After the lapse of a few minutes, he was no longer blind. A little light fell through the manhole through which he had descended, and his eyes became accustomed to this cavern. He began to distinguish something. The passage in which he had burrowed⁠—no other word can better express the situation⁠—was walled in behind him. It was one of those blind alleys, which the special jargon terms branches. In front of him there was another wall, a wall like night. The light of the air-hole died out ten or twelve paces from the point where Jean Valjean stood, and barely cast a wan pallor on a few metres of the damp walls of the sewer. Beyond, the opaqueness was massive; to penetrate thither seemed horrible, an entrance into it appeared like an engulfment. A man could, however, plunge into that wall of fog and it was necessary so to do. Haste was even requisite. It occurred to Jean Valjean that the grating which he had caught sight of under the flagstones might also catch the eye of the soldiery, and that everything hung upon this chance. They also might descend into that well and search it. There was not a minute to be lost. He had deposited Marius on the ground, he picked him up again⁠—that is the real word for it⁠—placed him on his shoulders once more, and set out. He plunged resolutely into the gloom.