he set out on his way once more.
however, although he had not left his life in the fontis, he seemed to have left his strength behind him there. that supreme effort had exhausted him. his lassitude was now such that he was obliged to pause for breath every three or four steps, and lean against the wall. once he was forced to seat himself on the banquette in order to alter marius' position, and he thought that he should have to remain there. but if his vigor was dead, his energy was not. he rose again.
he walked on desperately, almost fast, proceeded thus for a hundred paces, almost without drawing breath, and suddenly came in contact with the wall. he had reached an elbow of the sewer, and, arriving at the turn with head bent down, he had struck the wall. he raised his eyes, and at the extremity of the vault, far, very far away in front of him, he perceived a light. this time it was not that terrible light; it was good, white light. it was daylight. jean valjean saw the outlet.
a damned soul, who, in the midst of the furnace, should suddenly perceive the outlet of gehenna, would experience what jean valjean felt. it would fly wildly with the stumps of its burned wings towards that radiant portal. jean valjean was no longer conscious of fatigue, he no longer felt marius' weight, he found his legs once more of steel, he ran rather than walked. as he approached, the outlet became more and more distinctly defined. it was a pointed arch, lower than the vault, which gradually narrowed, and narrower than the gallery, which closed in as the vault grew lower. the tunnel ended like the interior of a funnel; a faulty construction, imitated from the wickets of penitentiaries, logical in a prison, illogical in a sewer, and which has since been corrected.
jean valjean reached the outlet.
there he halted.
it certainly was the outlet, but he could not get out.
the arch was closed by a heavy grating, and the grating, which, to all appearance, rarely swung on its rusty hinges, was clamped to its stone jamb by a thick lock, which, red with rust, seemed like an enormous brick. the keyhole could be seen, and the robust latch, deeply sunk in the iron staple. the door was plainly double-locked. it was one of those prison locks which old paris was so fond of lavishing.
beyond the grating was the open air, the river, the daylight, the shore, very narrow but sufficient for escape. the distant quays, paris, that gulf in which one so easily hides oneself, the broad horizon, liberty. on the right, down stream, the bridge of jena was discernible, on the left, upstream, the bridge of the invalides; the place would have been a propitious one in which to await the night and to escape. it was one of the most solitary points in paris; the shore which faces the grand-caillou. flies were entering and emerging through the bars of the grating.
it might have been half-past eight o'clock in the evening. the day was declining.
jean valjean laid marius down along the wall, on the dry portion of the vaulting, then he went to the grating and clenched both fists round the bars; the shock which he gave it was frenzied, but it did not move. the grating did not stir. jean valjean seized the bars one after the other, in the hope that he might be able to tear away the least solid, and to make of it a lever wherewith to raise the door or to break the lock. not a bar stirred. the teeth of a tiger are not more firmly fixed in their sockets. no lever; no prying possible. the obstacle was invincible. there was no means of opening the gate.
must he then stop there? what was he to do? what was to become of him? he had not the strength to retrace his steps, to recommence the journey which he had already taken. besides, how was he to again traverse that quagmire whence he had only extricated himself as by a miracle? and after the quagmire, was there not the police patrol, which assuredly could not be twice avoided? and then, whither was he to go? what direction should he pursue? to follow the incline would not conduct him to his goal. if he were to reach another outlet, he would find it obstructed by a plug or a grating. every outlet was, undoubtedly, closed in that manner. chance had unsealed the grating through which he had entered, but it was evident that all the other sewer mouths were barred. he had only succeeded in escaping into a prison.
all was over. everything that jean valjean had done was useless. exhaustion had ended in failure.
they were both caught in the immense and gloomy web of death, and jean valjean felt the terrible spider running along those black strands and quivering in the shadows. he turned his back to the grating, and fell upon the pavement, hurled to earth rather than seated, close to marius, who still made no movement, and with his head bent between his knees. this was the last drop of anguish.
of what was he thinking during this profound depression? neither of himself nor of marius. he was thinking of cosette.
