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Updated: May 22, 2025
And my father Fauchelevent wants me to call him 'Monsieur Jean, and to receive him in a frightful, old, ugly cellar, where the walls have beards, and where the crystal consists of empty bottles, and the curtains are of spiders' webs! You are singular, I admit, that is your style, but people who get married are granted a truce. You ought not to have begun being singular again instantly.
Marius hesitated to believe that the Fauchelevent of the barricade was the same as this Fauchelevent in flesh and blood, sitting so gravely beside Cosette. The first was, probably, one of those nightmares occasioned and brought back by his hours of delirium. However, the natures of both men were rigid, no question from Marius to M. Fauchelevent was possible.
At this point they heard a grave and tranquil voice say: "Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent possesses six hundred thousand francs." It was the voice of Jean Valjean. So far he had not uttered a single word, no one seemed to be aware that he was there, and he had remained standing erect and motionless, behind all these happy people.
I have seen her happy, and that she is with a man whom she loves, and that there exists here a kind old man, a household of two angels, and all joys in that house, and that it was well, I said to myself: 'Enter thou not. I could have lied, it is true, have deceived you all, and remained Monsieur Fauchelevent. So long as it was for her, I could lie; but now it would be for myself, and I must not.
Jean Valjean pictured to himself the whole police force still engaged in swarming in that quarter, agents on the watch, sentinels everywhere, frightful fists extended towards his collar, Javert at the corner of the intersection of the streets perhaps. "Impossible!" said he. "Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the sky." "But I believe it, I believe it," retorted Fauchelevent.
In the neighborhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two passports. The Rue Vaugirard was deserted. "Father Madeleine," said Fauchelevent as they went along, and raising his eyes to the houses, "Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No. 87." "Here it is," said Jean Valjean. "There is no one in the street," said Fauchelevent.
And he flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin. The coffin gave back a hollow sound. Fauchelevent felt himself stagger and on the point of falling headlong into the grave himself. He shouted in a voice in which the strangling sound of the death rattle began to mingle: "Comrade! Before the Bon Coing is shut!" The grave-digger took some more earth on his shovel. Fauchelevent continued.
The men will bear it. You understand, Father Madeleine, the government will notice it." Jean Valjean stared him straight in the eye and thought that he was raving. Fauchelevent went on: "How the de uce are you going to get out? It must all be done by to-morrow morning. It is to-morrow that I am to bring you in. The prioress expects you."
Here he paused, then, with a sort of sovereign and sepulchral authority, he added, articulating slowly, and emphasizing the syllables: ". . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette! before God, no. Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy, I am a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my living by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean. I am not related to Cosette. Reassure yourself."
Fauchelevent took in his aged, trembling, and wrinkled hands Jean Valjean's two robust hands, and stood for several minutes as though incapable of speaking. At length he exclaimed: "Oh! that would be a blessing from the good God, if I could make you some little return for that! Save your life! Monsieur le Maire, dispose of the old man!" A wonderful joy had transfigured this old man.
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