“I expected that reply.
Good.
I warn you that I am going to make a scene for you.
Let us begin at the beginning.
Embrace me, father.”
And she offered him her cheek.
Jean Valjean remained motionless.
“You do not stir.
I take note of it.
Attitude of guilt.
But never mind, I pardon you.
Jesus Christ said: Offer the other cheek.
Here it is.”
And she presented her other cheek.
Jean Valjean did not move.
It seemed as though his feet were nailed to the pavement.
“This is becoming serious,” said Cosette. “What have I done to you?
I declare that I am perplexed.
You owe me reparation.
You will dine with us.”
“I have dined.”
“That is not true.
I will get M. Gillenormand to scold you.
Grandfathers are made to reprimand fathers.
Come.
Go upstairs with me to the drawing-room.
Immediately.”
“Impossible.”
Here Cosette lost ground a little.
She ceased to command and passed to questioning.
“But why? and you choose the ugliest chamber in the house in which to see me.
It’s horrible here.”
“Thou knowest . . .”
Jean Valjean caught himself up.
“You know, madame, that I am peculiar, I have my freaks.”
Cosette struck her tiny hands together.
“Madame! . . .
You know! . . . more novelties!
What is the meaning of this?”
Jean Valjean directed upon her that heartrending smile to which he occasionally had recourse:
“You wished to be Madame.
You are so.”
“Not for you, father.”
“Do not call me father.”
“What?”
“Call me ‘Monsieur Jean.’
‘Jean,’ if you like.”
“You are no longer my father?
I am no longer Cosette?
‘Monsieur Jean’?