 Chapter 1 and 2 of Book 8 of Le Miserable Volume 5 by Victor Hugo. Book 8 The Fading Away of the Twilight. Chapter 1 The Lower Chamber On the following day at nightfall, Jean Baljean knocked at the carriage-gate of the Galenormand house. It was Basque who received him. Basque was in the courtyard at the appointed hour as though he had received his orders. It sometimes happens that one says to a servant, he will watch for Mr. So-and-So when he arrives. Basque addressed Jean Baljean without waiting for the latter to approach him. Monsieur Le Baron has charged me to inquire whether Monsieur desires to go upstairs or to remain below. I will remain below, replied Jean Baljean. Basque, who was perfectly respectful, opened the door of the waiting-room and said, I will go and inform Madame. The room which Jean Baljean entered was a damp, vaulted room on the ground floor which served as a cellar on occasion which opened on the street, was paved with red squares and was badly lighted by a grated window. This chamber was not one of those which were harassed by the feather duster, the pope's head brush and the broom. The dust rested tranquilly there. Persecution of the spiders was not organized there. A fine web which spread far and wide and was very black and ornamented with dead flies formed a wheel on one of the window panes. The room which was small and low-sealed was furnished with a heap of empty bottles piled up in one corner. The wall which was dolled with an ochre yellow wash was scaling off in large flakes. At one end there was a chimney-piece painted in black with a narrow shelf. A fire was burning there which indicated that Jean Baljean's reply, I will remain below, had been foreseen. Two armchairs were placed at the two corners of the fireplace. Between the chairs an old bedside rug which displayed more foundation thread than wool had been spread by way of a carpet. The chamber was lighted by the fire on the hearth and the twilight falling through the window. Jean Baljean was fatigued. For days he had neither eaten nor slept. He threw himself into one of the armchairs. Bask returned, set a light a candle on the chimney-piece and retired. Jean Baljean has had drooping and his chin resting on his breast, perceived neither Bask nor the candle. All at once he drew himself up with a start. Cossette was standing beside him. He had not seen her enter but he had felt that she was there. He turned round. He gazed at her. She was adorably lovely but what he was contemplating with that profound gaze was not her beauty but her soul. Well, exclaimed Cossette Father, I knew that you were peculiar but I never should have expected this. What an idea! Morris told me that you wished me to receive you here. Yes, it is my wish. I expected that reply. Good! I warn you that I am going to make a scene for you. Let us begin at the beginning. Embrace me, Father. And she offered him her cheek. Jean Baljean remained motionless. You do not stir. I take note of it. Attitude of guilt, but never mind I pardon you. Jesus Christ said offered the other cheek. Here it is. And she presented her other cheek. Jean Baljean did not move. It seemed as though his feet were nailed to the pavement. This is becoming serious, said Cossette. What have I done to you? I declare that I am perplexed. You owe me reparation. You will dine with us. I have dined. That is not true. I will get Monsieur Guillaumand to scold you. Grandfathers are made to reprimand fathers. Come, go upstairs with me to the drawing-room immediately. Impossible. Cossette lost ground a little. She ceased to command and passed to questioning. But why? And you chose the ugliest chamber in the house in which to see me. It is horrible here. Thou knowest John Baljean caught himself up. You know, madam, that I am peculiar. I have my freaks. Cossette struck her tiny hands together. Madame, you know. More novelties. What is the meaning of this? Jean Baljean directed upon her that heart-rending smile to which he occasionally had recourse. You wished to be madame. You are so. Not for you, father. Do not call me father. What? Call me Monsieur Jean. Jean, if you like. You are no longer my father. I am no longer Cossette. Monsieur Jean. What does this mean? Why, these are revolutions, aren't they? What has taken place? Come, look me in the face, and you won't live with us? And you won't have my chamber? What have I done to you? Has anything happened? Nothing. Well then, everything is as usual. Why do you change your name? You have changed yours, surely. You smiled again with the same smile as before and added. Since you are Madame Pont-Merci, 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 Cossette grief. That is wrong. You have no right to be wicked. You who are so good, he may never 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 Pont-Merci, living with us, quitting that whole of a rue de Homme, 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. Cossette 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 to a saint we're here, resumed Jean Valjean, like a person who has 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. 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 here, the reply, Jean Valjean, I saw a piece of furniture in the rue Saint-Louis. It was at a cabinet makers. If I were a pretty woman, I would treat myself to that bit of furniture, a very neat toilet in the reigning style. What you call rosewood, I think. It is inlaid. The mirror is quite large. There are drawers. It is pretty. How the villainous bear replied Cossette, 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 did not defend me against Maurice. Maurice 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, Fauchervan, wants me to call him Monsieur Jean and to receive him in a frightful old ugly cellar where the walls had beards and where the crystal consists of empty bottles and the curtains are of spider's 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 peacefully contented in your abominable roue de la mâme. I was very desperate indeed there that I was. What have you against