The sun had set.
The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean.
He had eaten nothing all day; it is probable that he was feverish.
He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child's flight.
The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals.
His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.
He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel.
At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles.
It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. "What is this?" he muttered between his teeth.
He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.
At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood there erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge.
He saw nothing.
Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.
He said, "Ah!" and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disappeared.
After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing.
Then he shouted with all his might:--
"Little Gervais!
Little Gervais!"
He paused and waited.
There was no reply.