te upon him,--this was what overwhelmed him.
One thing had amazed him,--this was that Jean Valjean should have done him a favor, and one thing petrified him,-- that he, Javert, should have done Jean Valjean a favor.
Where did he stand?
He sought to comprehend his position, and could no longer find his bearings.
What was he to do now?
To deliver up Jean Valjean was bad; to leave Jean Valjean at liberty was bad.
In the first case, the man of authority fell lower than the man of the galleys, in the second, a convict rose above the law, and set his foot upon it.
In both cases, dishonor for him, Javert.
There was disgrace in any resolution at which he might arrive.
Destiny has some extremities which rise perpendicularly from the impossible, and beyond which life is no longer anything but a precipice. Javert had reached one of those extremities.
One of his anxieties consisted in being constrained to think. The very violence of all these conflicting emotions forced him to it. Thought was something to which he was unused, and which was peculiarly painful.
In thought there always exists a certain amount of internal rebellion; and it irritated him to have that within him.
Thought on any subject whatever, outside of the restricted circle of his functions, would have been for him in any case useless and a fatigue; thought on the day which had just passed was a torture.