He pushed the door. A rusty hinge suddenly sent out into the darkness a harsh and prolonged creak.
Jean Valjean shivered. He took one step and was in the room. At the moment when he passed the bed, a cloud broke, as if purposely, and a ray of moonlight crossing the high window, suddenly lighted up the bishop’s pale face. He slept tranquilly. His entire countenance was lit up with a vague expression of content, hope and happiness. It was more than a smile and almost a radiance.
Jean Valjean was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect, motionless, terrified at this radiant figure. He had never seen anything comparable to it. This confidence filled him with fear. He did not remove his eyes from the old man. He appeared ready either to cleave his skull or to kiss his hand.
In a few moments he raised his left hand slowly to his forehead and took off his hat; then letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean Valjean resumed his contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right, and his hair bristling on his fierce-looking head.
Under this frightful gaze the bishop still slept in profoundest peace.
The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moonlight, apparently extending its arms toward both, with a benediction for one and a pardon for the other.
Suddenly Jean Valjean put on his cap, then passed quickly, without looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard which he perceived near its head; he raised the drill to force the lock; the key was in it; he opened it; the first thing he saw was the basket of silver; he took it, crossed the room with hasty stride, careless of noise, reached the door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran across the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger and fled.
The next day at sunrise the bishop was walking in the garden. Mme. Magloire ran toward him quite beside herself.
“Monseigneur, the man has gone! The silver is stolen. The abominable fellow! He has stolen our silver!”
The bishop was silent for a moment then, raising his serious eyes, he said mildly to Mme. Magloire: “Now, first, did this silver belong to us? Mme. Magloire, I have for a long time withheld this silver; it belonged to the poor. Who was this man? A poor man evidently.”