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.