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In the first place, if you enter this garden, if you lay a hand on this gate, I'll scream, I'll beat on the door, I'll rouse everybody, I'll have the whole six of you seized, I'll call the police." "She'd do it, too," said Thenardier in a low tone to Brujon and the ventriloquist. She shook her head and added: "Beginning with my father!" Thenardier stepped nearer.
They also seized in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged. The soldier's bayonet had disappeared. At the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that Thenardier was out of reach. The truth is, that he was no longer in the New Building, but that he was still in great danger.
"Yes, Madame, I am going." "So Monsieur has no business in Montfermeil?" "No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you, Madame," he added. The Thenardier silently handed him the folded bill. The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it; but his thoughts were evidently elsewhere. "Madame," he resumed, "is business good here in Montfermeil?"
A broad open space was cleared in the middle of the garret. The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who had allowed themselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse and guttural accents: "The cowards!" Javert smiled, and advanced across the open space which the Thenardier was devouring with her eyes. "Don't come near me," she cried, "or I'll crush you."
"What a grenadier!" ejaculated Javert; "you've got a beard like a man, mother, but I have claws like a woman." And he continued to advance. The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far apart, threw herself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone at Javert's head.
It was observed that she wrote twice a month at least, and that she paid the carriage on the letter. They managed to obtain the address: Monsieur, Monsieur Thenardier, inn-keeper at Montfermeil. The public writer, a good old man who could not fill his stomach with red wine without emptying his pocket of secrets, was made to talk in the wine-shop.
This stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a visit which Providence was making on Cosette, was the person whom the Thenardier hated worse than any one in the world at that moment. However, it was necessary to control herself. Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavoring to copy her husband in all his actions, these emotions were more than she could endure.
Thenardier retreated in tolerably good order. "This signature is fairly well imitated," he growled between his teeth; "however, let it go!" Then he essayed a desperate effort. "It is well, sir," he said, "since you are the person, but I must be paid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me." The man rose to his feet, filliping the dust from his thread-bare sleeve:
This inequality of conditions sufficed to assure some advantage to Jean Valjean in that mysterious duel which was on the point of beginning between the two situations and the two men. The encounter took place between Jean Valjean veiled and Thenardier unmasked. Jean Valjean immediately perceived that Thenardier did not recognize him.
Her husband seated himself at a table in the corner, lighted a candle, and began to read the Courrier Francais. A good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the Courrier Francais at least three times, from the date of the number to the printer's name. The stranger did not stir. Thenardier fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked his chair. Not a movement on the man's part.
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