他又开始上路了。
此外，如果说他没把生命断送在陷坑里，但他也似乎感到已在那儿用完了力气。最后的一把劲使他精疲力尽，现在他每走两三步就要靠在墙上喘口气。有一次他不得不坐在长凳上来改变马吕斯的姿势，他以为自己要待在那儿动不了了。他虽然失去了体力，但毅力却丝毫无损。于是他又站了起来。
他拚命走着，几乎还很快，这样一走上百步不抬头，几乎不呼吸，忽然他撞在墙上。他到了阴沟的拐角处，因为低着头到了转弯处，所以撞了墙。他抬头一望，在地沟的尽头，在他前面很远很远的地方，他见到了亮光，这次，这不是一种凶光，而是吉祥的白色的光，这是白天的光线。
冉阿让望见了出口。
一个堕入地狱的灵魂，在烈火熊熊的炉中，忽然见到地狱的出口，这就是冉阿让的感受。这灵魂用它烧残的翅膀发狂地向光芒四射的大门飞去。冉阿让已不再感到疲惫，也不再觉得马吕斯的重量，他钢铁般的腿力恢复了，他不是走，而是在跑。在他逐渐走近时，出口越来越清晰了，这是一个圆的拱门，比慢慢降低的沟顶矮，没有那随着沟顶降低而逐渐缩小的沟管宽。这沟管出口处象一个漏斗的内部，很可恶地变窄，象拘留所的小门，在狱中是合理的，但在沟中却不合理，后来被改正了。
冉阿让到了出口。
在那儿，他站住了。
这确是出口，但出不去。
半圆门有粗铁栅栏关着，这铁栅栏看来很少在它氧化了的铰链上旋转，它被一把锈得发红、象一块大砖似的厚锁固定在石头门框上。可以看得见锁孔，粗厚的锁闩深深地嵌在铁锁横头里，这锁看得出是双转锁，是监狱用的一种锁，过去在巴黎人们很喜欢用它。
出了铁栅栏那就是野外、河流和阳光，河滩很窄，但走过去是可以的，遥远的河岸，巴黎棗这很容易藏身的深渊，辽阔的天边，还有自由。在河右边下游，还可以辨认出耶拿桥，左边上游是残废军人院桥；待到天黑再逃走，这是个很合适的地方。这是巴黎最僻静的地区之一，河滩对面是大石块路。苍蝇从铁栅栏的空格里飞出飞进。
大致是晚上八点半了，天已快黑。
冉阿让把马吕斯放在墙边沟道上干的地方，然后走到铁栅栏前，两手紧握住铁条，疯狂地摇晃，但一点震荡也没有。铁栅门纹丝不动。冉阿让一根又一根地抓住铁棍，希望能拔下一根不太牢固的来撬门破锁。可是一根铁棍也拔不动。就是老虎牙床上的牙也没有这么牢固。没有撬棍，没有能撬的东西，困难便不能克服。无法开门。
难道就死在这里？怎么办？会发生什么事呢？退回去，重新走那条骇人的已走过的路线，他已没有力气。再说，怎样再穿过这靠奇迹才脱险的洼地呢？走过洼地之后，没有警察巡逻队了吗？当然不可能两次躲过巡逻队。而且，往哪里走？朝什么方向？顺着斜坡不能到达目的地。即使能到达另一个出口，可能又被一个盖子或铁栅栏堵住。所有的出口无疑都是这样关闭的。进来时侥幸遇到了那个开着的铁栅门，但其他沟口肯定是关着的。只有在监牢中越狱才会成功。
一切都完了。冉阿让所作的一切都无济于事，因为上帝不允许。
他们俩都被阴暗而巨大的死网网住，冉阿让感到那只极其可怕的蜘蛛在暗中抖动的黑丝上来回爬行。
他背向铁栅栏，跌倒在地，他是倒地而不是坐下，靠着一直不会动的马吕斯，他的头垂在两膝中。没有出路。他已尝尽了辛酸。
在这沉重的沮丧时刻，他想到了谁？不是他自己，也不是马吕斯，他惦念着珂赛特。