me? You cause me a great deal of grief, thigh, and becoming suddenly serious she gazed intently at Jean Valjean and added, Are you angry with me because I am happy? In Jean, you ask, sometimes unconsciously, penetrates deep. This question, which was simple for Cossette, was profound for Jean Valjean. Cossette 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 me dismissal. Cossette, thou art happy. My day is over. Ah, you have said thou to me? exclaimed Cossette, 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 Cossette. This enthusiastic impulse was on the point of becoming poignant for Jean Valjean. He gently removed Cossette's arms and took his hat. Well, said Cossette, 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 Cossette stupefied at his enigmatic farewell. Chapter 2 Another Step Backwards On the following day at the same hour Jean Valjean came. Cossette 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 majeuregine. 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. Bask had suppressed the bottles and nickel at 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's 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 Mr. Fort Chellevant. Toussaint helped in this direction. Majeure 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. Mr. Fort Chellevant. Mr. Trachelevant. Father Guylain Normande 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 Canopolis 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, where 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 hydro 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 with 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 reappears, as air bubbles rise and burst. 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 sharing 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 folks 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 hunting 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, and Gallenumon peacefully led that life aside which suffice for her. Beside the new household, Jean Valjean came every day. The address as thou disappeared, the ew, the madame, the Michel Jeanne, rendered him another person of 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, fachavant. 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 la Homme-en-Main, 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 went away. 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 continence. He caught her up. C'est 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. CHAPTERS 3 AND 4 OF BOOK 8 OF LAM MISERAV, V. 5, by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin. LAM MISERAV, V. 5, by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood. BOOK 8 CHAPTER 3 THEY RECALL THE GARDEN OF THE RUE PLUME. 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 Cossette 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 Cossette 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 gaiety. The gardens which surrounded the windows of Marius and Cossette felt the emotion of waking. The hawthorn was on the point of budding, a jeweled garniture of ghillie-flower spread over the ancient walls. Snack-dragons yawned through the crevices of the stones. Amid the grass there was a charming beginning of daisies and butter-cups. 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 or rural symphony which the old poets called the springtide. Marius said to Cossette, We said that we would go back to take a look at our garden in the Rue Plumée. Let us go hither. We must not be ungrateful. And away they flitted like two swallows toward the spring. This garden of the Rue Plumée 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 Plumée being held on a lease still belonged to Cossette. 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 de Fille du Covierre. Madame went out with Monsieur and has not yet returned, Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence and waited an hour. Cossette did not return. He departed with drooping head. Cossette 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 hither? Jean Valjean asked her on foot. Then 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's 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, reply, Cossette. It is like Toussaint, resumed Jean Valjean. She is gone. You have not replaced her. Why? Nicolette suffices. 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's nothing too fine for you. Why not profit by your riches? Wealth adds to happiness. Cossette may now 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, elegant, good. Cossette outdid him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius, that word so inexhaustible, those six letters contained volumes. In this manner Jean Valjean contrived to remain a long time. It was so sweet to see Cossette, to forget by her side. It alleviated his wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce M. Guillaumon sensed me to remind Madame Le Baron that dinner is served. On those days Jean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home. Was there then any truth in that comparison of the chrysalis which has presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean really a chrysalis who would persist and who would come to visit his butterfly? 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 Cossette 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 Cossette. On the following day there was a fire, but the two armchairs 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 armchairs 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, Cossette said to him. My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday. What was it? He said to me, Cossette, we have an income of thirty thousand levers, 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 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. Cossette probably expected some explanation from him. He listened in gloomy silence. He went back to the rue de l'homme à main. 