Part 35 out of 36
What have I done to you? Has anything happened?"
"Everything is as usual."
"Why do you change your name?"
"You have changed yours, surely."
He smiled again with the same smile as before and added:
"Since you are Madame Pontmercy, I certainly can be Monsieur Jean."
"I don't understand anything about it. All this is idiotic.
I shall ask permission of my husband for you to be `Monsieur Jean.'
I hope that he will not consent to it. You cause me a great deal
of pain. One does have freaks, but one does not cause one's little
Cosette grief. That is wrong. You have no right to be wicked,
you who are so good."
He made no reply.
She seized his hands with vivacity, and raising them to her face
with an irresistible movement, she pressed them against her neck
beneath her chin, which is a gesture of profound tenderness.
"Oh!" she said to him, "be good!"
And she went on:
"This is what I call being good: being nice and coming and living here,--
there are birds here as there are in the Rue Plumet,--living with us,
quitting that hole of a Rue de l'Homme Arme, not giving us riddles
to guess, being like all the rest of the world, dining with us,
breakfasting with us, being my father."
He loosed her hands.
"You no longer need a father, you have a husband."
Cosette became angry.
"I no longer need a father! One really does not know what to say
to things like that, which are not common sense!"
"If Toussaint were here," resumed Jean Valjean, like a person who
is driven to seek authorities, and who clutches at every branch,
"she would be the first to agree that it is true that I have always
had ways of my own. There is nothing new in this. I always have
loved my black corner."
"But it is cold here. One cannot see distinctly. It is abominable,
that it is, to wish to be Monsieur Jean! I will not have you say
`you' to me.
"Just now, as I was coming hither," replied Jean Valjean,
"I saw a piece of furniture in the Rue Saint Louis. It was
at a cabinet-maker's. If I were a pretty woman, I would treat
myself to that bit of furniture. A very neat toilet table in the
reigning style. What you call rosewood, I think. It is inlaid.
The mirror is quite large. There are drawers. It is pretty."
"Hou! the villainous bear!" replied Cosette.
And with supreme grace, setting her teeth and drawing back her lips,
she blew at Jean Valjean. She was a Grace copying a cat.
"I am furious," she resumed. "Ever since yesterday, you have made
me rage, all of you. I am greatly vexed. I don't understand. You do
not defend me against Marius. Marius will not uphold me against you.
I am all alone. I arrange a chamber prettily. If I could have put the
good God there I would have done it. My chamber is left on my hands.
My lodger sends me into bankruptcy. I order a nice little dinner
of Nicolette. We will have nothing to do with your dinner, Madame.
And my father Fauchelevent wants me to call him `Monsieur Jean,'
and to receive him in a frightful, old, ugly cellar, where the walls
have beards, and where the crystal consists of empty bottles,
and the curtains are of spiders' webs! You are singular, I admit,
that is your style, but people who get married are granted a truce.
You ought not to have begun being singular again instantly.
So you are going to be perfectly contented in your abominable Rue
de l'Homme Arme. I was very desperate indeed there, that I was.
What have you against me? You cause me a great deal of grief.
And, becoming suddenly serious, she gazed intently at Jean Valjean
"Are you angry with me because I am happy?"
Ingenuousness sometimes unconsciously penetrates deep. This question,
which was simple for Cosette, was profound for Jean Valjean.
Cosette had meant to scratch, and she lacerated.
Jean Valjean turned pale.
He remained for a moment without replying, then, with an
inexpressible intonation, and speaking to himself, he murmured:
"Her happiness was the object of my life. Now God may sign
my dismissal. Cosette, thou art happy; my day is over."
"Ah, you have said thou to me!" exclaimed Cosette.
And she sprang to his neck.
Jean Valjean, in bewilderment, strained her wildly to his breast.
It almost seemed to him as though he were taking her back.
"Thanks, father!" said Cosette.
This enthusiastic impulse was on the point of becoming poignant
for Jean Valjean. He gently removed Cosette's arms, and took his hat.
"Well?" said Cosette.
"I leave you, Madame, they are waiting for you."
And, from the threshold, he added:
"I have said thou to you. Tell your husband that this shall not
happen again. Pardon me."
Jean Valjean quitted the room, leaving Cosette stupefied at this
ANOTHER STEP BACKWARDS
On the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.
Cosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished, no longer
exclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the drawing-room,
she avoided saying either "father" or "Monsieur Jean." She allowed
herself to be addressed as you. She allowed herself to be
called Madame. Only, her joy had undergone a certain diminution.
She would have been sad, if sadness had been possible to her.
It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations
in which the beloved man says what he pleases, explains nothing,
and satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does
not extend very far beyond their own love.
The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed
the bottles, and Nicolette the spiders.
All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour.
He came every day, because he had not the strength to take Marius'
words otherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to
be absent at the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew
accustomed to the novel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped
in this direction: "Monsieur has always been like that," she repeated.
The grandfather issued this decree:--"He's an original." And all
was said. Moreover, at the age of ninety-six, no bond is any longer
possible, all is merely juxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way.
There is no longer any room; all habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent,
M. Tranchelevent, Father Gillenormand asked nothing better than
to be relieved from "that gentleman." He added:--"Nothing is more
common than those originals. They do all sorts of queer things.
They have no reason. The Marquis de Canaples was still worse.
He bought a palace that he might lodge in the garret. These are
fantastic appearances that people affect."
No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover,
who could have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this
description in India. The water seems extraordinary, inexplicable,
rippling though there is no wind, and agitated where it should
be calm. One gazes at the surface of these causeless ebullitions;
one does not perceive the hydra which crawls on the bottom.
Many men have a secret monster in this same manner, a dragon
which gnaws them, a despair which inhabits their night. Such a man
resembles other men, he goes and comes. No one knows that he
bears within him a frightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth,
which lives within the unhappy man, and of which he is dying.
No one knows that this man is a gulf. He is stagnant but deep.
From time to time, a trouble of which the onlooker understands
nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious wrinkle is formed,
then vanishes, then re-appears; an air-bubble rises and bursts.
It is the breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people
are taking their leave, keeping in the background when other people
are displaying themselves, preserving on all occasions what may be
designated as the wall-colored mantle, seeking the solitary walk,
preferring the deserted street, avoiding any share in conversation,
avoiding crowds and festivals, seeming at one's ease and living
poorly, having one's key in one's pocket, and one's candle at the
porter's lodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door,
ascending the private staircase,--all these insignificant singularities,
fugitive folds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable foundation.
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession
of Cosette: the relations which marriage creates, visits, the care
of the house, pleasures, great matters. Cosette's pleasures were
not costly, they consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great
occupation of her life was to go out with him, to remain with him.
It was for them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm,
in the face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves,
before the whole world, both of them completely alone.
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette,
the soldering of two elderly maids being impossible, and she went away.
The grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there;
Aunt Gillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her,
beside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.
The address as thou disappeared, the you, the "Madame," the
"Monsieur Jean," rendered him another person to Cosette. The care
which he had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding.
She became more and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she
still loved him sincerely, and he felt it.
One day she said to him suddenly: "You used to be my father, you are
no longer my father, you were my uncle, you are no longer my uncle,
you were Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then?
I don't like all this. If I did not know how good you are, I should
be afraid of you."
He still lived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, because he could not make
up his mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt.
At first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and then
Little by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief.
One would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization
of the days which were lengthening, he arrived earlier and departed later.
One day Cosette chanced to say "father" to him. A flash
of joy illuminated Jean Valjean's melancholy old countenance.
He caught her up: "Say Jean."--"Ah! truly," she replied with a
burst of laughter, "Monsieur Jean."--"That is right," said he.
And he turned aside so that she might not see him wipe his eyes.
THEY RECALL THE GARDEN OF THE RUE PLUMET
This was the last time. After that last flash of light, complete
extinction ensued. No more familiarity, no more good-morning with
a kiss, never more that word so profoundly sweet: "My father!"
He was at his own request and through his own complicity driven out
of all his happinesses one after the other; and he had this sorrow,
that after having lost Cosette wholly in one day, he was afterwards
obliged to lose her again in detail.
The eye eventually becomes accustomed to the light of a cellar.
In short, it sufficed for him to have an apparition of Cosette
every day. His whole life was concentrated in that one hour.
He seated himself close to her, he gazed at her in silence, or he
talked to her of years gone by, of her childhood, of the convent,
of her little friends of those bygone days.
One afternoon,--it was on one of those early days in April,
already warm and fresh, the moment of the sun's great gayety,
the gardens which surrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt
the emotion of waking, the hawthorn was on the point of budding,
a jewelled garniture of gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls,
snapdragons yawned through the crevices of the stones, amid the
grass there was a charming beginning of daisies, and buttercups,
the white butterflies of the year were making their first appearance,
the wind, that minstrel of the eternal wedding, was trying in the trees
the first notes of that grand, auroral symphony which the old poets
called the springtide,--Marius said to Cosette:--"We said that we
would go back to take a look at our garden in the Rue Plumet.
Let us go thither. We must not be ungrateful."--And away they flitted,
like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of the Rue
Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already
had behind them in life something which was like the springtime
of their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease,
still belonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house.
There they found themselves again, there they forgot themselves.
That evening, at the usual hour, Jean Valjean came to the Rue des
Filles-du-Calvaire.--"Madame went out with Monsieur and has not
yet returned," Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence,
and waited an hour. Cosette did not return. He departed with
Cosette was so intoxicated with her walk to "their garden,"
and so joyous at having "lived a whole day in her past," that she
talked of nothing else on the morrow. She did not notice that she
had not seen Jean Valjean.
"In what way did you go thither?" Jean Valjean asked her."
"And how did you return?"
"In a hackney carriage."
For some time, Jean Valjean had noticed the economical life led
by the young people. He was troubled by it. Marius' economy was
severe, and that word had its absolute meaning for Jean Valjean.
He hazarded a query:
"Why do you not have a carriage of your own? A pretty coupe would
only cost you five hundred francs a month. You are rich."
"I don't know," replied Cosette.
"It is like Toussaint," resumed Jean Valjean. "She is gone.
You have not replaced her. Why?"
"But you ought to have a maid."
"Have I not Marius?"
"You ought to have a house of your own, your own servants, a carriage,
a box at the theatre. There is nothing too fine for you.
Why not profit by your riches? Wealth adds to happiness."
Cosette made no reply.
Jean Valjean's visits were not abridged. Far from it. When it is
the heart which is slipping, one does not halt on the downward slope.
When Jean Valjean wished to prolong his visit and to induce forgetfulness
of the hour, he sang the praises of Marius; he pronounced him handsome,
noble, courageous, witty, eloquent, good. Cosette outdid him.
Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius--that word
was inexhaustible; those six letters contained volumes.
In this manner, Jean Valjean contrived to remain a long time.
It was so sweet to see Cosette, to forget by her side! It alleviated
his wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce:
"M. Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame la Baronne that dinner
On those days, Jean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home.
Was there, then, any truth in that comparison of the chrysalis
which had presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean
really a chrysalis who would persist, and who would come to visit
One day he remained still longer than usual. On the following day he
observed that there was no fire on the hearth.--"Hello!" he thought.
"No fire."--And he furnished the explanation for himself.--"It is
perfectly simple. It is April. The cold weather has ceased."
"Heavens! how cold it is here!" exclaimed Cosette when she entered.
"Why, no," said Jean Valjean.
"Was it you who told Basque not to make a fire then?"
"Yes, since we are now in the month of May."
"But we have a fire until June. One is needed all the year
in this cellar."
"I thought that a fire was unnecessary."
"That is exactly like one of your ideas!" retorted Cosette.
On the following day there was a fire. But the two arm-chairs
were arranged at the other end of the room near the door.
"--What is the meaning of this?" thought Jean Valjean.
He went for the arm-chairs and restored them to their ordinary
place near the hearth.
This fire lighted once more encouraged him, however. He prolonged
the conversation even beyond its customary limits. As he rose
to take his leave, Cosette said to him:
"My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday."
"What was it?"
"He said to me: `Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand livres.
Twenty-seven that you own, and three that my grandfather
gives me.' I replied: `That makes thirty.' He went on:
`Would you have the courage to live on the three thousand?'
I answered: `Yes, on nothing. Provided that it was with you.'
And then I asked: `Why do you say that to me?' He replied:
`I wanted to know.'"
Jean Valjean found not a word to answer. Cosette probably expected
some explanation from him; he listened in gloomy silence.
He went back to the Rue de l'Homme Arme; he was so deeply absorbed
that he mistook the door and instead of entering his own house,
he entered the adjoining dwelling. It was only after having ascended
nearly two stories that he perceived his error and went down again.
His mind was swarming with conjectures. It was evident that Marius
had his doubts as to the origin of the six hundred thousand francs,
that he feared some source that was not pure, who knows? that he
had even, perhaps, discovered that the money came from him,
Jean Valjean, that he hesitated before this suspicious fortune,
and was disinclined to take it as his own,--preferring that both he
and Cosette should remain poor, rather than that they should be rich
with wealth that was not clean.
Moreover, Jean Valjean began vaguely to surmise that he was being
shown the door.
On the following day, he underwent something like a shock on
entering the ground-floor room. The arm-chairs had disappeared.
There was not a single chair of any sort.
"Ah, what's this!" exclaimed Cosette as she entered, "no chairs!
Where are the arm-chairs?"
"They are no longer here," replied Jean Valjean.
"This is too much!"
