The driver, a black silhouette upon his box, whipped up his bony horses. Icy silence in the coach. Marius, motionless, his body braced in the corner of the carriage, his head dropping down upon his breast, his arms hanging, his legs rigid, appeared to await nothing now but a coffin; Jean Valjean seemed made of shadow, and Javert of stone.

Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet and touching thing.

Un désespoir calme, froid, sinistre.

He who despairs is wrong.