that，whatever the result was to be，there was no reason why he should not see with his own eyes，and judge of matters for himself；that this was even prudent；that he must know what took place；that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and scrutinized；that one made mountains out of everything from a distance；that，at any rate，when he should have seen that Champmathieu，some wretch，his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys in his stead；that Javert would indeed be there；and that Brevet，that Chenildieu，that Cochepaille，old convicts who had known him；but they certainly would not recognize him；——bah！what an idea！that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth；that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu，and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures；that accordingly there was no danger.
That it was，no doubt，a dark moment，but that he should emerge from it；that，after all，he held his destiny，however bad it might be，in his own hand；that he was master of it.
He clung to this thought.
At bottom，to tell the whole truth，he would have preferred not to go to Arras.
Nevertheless，he was going thither.
As he meditated，he whipped up his horse，which was proceeding at that fine，regular，and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half an hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced，he felt something within him draw back.
At daybreak he was in the open country；the town of M.sur M.lay far behind him.
He watched the horizon grow white；he stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes，but without seeing them.
The morning has its spectres as well as the evening.
He did not see them；but without his being aware of it，and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical，these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul.
Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway，he said to himself，'And yet there are people there within who are sleeping！'
The trot of the horse，the bells on the harness，the wheels on the road，produced a gentle，monotonous noise.
These things are charming when one is joyous，and lugubrious when one is sad.
It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin.
He halted in front of the inn，to allow the horse a breathing spell，and to have him given some oats.
The horse belonged，as Scaufflaire had said，to that small race of the Boulonnais，which has too much head，too much belly，and not enough neck and shoulders，but which has a broad chest，a large crupper，thin，fine legs，and solid hoofs——a homely，but a robust and healthy race.
The excellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours，and had not a drop of sweat on his loins.
He did not get out of the tilbury.
The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
'Are you going far in this condition？'said the man.
He replied，with an air of not having roused himself from his revery：——
'Why？'
'Have you come from a great distance？'went on the man.
'Five leagues.'
'Ah！'
'Why do you say，Ah？''
The man bent down once more，was silent for a moment，with his eyes fixed on the wheel；then he rose erect and said：——
'Because，though this wheel has travelled five leagues，it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league.'
He sprang out of the tilbury.
'What is that you say，my friend？'
'I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway.Just see here！'
The wheel really had suffered serious damage.
The shock administered by the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub，so that the nut no longer held firm.
'My friend，'he said to the stableman，'is there a wheelwright here？'
'Certainly，sir.'
'Do me the service to go and fetch him.'
'He is only a step from here.
Hey！
Master Bourgaillard！'
Master Bourgaillard，the wheelwright，was standing on his own threshold.He came，examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.
'Can you repair this wheel immediately？'
'Yes，sir.'
'When can I set out again？'
'To-morrow.'
'To-morrow！'
'There is a long day's work on it.
Are you in a hurry，sir？'
'In a very great hurry.
I must set out again in an hour at the latest.'
'Impossible，sir.'
'I will pay whatever you ask.'
'Impossible.'
'Well，in two hours，then.'
'Impossible to-day.Two new spokes and a hub must be made.Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.'
'The matter cannot wait until to-morrow.What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it？'
'How so？'
'You are a wheelwright？'
'Certainly，sir.'
'Have you not a wheel that you can sell me？
Then I could start again at once.'
'A spare wheel？'
'Yes.'
'I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet.
Two wheels make a pair.
Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.'
'In that case，sell me a pair of wheels.'
'Not all wheels fit all axles，sir.'
'Try，nevertheless.'
'It is useless，sir.
I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels.We are but a poor country here.'
'Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have？'
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well！
If I had one，I would not let it to you！'
'Well，sell it to me，then.'
'I have none.'
'What！not even a spring-cart？I am not hard to please，as you see.'
'We live in a poor country.
There is，in truth，'added the wheelwright，'an old calash under the shed yonder，which belongs to a bourgeois of the town，who gave it to me to take care of，and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month——never，that is to say.
I might let that to you，for what matters it to me？
But the bourgeois must not see it pass——and then，it is a calash；it would require two horses.'
'I will take two post-horses.'
'Where is Monsieur going？'