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 Cossette 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 shunned the door. On the following day he underwent something like a shock on entering the ground floor room. The armchairs had disappeared. There was not a single chair of any sort. Ah, what's this, exclaimed Cossette Ashander, no chairs? Where are the armchairs? They are no longer here, replied Jean Valjean. This is too much. Jean Valjean stammered. It was I who told Bosque to remove them. And your reason? I have only a few minutes to stay today. A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing. I think that Bosque needed the chairs for the drawing room. Why? You have company this evening, no doubt. We expect no one. Jean Valjean had not another word to say. Cossette shrugged her shoulders. To have the chairs carried off. The other day you had the fire put out. How odd you are! Adieu, remember, Jean Valjean. He did not say Adieu Cossette. But he had not the strength to say Adieu Madame. He went away utterly overwhelmed. This time he had understood. On the following day he did not come. Cossette 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. Cossette 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 dispatched Nicolette to Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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, Monsieur Jean's had repeated to him her mistresses very words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why Monsieur Jean had 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 Cossette. Chapter 4 Attraction and Extinction During the last months of spring and the first months of summer in 1833, the rare pairs of eye in the Marius, the petty shopkeepers, the loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black who emerged every day at the same hour, toward night's fall, from the Rue de l'Homarm on the side of the Rue Saint Croix de Betonère. Past in front of the Blancs Manteau gained the Rue culture Sante Catherine and, on arriving at the Rue de la Charbe, 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 de Fille de Covert. 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 someone 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 eyeball suggested the thought of the magnetic needle seeking the pole. Whenever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to arrive at last. He reached the Rue de Fille de Covert, 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 the 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 close 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 died out. Little by little this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the Rue de Fille de Calvert. He halted halfway 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 Saint Catherine, and looked at the Rue de Fille de Calvert from a distance. Then he shook his head slowly from left to right 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 Paveig, shook his head, and turned back. Then he went no further than the Rue des Trois Paveins. Then he did not overstep the Blanc Manteau. 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 eyelid. 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 left. End of book 8, chapters 3 and 4, recording by Joyce Martin Chapters 1-3 of Book 9 of Le Miserable Volume 5 by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin. Le Miserable Volume 5 by Victor Hugo, translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood Book 9 Supreme Shadow Supreme Dawn Chapter 1 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 mature of Fautchabond, 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 Cossette's mind. He had, in a manner, always placed himself between Cossette and Jean Valjean. Be sure that, in this way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than effacement. It wasn't eclipse. Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he had serious reasons which the reader had already seen, and others which will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without harshness but without weakness. Chance, having redained that he should encounter, in a case which he had argued, a former employee of the Lafite 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 someone he saw with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile he abstained from touching that money. As for Cossette, 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's will in the direction of M. 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's mind became overcast in hers. 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 side only. It sometimes happened that Cossette 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 Cossette. He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion, but not for so long. Two or three times she dispatched Nicolette to inquire in the rude de l'en marmin whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean Valjean caused the answer no to be given. Cossette asking nothing more since she had but one need on earth, Marius. Let us also say that on their side, Cossette and Marius had also been absent. They had been to Vernal. Marius had taken Cossette to his father's grave. Marius gradually won Cossette away from Jean Valjean. Cossette 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 toward the shadows. Those who are arriving toward 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 bowels 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 toward 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. Chapter 2 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 Gavrochet had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and 6th of June. He remained there a few moments, then went upstairs 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 fortress, who prepared his scanty repast, a few cabbages or potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and exclaimed, 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 have eaten. 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 tomorrow. Or at Trinity Day. Why not today? Is this the thing to say I will eat tomorrow? The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it. My lady finger 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 portis. 