Jean Valjean stammered:
"It was I who told Basque to remove them."
"And your reason?"
"I have only a few minutes to stay to-day."
"A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing."
"I think that Basque needed the chairs for the drawing-room.
"You have company this evening, no doubt."
"We expect no one."
Jean Valjean had not another word to say.
Cosette shrugged her shoulders.
"To have the chairs carried off! The other day you had the fire
put out. How odd you are!"
"Adieu!" murmured Jean Valjean.
He did not say: "Adieu, Cosette." But he had not the strength to say:
He went away utterly overwhelmed.
This time he had understood.
On the following day he did not come. Cosette only observed
the fact in the evening.
"Why," said she, "Monsieur Jean has not been here today."
And she felt a slight twinge at her heart, but she hardly perceived it,
being immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.
On the following day he did not come.
Cosette paid no heed to this, passed her evening and slept well
that night, as usual, and thought of it only when she woke.
She was so happy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean's
house to inquire whether he were ill, and why he had not come
on the previous evening. Nicolette brought back the reply of
M. Jean that he was not ill. He was busy. He would come soon.
As soon as he was able. Moreover, he was on the point of taking
a little journey. Madame must remember that it was his custom
to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry about him.
They were not to think of him.
Nicolette on entering M. Jean's had repeated to him her mistress'
very words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean bad
not come on the preceding evening."--It is two days since I have
been there," said Jean Valjean gently.
But the remark passed unnoticed by Nicolette, who did not report
it to Cosette.
ATTRACTION AND EXTINCTION
During the last months of spring and the first months of summer
in 1833, the rare passersby in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers,
the loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black,
who emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall,
from the Rue de l'Homme Arme, on the side of the Rue
Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux,
gained the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at
the Rue de l'Echarpe, turned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis.
There he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward,
seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point
which seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no
other than the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer
he approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up;
a sort of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora,
he had a fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in
obscure movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he
did not see, he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible.
One would have said that, while desirous of reaching his destination,
he feared the moment when he should be close at hand. When only
a few houses remained between him and that street which appeared
to attract him his pace slackened, to such a degree that, at times,
one might have thought that he was no longer advancing at all.
The vacillation of his head and the fixity of his eyeballs
suggested the thought of the magnetic needle seeking the pole.
Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to arrive at last;
he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he halted,
he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy timidity
round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that street,
and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the
dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise
that was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered
in the corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall,
trickled down his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth.
The old man tasted its bitter flavor. Thus he remained for several
minutes as though made of stone, then he returned by the same road
and with the same step, and, in proportion as he retreated, his glance
Little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the
Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis;
sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.
One day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine
and looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance.
Then he shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing
himself something, and retraced his steps.
Soon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far
as the Rue Pavee, shook his head and turned back; then he went no
further than the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep
the Blancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum
which was no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing
shorter before ceasing altogether.
Every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook
the same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without
himself being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it.
His whole countenance expressed this single idea: What is the use?--
His eye was dim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted;
they no longer collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful
eye was dry. The old man's head was still craned forward; his chin
moved at times; the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold.
Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm,
but he never opened it.
The good women of the quarter said: "He is an innocent."
The children followed him and laughed.
BOOK NINTH.--SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN
PITY FOR THE UNHAPPY, BUT INDULGENCE FOR THE HAPPY
It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is!
How all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the
false object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty!
Let us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he
to blame Marius.
Marius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions
to M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to
Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed
himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done
wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself
to gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him,
as much as possible, from Cosette's mind. He had, in a manner,
always placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that,
in this way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter.
It was more than effacement, it was an eclipse.
Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought
that he had serious reasons which the reader has already seen,
and others which will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean
Valjean without harshness, but without weakness.
Chance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he
had argued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had
acquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had
not been able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret
which he had promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean
Valjean's perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had
a grave duty to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand
francs to some one whom he sought with all possible discretion.
In the meanwhile, he abstained from touching that money.
As for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets;
but it would be harsh to condemn her also.
There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism,
which caused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically,
what Marius wished. She was conscious of Marius' will in the direction
of "Monsieur Jean," she conformed to it. Her husband had not been
obliged to say anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear
pressure of his tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience
in this instance consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot.
She was not obliged to make any effort to accomplish this.
Without her knowing why herself, and without his having any cause
to accuse her of it, her soul had become so wholly her husband's
that that which was shrouded in gloom in Marius' mind became overcast
Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean,
this forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial.
She was rather heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely
attached to the man whom she had so long called her father;
but she loved her husband still more dearly. This was what had
somewhat disturbed the balance of her heart, which leaned to one
It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed
her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: "He is absent, I think.
Did not he say that he was setting out on a journey?"--"That is true,"
thought Cosette. "He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion.
But not for so long." Two or three times she despatched Nicolette
to inquire in the Rue de l'Homme Arme whether M. Jean had returned from
his journey. Jean Valjean caused the answer "no" to be given.
Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth, Marius.
Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also
been absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette
to his father's grave.
Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed it.
Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases,
the ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving
of reproach as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature.
Nature, as we have elsewhere said, "looks before her." Nature divides
living beings into those who are arriving and those who are departing.
Those who are departing are turned towards the shadows, those who
are arriving towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on
the part of the old, and involuntary on the part of the young.
This breach, at first insensible, increases slowly, like all separations
of branches. The boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk,
grow away from it. It is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there
is joy, festivals, vivid lights, love. Old age goes towards the end.
They do not lose sight of each other, but there is no longer
a close connection. Young people feel the cooling off of life;
old people, that of the tomb. Let us not blame these poor children.
LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL
One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps
in the street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post
where Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th
and the 6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went
up stairs again. This was the last oscillation of the pendulum.
On the following day he did not leave his apartment. On the day
after that, he did not leave his bed.
His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages
or potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate
"But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!"
"Certainly I did," replied Jean Valjean.
"The plate is quite full."
"Look at the water jug. It is empty."
"That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you
"Well," said Jean Valjean, "what if I felt hungry only for water?"
"That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time,
it is called fever."
"I will eat to-morrow."
"Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say:
`I will eat to-morrow'? The idea of leaving my platter without even
touching it! My ladyfinger potatoes were so good!"
Jean Valjean took the old woman's hand:
"I promise you that I will eat them," he said, in his benevolent voice.
"I am not pleased with you," replied the portress.
Jean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman.
There are streets in Paris through which no one ever passes,
and houses to which no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets
and one of those houses.
While he still went out, he had purchased of a coppersmith,
for a few sous, a little copper crucifix which he had hung up
on a nail opposite his bed. That gibbet is always good to look at.
A week passed, and Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room.
He still remained in bed. The portress said to her husband:--"The
good man upstairs yonder does not get up, he no longer eats,
he will not last long. That man has his sorrows, that he has.
