That same day， or to speak more accurately， that same evening， as Marcus Left the table， and was on the point of withdrawing to his study， Having a case to look over， Basque handed him a letter saying: "The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber."
Cossets had taken the grandfather's arm and were strolling in the garden.
A letter， like a man， may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse paper， coarsely folded--the very sight of certain missives Is displeasing.
The letter， which Basque had brought， was of this sort.
Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription: "To Monsieur， Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel." The recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well. It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.
Marius was， as it were， illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell， that mysterious aid to memory， had just revived a whole world within him. This was certainly the paper， the fashion of folding， the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known handwriting， especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus， strange freak of chance! One of the two scents which he had so diligently sought， the one in connection with which he had lately again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost， had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal， and read:
"Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given me the talents， I might have been baron Thenard， member of the Institute [academy of ciences]， but I am not. I only bear the same as him， happy if this memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses. The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle. I am in possession of a secret concerning an individual. This individual concerns you. I hold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor to be huseful to you. I will furnish you with the simple means of driving from your honorabel family that individual who has no right there， madame la baronne being of lofty birth.The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer with crime without abdicating.
I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron. "With respect."
The letter was signed "Thenard."
This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover， the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation. The certificate of origin was complete.
Marius' emotion was profound. After a start of surprise， he underwent a feeling of happiness. If he could now but find that other man of whom he was in search， the man who had saved him， Marius， there would be nothing left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary， took out several bank-notes， put them in his pocket， closed the secretary again， and rang the bell. Basque half opened the door.
"Show the man in，" said Marius.
Basque announced:
"Monsieur Thenard."
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter stranger to him.
This man， who was old， moreover， had a thick nose， his chin swathed in a cravat， green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta over his eyes， and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his brow on a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen in "high life." His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from head to foot， in garments that were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch. He held in his hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude， and the curve in his spine augmented the profundity of his bow.
The first thing that struck the observer was， that this personage's coat， which was too ample although carefully buttoned， had not been made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch， in a low-lived old lodging in the Rue Beautreillis， near the Arsenal， an ingenious Jew whose profession was to change villains into honest men. Not for too long， which might have proved embarrassing for the villain. The change was on sight， for a day or two， at the rate of thirty sous a day， by means of a costume which resembled the honesty of the world in general as nearly as possible. This costumer was called "the Changer"; the pickpockets of Paris had given him this name and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably complete wardrobe. The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable. He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop hung a social status， threadbare and worn; here the suit of a magistrate， there the outfit of a Cure， beyond the outfit of a banker， in one corner the costume of a retired military man， elsewhere the habiliments of a man of letters， and further on the dress of a statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged， and into which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this dressing-room， deposited his thirty sous and selected， according to the part which he wished to play， the costume which suited him， and on descending the stairs once more， the knave was a somebody. On the following day， the clothes were faithfully returned， and the Changer， who trusted the thieves with everything， was never robbed. There was one inconvenience about these clothes， they "did not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them， they were too tight for one， too loose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one. Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at his ease in the Changer's costumes. It was necessary that one should not be either too fat or too lean. The changer had foreseen only ordinary men. He had taken the measure of the species from the first rascal who came to hand， who is neither stout nor thin， neither tall nor short. Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from which the Changer's clients extricated themselves as best they might. So much the worse for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman， for instance， black from head to foot， and consequently proper， would have been too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume of a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer's catalogue; we copy:
"A coat of black cloth， trowsers of black wool， a silk waistcoat， boots and linen." On the margin there stood: ex-ambassador， and a note which we also copy: "In a separate box， a neatly frizzed peruke， green glasses， seals， and two small quills an inch long， wrapped in cotton." All this belonged to the statesman， the ex-ambassador. This whole costume was， if we may so express ourselves， debilitated; the seams were white， a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover， one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only detail; as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his coat and laid upon his heart， its function was to conceal the absent button.
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris， he would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom Basque had just shown in， the statesman's suit borrowed from the pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage.
He surveyed him from head to foot， while that personage made exaggerated bows， and demanded in a curt tone:
"What do you want?"
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a crocodile will furnish some idea:
"It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet monsieur personally， several years ago， at the house of Madame la Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the Vicomte Dambray， peer of France."
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize some one whom one does not know.
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech. He spied on his accent and gesture， but his disappointment increased; the pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry， shrill tone which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
"I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray，" said he. "I have never set foot in the house of either of them in my life."
