One morning Madeleine is passing through an unpaved alley and hears a noise. An old man named Father Fauchelevent has just fallen beneath his cart, his horse having tumbled down. Fauchelevent is one of the few enemies Madeleine has. An ex-notary, almost educated, he watched this simple workman grow rich while he, a lawyer, was ruined, and did all he could to injure him. Bankruptcy left him a cart and a horse; he turned carter. The horse has two broken legs and cannot rise. The old man is caught in the wheels; the whole weight of a heavily laden cart rests on his breast. They have tried in vain to drag him out. A wrong shake might kill him. Javert, who came up at the moment of the accident, has sent for a jack-screw.
Help, cries Fauchelevent. Who will be good and save the old man? A jack-screw has been sent for, to Flachot's farrier; it will take a good quarter of an hour. The soil is soaked from last night's rain. The cart is sinking deeper every moment. The ribs will be broken in five minutes. There is still room enough under the cart for a man to crawl beneath it and raise it with his back. Five louis d'or to be earned. Not a man stirs. Ten louis. Twenty. It is not the will which is lacking, says a voice. Madeleine turns and recognizes Javert. It is strength. One would have to be a terrible man. Monsieur Madeleine, I have never known but one man capable of doing what you ask. Madeleine shudders. He was a convict. In the galleys at Toulon. Madeleine turns pale. I am strangling, shrieks the old man. Javert resumes, his falcon eye fixed: I have never known but one man who could take the place of a screw, and he was that convict.
Madeleine raises his head, meets that eye, looks at the motionless peasants, and smiles sadly. Then, without saying a word, he falls on his knees, and before the crowd has time to utter a cry he is underneath the vehicle. Two vain efforts to bring his knees and elbows together. They shout to him to come out. The old man himself says, Go away; you will get yourself crushed also. Madeleine makes no reply. Suddenly the enormous mass quivers; the cart rises slowly; the wheels half emerge. A stifled voice: Make haste. Help. They rush. Twenty arms. Fauchelevent is saved. Madeleine rises, pale, dripping with perspiration, clothes torn and covered with mud. All weep. The old man kisses his knees and calls him the good God. He bears on his countenance an expression of happy and celestial suffering, and he fixes his tranquil eye on Javert, who is still staring at him.