You won't get it out of my head that his daughter has made a
The porter replied, with the tone of marital sovereignty:
"If he's rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him
go without. If he has no doctor he will die."
"And if he has one?"
"He will die," said the porter.
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,
"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
"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
The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.
When he came down again the portress interrogated him:
"Your sick man is very ill indeed."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances,
has lost some person who is dear to him. People die of that."
"What did he say to you?"
"He told me that he was in good health."
"Shall you come again, doctor?"
"Yes," replied the doctor. "But some one else besides must come."
A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT'S CART
One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself
on his elbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse;
his breath was short and halted at times; he recognized the fact
that he was weaker than he had ever been before. Then, no doubt
under the pressure of some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort,
drew himself up into a sitting posture and dressed himself.
He put on his old workingman's clothes. As he no longer went out,
he had returned to them and preferred them. He was obliged to pause
many times while dressing himself; merely putting his arms through his
waistcoat made the perspiration trickle from his forehead.
Since he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber,
in order to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.
He opened the valise and drew from it Cosette's outfit.
He spread it out on his bed.
The Bishop's candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He
took from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.
Then, although it was still broad daylight,--it was summer,--
he lighted them. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted
in broad daylight in chambers where there is a corpse.
Every step that he took in going from one piece of furniture
to another exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was
not ordinary fatigue which expends the strength only to renew it;
it was the remnant of all movement possible to him, it was life
drained which flows away drop by drop in overwhelming efforts
and which will never be renewed.
The chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front
of that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius,
in which he had read Cosette's reversed writing on the blotting book.
He caught sight of himself in this mirror, and did not recognize himself.
He was eighty years old; before Marius' marriage, he would have hardly
been taken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore
on his brow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark
of death. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there.
His cheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color
which would lead one to think that it already had earth upon it;
the corners of his mouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients
sculptured on tombs. He gazed into space with an air of reproach;
one would have said that he was one of those grand tragic beings
who have cause to complain of some one.
He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection,
in which sorrow no longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak;
there is something on the soul like a clot of despair.
Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old
arm-chair to the fireside, and placed upon the table a pen,
some ink and some paper.
That done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness,
he was thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he tipped it over
painfully towards his mouth, and swallowed a draught.
As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time,
the point of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was
forced to rise and put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did
not accomplish without pausing and sitting down two or three times,
and he was compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped
his brow from time to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not stand,
he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession
of him; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated
by the Bishop's candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled.
He wrote slowly the few following lines:
"Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband
was right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away;
but there is a little error in what he believed, though he was in
the right. He is excellent. Love him well even after I am dead.
Monsieur Pontmercy, love my darling child well. Cosette, this paper
will be found; this is what I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see
the figures, if I have the strength to recall them, listen well,
this money is really thine. Here is the whole matter: White jet
comes from Norway, black jet comes from England, black glass jewellery
comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest, the most precious,
the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as well as in Germany.
What is needed is a little anvil two inches square, and a lamp
burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was formerly
made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine.
It does not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better.
Buckles are made with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means
of this wax, to a little framework of black iron. The glass must
be violet for iron jewellery, and black for gold jewellery.
Spain buys a great deal of it. It is the country of jet . .
Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of
those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.
"Oh!" he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God
alone], "all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile
which passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without
even seeing her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice,
to touch her dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then
to die! It is nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without
seeing her. She would smile on me, she would say a word to me,
would that do any harm to any one? No, all is over, and forever.
Here I am all alone. My God! My God! I shall never see her again!"
At that moment there came a knock at the door.
A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING
That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as Marius
left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his study,
having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying:
"The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber."
Cosette had taken the grandfather's arm and was strolling in the garden.
A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior.
Coarse paper, coarsely folded--the very sight of certain missives
The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.
Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory
like an odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at
the superscription: "To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci.
At his hotel." The recognition of the tobacco caused him to
recognize the writing as well. It may be said that amazement
has its lightning flashes.
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just
revived a whole world within him. This was certainly the paper,
the fashion of folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly
the well-known handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had
so diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately
again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost,
had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
"Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given me the talents,
I might have been baron Thenard, member of the Institute [academy
of ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if
this memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses.
The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle.
I am in possession of a secret concerning an individual.
This individual concerns you. I hold the secret at your disposal
desiring to have the honor to be huseful to you. I will furnish
you with the simple means of driving from your honorabel family
that individual who has no right there, madame la baronne being
of lofty birth. The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer
with crime without abdicating.
I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.
The letter was signed "Thenard."
This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation.
The certificate of origin was complete.
Marius' emotion was profound. After a start of surprise,
he underwent a feeling of happiness. If he could now
but find that other man of whom he was in search, the man
who had saved him, Marius, there would be nothing left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes, put
them in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the bell.
Basque half opened the door.
"Show the man in," said Marius.
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter
stranger to him.
This man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin swathed
in a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta
over his eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his
brow on a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen
in "high life." His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from
head to foot, in garments that were very threadbare but clean;
a bunch of seals depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch.
He held in his hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude,
and the curve in his spine augmented the profundity of his bow.
The first thing that struck the observer was, that this
personage's coat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned,
had not been made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging
in the Rue Beautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose
profession was to change villains into honest men. Not for too long,
which might have proved embarrassing for the villain. The change
was on sight, for a day or two, at the rate of thirty sous a day,
by means of a costume which resembled the honesty of the world
in general as nearly as possible. This costumer was called
"the Changer"; the pickpockets of Paris had given him this name
and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably complete wardrobe.
The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable.
He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop hung
a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a magistrate,
there the outfit of a Cure, beyond the outfit of a banker, in one
corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the habiliments
of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery
plays in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged,
and into which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this
dressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to
the part which he wished to play, the costume which suited him,
and on descending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody.
On the following day, the clothes were faithfully returned,
and the Changer, who trusted the thieves with everything,
was never robbed. There was one inconvenience about these clothes,
they "did not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them,
they were too tight for one, too loose for another and did not adjust
themselves to any one. Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short
of the human average was ill at his ease in the Changer's costumes.
It was necessary that one should not be either too fat or too lean.
The changer had foreseen only ordinary men. He had taken the measure
of the species from the first rascal who came to hand, who is
neither stout nor thin, neither tall nor short. Hence adaptations
which were sometimes difficult and from which the Changer's clients
extricated themselves as best they might. So much the worse
for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman, for instance,
black from head to foot, and consequently proper, would have been
too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume
of a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer's catalogue;
"A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk
waistcoat, boots and linen." On the margin there stood:
ex-ambassador, and a note which we also copy: "In a separate box,
a neatly frizzed peruke, green glasses, seals, and two small
quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton." All this belonged
to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole costume was,
if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams were white,
a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover, one of the
coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only detail;
as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his coat
and laid upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent button.