The reply was ungracious. The personage， determined to be gracious at any cost， insisted.
"Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have seen Monsieur! I know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to me: Thenard， my friend . . . won't you drink a glass of wine with me?'"
Marius' brow grew more and more severe:
"I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand. Let us cut it short. What do you want?"
The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.
"Monsieur le Baron， deign to listen to me. There is in America， in a district near Panama， a village called la Joya. That village is composed of a single house， a large， square house of three stories， built of bricks dried in the sun， each side of the square five hundred feet in length， each story retreating twelve feet back of the story below， in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace which makes the circuit of the edifice， in the centre an inner court where the provisions and munitions are kept; no windows， loopholes， no doors， ladders， ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace， and from the first to the second， and from the second to the third， ladders to descend into the inner court， no doors to the chambers， trap-doors， no staircases to the chambers， ladders; in the evening the traps are closed， the ladders are withdrawn carbines and blunderbusses trained from the loopholes; no means of entering， a house by day， a citadel by night， eight hundred inhabitants，-- that is the village. Why so many precautions? because the country is dangerous; it is full of cannibals. Then why do people go there? because the country is marvellous; gold is found there."
"What are you driving at?" interrupted Marius， who had passed from disappointment to impatience.
"At this， Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat. Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to try savages."
"Well?"
"Monsieur le Baron， egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian peasant woman， who toils by the day， turns round when the diligence passes by， the peasant proprietress， who toils in her field， does not turn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man， the dog of the rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself. Self-interest--that's the object of men. Gold， that's the loadstone."
"What then? Finish."
"I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl. The journey is long and costly. I need a little money."
"What concern is that of mine?" demanded Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat， a gesture characteristic of the vulture， and replied with an augmented smile.
"Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?"
There was some truth in this. The fact is， that the contents of the epistle had slipped Marius' mind. He had seen the writing rather than read the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment ago a fresh start had been given him. He had noted that detail: "my spouse and my young lady."
He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge could not have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him.
He confined himself to replying:
"State the case precisely."
The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs， drew himself up without straightening his dorsal column， but scrutinizing Marius in his turn， with the green gaze of his spectacles.
"So be it， Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret to sell to you."
"A secret?"
"A secret."
"Which concerns me?"
"Somewhat."
"What is the secret?"
Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him.
"I commence gratis，" said the stranger. "You will see that I am interesting."
"Speak."
"Monsieur le Baron， you have in your house a thief and an assassin."
Marius shuddered.
"In my house? no，" said he.
The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:
"An assassin and a thief. Remark， Monsieur le Baron， that I do not here speak of ancient deeds， deeds of the past which have lapsed， which can be effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance before God. I speak of recent deeds， of actual facts as still unknown to justice at this hour. I continue. This man has insinuated himself into your confidence， and almost into your family under a false name. I am about to tell you his real name. And to tell it to you for nothing."
"I am listening."
"His name is Jean Valjean."
"I know it."
"I am going to tell you， equally for nothing， who he is."
"Say on."
"He is an ex-convict."
"I know it."
"You know it since I have had the honor of telling you."
"No. I knew it before."
Marius' cold tone， that double reply of "I know it，" his laconicism， which was not favorable to dialogue， stirred up some smouldering wrath in the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly at Marius， which was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was， this glance was of the kind which a man recognizes when he has once beheld it; it did not escape Marius. Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls; the eye， that vent-hole of the thought， glows with it; spectacles hide nothing; try putting a pane of glass over hell!
The stranger resumed with a smile:
"I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case， you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have to tell you is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune of Madame la Baronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale-- I make you the first offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs."
"I know that secret as well as the others，" said Marius.
The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.
"Monsieur le Baron， say ten thousand francs and I will speak."
"I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me. I know what you wish to say to me."
A fresh flash gleamed in the man's eye. He exclaimed:
"But I must dine to-day， nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret， I tell you. Monsieur le Baron， I will speak. I speak. Give me twenty francs."
Marius gazed intently at him:
"I know your extraordinary secret， just as I knew Jean Valjean's name， just as I know your name."
"My name?"
"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."[69]
[69] Un fafiot serieux. Fafiot is the slang term for a bank-bill， derived from its rustling noise.
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 none the less 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. 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 Mari us 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."
"They are chimeras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron honors me renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice before all things. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly. Monsieur le Baron， Jean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean did not kill Javert."
"This is too much! How is this?"
"For two reasons."
