In order to be happy. Have I the right to be happy?
I stand outside of life, Sir."
Jean Valjean paused.
Marius listened.
Such chains of ideas and of anguishes cannot be interrupted.
Jean Valjean lowered his voice once more, but it was no longer a dull voice--it was a sinister voice.
"You ask why I speak?
I am neither denounced, nor pursued, nor tracked, you say.
Yes!
I am denounced! yes!
I am tracked!
By whom? By myself.
It is I who bar the passage to myself, and I drag myself, and I push myself, and I arrest myself, and I execute myself, and when one holds oneself, one is firmly held."
And, seizing a handful of his own coat by the nape of the neck and extending it towards Marius:
"Do you see that fist?" he continued.
"Don''t you think that
it holds that collar in such a wise as not to release it? Well! conscience is another grasp!
If one desires to be happy, sir, one must never understand duty; for, as soon as one has comprehended it, it is implacable.
One would say that it punished you for comprehending it; but no, it rewards you; for it places you in a hell, where you feel God beside you.
One has no sooner lacerated his own entrails than he is at peace with himself."
BOOK SEVENTH.--THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP┆本┆作┆品┆由┆思┆兔┆在┆線┆閱┆讀┆網┆友┆整┆理┆上┆傳┆