A Pen Is Heavy to the Man Who Lifted the Fauchelevent’s Cart — Les Misérables

One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself on his elbow. He felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse. His breath was short. He recognised that he was weaker than he had ever been. Then, under some supreme preoccupation, he sat up and dressed himself in his old workingman's clothes. He was obliged to pause many times. Merely putting his arms through his waistcoat made the perspiration trickle from his forehead. Since he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber. He opened the valise and spread Cosette's outfit on the bed. The Bishop's candlesticks stood on the chimney-piece. He put two wax candles in them and lighted them, although it was still broad daylight. In the same way candles are seen lighted in chambers where there is a corpse.

Every step exhausted him. It was not ordinary fatigue. It was life drained, flowing away drop by drop in efforts that would never be renewed. The chair into which he fell stood in front of that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius, in which he had read Cosette's reversed writing. He caught sight of himself and did not recognise himself. That year had counted for thirty. What he bore on his brow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark of death. His cheeks were pendulous. The corners of his mouth drooped as in the mask the ancients sculptured on tombs. Sorrow no longer flowed. There was something on the soul like a clot of despair.

Night came. He dragged a table and the old armchair to the fireside, and placed upon the table a pen, some ink and some paper. He had a fainting fit. When he recovered, he could not lift the jug and tipped it toward his mouth. The pen had curled up, the ink had dried. He was forced to put a few drops of water in the ink and to write with the back of the pen. He gazed at the little black gown for hours which seemed minutes. All at once he shivered. A child was taking possession of him. Under the Bishop's candles he wrote slowly: Cosette, I bless thee. Thy husband was right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away, but there is a little error in what he believed. This money is really thine. White jet comes from Norway. Here he paused. The pen fell from his fingers. All is over. I shall never see her more. It is nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without seeing her. Here I am all alone. My God, I shall never see her again. At that moment there came a knock at the door.