If he has no doctor he will die."
"And if he has one?"
"He will die," said the porter.
The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she grumbled:
"It''s a shame.
Such a neat old man!
He''s as white as a chicken."
She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come up stairs.
"It''s on the second floor," said she.
"You have only to enter.
As the good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked."
The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.
When he came down again the portress interrogated him:
"Well, doctor?"
"Your sick man is very ill indeed."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Everything and nothing.
He is a man who, to all appearances, has lost some person who is dear to him.
People die of that."
"What did he say to you?"
"He told me that he was in good health."
"Shall you come again, doctor?"
"Yes," replied the doctor.
"But some one else besides must come."
BOOK NINTH.--SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN
CHAPTER III
A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT''S CART
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 and halted at times; he recognized the fact that he was weaker than he had ever been before.