Having taken this survey，he executed a movement like that of a man who has made up his mind，strode to his alcove，grasped his knapsack，opened it，fumbled in it，pulled out of it something which he placed on the bed，put his shoes into one of his pockets，shut the whole thing up again，threw the knapsack on his shoulders，put on his cap，drew the visor down over his eyes，felt for his cudgel，went and placed it in the angle of the window；then returned to the bed，and resolutely seized the object which he had deposited there.It resembled a short bar of iron，pointed like a pike at one end.It would have been difficult to distinguish in that darkness for what employment that bit of iron could have been designed.Perhaps it was a lever；possibly it was a club.
In the daytime it would have been possible to recognize it as nothing more than a miner's candlestick.
Convicts were，at that period，sometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which environ Toulon，and it was not rare for them to have miners'tools at their command.
These miners'candlesticks are of massive iron，terminated at the lower extremity by a point，by means of which they are stuck into the rock.
He took the candlestick in his right hand；holding his breath and trying to deaden the sound of his tread，he directed his steps to the door of the adjoining room，occupied by the Bishop，as we already know.
On arriving at this door，he found it ajar.
The Bishop had not closed it.
Ⅺ WHAT HE DOES
Jean Valjean listened.
Not a sound.
He gave the door a push.
He pushed it gently with the tip of his finger，lightly，with the furtive and uneasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering.
The door yielded to this pressure，and made an imperceptible and silent movement，which enlarged the opening a little.
He waited a moment；then gave the door a second and a bolder push.
It continued to yield in silence.
The opening was now large enough to allow him to pass.
But near the door there stood a little table，which formed an embarrassing angle with it，and barred the entrance.
Jean Valjean recognized the difficulty.
It was necessary，at any cost，to enlarge the aperture still further.
He decided on his course of action，and gave the door a third push，more energetic than the two preceding.
This time a badly oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry.
Jean Valjean shuddered.
The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment.
In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated，and had suddenly assumed a terrible life，and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one，and warn and to wake those who were asleep.
He halted，shuddering，bewildered，and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels.He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers，and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern.
It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire household，like the shock of an earthquake；the door，pushed by him，had taken the alarm，and had shouted；the old man would rise at once；the two old women would shriek out；people would come to their assistance；in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an uproar，and the gendarmerie on hand.For a moment he thought himself lost.
He remained where he was，petrified like the statue of salt，not daring to make a movement.
Several minutes elapsed.
The door had fallen wide open.
He ventured to peep into the next room.Nothing had stirred there.
He lent an ear.
Nothing was moving in the house.
The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened any one.
This first danger was past；but there still reigned a frightful tumult within him.
Nevertheless，he did not retreat.
Even when he had thought himself lost，he had not drawn back.
His only thought now was to finish as soon as possible.
He took a step and entered the room.
This room was in a state of perfect calm.
Here and there vague and confused forms were distinguishable，which in the daylight were papers scattered on a table，open folios，volumes piled upon a stool，an arm-chair heaped with clothing，a prie-Dieu，and which at that hour were only shadowy corners and whitish spots.
Jean Valjean advanced with precaution，taking care not to knock against the furniture.He could hear，at the extremity of the room，the even and tranquil breathing of the sleeping Bishop.
He suddenly came to a halt.
He was near the bed.
He had arrived there sooner than he had thought for.
Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness，as though she desired to make us reflect.
For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens.
At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed，this cloud parted，as though on purpose，and a ray of light，traversing the long window，suddenly illuminated the Bishop's pale face.
He was sleeping peacefully.
He lay in his bed almost completely dressed，on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps，in a garment of brown wool，which covered his arms to the wrists.
His head was thrown back on the pillow，in the careless attitude of repose；his hand，adorned with the pastoral ring，and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions，was hanging over the edge of the bed.
His whole face was illumined with a vague expression of satisfaction，of hope，and of felicity.It was more than a smile，and almost a radiance.
He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisible.The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven.
A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop.
It was，at the same time，a luminous transparency，for that heaven was within him.
That heaven was his conscience.
