When he had turned many angles in this corridor，he still listened.The same silence reigned，and there was the same darkness around him.He was out of breath；he staggered；he leaned against the wall.The stone was cold；the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow；he straightened himself up with a shiver.
Then，there alone in the darkness，trembling with cold and with something else，too，perchance，he meditated.
He had meditated all night long；he had meditated all the day：he heard within him but one voice，which said，'Alas！'
A quarter of an hour passed thus.
At length he bowed his head，sighed with agony，dropped his arms，and retraced his steps.He walked slowly，and as though crushed.
It seemed as though some one had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back.
He re-entered the council-chamber.The first thing he caught sight of was the knob of the door.
This knob，which was round and of polished brass，shone like a terrible star for him.He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger.
He could not take his eyes from it.
From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door.
Had he listened，he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like a sort of confused murmur；but he did not listen，and he did not hear.
Suddenly，without himself knowing how it happened，he found himself near the door；he grasped the knob convulsively；the door opened.
He was in the court-room.
BOOK SEVENTH.——THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR
Ⅸ A PLACE WHERE CONVICTIONS ARE IN PROCESS OF FORMATION
He advanced a pace，closed the door mechanically behind him，and remained standing，contemplating what he saw.
It was a vast and badly lighted apartment，now full of uproar，now full of silence，where all the apparatus of a criminal case，with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng，was in process of development.
At the one end of the hall，the one where he was，were judges，with abstracted air，in threadbare robes，who were gnawing their nails or closing their eyelids；at the other end，a ragged crowd；lawyers in all sorts of attitudes；soldiers with hard but honest faces；ancient，spotted woodwork，a dirty ceiling，tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green；doors blackened by handmarks；tap-room lamps which emitted more smoke than light，suspended from nails in the wainscot；on the tables candles in brass candlesticks；darkness，ugliness，sadness；and from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression，for one there felt that grand human thing which is called the law，and that grand divine thing which is called justice.
No one in all that throng paid any attention to him；all glances were directed towards a single point，a wooden bench placed against a small door，in the stretch of wall on the President's left；on this bench，illuminated by several candles，sat a man between two gendarmes.
This man was the man.
He did not seek him；he saw him；his eyes went thither naturally，as though they had known beforehand where that figure was.
He thought he was looking at himself，grown old；not absolutely the same in face，of course，but exactly similar in attitude and aspect，with his bristling hair，with that wild and uneasy eye，with that blouse，just as it was on the day when he entered D——，full of hatred，concealing his soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the prison.
He said to himself with a shudder，'Good God！shall I become like that again？'
This creature seemed to be at least sixty；there was something indescribably coarse，stupid，and frightened about him.
At the sound made by the opening door，people had drawn aside to make way for him；the President had turned his head，and，understanding that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M.sur M.，he had bowed to him；the attorney-general，who had seen M.Madeleine at M.sur M.，whither the duties of his office had called him more than once，recognized him and saluted him also：
he had hardly perceived it；he was the victim of a sort of hallucination；he was watching.
Judges，clerks，gendarmes，a throng of cruelly curious heads，all these he had already beheld once，in days gone by，twenty-seven years before；he had encountered those fatal things once more；there they were；they moved；they existed；it was no longer an effort of his memory，a mirage of his thought；they were real gendarmes and real judges，a real crowd，and real men of flesh and blood：
it was all over；he beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him，with all that there is formidable in reality.
All this was yawning before him.
He was horrified by it；he shut his eyes，and exclaimed in the deepest recesses of his soul，'Never！'
And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble，and rendered him nearly mad，it was another self of his that was there！all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean.
Under his very eyes，unheard-of vision，he had a sort of representation of the most horrible moment of his life，enacted by his spectre.
Everything was there；the apparatus was the same，the hour of the night，the faces of the judges，of soldiers，and of spectators；all were the same，only above the President's head there hung a crucifix，something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation：God had been absent when he had been judged.
There was a chair behind him；he dropped into it，terrified at the thought that he might be seen；when he was seated，he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxes，which stood on the judge's desk，to conceal his face from the whole room；he could now see without being seen；he had fully regained consciousness of the reality of things；gradually he recovered；he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen.
M.Bamatabois was one of the jurors.