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris,
he would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor
whom Basque had just shown in, the statesman's suit borrowed from
the pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom
he expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage.
He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made
exaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone:
"What do you want?"
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile
of a crocodile will furnish some idea:
"It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had
the honor of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I
actually did meet monsieur personally, several years ago, at the
house of Madame la Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms
of his Lordship the Vicomte Dambray, peer of France."
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize
some one whom one does not know.
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech.
He spied on his accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased;
the pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry,
shrill tone which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
"I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray," said he.
"I have never set foot in the house of either of them in my life."
The reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious
at any cost, insisted.
"Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have seen Monsieur!
I know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes
says to me: `Thenard, my friend . . . won't you drink a glass
of wine with me?'"
Marius' brow grew more and more severe:
"I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand.
Let us cut it short. What do you want?"
The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.
"Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America,
in a district near Panama, a village called la Joya. That village
is composed of a single house, a large, square house of three stories,
built of bricks dried in the sun, each side of the square five
hundred feet in length, each story retreating twelve feet back
of the story below, in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace
which makes the circuit of the edifice, in the centre an inner court
where the provisions and munitions are kept; no windows, loopholes,
no doors, ladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace,
and from the first to the second, and from the second to the third,
ladders to descend into the inner court, no doors to the chambers,
trap-doors, no staircases to the chambers, ladders; in the evening
the traps are closed, the ladders are withdrawn carbines and
blunderbusses trained from the loopholes; no means of entering,
a house by day, a citadel by night, eight hundred inhabitants,--
that is the village. Why so many precautions? because the country
is dangerous; it is full of cannibals. Then why do people go there?
because the country is marvellous; gold is found there."
"What are you driving at?" interrupted Marius, who had passed
from disappointment to impatience.
"At this, Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat.
Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to
"Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian
peasant woman, who toils by the day, turns round when the diligence
passes by, the peasant proprietress, who toils in her field,
does not turn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man,
the dog of the rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself.
Self-interest--that's the object of men. Gold, that's the loadstone."
"What then? Finish."
"I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three
of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl.
The journey is long and costly. I need a little money."
"What concern is that of mine?" demanded Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a gesture
characteristic of the vulture, and replied with an augmented smile.
"Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?"
There was some truth in this. The fact is, that the contents of the
epistle had slipped Marius' mind. He had seen the writing rather
than read the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment
ago a fresh start had been given him. He had noted that detail:
"my spouse and my young lady."
He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge
could not have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him.
He confined himself to replying:
"State the case precisely."
The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs, drew himself
up without straightening his dorsal column, but scrutinizing Marius
in his turn, with the green gaze of his spectacles.
"So be it, Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret
to sell to you."
"Which concerns me?"
"What is the secret?"
Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him.
"I commence gratis," said the stranger. "You will see that I
"Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and an assassin."
"In my house? no," said he.
The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:
"An assassin and a thief. Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not
here speak of ancient deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed,
which can be effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance
before God. I speak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still
unknown to justice at this hour. I continue. This man has
insinuated himself into your confidence, and almost into your
family under a false name. I am about to tell you his real name.
And to tell it to you for nothing."
"I am listening."
"His name is Jean Valjean."
"I know it."
"I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he is."
"He is an ex-convict."
"I know it."
"You know it since I have had the honor of telling you."
"No. I knew it before."
Marius' cold tone, that double reply of "I know it," his laconicism,
which was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up some smouldering
wrath in the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly
at Marius, which was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was,
this glance was of the kind which a man recognizes when he has once
beheld it; it did not escape Marius. Certain flashes can only
proceed from certain souls; the eye, that vent-hole of the thought,
glows with it; spectacles hide nothing; try putting a pane of glass
The stranger resumed with a smile:
"I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case,
you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have
to tell you is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune
of Madame la Baronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale--
I make you the first offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs."
"I know that secret as well as the others," said Marius.
The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.
"Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will speak."
"I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me.
I know what you wish to say to me."
A fresh flash gleamed in the man's eye. He exclaimed:
"But I must dine to-day, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret,
I tell you. Monsieur le Baron, I will speak. I speak. Give me
Marius gazed intently at him:
"I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean Valjean's name,
just as I know your name."
"That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron. I had the honor to write
to you and to tell it to you. Thenard."
In danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death,
the old guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.
Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat
with a fillip.
"You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian,
Genflot the poet, Don Alvares the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard."
"And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil."
"A pot-house! Never."
"And I tell you that your name is Thenardier."
"I deny it."
"And that you are a rascal. Here."
And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.
"Thanks! Pardon me! five hundred francs! Monsieur le Baron!"
And the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined it.
"Five hundred francs!" he began again, taken aback. And he stammered
in a low voice: "An honest rustler."
 Un fafiot serieux. Fafiot is the slang term for a bank-bill,
derived from its rustling noise.
"Well, so be it!" he exclaimed. "Let us put ourselves at our ease."
And with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair,
tearing off his spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by
sleight of hand the two quills of which mention was recently made,
and which the reader has also met with on another page of this book,
he took off his face as the man takes off his hat.
His eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some places
and bumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was laid bare,
his nose had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious
profile of the man of prey reappeared.
"Monsieur le Baron is infallible," he said in a clear voice whence
all nasal twang had disappeared, "I am Thenardier."
And he straightened up his crooked back.
Thenardier, for it was really he, was strangely surprised;
he would have been troubled, had he been capable of such a thing.
He had come to bring astonishment, and it was he who had received it.
This humiliation had been worth five hundred francs to him, and, taking it
all in all, he accepted it; but he was none the less bewildered.
He beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first time, and, in spite
of his disguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognized him, and recognized
him thoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed
as to Thenardier, but he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean.
Who was this almost beardless young man, who was so glacial and
so generous, who knew people's names, who knew all their names,
and who opened his purse to them, who bullied rascals like a judge,
and who paid them like a dupe?
Thenardier, the reader will remember, although he had been Marius'
neighbor, had never seen him, which is not unusual in Paris;
he had formerly, in a vague way, heard his daughters talk of a very poor
young man named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him,
without knowing him, the letter with which the reader is acquainted.
No connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was
possible in his mind.
As for the name Pontmercy, it will be recalled that, on the
battlefield of Waterloo, he had only heard the last two syllables,
for which he always entertained the legitimate scorn which one
owes to what is merely an expression of thanks.
However, through his daughter Azelma, who had started on the scent
of the married pair on the 16th of February, and through his own
personal researches, he had succeeded in learning many things, and,
from the depths of his own gloom, he had contrived to grasp more
than one mysterious clew. He had discovered, by dint of industry,
or, at least, by dint of induction, he had guessed who the man
was whom he had encountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer.
