The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she grumbled:

“It’s a shame. Such a neat old man! He’s as white as a chicken.”

She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come upstairs.

“It’s on the second floor,” said she. “You have only to enter. As the good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked.”

The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.

When he came down again the portress interrogated him:

“Well, doctor?”

“Your sick man is very ill indeed.”

“What is the matter with him?”