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 copper smith for a few soos, 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 portis 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 bad marriage. The porter replied with a tone of marital sovereignty. If he's rich, let him have a doctor. If he's 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 porter is set to scraping away the grass from what she called her pavement with an old knife, and as she tore out the blade she grumbled, it's a shame, such a need-old man, he's as white as a chicken. She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of the street. She took it upon herself to request him to come upstairs. It's on the second floor, said she, you have only to enter, as the good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked. The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him. When he came down again, the porter's interrogated him. Well, doctor, 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 has steered 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—someone else, besides, must come. Chapter 3 A pen is heavy to the man who lifted the false Chelevant'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 working man'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 clothes on. 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 belace and drew from it Cossette's outfit. He spread it out on his bed. The bishop's candlesticks were in their place on the chimney piece. He took off his clothes. He put on his clothes. He put on his clothes. He put on his clothes. He put on his clothes. 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 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 Cossette's reverse 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's 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 hallowing 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 and tragic beings who have caused to complain of someone. He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection 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 armchair 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 have dug. He tipped it over painfully toward his mouth and swallowed a drop. 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 toward 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 Pomp-Mercy loved 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. While jet comes from Norway, black jet comes from England, black glass jewelry 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 lamp black and cost four leaves the pound. I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine. It did not cost more than thirty sews and is much better. Buckles are made with a violet glass which is stuck fast by means of the wax to a little framework of black iron. The glass must be violet for iron jewelry and black for gold jewelry. 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 anyone? 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. End of chapters one through three of Book Ninth. Recording by Joyce Martin. Chapter 4 of Book Ninth of Le Miserable Volume 5 by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin. Le Miserable Volume 5 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood. Book Ninth. Chapter 4 A Bottle of Ink which only succeeded in whitening. That same day, or so 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, Bask 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 misses of displeasing. The letter which Bask 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 Baran Merci 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 those flashes. The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a whole world within him. It was certainly the paper, the fashion of folding, the dull hint of ink. It was certainly the well-known handwriting, especially, was it the same tobacco? The Gendret Garrett 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 Baran If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I might have been Baron Thinard, member of the Institute, Academy of Sciences, but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if this memory recommends me to the excellence of your kindnesses. The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocal. 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 useful to you. I will furnish you with the simple means of driving from your honorable family that individual who has no right there, Madame Le Baran being of lofty birth. The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer with crime without abdicating. I await in the ante-chamber the orders of Monsieur Le Baran, with respect. The letter was signed Thinard. This signature was not false, it was merely a trifle abridged. Moreover, the rigor-marole and the orthography completed the revelation. The certificate of origin was complete. Marius's emotion was profound. After a start of surprise, he underwent a feeling of happiness. If he could now but find the 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 door of his secretary, took out several banknotes, put them in his pocket, closed the secretary again and rang the bell. Basque half opened the door. Show the man in, said Marius. Basque announced, Monsieur Thinard. 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 swaffed in a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green tapeta 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 Highlight. 