Again he bent over, drew from his pocket a handkerchief which he moistened in the water and with which he then wiped Marius’ blood-stained brow.
“This man was at the barricade,” said he in a low voice and as though speaking to himself. “He is the one they called Marius.”
A spy of the first quality, who had observed everything, listened to everything, and taken in everything, even when he thought that he was to die; who had played the spy even in his agony, and who, with his elbows leaning on the first step of the sepulchre, had taken notes.
He seized Marius’ hand and felt his pulse.
“He is wounded,” said Jean Valjean.
“He is a dead man,” said Javert.
Jean Valjean replied:
“No. Not yet.”
“So you have brought him thither from the barricade?” remarked Javert.
His preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not to insist on this alarming rescue through the sewer, and for him not to even notice Jean Valjean’s silence after his question.