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She's not a woman, she's an ox." The Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it with the affected airs of a flattered monster. "You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette!" "Jondrette!" said M. Leblanc, "I thought your name was Fabantou?" "Fabantou, alias Jondrette!" replied the husband hurriedly. "An artistic sobriquet!"

"Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better," went on M. Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat. "She is dying," said Jondrette. "But what do you expect, sir! She has so much courage, that woman has!

If I catch them tripping! I do not jest, that I don't! I read them lessons on honor, on morality, on virtue! Ask them! They have got to walk straight. They are none of your unhappy wretches who begin by having no family, and end by espousing the public. One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Everybody. Deuce take it! None of that in the Fabantou family!

"Monsieur Fabantou," said he, "this is for your rent and your most pressing necessities. We will attend to the rest hereafter." "May God requite it to you, my generous benefactor!" said Jondrette. And rapidly approaching his wife: "Dismiss the carriage!" She slipped out while her husband was lavishing salutes and offering M. Leblanc a chair. An instant later she returned and whispered in his ear:

He leaned across the candle, crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close to M. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as possible without forcing M. Leblanc to retreat, and, in this posture of a wild beast who is about to bite, he exclaimed: "My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette, my name is Thenardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil! Do you understand?

"Monsieur Fabantou," he said, "these five francs are all that I have about me, but I shall now take my daughter home, and I will return this evening, it is this evening that you must pay, is it not?" Jondrette's face lighted up with a strange expression. He replied vivaciously: "Yes, respected sir. At eight o'clock, I must be at my landlord's."

They are all alike! By the way, how was the letter to that old blockhead signed?" "Fabantou," replied the girl. "The dramatic artist, good!" It was lucky for Jondrette, that this had occurred to him, for at the very moment, M. Leblanc turned to him, and said to him with the air of a person who is seeking to recall a name: "I see that you are greatly to be pitied, Monsieur "

"Excuse me; what were you saying, M. Fabantou?" "I was telling you, sir, and dear protector," replied Jondrette placing his elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with steady and tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor, "I was telling you, that I have a picture to sell." A slight sound came from the door.

The Spanish Captain Don Alvares, the unhappy Mistress Balizard, the dramatic poet Genflot, the old comedian Fabantou, were all four named Jondrette, if, indeed, Jondrette himself were named Jondrette. Marius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time, and he had had, as we have said, but very rare occasion to see, to even catch a glimpse of, his extremely mean neighbors.

In the first place, not one of the signers gave his address. Then, they seemed to come from four different individuals, Don Alveras, Mistress Balizard, the poet Genflot, and dramatic artist Fabantou; but the singular thing about these letters was, that all four were written by the same hand. What conclusion was to be drawn from this, except that they all come from the same person?