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Updated: May 22, 2025
She did not know the meaning of the word. Marius was Marius. On her side, she had confided to him that she had been brought up at the Petit-Picpus convent, that her mother, like his own, was dead, that her father's name was M. Fauchelevent, that he was very good, that he gave a great deal to the poor, but that he was poor himself, and that he denied himself everything though he denied her nothing.
The porter admitted all three of them through this door, and from that point they reached the inner, reserved parlor where Fauchelevent, on the preceding day, had received his orders from the prioress. The prioress, rosary in hand, was waiting for them. A vocal mother, with her veil lowered, stood beside her. A discreet candle lighted, one might almost say, made a show of lighting the parlor.
The prioress passed Jean Valjean in review. There is nothing which examines like a downcast eye. Then she questioned him: "You are the brother?" "Yes, reverend Mother," replied Fauchelevent. "What is your name?" Fauchelevent replied: "Ultime Fauchelevent." He really had had a brother named Ultime, who was dead. "Where do you come from?" Fauchelevent replied: "From Picquigny, near Amiens."
Fauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very contented frame of mind. His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one for the convent, the other against it, the other with M. Madeleine, had succeeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer felt doubtful as to his success.
Who was that child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M. sur M., and he knew nothing of what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions; and besides, Fauchelevent said to himself: "One does not question a saint." M. Madeleine had preserved all his prestige in Fauchelevent's eyes.
The two old men had gone to fetch Cosette from the fruiterer's in the Rue du Chemin-Vert, where Fauchelevent had deposited her on the preceding day. Cosette had passed these twenty-four hours trembling silently and understanding nothing. She trembled to such a degree that she wept. She had neither eaten nor slept.
"Go; and if by chance I leave this place alive, I am to be found under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, No. 7." Javert walked a few steps, and then turned back, and cried, "You worry me. I would rather you killed me!" "Go!" was the only answer from Jean Valjean. Javert moved slowly away; and when he had disappeared Jean Valjean discharged his pistol in the air.
"The Petit-Picpus convent." "Exactly," returned old Fauchelevent. "But to come to the point, how the deuce did you manage to get in here, you, Father Madeleine? No matter if you are a saint; you are a man as well, and no man enters here." "You certainly are here." "There is no one but me." "Still," said Jean Valjean, "I must stay here." "Ah, good God!" cried Fauchelevent.
Once, on the subject of education, which Marius wished to have free and obligatory, multiplied under all forms lavished on every one, like the air and the sun in a word, respirable for the entire population, they were in unison, and they almost conversed. M. Fauchelevent talked well, and even with a certain loftiness of language still he lacked something indescribable.
He introduced into the conversation the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and, turning to M. Fauchelevent, he said to him: "Of course, you are acquainted with that street?" "What street?" "The Rue de la Chanvrerie." "I have no idea of the name of that street," replied M. Fauchelevent, in the most natural manner in the world.
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