冉阿让后来怎么了？
珂赛特吩咐他笑的时候，他笑了，当时没有人注意他，他立即站起来，趁人不备，溜进了前厅。这间屋子正是八个月以前，他满身污泥、血迹和火药，把外孙送还给外祖父的那间屋子。那旧板壁上挂满了树叶和花朵；那些乐师们坐在当年他们躺下马吕斯的那张沙发上。巴斯克穿着黑礼服、短裤、白袜子和白手套，正把玫瑰花环布设在各道菜盘周围。冉阿让指着自己吊着绷带的胳膊，让巴斯克替他解释自己为什么不在席上，然后他就走了。
饭厅的长窗是临街的。冉阿让在那些明亮的窗户下的黑暗中，笔直地、一动不动地站了几分钟。他听着。宴席上的嘈杂声传到他耳里。他听见外祖父的高声谈笑，提琴声，杯盘碰撞声，笑声，在这欢快的喧闹中，他分辨出珂赛特那温柔而快乐的声音。
他离开了受难修女街，回到武人街。
回家时他走过圣路易街、文化圣卡特琳街和白衣街，这条路稍远些，但三个月来，为了避开老庙街的拥堵和泥泞，他已经习惯于每天从武人街到受难修女街走这条路。
这条珂赛特走过的路，对他来说已排除了选择其他路线的任何可能。
冉阿让回到住所，点燃蜡烛，上了楼。那屋子是空的。连杜桑也不在了。冉阿让的脚步声比平时更响地在各房间回荡。所有衣橱都敞开着。他走进珂赛特的卧室。床上没有被单。枕头套和花边都没有了，只有光枕芯搁在叠好的毯子上，褥子露出其布面，再也无人睡在上面了。珂赛特所珍爱的一切女性小物件全被带走了；只剩下沉重的家具和四壁。杜桑的床也同样被搬空了。只有一张床还铺着，似乎在等待什么人，那就是冉阿让的床。
冉阿让看了看墙壁，关上几扇橱门，从一个房间走到另一个房间。
然后他又回到自己房间，把蜡烛放在桌上。
他把胳膊从吊带里脱出来，使用右手时似乎也不感到疼痛。
他走到床前，他的目光是偶然还是有意落在那件珂赛特曾经嫉妒过的、从不离身的小旅行袋上。六月四日他来到武人街时，曾把它放在床头的一张圆桌上。他以某种急促的动作走到那张桌前，从口袋里掏出一把钥匙，打开了那旅行袋。
他从里面慢慢掏出十年前的衣物：珂赛特离开孟费郿时穿的那件小裙子，黑色方巾，厚实的粗笨童鞋（珂赛特那双小脚现在几乎还能穿进去），很厚的斜纹布胸衣，针织衬裙，带口袋的围裙，毛线袜。这些袜子还保持着小小腿的优美形状，只有冉阿让的手那么长。这些都是黑色的。是他把这些衣物带到孟费郿给她的。他一件件取出，放在床上。他陷入沉思。他回忆往事。那是在冬天，十二月很冷的日子，她半裸着身子，瑟瑟发抖，穿着破衣烂衫，一双可怜的赤脚穿着木鞋冻得通红。是他，冉阿让，让她脱下那些破衣烂衫，穿上这些丧服。那母亲在坟墓里一定感到欣慰，看见女儿为她服丧，尤其是看见她穿得体面，暖和一些。他想起孟费郿的那片森林；他们曾一起穿越，珂赛特和他；他想起那天的天气，没有叶子的树木，没有鸟儿的林子，没有太阳的天空；尽管如此，这一切都是迷人的。他把那些小衣服摊在床上，方巾挨着衬裙，袜子挨着鞋子，他一件件地看着。她那时只有这么高，她怀里抱着她的大娃娃，她把那枚金路易塞在那围裙的口袋里，她笑着，他们手拉手走着，她在世上只有他一个人了。
于是他年老的白发低垂在床上，这颗坚忍不拔的心碎了，他的脸，可以说，深深地埋进了珂赛特的衣裙里，这时如果有人从楼梯上走过，就会听见可怕的呜咽声。
What had become of Jean Valjean?
