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Updated: June 10, 2025
It almost seemed to him that unknown craters were forming in his bosom. What! he was there, that creature! What was he there for? He came creeping about, smelling out, examining, trying! He came, saying: "Hey! Why not?" He came to prowl about his, Jean Valjean's, life! to prowl about his happiness, with the purpose of seizing it and bearing it away! Jean Valjean added: "Yes, that's it!
The "principal lodger" of Jean Valjean's day was dead and had been replaced by another exactly like her. I know not what philosopher has said: "Old women are never lacking." This new old woman was named Madame Bourgon, and had nothing remarkable about her life except a dynasty of three paroquets, who had reigned in succession over her soul.
A voice within his conscience replied: "The most divine of human generosities, the expiation for others." Here all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator; we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view, and we translate his impressions.
And he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling, haggard, livid, gloomy, an immense joy in his eyes. Cosette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean's breast. "Father!" said she. Jean Valjean, overcome, stammered: "Cosette! she! you! Madame! it is thou! Ah! my God!" And, pressed close in Cosette's arms, he exclaimed: "It is thou! thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then!"
He felt in it a premeditation from on high, the will of some one who was not man, and he became absorbed in revery. Good thoughts have their abysses as well as evil ones. To teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, this constituted nearly the whole of Jean Valjean's existence. And then he talked of her mother, and he made her pray. She called him father, and knew no other name for him.
For the first time he realised that Jean Valjean had come to the barricade only to save him, knowing him to be in love with Cosette. He hastened with Cosette to Jean Valjean's room; but the old man's last hour had come. "Come closer, come closer, both of you," he cried. "I love you so much. It is good to die like this! You love me too, my Cosette.
These stockings, which still preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean Valjean's hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought those garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the valise, he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called up memories.
It is a strange claim on man's part to wish that love should lead to something. Jean Valjean suspected nothing. Cosette, who was rather less dreamy than Marius, was gay, and that sufficed for Jean Valjean's happiness.
This torch of the names of the streets of Paris, with which we are illuminating for the reader Jean Valjean's subterranean march, Jean Valjean himself did not possess. Nothing told him what zone of the city he was traversing, nor what way he had made.
Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all at once he bounded back and recoiled so far as the limits of a grave permit. Jean Valjean's eyes were open and gazing at him. To see a corpse is alarming, to behold a resurrection is almost as much so.
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