接着又在烟雾迷漫的厄运中重新找到了。
款子诚实地归还了，直言不讳地认罪，这些都是好现象。
这好象乌云里片刻的晴朗，接着乌云又变成漆黑的了。
马吕斯的回忆虽然十分混乱，但仍留下了一些模糊的印象。
容德雷特破屋中的那次遭遇究竟是怎么回事？为什么警察一到，这个人非但不告状，反而逃走了？马吕斯在这里找到了回答，原来这个人是个在逃的惯犯。
另一个问题：这个人为什么要到街垒里来？因为马吕斯已清楚地回想起了过去的这件事，现在在他情绪激动时，这事就象密写墨水靠近火一样，又重新显露出来了。这人曾经到街垒里来，但他并没有参加斗争。他来干什么？在这个问题上，一个鬼怪出来作了回答：沙威。马吕斯完全记得当时冉阿让那愁苦的幻影把捆着的沙威拖出了街垒。蒙德都巷子拐角后面可怕的手枪声还在他耳边回响。很可能这奸细和这犯人之间有仇恨。一个妨碍了另一个。冉阿让是到街垒里去复仇的。他来得较迟。大概他知道沙威被囚。科西嘉岛式的复仇①深入到了社会的底层，成为他们的法律；这种复仇平凡得使那些心已一半向善的人也不会感到惊异；他们的心就是这样：一个已走上忏悔之路的罪人，对于盗窃，良心会有所不安，面对复仇则是无所谓的。冉阿让杀死了沙威。至少这件事显然如此。
①科西嘉岛（Corse），法国在地中海里的岛屿，当地的复仇一直连累到敌对一方的家属。
最后还有一个问题，但这个问题无法作答。马吕斯感到这个问题象把钳子。冉阿让怎么会这样长时期地和珂赛特生活在一起？上天开的是种什么样的可悲的玩笑，要让这个孩子接触到这么一个人？难道上界也铸有双人链，上帝喜欢把天使和魔鬼拴在一起？难道一个罪人和一个纯洁的孩子在神秘的苦难监狱中可以同房作伴？在这被称作人类命运的判刑人的行列里，两个人的额头可以挨得如此近，一个是天真的，另一个是可怕的，一个沐浴着晨曦的神圣白光，另一个永远被一道永恒的闪电照得惨无人色？谁对这莫名其妙的搭配作出了决定？以什么方式？是一种什么样的奇迹使这个圣洁的孩子和老罪犯共同生活在一起？谁把羔羊和豺狼拴在一起？还更使人莫名其妙的是，去把狼拴在羔羊身上？因为狼爱羔羊，因为这野蛮人崇拜这脆弱的人，因为，九年以来，天使依靠恶魔作为支柱。珂赛特的幼年和青春，她的出生，这童贞少女向着生命和光明发育成长，都依靠这丑恶汉子的忠忱护卫。在这一点上，问题一层层解开了，可以说出现了无数的谜，深渊底下又出现深渊，致使马吕斯在俯视冉阿让时不能不晕头转向。这个断崖绝壁似的人究竟是怎么回事呢？
《创世记》里的老信条是永恒的，在一直存在着的人类社会中，直到将来的某一天，一种更大的光明来改变这个社会时，也永远会有两种人，一种是高尚的，另一种是卑下的；向善的是亚伯，作恶的是该隐。那么这个秉性善良的该隐又是什么呢？这个虔诚地一心一意崇拜一个圣女的盗贼，他守卫她，教养她，保护她，使她品格高尚，虽然他本身污秽。这个盗贼是个什么样的人呢？他是垃圾却尊敬一个天真的人，他把她培养得洁白无瑕，这又怎么理解呢？这个教育珂赛特的冉阿让是个什么人？这个黑暗的面孔唯一的目的就是防止阴影和云雾遮蔽一个星辰的升起，这又作何解释呢？
这是冉阿让的秘密，也是上帝的秘密。
在这双重秘密前面，马吕斯在后退。一个秘密可以说已使他对另一个秘密安了心。显而易见上帝和冉阿让一样参预了这一奇遇，上帝有自己的工具，他使用他愿意使用的工具。他对人类负责。我们知道上帝的办法吗？冉阿让在珂赛特身上付出了劳动。他也多少培养了这个灵魂。这是不容置疑的。那又怎么样呢？工匠令人感到恐怖；但作品是杰出的。上帝随心所欲地在显示他的奇迹。他创造出这个可爱的珂赛特，他为此而用上了冉阿让。他乐意挑选这个怪诞的助手。我们有什么可责难他的？难道厩肥是第一次帮助玫瑰花在春天开放吗？
马吕斯自问自答，认为自己这些答案是正确的。在我们所指出的一切论点上，他没敢深挖冉阿让，但又不敢向自己承认他不敢，他深深地爱着珂赛特，珂赛特已经属于他，珂赛特是出奇的纯洁。对此他心满意足。还需要搞清什么呢？珂赛特就是光明。光明还需要再明朗化吗？他已有了一切；还有什么其他的希求呢？应有尽有了，还不满足吗？冉阿让个人的事与他无关。当他对这个人的不幸阴影俯视时，他就紧紧抓住这悲惨的人庄严的声明：“我与珂赛特毫无关系，十年前，我还不知道她的存在呢！”