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 Bétrellis 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 site for a day or two at the rate of thirty sews 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, and of a curée, beyond the output 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 neighboury plays in Paris. His lair was the green room whence Thess emerged and into which Rue Gris retreated. A tattered neighbour arrived at this dressing room, deposited his thirty sews and selected according to the part which he wished to play. The costume which suited him and, on descending the stairs once more, the nave 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 was 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 pit and too small for Castile Cecelia. The costume of a statesman was designated as follows in the changer's catalogue. We copy. A coat of black cloth, trousers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots and linen. On the margin there stood X Ambassador and a note which we also copy. In a separate box, a neatly frizzled peruque, green glasses, seals and two small quills, an inch long wrapped in cotton. All this belonged to the statesman, the X Ambassador. This whole costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated. The seams were white, a thick buttonhole yawned at one of the elbows. Moreover, one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast, but this was only detail, as at 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 shop of the changer. Marius's 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 bowels, and demanded in a curt tone, What do you want? The man replied in 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 honour of seeing Monsieur Le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet Monsieur personally several years ago at the house of Madame de Princess Bagration, and in the drawing-rooms of his lordship, the Vicomte du Bray, pure of France. It is always a good bit of tactics in neighbouring to pretend to recognize someone 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 Monsieur de Bray, 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 that I have seen Monsieur. I know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to me, Thinard, my friend, won't you drink a glass of wine with me? Marius's brow grew more and more severe. I have never had the honour of being received by Monsieur de Chateaubriand. Let us cut it short. What do you want? The man bowed lower at that harsh voice. Monsieur Le Baran. Dane 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 circus of the edifice. In the centre, an intercourt, 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 to the intercourt, 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 Baran, I am an old and weary diplomat. Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to try savages. Well? Monsieur Le Baran, 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 around. The dog of the poor man embarks at the rich man, the dog of the rich man embarks at the poor man, each one for himself, self-interest. That's the object of men. Gold, that's the lodestone. 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. 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 Baran perused my letter? There was some truth in this. The fact is that the contents of the epistle had slipped Marius's 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. I could not recall my spouse and my young lady. He fixed a penetrating glass at 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. Be it, Monsieur Le Baran, I will be precise. I have a secret to sell to you. A secret? A secret, which concerns me somewhat. 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 am interesting. Speak! Monsieur Le Baran, you have in your house a thief and an assassin. Marius shuddered. In my house? No, said he. The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on. An assassin and a thief remarked Monsieur Le Baran that I do not hear 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, 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 Verjean. I know it. I am going to tell you equally for nothing who he is. Céan. I know it. You know it since I have had the honour of telling you. No, I knew it before. Marius' cold tone, that double reply of I know it. His laconicism, which was not favourable 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 recognises when he has once beheld it. It did not escape, Marius. Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls. The eye, that vent hull of the thought, glows with it. Spectacles hid nothing. Try putting a pane of glass over hell. The stranger resumed with a smile. I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur Le Baran. In any case, you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now, what I have to tell you about myself alone. This concerns the fortune of Madame Le Baran. 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 of trifle. Monsieur Le Baran say ten thousand francs and I will speak. 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 today, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret. I tell you, Monsieur Le Baran, I will speak. I speak. Give me twenty francs. Marius gazed intently at him. I know your extraordinary secret just as I knew Jean Valjean's name just as I know your name. My name? Yes. That is not difficult, Monsieur Le Baran. I had the honour to write to you and to tell it to you. The Nardierre. Hey? The Nardierre. Who's that? In danger the porcupine bristles up. The beetle feints death. The old guard forms in a square. This man burst into laughter. Then he flicked a grin of dust from the sleeve of his coat with a fillet. Marius continued. Look, man. Thab unto the comedian. Again float the poet. Don Alvarez is Spaniard and Mistress Belazar. Mistress what? And you kept a pothouse of month from meal. A pothouse? Never. And I tell you that your name is Thernadere. I deny it. And that you are a rascal here. And Marius drew a banknote from his pocket and flung it in his face. Thanks. Me, five hundred francs, Monsieur Le Baran. 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. Then brusquely. 