At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting:
"Jean Valjean!
Jean Valjean!"
His hair rose upright:
he became like a man who is listening to some terrible thing.
"Yes, that's it! finish!" said the voice.
"Complete what you are about!
Destroy these candlesticks!
Annihilate this souvenir! Forget the Bishop!
Forget everything!
Destroy this Champmathieu, do! That is right!
Applaud yourself!
So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed:
here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has, perhaps, done nothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and horror.
That is good! Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire; remain honorable and honored; enrich the town; nourish the indigent; rear the orphan; live happy, virtuous, and admired; and, during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys.
Yes, it is well arranged thus.
Ah, wretch!"
The perspiration streamed from his brow.
He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks.
But that within him which had spoken had not finished.