"What are they? Speak."
"This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine， because it is Jean Valjean himself who was M. Madeleine."
"What tale are you telling me?"
"And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert， because the person who killed Javert was Javert."
"What do you mean to say?"
"That Javert committed suicide."
"Prove it! Prove it!" cried Marius beside himself.
Thenardier resumed， scanning his phrase after the manner of the ancient Alexandrine measure:
"Police-agent-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-un-der-a-boat-of-the-Pont-au-Change."
"But prove it!"
Thenardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper， which seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes.
"I have my papers，" he said calmly.
And he added:
"Monsieur le Baron， in your interests I desired to know Jean Valjean thoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and the same man， and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert. If I speak， it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs-- writing is suspicious， handwriting is complaisant，--but printed proofs."
As he spoke， Thenardier extracted from the envelope two copies of newspapers， yellow， faded， and strongly saturated with tobacco. One of these two newspapers， broken at every fold and falling into rags， seemed much older than the other.
"Two facts， two proofs，" remarked Thenardier. And he offered the two newspapers， unfolded， to Marius，
The reader is acquainted with these two papers. One， the most ancient， a number of the Drapeau Blanc of the 25th of July， 1823， the text of which can be seen in the first volume， established the identity of M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean.
The other， a Moniteur of the 15th of June， 1832， announced the suicide of Javert， adding that it appeared from a verbal report of Javert to the prefect that， having been taken prisoner in the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie， he had owed his life to the magnanimity of an insurgent who， holding him under his pistol， had fired into the air， instead of blowing out his brains.
Marius read. He had evidence， a certain date， irrefragable proof， these two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose of backing up Thenardier's statements; the note printed in the Moniteur had been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police. Marius could not doubt.
The information of the cashier-clerk had been false， and he himself had been deceived.
Jean Valjean， who had suddenly grown grand， emerged from his cloud. Marius could not repress a cry of joy.
"Well， then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! The whole of that fortune really belonged to him! He is Madeleine， the providence of a whole countryside! He is Jean Valjean， Javert's savior! He is a hero! He is a saint!"
"He's not a saint， and he's not a hero!" said Thenardier. "He's an assassin and a robber."
And he added， in the tone of a man who begins to feel that he possesses some authority:
"Let us be calm."
Robber， assassin--those words which Marius thought had disappeared and which returned， fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath.
"Again!" said he.
"Always，" ejaculated Thenardier. "Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine， but he is a thief. He did not kill Javert， but he is a murderer."
"Will you speak，" retorted Marius， "of that miserable theft， committed forty years ago， and expiated， as your own newspapers prove， by a whole life of repentance， of self-abnegation and of virtue?"
"I say assassination and theft， Monsieur le Baron， and I repeat that I am speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to you is absolutely unknown. It belongs to unpublished matter. And perhaps you will find in it the source of the fortune so skilfully presented to Madame la Baronne by Jean Valjean. I say skilfully， because， by a gift of that nature it would not be so very unskilful to slip into an honorable house whose comforts one would then share， and， at the same stroke， to conceal one's crime， and to enjoy one's theft， to bury one's name and to create for oneself a family."
"I might interrupt you at this point，" said Marius， "but go on."
"Monsieur le Baron， I will tell you all， leaving the recompense to your generosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me: Why do not you apply to Jean Valjean?' For a very simple reason; I know that he has stripped himself， and stripped himself in your favor， and I consider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son， he would show me his empty hands， and， since I am in need of some money for my trip to la Joya， I prefer you， you who have it all， to him who has nothing. I am a little fatigued， permit me to take a chair."
Marius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.
Thenardier installed himself on a tufted chair， picked up his two newspapers， thrust them back into their envelope， and murmured as he pecked at the Drapeau Blanc with his nail: "It cost me a good deal of trouble to get this one."
That done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back of the chair， an attitude characteristic of people who are sure of what they are saying， then he entered upon his subject gravely， emphasizing his words:
"Monsieur le Baron， on the 6th of June， 1832， about a year ago， on the day of the insurrection， a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris， at the point where the sewer enters the Seine， between the Pont des Invalides and the Pont de Jena."