Immediately after having laughed, at Cosette’s graceful command, when
no one was paying any heed to him, Jean Valjean had risen and had
gained the antechamber unperceived. This was the very room which, eight
months before, he had entered black with mud, with blood and powder,
bringing back the grandson to the grandfather. The old wainscoting was
garlanded with foliage and flowers; the musicians were seated on the
sofa on which they had laid Marius down. Basque, in a black coat,
knee-breeches, white stockings and white gloves, was arranging roses
round all of the dishes that were to be served. Jean Valjean pointed to
his arm in its sling, charged Basque to explain his absence, and went
away.
The long windows of the dining-room opened on the street. Jean Valjean
stood for several minutes, erect and motionless in the darkness,
beneath those radiant windows. He listened. The confused sounds of the
banquet reached his ear. He heard the loud, commanding tones of the
grandfather, the violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts of
laughter, and through all that merry uproar, he distinguished Cosette’s
sweet and joyous voice.
He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and returned to the Rue de
l’Homme Armé.
In order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint-Louis, the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and the Blancs-Manteaux; it was a little
longer, but it was the road through which, for the last three months,
he had become accustomed to pass every day on his way from the Rue de
l’Homme Armé to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in order to avoid the
obstructions and the mud in the Rue Vieille-du-Temple.
This road, through which Cosette had passed, excluded for him all
possibility of any other itinerary.
Jean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted his candle and mounted
the stairs. The apartment was empty. Even Toussaint was no longer
there. Jean Valjean’s step made more noise than usual in the chambers.
All the cupboards stood open. He penetrated to Cosette’s bedroom. There
were no sheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with ticking, and
without a case or lace, was laid on the blankets folded up on the foot
of the mattress, whose covering was visible, and on which no one was
ever to sleep again. All the little feminine objects which Cosette was
attached to had been carried away; nothing remained except the heavy
furniture and the four walls. Toussaint’s bed was despoiled in like
manner. One bed only was made up, and seemed to be waiting some one,
and this was Jean Valjean’s bed.
Jean Valjean looked at the walls, closed some of the cupboard doors,
and went and came from one room to another.
Then he sought his own chamber once more, and set his candle on a
table.
He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used his right hand as
though it did not hurt him.
He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by chance? was it
intentionally? on the _inseparable_ of which Cosette had been jealous,
on the little portmanteau which never left him. On his arrival in the
Rue de l’Homme Armé, on the 4th of June, he had deposited it on a round
table near the head of his bed. He went to this table with a sort of
vivacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.
From it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten years before,
Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gown, then the black
fichu, then the stout, coarse child’s shoes which Cosette might almost
have worn still, so tiny were her feet, then the fustian bodice, which
was very thick, then the knitted petticoat, next the apron with
pockets, then the woollen stockings. These stockings, which still
preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean
Valjean’s hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought
those garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the
valise, he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called up
memories. It was in winter, in a very cold month of December, she was
shivering, half-naked, in rags, her poor little feet were all red in
their wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon those rags
to clothe herself in these mourning habiliments. The mother must have
felt pleased in her grave, to see her daughter wearing mourning for
her, and, above all, to see that she was properly clothed, and that she
was warm. He thought of that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed
it together, Cosette and he; he thought of what the weather had been,
of the leafless trees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunless
sky; it mattered not, it was charming. He arranged the tiny garments on
the bed, the fichu next to the petticoat, the stockings beside the
shoes, and he looked at them, one after the other. She was no taller
than that, she had her big doll in her arms, she had put her louis d’or
in the pocket of that apron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand,
she had no one in the world but him.
Then his venerable, white head fell forward on the bed, that stoical
old heart broke, his face was engulfed, so to speak, in Cosette’s
garments, and if any one had passed up the stairs at that moment, he
would have heard frightful sobs.
