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.