Marius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Thenardier. Thenardier noticed this movement and continued with the deliberation of an orator who holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary palpitating under his words:
"This man， forced to conceal himself， and for reasons， moreover， which are foreign to politics， had adopted the sewer as his domicile and had a key to it. It was， I repeat， on the 6th of June; it might have been eight o'clock in the evening. The man hears a noise in the sewer. Greatly surprised， he hides himself and lies in wait. It was the sound of footsteps， some one was walking in the dark， and coming in his direction. Strange to say， there was another man in the sewer besides himself. The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A little light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the newcomer， and to see that the man was carrying something on his back. He was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a bent attitude was an ex-convict， and what he was dragging on his shoulders was a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act， if ever there was such a thing. As for the theft， that is understood; one does not kill a man gratis. This convict was on his way to fling the body into the river. One fact is to be noticed， that before reaching the exit grating， this convict， who had come a long distance in the sewer， must， necessarily， have encountered a frightful quagmire where it seems as though he might have left the body， but the sewermen would have found the assassinated man the very next day， while at work on the quagmire， and that did not suit the assassin's plans. He had preferred to traverse that quagmire with his burden， and his exertions must have been terrible， for it is impossible to risk one's life more completely; I don't understand how he could have come out of that alive."
Marius' chair approached still nearer. Thenardier took advantage of this to draw a long breath. He went on:
"Monsieur le Baron， a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks everything there， even room. When two men are there， they must meet. That is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by were forced to bid each other good-day， greatly to the regret of both. The passer-by said to the inhabitant:--"You see what I have on my back， I must get out， you have the key， give it to me." That convict was a man of terrible strength. There was no way of refusing. Nevertheless， the man who had the key parleyed， simply to gain time. He examined the dead man， but he could see nothing， except that the latter was young， well dressed， with the air of being rich， and all disfigured with blood. While talking， the man contrived to tear and pull off behind， without the assassin perceiving it， a bit of the assassinated man's coat. A document for conviction， you understand; a means of recovering the trace of things and of bringing home the crime to the criminal. He put this document for conviction in his pocket. After which he opened the grating， made the man go out with his embarrassment on his back， closed the grating again， and ran off， not caring to be mixed up with the remainder of the adventure and above all， not wishing to be present when the assassin threw the assassinated man into the river. Now you comprehend. The man who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the one who had the key is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of the coat . . ."
Thenardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket， and holding， on a level with his eyes， nipped between his two thumbs and his two forefingers， a strip of torn black cloth， all covered with dark spots.
Marius had sprung to his feet， pale， hardly able to draw his breath， with his eyes riveted on the fragment of black cloth， and， without uttering a word， without taking his eyes from that fragment， he retreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along the wall for a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney.
He found the key， opened the cupboard， plunged his arm into it without looking， and without his frightened gaze quitting the rag which Thenardier still held outspread.
But Thenardier continued:
"Monsieur le Baron， I have the strongest of reasons for believing that the assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into a trap by Jean Valjean， and the bearer of an enormous sum of money."
"The young man was myself， and here is the coat!" cried Marius， and he flung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood.
Then， snatching the fragment from the hands of Thenardier， he crouched down over the coat， and laid the torn morsel against the tattered skirt. The rent fitted exactly， and the strip completed the coat.
Thenardier was petrified.
This is what he thought: "I'm struck all of a heap."
Marius rose to his feet trembling， despairing， radiant.
He fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Thenardier， presenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled with bank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs.
"You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar， a calumniator， a villain. You came to accuse that man， you have only justified him; you wanted to ruin him， you have only succeeded in glorifying him. And it is you who are the thief! And it is you who are the assassin! I saw you， Thenardier Jondrette， in that lair on the Rue de l'Hopital. I know enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further if I choose. Here are a thousand francs， bully that you are!"
And he flung a thousand franc note at Thenardier.
"Ah! Jondrette Thenardier， vile rascal! Let this serve you as a lesson， you dealer in second-hand secrets， merchant of mysteries， rummager of the shadows， wretch! Take these five hundred francs and get out of here! Waterloo protects you."
"Waterloo!" growled Thenardier， pocketing the five hundred francs along with the thousand.
"Yes， assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . ."
"Of a General，" said Thenardier， elevating his head.
"Of a Colonel!" repeated Marius in a rage. "I wouldn't give a ha'penny for a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you that you have committed all crimes. Go! Disappear! Only be happy， that is all that I desire. Ah! monster! Here are three thousand francs more. Take them. You will depart to-morrow， for America， with your daughter; for your wife is dead， you abominable liar. I shall watch over your departure， you ruffian， and at that moment I will count out to you twenty thousand francs. Go get yourself hung elsewhere!"