From the man he had easily reached the name. He knew that Madame
la Baronne Pontmercy was Cosette. But he meant to be discreet
in that quarter.
Who was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He did,
indeed, catch an inkling of illegitimacy, the history of Fantine
had always seemed to him equivocal; but what was the use of talking
about that? in order to cause himself to be paid for his silence?
He had, or thought he had, better wares than that for sale.
And, according to all appearances, if he were to come and make
to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation--and without proof:
"Your wife is a bastard," the only result would be to attract
the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer.
From Thenardier's point of view, the conversation with Marius
had not yet begun. He ought to have drawn back, to have modified
his strategy, to have abandoned his position, to have changed
his front; but nothing essential had been compromised as yet,
and he had five hundred francs in his pocket. Moreover, he had
something decisive to say, and, even against this very well-informed
and well-armed Baron Pontmercy, he felt himself strong.
For men of Thenardier's nature, every dialogue is a combat.
In the one in which he was about to engage, what was his situation?
He did not know to whom he was speaking, but he did know of what
he was speaking, he made this rapid review of his inner forces,
and after having said: "I am Thenardier," he waited.
Marius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Thenardier at last.
That man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him.
He could honor Colonel Pontmercy's recommendation.
He felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to
this villain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths
of the tomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up
to that day. It also seemed to him, in the complex state of his
mind towards Thenardier, that there was occasion to avenge the
Colonel for the misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal.
In any case, he was content. He was about to deliver the Colonel's
shade from this unworthy creditor at last, and it seemed to him
that he was on the point of rescuing his father's memory from
the debtors' prison. By the side of this duty there was another--
to elucidate, if possible, the source of Cosette's fortune.
The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps Thenardier
knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of this man.
He commenced with this.
Thenardier had caused the "honest rustler" to disappear in his fob,
and was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender.
Marius broke the silence.
"Thenardier, I have told you your name. Now, would you like to have
me tell you your secret--the one that you came here to reveal to me?
I have information of my own, also. You shall see that I know more
about it than you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin
and a thief. A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer,
whose ruin he brought about. An assassin, because he assassinated
"I don't understand, sir," ejaculated Thenardier.
"I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement
of the Pas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out
with justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained
his status and rehabilitated himself. This man had become a just
man in the full force of the term. In a trade, the manufacture
of black glass goods, he made the fortune of an entire city.
As far as his personal fortune was concerned he made that also,
but as a secondary matter, and in some sort, by accident.
He was the foster-father of the poor. He founded hospitals,
opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young girls, supported widows,
and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian angel of the country.
He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor. A liberated convict
knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in former days;
he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by the arrest
to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte,--I have the fact
from the cashier himself,--by means of a false signature, to hand
over to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to
M. Madeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean.
As for the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either.
Jean Valjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol.
I, the person who is speaking to you, was present."
Thenardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered
man who lays his hand once more upon the victory, and who has
just regained, in one instant, all the ground which he has lost.
But the smile returned instantly. The inferior's triumph in the
presence of his superior must be wheedling.
Thenardier contented himself with saying to Marius:
"Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track."
And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute
an expressive whirl.
"What!" broke forth Marius, "do you dispute that? These are facts."
"They are chimeras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron
honors me renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice
before all things. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly.
Monsieur le Baron, Jean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean
Valjean did not kill Javert."
"This is too much! How is this?"
"For two reasons."
"What are they? Speak."
"This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine, because it
is Jean Valjean himself who was M. Madeleine."
"What tale are you telling me?"
"And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert,
because the person who killed Javert was Javert."
"What do you mean to say?"
"That Javert committed suicide."
"Prove it! prove it!" cried Marius beside himself.
Thenardier resumed, scanning his phrase after the manner of the
ancient Alexandrine measure:
"But prove it!"
Thenardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper,
which seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes.
"I have my papers," he said calmly.
And he added:
"Monsieur le Baron, in your interests I desired to know Jean
Valjean thoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and
the same man, and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert.
If I speak, it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs--
writing is suspicious, handwriting is complaisant,--but printed proofs."
As he spoke, Thenardier extracted from the envelope two copies
of newspapers, yellow, faded, and strongly saturated with tobacco.
One of these two newspapers, broken at every fold and falling into rags,
seemed much older than the other.
"Two facts, two proofs," remarked Thenardier. And he offered
the two newspapers, unfolded, to Marius,
The reader is acquainted with these two papers. One, the most ancient,
a number of the Drapeau Blanc of the 25th of July, 1823, the text
of which can be seen in the first volume, established the identity
of M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean.
The other, a Moniteur of the 15th of June, 1832, announced the
suicide of Javert, adding that it appeared from a verbal report
of Javert to the prefect that, having been taken prisoner in the
barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had owed his life to the
magnanimity of an insurgent who, holding him under his pistol,
had fired into the air, instead of blowing out his brains.
Marius read. He had evidence, a certain date, irrefragable proof,
these two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose
of backing up Thenardier's statements; the note printed in the Moniteur
had been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police.
Marius could not doubt.
The information of the cashier-clerk had been false, and he himself
had been deceived.
Jean Valjean, who had suddenly grown grand, emerged from his cloud.
Marius could not repress a cry of joy.
"Well, then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! the whole
of that fortune really belonged to him! he is Madeleine,
the providence of a whole countryside! he is Jean Valjean,
Javert's savior! he is a hero! he is a saint!"
"He's not a saint, and he's not a hero!" said Thenardier.
"He's an assassin and a robber."
And he added, in the tone of a man who begins to feel that he
possesses some authority:
"Let us be calm."
Robber, assassin--those words which Marius thought had disappeared
and which returned, fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath.
"Again!" said he.
"Always," ejaculated Thenardier. "Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine,
but he is a thief. He did not kill Javert, but he is a murderer."
"Will you speak," retorted Marius, "of that miserable theft,
committed forty years ago, and expiated, as your own newspapers prove,
by a whole life of repentance, of self-abnegation and of virtue?"
"I say assassination and theft, Monsieur le Baron, and I repeat
that I am speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to
you is absolutely unknown. It belongs to unpublished matter.
And perhaps you will find in it the source of the fortune
so skilfully presented to Madame la Baronne by Jean Valjean.
I say skilfully, because, by a gift of that nature it would not be so
very unskilful to slip into an honorable house whose comforts one would
then share, and, at the same stroke, to conceal one's crime, and to
enjoy one's theft, to bury one's name and to create for oneself a family."
"I might interrupt you at this point," said Marius, "but go on."
"Monsieur le Baron, I will tell you all, leaving the recompense to
your generosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me:
`Why do not you apply to Jean Valjean?' For a very simple reason;
I know that he has stripped himself, and stripped himself in your favor,
and I consider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son,
he would show me his empty hands, and, since I am in need of some
money for my trip to la Joya, I prefer you, you who have it all,
to him who has nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take
Marius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.