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, he began 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 ineffable, he said in a clear voice, whence all nasal twang had disappeared. I am Thinedere. And he straightened up his crooked back. Thinedere IV. It was really he who 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 Pomp-Mercy for the first time and in spite of his disguise this Baron Pomp-Mercy recognized him and recognized him thoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed as Thinedere, but he seemed well pasted 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? Thinedere, the reader, will remember although he had been Marius's neighbor had never seen him which is not unusual in Paris. He had formerly in a vague way heard his daughter's 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 Monsieur Le Baron Pomp-Mercy was possible in his mind. As for the name Pomp-Mercy 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 clue. 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. Le Baron Pomp-Mercy was Cossette but he meant to be discreet in that quarter. Who was Cossette? 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 wears than that for sale and according to all appearances he would make to the Baron Pomp-Mercy his revelation and without proof your wife is a bastard. The only result would be to attract the boot of the husband toward the loins of the Revealer. From Thernodere'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 to have captured Franks in his pocket. Moreover he had something decisive to say and even against this very well-informed and well-armed Baron Pomp-Mercy he felt himself strong. For men of Thernodere'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 having said I am Thernodere, he waited. Marius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Thernodere at last that man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him. He could honour Colonel Pomp-Mercy's recommendation. He felt humiliated that the 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 waited up to that day. It also seemed to him in the complex state of his mind toward Thernodere 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 debtor's prison. By the side of this duty there was another, to lucidate if possible the source of Cossette's fortune. The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps Thernodere knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of this man. He commenced with this. Thernodere had caused the honest wrestler to disappear in his fob and was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender. Thernodere, 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 police officer Jack Laitet, Thernodere. I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement of the Pa de Calise there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out with justice and who, under the name of Monsieur 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 manufacturer of black glass goods he had made the 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, open 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 a la feat. 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 Monsieur Madeleine. This convict who robbed Monsieur Madeleine was Jean Valjean. As for the other fact you have Jean Valjean killed the agent Javert, he shot him with a pistol. I, the person who is speaking to you was present. Thernodere 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 weedling. Thernodere contented himself with saying to Marius Monsieur Le Baran, we are on the wrong track. And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute an expressive whirl. What, Brookforth Marius? Do you dispute that? These are facts. They are chimeras. The confidence with which Monsieur Le Baran 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 Baran, Jean Varjean did not rob Monsieur Madeleine and Jean Varjean 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 Monsieur Madeleine because it is Jean Varjean himself who is Monsieur Madeleine. What tale are you telling me? 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. Thernodere resumed, scanning his phrase after the manner of the ancient Alexandrine measure. Police agent Jean Varjean was found drowned under a boat but prove it! Thernodere drew from his pocket a large envelope of grey paper which seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes. I have my papers, he said calmly. And he added, Monsieur Le Baran, in your interest I desire to know Jean Varjean thoroughly. I say that Jean Varjean and Monsieur Madeleine are one and the same man and I say that Javert is another assassin than Javert. If I speak it is because I have proofs, not manuscript proofs. Writing is suspicious. Hand writing is complacent but printed proofs. As he spoke Thernodere 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 Thernodere and he offered the two newspapers unfolded to Marias. 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 Monsieur Madeleine and Jean Varjean. The other, a monitor 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 rude de Chavière, 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. Marias read, he had evidence, a certain date, irrefragable proof these two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose of backing up Thernodere's statements. The note printed in the montier had been an administrative communication from the prefecture of police. Marias could not doubt. The information of the cashier clerk had been false and he himself had been deceived. Jean Varjean, who had suddenly grown grand, emerged from his cloud. Marias 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 the whole countryside. He is Jean Varjean, Javert's saviour. He is a hero. He is a saint. He is not a saint and he's not a hero, said Thernodere. He's an assassin and a robber. And he added, in the tone of a letter that he possesses some authority, let us be calm. Robber, assassin. Those words which Marias thought had disappeared and which returned fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bed. Again, said he, always ejaculated Thernodere. Jean Varjean did not rob Madeleine, but he is a thief. He did not kill Javert, but he is a murderer. Will you speak, retorted Marias, as your own newspapers prove, by a whole life of repentance and of self-abnegation and of virtue? I say, assassin and thief, Monsieur Le Baran, 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 it in the