And, according to all appearances, if he were to come and make to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation—and without proof:
“Your wife is a bastard,” the only result would be to attract the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer.
From Thenardier’s point of view, the conversation with Marius had not yet begun.
He ought to have drawn back, to have modified his strategy, to have abandoned his position, to have changed his front; but nothing essential had been compromised as yet, and he had five hundred francs in his pocket.
Moreover, he had something decisive to say, and, even against this very well-informed and well-armed Baron Pontmercy, he felt himself strong.
For men of Thenardier’s nature, every dialogue is a combat.
In the one in which he was about to engage, what was his situation?
He did not know to whom he was speaking, but he did know of what he was speaking, he made this rapid review of his inner forces, and after having said:
“I am Thenardier,” he waited.
Marius had become thoughtful.
So he had hold of Thenardier at last.
That man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him.
He could honor Colonel Pontmercy’s recommendation.
He felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to this villain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths of the tomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up to that day.
It also seemed to him, in the complex state of his mind towards Thenardier, that there was occasion to avenge the Colonel for the misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal.
In any case, he was content.
He was about to deliver the Colonel’s shade from this unworthy creditor at last, and it seemed to him that he was on the point of rescuing his father’s memory from the debtors’ prison.
By the side of this duty there was another—to elucidate, if possible, the source of Cosette’s fortune.
The opportunity appeared to present itself.
Perhaps Thenardier knew something.
It might prove useful to see the bottom of this man.
He commenced with this.
Thenardier had caused the “honest rustler” to disappear in his fob, and was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender.
Marius broke the silence. “Thenardier, I have told you your name.
Now, would you like to have me tell you your secret—the one that you came here to reveal to me?
I have information of my own, also.
You shall see that I know more about it than you do.
Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin and a thief.
A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer, whose ruin he brought about.
An assassin, because he assassinated police-agent Javert.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” ejaculated Thenardier.
“I will make myself intelligible.
In a certain arrondissement of the Pas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out with justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained his status and rehabilitated himself.
This man had become a just man in the full force of the term.
In a trade, the manufacture of black glass goods, he made the fortune of an entire city.
As far as his personal fortune was concerned he made that also, but as a secondary matter, and in some sort, by accident.
He was the foster-father of the poor.
He founded hospitals, opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young girls, supported widows, and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian angel of the country.
He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor.
A liberated convict knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in former days; he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by the arrest to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte,—I have the fact from the cashier himself,—by means of a false signature, to hand over to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to M. Madeleine.
This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean.
As for the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either.
Jean Valjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol.
I, the person who is speaking to you, was present.”
Thenardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered man who lays his hand once more upon the victory, and who has just regained, in one instant, all the ground which he has lost.
But the smile returned instantly. The inferior’s triumph in the presence of his superior must be wheedling. Thenardier contented himself with saying to Marius:
“Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track.”
And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute an expressive whirl.
“What!” broke forth Marius, “do you dispute that?
These are facts.”