We will live together.
Do you play whist? you will overwhelm my grandfather with delight if you play whist.
It is you who shall take Cosette to walk on the days when I am at the courts, you shall give her your arm, you know, as you used to, in the Luxembourg.
We are absolutely resolved to be happy.
And you shall be included in it, in our happiness, do you hear, father?
Come, will you breakfast with us to-day?”
“Sir,” said Jean Valjean,
“I have something to say to you.
I am an ex-convict.”
The limit of shrill sounds perceptible can be overleaped, as well in the case of the mind as in that of the ear.
These words:
“I am an ex-convict,” proceeding from the mouth of M. Fauchelevent and entering the ear of Marius overshot the possible.
It seemed to him that something had just been said to him; but he did not know what.
He stood with his mouth wide open.
Then he perceived that the man who was addressing him was frightful.
Wholly absorbed in his own dazzled state, he had not, up to that moment, observed the other man’s terrible pallor.
Jean Valjean untied the black cravat which supported his right arm, unrolled the linen from around his hand, bared his thumb and showed it to Marius.
“There is nothing the matter with my hand,” said he.
Marius looked at the thumb.
“There has not been anything the matter with it,” went on Jean Valjean.
There was, in fact, no trace of any injury.
Jean Valjean continued:
“It was fitting that I should be absent from your marriage.
I absented myself as much as was in my power.
So I invented this injury in order that I might not commit a forgery, that I might not introduce a flaw into the marriage documents, in order that I might escape from signing.”
Marius stammered. “What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning of it is,” replied Jean Valjean, “that I have been in the galleys.”
“You are driving me mad!” exclaimed Marius in terror.
“Monsieur Pontmercy,” said Jean Valjean,
“I was nineteen years in the galleys.
For theft.
Then, I was condemned for life for theft, for a second offence.
At the present moment, I have broken my ban.”
In vain did Marius recoil before the reality, refuse the fact, resist the evidence, he was forced to give way.
He began to understand, and, as always happens in such cases, he understood too much.
An inward shudder of hideous enlightenment flashed through him; an idea which made him quiver traversed his mind.
He caught a glimpse of a wretched destiny for himself in the future.
“Say all, say all!” he cried. “You are Cosette’s father!”
And he retreated a couple of paces with a movement of indescribable horror.
Jean Valjean elevated his head with so much majesty of attitude that he seemed to grow even to the ceiling.
“It is necessary that you should believe me here, sir; although our oath to others may not be received in law . . .”
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.”
Marius stammered: “Who will prove that to me?”