Thenardier installed himself on a tufted chair, picked up
his two newspapers, thrust them back into their envelope,
and murmured as he pecked at the Drapeau Blanc with his nail:
"It cost me a good deal of trouble to get this one."
That done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back
of the chair, an attitude characteristic of people who are sure
of what they are saying, then he entered upon his subject gravely,
emphasizing his words:
"Monsieur le Baron, on the 6th of June, 1832, about a year ago,
on the day of the insurrection, a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris,
at the point where the sewer enters the Seine, between the Pont des
Invalides and the Pont de Jena."
Marius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Thenardier.
Thenardier noticed this movement and continued with the deliberation
of an orator who holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary
palpitating under his words:
"This man, forced to conceal himself, and for reasons, moreover,
which are foreign to politics, had adopted the sewer as his
domicile and had a key to it. It was, I repeat, on the 6th
of June; it might have been eight o'clock in the evening.
The man hears a noise in the sewer. Greatly surprised, he hides
himself and lies in wait. It was the sound of footsteps,
some one was walking in the dark, and coming in his direction.
Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer besides himself.
The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A little
light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the newcomer,
and to see that the man was carrying something on his back.
He was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a
bent attitude was an ex-convict, and what he was dragging on his
shoulders was a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act,
if ever there was such a thing. As for the theft, that is understood;
one does not kill a man gratis. This convict was on his way
to fling the body into the river. One fact is to be noticed,
that before reaching the exit grating, this convict, who had come
a long distance in the sewer, must, necessarily, have encountered
a frightful quagmire where it seems as though he might have left
the body, but the sewermen would have found the assassinated man
the very next day, while at work on the quagmire, and that did
not suit the assassin's plans. He had preferred to traverse that
quagmire with his burden, and his exertions must have been terrible,
for it is impossible to risk one's life more completely; I don't
understand how he could have come out of that alive."
Marius' chair approached still nearer. Thenardier took advantage
of this to draw a long breath. He went on:
"Monsieur le Baron, a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks
everything there, even room. When two men are there, they must meet.
That is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by
were forced to bid each other good-day, greatly to the regret
of both. The passer-by said to the inhabitant:--"You see what I
have on my back, I must get out, you have the key, give it to me."
That convict was a man of terrible strength. There was no way
of refusing. Nevertheless, the man who had the key parleyed,
simply to gain time. He examined the dead man, but he could
see nothing, except that the latter was young, well dressed,
with the air of being rich, and all disfigured with blood.
While talking, the man contrived to tear and pull off behind,
without the assassin perceiving it, a bit of the assassinated
man's coat. A document for conviction, you understand; a means
of recovering the trace of things and of bringing home the crime
to the criminal. He put this document for conviction in his pocket.
After which he opened the grating, made the man go out with his
embarrassment on his back, closed the grating again, and ran off,
not caring to be mixed up with the remainder of the adventure
and above all, not wishing to be present when the assassin threw
the assassinated man into the river. Now you comprehend. The man
who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the one who had the key
is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of the coat . .
Thenardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket,
and holding, on a level with his eyes, nipped between his two
thumbs and his two forefingers, a strip of torn black cloth,
all covered with dark spots.
Marius had sprung to his feet, pale, hardly able to draw his breath,
with his eyes riveted on the fragment of black cloth, and, without
uttering a word, without taking his eyes from that fragment,
he retreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along
the wall for a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney.
He found the key, opened the cupboard, plunged his arm into it
without looking, and without his frightened gaze quitting the rag
which Thenardier still held outspread.
But Thenardier continued:
"Monsieur le Baron, I have the strongest of reasons for believing
that the assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into
a trap by Jean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous sum of money."
"The young man was myself, and here is the coat!" cried Marius,
and he flung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood.
Then, snatching the fragment from the hands of Thenardier, he crouched
down over the coat, and laid the torn morsel against the tattered skirt.
The rent fitted exactly, and the strip completed the coat.
Thenardier was petrified.
This is what he thought: "I'm struck all of a heap."
Marius rose to his feet trembling, despairing, radiant.
He fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Thenardier,
presenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled
with bank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs.
"You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar, a calumniator,
a villain. You came to accuse that man, you have only justified him;
you wanted to ruin him, you have only succeeded in glorifying him.
And it is you who are the thief! And it is you who are the assassin!
I saw you, Thenardier Jondrette, in that lair on the Rue de l'Hopital.
I know enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further
if I choose. Here are a thousand francs, bully that you are!"
And he flung a thousand franc note at Thenardier.
"Ah! Jondrette Thenardier, vile rascal! Let this serve you as
a lesson, you dealer in second-hand secrets, merchant of mysteries,
rummager of the shadows, wretch! Take these five hundred francs
and get out of here! Waterloo protects you."
"Waterloo!" growled Thenardier, pocketing the five hundred francs
along with the thousand.
"Yes, assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . ."
"Of a General," said Thenardier, elevating his head.
"Of a Colonel!" repeated Marius in a rage. "I wouldn't give a ha'penny
for a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you
that you have committed all crimes. Go! disappear! Only be happy,
that is all that I desire. Ah! monster! here are three thousand
francs more. Take them. You will depart to-morrow, for America,
with your daughter; for your wife is dead, you abominable liar.
I shall watch over your departure, you ruffian, and at that moment
I will count out to you twenty thousand francs. Go get yourself
"Monsieur le Baron!" replied Thenardier, bowing to the very earth,
"eternal gratitude." And Thenardier left the room, understanding nothing,
stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks of gold,
and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in bank-bills.
Struck by lightning he was, but he was also content; and he would
have been greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off
such lightning as that.
Let us finish with this man at once.
Two days after the events which we are at this moment narrating,
he set out, thanks to Marius' care, for America under a false name,
with his daughter Azelma, furnished with a draft on New York for twenty
The moral wretchedness of Thenardier, the bourgeois who had missed
his vocation, was irremediable. He was in America what he had
been in Europe. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to
corrupt a good action and to cause evil things to spring from it.
With Marius' money, Thenardier set up as a slave-dealer.
As soon as Thenardier had left the house, Marius rushed to the garden,
where Cosette was still walking.
"Cosette! Cosette!" he cried. "Come! come quick! Let us go.
Basque, a carriage! Cosette, come. Ah! My God! It was he
who saved my life! Let us not lose a minute! Put on your shawl."
Cosette thought him mad and obeyed.
He could not breathe, he laid his hand on his heart to restrain
its throbbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides,
he embraced Cosette:
"Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!" said he.
Marius was bewildered. He began to catch a glimpse in Jean
Valjean of some indescribably lofty and melancholy figure.
An unheard-of virtue, supreme and sweet, humble in its immensity,
appeared to him. The convict was transfigured into Christ.
Marius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely
what he beheld, but it was grand.
In an instant, a hackney-carriage stood in front of the door.
Marius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.
"Driver," said he, "Rue de l'Homme Arme, Number 7."
The carriage drove off.
"Ah! what happiness!" ejaculated Cosette. "Rue de l'Homme Arme,
I did not dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see
"Thy father! Cosette, thy father more than ever. Cosette, I
guess it. You told me that you had never received the letter
that I sent you by Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands.
Cosette, he went to the barricade to save me. As it is a necessity
with him to be an angel, he saved others also; he saved Javert.
He rescued me from that gulf to give me to you. He carried me
on his back through that frightful sewer. Ah! I am a monster
of ingratitude. Cosette, after having been your providence,
he became mine. Just imagine, there was a terrible quagmire
enough to drown one a hundred times over, to drown one in mire.
Cosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing,
I heard nothing, I could know nothing of my own adventure.
We are going to bring him back, to take him with us, whether he
is willing or not, he shall never leave us again. If only he is
at home! Provided only that we can find him, I will pass the rest
of my life in venerating him. Yes, that is how it should be,
do you see, Cosette? Gavroche must have delivered my letter to him.
All is explained. You understand."
Cosette did not understand a word.
"You are right," she said to him.
Meanwhile the carriage rolled on.
A NIGHT BEHIND WHICH THERE IS DAY
Jean Valjean turned round at the knock which he heard on his door.
"Come in," he said feebly.
The door opened.
Cosette and Marius made their appearance.
Cosette rushed into the room.
Marius remained on the threshold, leaning against the jamb of the door.
"Cosette!" said Jean Valjean.
And he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling,
haggard, livid, gloomy, an immense joy in his eyes.
Cosette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean's breast.
"Father!" said she.
Jean Valjean, overcome, stammered:
"Cosette! she! you! Madame! it is thou! Ah! my God!"
And, pressed close in Cosette's arms, he exclaimed:
"It is thou! thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then!"
Marius, lowering his eyelids, in order to keep his tears from flowing,
took a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted
to repress his sobs:
"And you also, you pardon me!" Jean Valjean said to him.
Marius could find no words, and Jean Valjean added:
Cosette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed.
"It embarrasses me," said she.
And, seating herself on the old man's knees, she put aside his white
locks with an adorable movement, and kissed his brow.
Jean Valjean, bewildered, let her have her own way.
Cosette, who only understood in a very confused manner,
redoubled her caresses, as though she desired to pay Marius' debt.
Jean Valjean stammered:
"How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again.
Imagine, Monsieur Pontmercy, at the very moment when you entered,
I was saying to myself: `All is over. Here is her little gown,
I am a miserable man, I shall never see Cosette again,' and I was
saying that at the very moment when you were mounting the stairs.
Was not I an idiot? Just see how idiotic one can be! One reckons
without the good God. The good God says:
"`You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No,
things will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in
need of an angel.' And the angel comes, and one sees one's Cosette
again! and one sees one's little Cosette once more! Ah! I was
For a moment he could not speak, then he went on:
"I really needed to see Cosette a little bit now and then. A heart needs
a bone to gnaw. But I was perfectly conscious that I was in the way.
I gave myself reasons: `They do not want you, keep in your own course,
one has not the right to cling eternally.' Ah! God be praised, I see
her once more! Dost thou know, Cosette, thy husband is very handsome?
Ah! what a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I am
fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not?
And then, thou shouldst have some cashmere shawls. Let me call
her thou, Monsieur Pontmercy. It will not be for long."
And Cosette began again:
"How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go?
Why have you stayed away so long? Formerly your journeys only lasted
three or four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always was:
`He is absent.' How long have you been back? Why did you
not let us know? Do you know that you are very much changed?
Ah! what a naughty father! he has been ill, and we have not known it!
Stay, Marius, feel how cold his hand is!"
"So you are here! Monsieur Pontmercy, you pardon me!"
repeated Jean Valjean.
At that word which Jean Valjean had just uttered once more,
all that was swelling Marius' heart found vent.
He burst forth:
"Cosette, do you hear? he has come to that! he asks my forgiveness!
And do you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved
my life. He has done more--he has given you to me. And after having
saved me, and after having given you to me, Cosette, what has he
done with himself? He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man.
And he says to me the ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless,
to me the guilty one: Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed
at the feet of this man would be too little. That barricade,
that sewer, that furnace, that cesspool,--all that he traversed
for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried me away through all the
deaths which he put aside before me, and accepted for himself.
Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every sanctity
he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel!"
"Hush! hush!" said Jean Valjean in a low voice. "Why tell all that?"
"But you!" cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration,
"why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too.
You save people's lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more,
under the pretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself.
It is frightful."
"I told the truth," replied Jean Valjean.
"No," retorted Marius, "the truth is the whole truth; and that you
did not tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so?
You saved Javert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you,
why not have said so?"
"Because I thought as you do. I thought that you were in the right.
It was necessary that I should go away. If you had known about
that affair, of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you.
I was therefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would
have caused embarrassment in every way."
"It would have embarrassed what? embarrassed whom?" retorted Marius.
"Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off.
Ah! good heavens! when I reflect that it was by an accident that I have
learned all this. You form a part of ourselves. You are her father,
and mine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house.
Do not imagine that you will be here to-morrow."
"To-morrow," said Jean Valjean, "I shall not be here, but I shall
not be with you."
"What do you mean?" replied Marius. "Ah! come now, we are not going
to permit any more journeys. You shall never leave us again.
You belong to us. We shall not loose our hold of you."
"This time it is for good," added Cosette. "We have a carriage
at the door. I shall run away with you. If necessary, I shall
And she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms.
"Your chamber still stands ready in our house," she went on.
"If you only knew how pretty the garden is now! The azaleas
are doing very well there. The walks are sanded with river sand;
there are tiny violet shells. You shall eat my strawberries.
I water them myself. And no more `madame,' no more `Monsieur Jean,'
we are living under a Republic, everybody says thou, don't they, Marius?
The programme is changed. If you only knew, father, I have had a sorrow,
there was a robin redbreast which had made her nest in a hole in
the wall, and a horrible cat ate her. My poor, pretty, little robin
red-breast which used to put her head out of her window and look
at me! I cried over it. I should have liked to kill the cat.
But now nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs, everybody is happy.
You are going to come with us. How delighted grandfather will be!
You shall have your plot in the garden, you shall cultivate it,
and we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as mine.
And, then, I shall do everything that you wish, and then, you will obey
Jean Valjean listened to her without hearing her. He heard
the music of her voice rather than the sense of her words;
one of those large tears which are the sombre pearls of the soul
welled up slowly in his eyes.