He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt,
not daring to make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door
had fallen wide open. He ventured to peep into the next room.
Nothing had stirred there. He lent an ear. Nothing was moving
in the house. The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened
any one.

This first danger was past; but there still reigned a frightful
tumult within him. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he
had thought himself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought
now was to finish as soon as possible. He took a step and entered
the room.

This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague
and confused forms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were
papers scattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool,
an arm-chair heaped with clothing, a prie-Dieu, and which at that hour
were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced
with precaution, taking care not to knock against the furniture.
He could hear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil
breathing of the sleeping Bishop.

He suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived
there sooner than he had thought for.

Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our
actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she
desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud
had covered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused