“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?”
In danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death, the old guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.
Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat with a fillip.
Marius continued:
“You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian, Genflot the poet, Don Alvares the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard.”
“Mistress what?”
“And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil.”
“A pot-house!
Never.”
“And I tell you that your name is Thenardier.”
“I deny it.”
“And that you are a rascal.
Here.”
And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.
“Thanks!
Pardon me! five hundred francs!
Monsieur le Baron!”
And the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined it.
“Five hundred francs!” he began again, taken aback. And he stammered in a low voice: “An honest rustler."
Then brusquely: “Well, so be it!” he exclaimed.
“Let us put ourselves at our ease.”
And with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair, tearing off his spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by sleight of hand the two quills of which mention was recently made, and which the reader has also met with on another page of this book, he took off his face as the man takes off his hat.
His eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some places and bumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was laid bare, his nose had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious profile of the man of prey reappeared.
“Monsieur le Baron is infallible,” he said in a clear voice whence all nasal twang had disappeared, “I am Thenardier.” And he straightened up his crooked back.
Thenardier, for it was really he, was strangely surprised; he would have been troubled, had he been capable of such a thing.
He had come to bring astonishment, and it was he who had received it.
This humiliation had been worth five hundred francs to him, and, taking it all in all, he accepted it; but he was nonetheless bewildered.
He beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first time, and, in spite of his disguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognized him, and recognized him thoroughly.
And not only was this Baron perfectly informed as to Thenardier, but he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean.
Who was this almost beardless young man, who was so glacial and so generous, who knew people’s names, who knew all their names, and who opened his purse to them, who bullied rascals like a judge, and who paid them like a dupe?
Thenardier, the reader will remember, although he had been Marius’ neighbor, had never seen him, which is not unusual in Paris; he had formerly, in a vague way, heard his daughters talk of a very poor young man named Marius who lived in the house.
He had written to him, without knowing him, the letter with which the reader is acquainted.
No connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was possible in his mind.
As for the name Pontmercy, it will be recalled that, on the battlefield of Waterloo, he had only heard the last two syllables, for which he always entertained the legitimate scorn which one owes to what is merely an expression of thanks.
However, through his daughter Azelma, who had started on the scent of the married pair on the 16th of February, and through his own personal researches, he had succeeded in learning many things, and, from the depths of his own gloom, he had contrived to grasp more than one mysterious clew.
He had discovered, by dint of industry, or, at least, by dint of induction, he had guessed who the man was whom he had encountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer.
From the man he had easily reached the name.
He knew that Madame la Baronne Pontmercy was Cosette.
But he meant to be discreet in that quarter.
Who was Cosette?
He did not know exactly himself.
He did, indeed, catch an inkling of illegitimacy, the history of Fantine had always seemed to him equivocal; but what was the use of talking about that? in order to cause himself to be paid for his silence?
He had, or thought he had, better wares than that for sale.