Marius seated himself on his bed. It might have been half-past five. Only half an hour separated him from what was about to happen. He heard the beating of his arteries as one hears the ticking of a watch in the dark. He thought of the double march which was going on at that moment in the dark: crime advancing on one side, justice coming up on the other. He was not afraid, but he could not think without a shudder of what was about to take place. The entire day produced upon him the effect of a dream, and in order to persuade himself that he was not the prey of a nightmare, he had to feel the cold barrels of the steel pistols in his trousers pockets. It was no longer snowing. The moon disengaged itself more and more clearly from the mist, and its light, mingled with the white reflection of the snow, gave the chamber a sort of twilight. There was a light in the Jondrette den. Marius saw the hole in the wall shining with a reddish glow which seemed bloody to him. The light could not have been a candle. There was not a sound, not a soul moving, not a soul speaking, not a breath. The silence was glacial and profound, and had it not been for that light, he might have thought himself next door to a sepulchre. He softly removed his boots and pushed them under his bed.
Several minutes elapsed. The lower door turned on its hinges. A heavy step mounted the staircase and hastened along the corridor. The latch of the hovel was noisily lifted. It was Jondrette returning. Instantly several voices arose. The whole family was in the garret. Only, it had been silent in the master's absence, like wolf whelps in the absence of the wolf. All's going first-rate, he said, but his feet were beastly cold. They had dressed up. They must inspire confidence. Don't forget what I told you. Because, he said, and left the phrase unfinished. Marius heard him lay something heavy on the table, probably the chisel. They had eaten: three large potatoes and some salt, cooked on the fire. Tomorrow he would take them out to dine. They would have a duck and fixings. They should dine like Charles the Tenth. Then he added: the mouse-trap is open. The cats are there. He lowered his voice still further. Put this in the fire. Marius heard charcoal being knocked with the tongs. The hinges of the door had been greased so they would not squeak. Nearly six. The half-hour had struck from Saint-Médard a while ago. The devil, said Jondrette. The children must go and watch. A whispering ensued. Has old Bougon left? Yes. Are you sure that there is no one in our neighbour's room? He has not been in all day, and this is his dinner hour. All the same, said Jondrette, there is no harm in going to see whether he is there. Take the candle and go there.
Marius fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently under his bed. Hardly had he concealed himself when he perceived a light through the crack of his door. The eldest girl called that he was not in. She had not gone in; his key was in the door, so he must be out. Go in, nevertheless, exclaimed the father. The door opened. She walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an indescribable moment of anxiety, but near the bed there was a mirror nailed to the wall, and it was thither that she was directing her steps. She raised herself on tiptoe and looked at herself in it. In the neighbouring room, the sound of iron articles being moved was audible. She smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and smiled into the mirror, humming with her cracked and sepulchral voice an English air that had been in fashion: loves that lasted a week, and the time of loves that ought to last forever. Marius trembled. It seemed impossible that she should not hear his breathing. She stepped to the window. How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white chemise. She returned to the mirror and put on airs, full-face and three-quarters. Well, cried her father, what are you about there? I am looking under the bed and the furniture, she replied, continuing to arrange her hair. There's no one here. Booby, yelled her father. Come here this minute. Coming, said she. One has no time for anything in this hovel. She hummed again, cast a parting glance in the mirror, and went out, shutting the door behind her. A moment more, and Marius heard the two young girls' bare feet in the corridor. One on the side of the barrier, the other at the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. Don't lose sight of the door of this house. The moment you see anything, rush here. You have a key to get in. The eldest girl grumbled. The idea of standing watch in the snow barefoot. Tomorrow you shall have some dainty little green silk boots, said the father. They ran downstairs. The outer door banged. There now remained in the house only Marius, the Jondrettes, and probably, also, the mysterious persons of whom Marius had caught a glimpse in the twilight, behind the door of the unused attic.
