One day Jean Valjean went down his staircase, took three steps in the street, sat down upon a post, the same one on which Gavroche had found him sitting in thought on the night of June 5; he stayed there a few minutes, and then went up again. This was the last oscillation of the pendulum; the next day he did not leave his room; the next to that he did not leave his bed. The porter's wife, who prepared his poor meals for him, some cabbage or a few potatoes and a little bacon, looked at the brown earthenware plate and exclaimed,-- "Why, poor dear man, you ate nothing yesterday!" "Yes, I did," Jean Valjean answered. "The plate is quite full." "Look at the water-jug: it is empty." "That proves you have drunk, but does not prove that you have eaten." "Well," said Jean Valjean, "suppose that I only felt hungry for water?" "That is called thirst, and if a man does not eat at the same time it is called fever." "I will eat to-morrow." "Or on Trinity Sunday. Why not to-day? Who-ever ever thought of saying, I will eat to-morrow? To leave my plate without touching it; my rashers were so good." Jean Valjean took the old woman's hand. "I promise you to eat them," he said, in his gentle voice. "I am not pleased with you," the woman replied. Jean Valjean never saw any other human creature but this good woman: there are in Paris streets through which people never pass, and houses which people never enter, and he lived in one of those streets and one of those houses. During the time when he still went out he had bought at a brazier's for a few sous a small copper crucifix, which he suspended from a nail opposite his bed; that gibbet is ever good to look on. A week passed thus, and Jean Valjean still remained in bed. The porter's wife said to her husband, "The old gentleman upstairs does not get up; he does not eat, and he will not last long. He has a sorrow, and no one will get it out of my head but that his daughter has made a bad match." The porter replied, with the accent of marital sovereignty,-- "If he is rich, he can have a doctor; if he is not rich, he can't. If he has no doctor, he will die." "And if he has one?" "He will die," said the porter. The porter's wife began digging up with an old knife the grass between what she called her pavement, and while doing so grumbled,-- "It's a pity--an old man who is so tidy. He is as white as a pullet." She saw a doctor belonging to the quarter passing along the bottom of the street, and took upon herself to ask him to go up. "It's on the second floor," she said; "you will only have to go in, for, as the old gentleman no longer leaves his bed, the key is always in the door." The physician saw Jean Valjean and spoke to him: when he came down again the porter's wife was waiting for him. "Well, doctor?" "He is very ill." "What is the matter with him?" "Everything and nothing. He is a man who, from all appearances, has lost a beloved person. People die of that." "What did he say to you?"