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Updated: June 10, 2025
He thought the dining-room charming, though it was hideous, furnished with an old round table, a long sideboard surmounted by a slanting mirror, a dilapidated arm-chair, and several plain chairs which were encumbered with Toussaint's packages. In one of these packages Jean Valjean's uniform of a National Guard was visible through a rent.
All, is not that enough? Jean Valjean's personal affairs did not concern him. And bending over the fatal shadow of that man, he clung fast, convulsively, to the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch: "I am nothing to Cosette. Ten years ago I did not know that she was in existence." Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed.
Cosette, without letting go of Catherine, laid her head on Jean Valjean's shoulder, and there fell asleep. Forty years ago, a rambler who had ventured into that unknown country of the Salpetriere, and who had mounted to the Barriere d'Italie by way of the boulevard, reached a point where it might be said that Paris disappeared.
It resembled the hoarse, rough voice of Eponine. Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside the movable bar, passed his head through the aperture, and saw some one who appeared to him to be a young man, disappearing at a run into the gloom. Jean Valjean's purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf.
He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole, which was tolerably large, hoping to see the person who had made his way by night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed. It was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without pausing, in front of Jean Valjean's chamber.
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, eloquent, good. Cosette outdid him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary.
But Jean Valjean's coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He grumbled: "Well, since there is no other means." Jean Valjean resumed: "The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery." "That is the very point that is not troublesome," exclaimed Fauchelevent. "If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave.
A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who was a laundress; but that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles. Another fact. This Valjean's Christian name was Jean, and his mother's surname was Mathieu.
"He is a dead man," said Javert. Jean Valjean replied: "No. Not yet." "So you have brought him thither from the barricade?" remarked Javert. His preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not to insist on this alarming rescue through the sewer, and for him not to even notice Jean Valjean's silence after his question. Jean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have but one thought.
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 Baron. I had the honor to write to you and to tell it to you. Thenard." " Dier." "Hey?" "Thenardier." "Who's that?"
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