冉阿让是个过路人。他自己已说过。是啊，他是路过。不管他是什么人，他的任务已经完成。从今以后有马吕斯当珂赛特的靠山。珂赛特在灿烂的蓝天里找到了她的同类，她的情人，她的丈夫，她的卓绝的男人，珂赛特长出双翼神化了，在飞上天时她把她那丑恶的空蛹冉阿让扔在她后面的地下。
无论马吕斯在什么样的思想里打转，归根结底，他对冉阿让总有一定程度的厌恶。可能是种崇敬的厌恶，因为他感到这个人“有神圣的一面”①。无论他怎么处理，无论找什么减罪的情节，最后仍不得不回到这一点：这是一个苦役犯。这就是说在社会的阶梯上，一个连位子都没有的人，因为他处在楼梯的最后一级之下。最末一个人之后才是苦役犯。苦役犯可以说已经不是活着的人的同类。法律在他身上已剥夺了对一个人所能剥夺的全部人格。马吕斯虽然是共和派，但对刑罚却仍赞成严酷的制度，他对待被法律打击的人，看法和法律所判的完全一致。可以说他还没有接受一切进步的思想。他还不能辨别什么是人决定的，什么是上帝决定的，还不能区分法律和权利。人们自封有权处理不能挽回和不能补救的事，马吕斯一点也没研究估量过这种自封的权利。他觉得对成文法的某些破坏要受永久的处罚，这是很容易理解的，他同意社会把有些人罚入地狱是一种文明的做法。他还停留在这一步，当然以听也必然会前进，因为他的天性是善良的，实质上里面含有潜在的进步。
在这种思想范畴里，他觉得冉阿让畸形、讨厌。这是一个恶人，一个苦役犯。这个字眼对他来说就象末日审判时的号角；于是在长时间观察了冉阿让之后，他最后的态度是转过头去，“魔鬼退下”②。
①“有神圣的一面”，原文为拉丁文，quid divinum。
②“魔鬼退下”，原文为拉丁文Vade retro。
我们应当承认并且还该着重指出马吕斯对冉阿让曾经提过问题，而冉阿让向他说：“你在让我招供。”其实他还并没有提出两三个决定性的问题。并非他想不起这些问题，而是他怕这些问题。容德雷特破屋？街垒？沙威？谁知道揭到什么时候才会有完？冉阿让不象是个畏缩的人。谁知道，如果马吕斯追问后，他是否会希望冉阿让不再说下去？在某些重要关头，我们大家难道不曾遇到过，在提了一个问题之后，自己去塞住耳朵不想听到答复？尤其是在恋爱时期是会有这种懦弱的现象的。过分追究险恶的情况是不谨慎的，尤其当我们自己生活里不能割断的一面又不幸牵涉在里面时。冉阿让失望的解释，可能会暴露出一些可怕的事，谁知道这道丑恶的光是否会波及珂赛特？谁知道在珂赛特天使般的额头上是否已留下这种地狱之光呢？溅出的闪电的光仍属霹雳。天数里有着这种相互的关连，由于阴沉的染色反光律在起作用，无辜的人也会染上罪恶的痕迹，最清白的面容也可以永远保留着可憎的近邻的反射。无论正确与否，马吕斯害怕了。他已知道得太多了。他想含糊过去，并不打算弄清底细。他在失望时昏乱地抱走珂赛特，闭目不看冉阿让。
这个人属于黑暗，属于活生生的可怖的黑夜。他怎么敢追根问底呢？盘问黑影是种恐怖。谁知道它将如何作答。黎明可能会永远被它玷污！
在这种思想状态里，一想到这个人今后将和珂赛特会有某种接触时马吕斯感到惊惶失措。这些可怕的问题，当时他是退缩不敢提，这些问题本可能会使他得出一个毫不容情的一刀两断的决定，他此刻几乎埋怨自己没有把它提出来。他觉得自己心肠太好，太宽厚，也就是说，太懦弱了。这种软弱使他作出了一个不谨慎的让步。他被人感动了。他不该如此。他应该简单而干脆地甩开冉阿让。冉阿让是惹祸的人，他应该牺牲他，把他从家中赶出去。他责怪自己，他怪自己突然被激动搞糊涂了，使自己耳聋眼瞎，被拖着跑了。他对自己感到很不满。
现在怎么办呢？冉阿让的来访使他十分反感。这个人到他家？来有什么用？怎么办？至此他已头昏眼花，他不愿深思，不愿细察，也不愿追问自己。他已经答应了，他被动地答应了；冉阿让得到了他的诺言；即使对一个苦役犯，尤其对一个苦役犯，也决不能食言，然而他首先要负起的责任仍是珂赛特。总之，一种压倒一切的厌恶在支配他。
所有这些想法在马吕斯脑海中混乱地上下翻腾，从一种想法转到另一种，每一种都使他激动，他因而极端惶惑。要在珂赛特面前隐藏起这种情绪是不容易的，但爱情是天才，马吕斯做到了。
此外，他似乎无目的地向珂赛特提了几个问题，天真无邪，洁白如鸽子的珂赛特毫不怀疑；他向她谈到她的幼年和少年时期，于是他越来越深信凡是一个人能具有的善良、慈爱和可敬之处，对珂赛特来说这个苦役犯都是具有的。马吕斯的预感和推测都是正确的。这株可怕的荨麻疼爱并且护卫了这朵百合花。