source of the fortune, so skillfully presented to Madame Le Baran by Jean Varjean. By a gift of that nature it would not be so very unskillful 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 Marias, but go on. Monsieur Le Baran, I tell you all, leaving the recompense to your generosity, this secret is worth a massive gold. You will say to me, why do not you apply to Jean Varjean 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 Joye, I prefer you, you who will have it all, to him who has nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take a chair. Marias seated himself in motion to him to do the same. Thernodare 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 with the attitude characteristic of people who are sure of what they are saying. Then he entered upon his subject gravely emphasizing his words. Monsieur Le Baran 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 Sain between the Pont des Invalides and the Pont des Jeannins. Thernodare noted that of Thernodare. Thernodare 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 but the man hears a noise in the sewer. Greatly surprised he hides himself and lies in wait. It was the sound of footsteps. Someone was walking in the dark and coming in his direction. Strange to say there was another man in the sewer beside himself. The grading 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. 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 grading this convict who had come no distance in the sewer must necessarily have encountered a frightful quagmire where it seems as though he might have left the body. But the sewer men would have found the assassinated man the very next day while at work in 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. They could have come out of that alive. Marius's chair approached still nearer. Then her dad took advantage of this to draw a long breath. He went on. Monsieur LeBaronne, a sewer, is not the shamp 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 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 parlayed simply to gain time. He examined the dead man but he could see nothing except that the latter was young well dressed with an air of being rich and all disfigured with blood while talking the man tried to tear and pull off behind without the assassin perceiving of 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 grading and made the man go out with his embarrassment on his back closed the grading 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 Thernodere completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket and holding on a level with his eyes nipped between his two thumbs and his two four fingers 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 Thernodere still held out spread but Thernodere continued Monsieur Le Baron I had 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 cloth all covered with blood. Then snatching the fragment from the hands of Thernodere 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 Thernodere 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 Thernodere presenting to him an almost thrusting in his face his fist filled with banknotes for 500 and a thousand francs you are an infamous wretch you are a liar a culminator of 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 you are genre in that lair in the rue de l'hospital I know enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further if I choose here are a thousand francs fully that you are and he flung a thousand franc note at Thernodere ah genre at Thernodere, vital rascal let this serve you a lesson you dealer in second hand secrets merchant of mysteries, rummager of the shadows wretch take these 500 francs and get out of here Waterloo protects you Waterloo, grout Thernodere pocketing the 500 francs along with a thousand yes assassin, you there saved the life of a colonel of a general, said Thernodere elevating his head of a colonel, repeated Marius in a rage I wouldn't give a hay 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 I desire ah monster here we have 3000 francs more take them you will depart tomorrow 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 20,000 francs go get yourself hung elsewhere Monsieur Le Baran replied Thernodere bowing to the very earth eternal gratitude Thernodere 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 not a lightning rod to word 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's care for America under a false name with his daughter Azelma furnished with a new draft on New York for 20,000 francs the moral wretchedness of Thernodere 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's money Thernodere set up as a slave dealer as soon as Thernodere had left the house Marius rushed to the garden where Cossette was still walking Cossette, Cossette he cried come quick let us go basket carriage Cossette come oh my god it was he who saved my life let us not lose a minute put on your shawl Cossette taught him mad and obeyed he could not breathe and on his heart to restrain its throbbing he paced back and forth with huge strides he embraced Cossette oh Cossette 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 Cossette in and darted in himself driver said he number seven the carriage drove off oh what happiness ejaculated Cossette I did not dare to speak to you of that we are going to see Mr. Jean your father Cossette your father more than ever Cossette I guess it you told me that you had never received the letter that I sent you by Garoche it must have fallen into his hands Cossette he went back to the barricade to save me as it is 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 Cossette 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 myer Cossette he made me traversed 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 I 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 Cossette Garoche must have delivered my letter to him all is explained you understand Cossette did not understand a word you are right she said to him meanwhile the carriage rolled on End of Chapter 4 Book 9