Before proceeding further，and in order to make ourselves fully understood，let us insist upon one necessary observation.
It is certain that people do talk to themselves；there is no living being who has not done it.
It may even be said that the word is never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a man，and when it returns from conscience to thought；it is in this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter，he said，he exclaimed，must be understood；one speaks to one's self，talks to one's self，exclaims to one's self without breaking the external silence；there is a great tumult；everything about us talks except the mouth.
The realities of the soul are none the less realities because they are not visible and palpable.
So he asked himself where he stood.
He interrogated himself upon that'settled resolve.'
He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged in his mind was monstrous，that'to let things take their course，to let the good God do as he liked，'was simply horrible；to allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out，not to hinder it，to lend himself to it through his silence，to do nothing，in short，was to do everything！that this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree！that it was a base，cowardly，sneaking，abject，hideous crime！
For the first time in eight years，the wretched man had just tasted the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.
He spit it out with disgust.
He continued to question himself.
He asked himself severely what he had meant by this，'My object is attained！'
He declared to himself that his life really had an object；but what object？To conceal his name？
To deceive the police？
Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had done？
Had he not another and a grand object，which was the true one——to save，not his person，but his soul；to become honest and good once more；to be a just man？Was it not that above all，that alone，which he had always desired，which the Bishop had enjoined upon him——to shut the door on his past？But he was not shutting it！great God！he was re-opening it by committing an infamous action！
He was becoming a thief once more，and the most odious of thieves！
He was robbing another of his existence，his life，his peace，his place in the sunshine.He was becoming an assassin.
He was murdering，morally murdering，a wretched man.
He was inflicting on him that frightful living death，that death beneath the open sky，which is called the galleys.On the other hand，to surrender himself to save that man，struck down with so melancholy an error，to resume his own name，to become once more，out of duty，the convict Jean Valjean，that was，in truth，to achieve his resurrection，and to close forever that hell whence he had just emerged；to fall back there in appearance was to escape from it in reality.
This must be done！
He had done nothing if he did not do all this；his whole life was useless；all his penitence was wasted.
There was no longer any need of saying，'What is the use？'
He felt that the Bishop was there，that the Bishop was present all the more because he was dead，that the Bishop was gazing fixedly at him，that henceforth Mayor Madeleine，with all his virtues，would be abominable to him，and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight；that men beheld his mask，but that the Bishop saw his face；that men saw his life，but that the Bishop beheld his conscience.So he must go to Arras，deliver the false Jean Valjean，and denounce the real one.
Alas！that was the greatest of sacrifices，the most poignant of victories，the last step to take；but it must be done.Sad fate！he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.
'Well，said he，'let us decide upon this；let us do our duty；let us save this man.'
He uttered these words aloud，without perceiving that he was speaking aloud.
He took his books，verified them，and put them in order.He flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed tradesmen.
He wrote and sealed a letter，and on the envelope it might have been read，had there been any one in his chamber at the moment，To Monsieur Laffitte，Banker，Rue d'Artois，Paris.
He drew from his secretary a pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the passport of which he had made use that same year when he went to the elections.
Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts，into which there entered such grave thought，would have had no suspicion of what was going on within him.
Only occasionally did his lips move；at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall，as though there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate.
When he had finished the letter to M.Laffitte，he put it into his pocket，together with the pocket-book，and began his walk once more.
His revery had not swerved from its course.
He continued to see his duty clearly，written in luminous letters，which flamed before his eyes and changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance：——
'Go！
Tell your name！
Denounce yourself！'
BOOK SEVENTH.——THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR
III（2） In the same way
He beheld，as though they had passed before him in visible forms，the two ideas which had，up to that time，formed the double rule of his soul，——the concealment of his name，the sanctification of his life.
For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct，and he perceived the distance which separated them.
He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was，necessarily，good，while the other might become bad；that the first was self-devotion，and that the other was personality；that the one said，my neighbor，and that the other said，myself；that one emanated from the light，and the other from darkness.
They were antagonistic.
He saw them in conflict.