"Monsieur le Baron!" replied Thenardier， bowing to the very earth， "eternal gratitude." And Thenardier left the room， understanding nothing， stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks of gold， and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in bank-bills.
Struck by lightning he was， but he was also content; and he would have been greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off such lightning as that.
Let us finish with this man at once.
Two days after the events which we are at this moment narrating， he set out， thanks to Marius' care， for America under a false name， with his daughter Azelma， furnished with a draft on New York for twenty thousand francs.
The moral wretchedness of Thenardier， the bourgeois who had missed his vocation， was irremediable. He was in America what he had been in Europe. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to corrupt a good action and to cause evil things to spring from it. With Marius' money， Thenardier set up as a slave-dealer.
As soon as Thenardier had left the house， Marius rushed to the garden， where Cosette was still walking.
"Cosette! Cosette!" he cried."Come! Come quick! Let us go. Basque， a carriage! Cosette， come. Ah! My God! It was he who saved my life! Let us not lose a minute! Put on your shawl."
Cosette thought him mad and obeyed.
He could not breathe， he laid his hand on his heart to restrain its throbbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides， he embraced Cosette:
"Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!" said he.
Marius was bewildered.He began to catch a glimpse in Jean Valjean of some indescribably lofty and melancholy figure. An unheard-of virtue， supreme and sweet， humble in its immensity， appeared to him. The convict was transfigured into Christ.
Marius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely what he beheld， but it was grand.
In an instant， a hackney-carriage stood in front of the door.
Marius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.
"Driver，" said he， "Rue de l'Homme Arme， Number 7."
The carriage drove off.
"Ah! what happiness!" ejaculated Cosette. "Rue de l'Homme Arme， I did not dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see M. Jean."
"Thy father! Cosette， thy father more than ever. Cosette， I guess it. You told me that you had never received the letter that I sent you by Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands. Cosette， he went to the barricade to save me. As it is a necessity with him to be an angel， he saved others also; he saved Javert. He rescued me from that gulf to give me to you. He carried me on his back through that frightful sewer. Ah! I am a monster of ingratitude. Cosette， after having been your providence， he became mine. Just imagine， there was a terrible quagmire enough to drown one a hundred times over， to drown one in mire. Cosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing， I heard nothing， I could know nothing of my own adventure. We are going to bring him back， to take him with us， whether he is willing or not， he shall never leave us again. If only he is at home! Provided only that we can find him， I will pass the rest of my life in venerating him. Yes， that is how it should be， do you see， Cosette? Gavroche must have delivered my letter to him. All is explained. You understand."
Cosette did not understand a word.
"You are right，" she said to him.
Meanwhile the carriage rolled on.
就在这一天，或者说得更清楚一些，就在这一晚，马吕斯吃完晚饭到回到办公室，因为有一份案卷要研究，这时巴斯克递给他一封信并且说：“写这信的人在候客室里。”
珂赛特挽着外祖父的手臂在花园里散步。
一封信，跟一个人一样，也可以有一种不端正的外表。粗糙的纸张，笨拙的折叠法，有些信只要一看就使人不高兴。巴斯克拿来的信就是属于这一类的。
马吕斯接过来，信上有一股烟叶味。没有再比一种气味更能使人回忆起往事了。马吕斯想起了这种烟味。他看信封上的地名：送给先生，彭眉胥男爵先生，他的公馆。熟悉的烟味使他认出笔迹。我们可以说惊愕是会发出闪光的，马吕斯好象被这样的一闪照得清醒了。
烟味，这神秘的备忘录，使他想起了许多事。正就是这种纸张，这种折叠方式，淡淡的墨水，熟悉的笔迹，尤其是烟味，容德雷特的破屋在他的眼前出现了。
如此奇特的巧遇！他曾再三寻找的两种踪迹之一，这是不久前他还全力以赴去寻找、后来认为永远消失了的，不料竟自己送上门来了。
他迫不及待地拆开信念着：
男爵先生：
如果上帝赐给我天才的话，我本可成为德纳男爵、院士（可学完），但是我不是。我仅和他同名，如果这件事能使我获得您的关照，我将感到荣幸。如蒙您恩赐，我将报答。我拈有一个关鱼某人的秘密。这人又与您有关。我可以把这秘密告诉您，希望能荣幸地为您福务。我奉上一个最简单的办法，把这无权留在您尊贵的家庭里的人区逐出去，男爵夫人出身是高贵的，道德的圣地不能再与罪恶童居而不有损于自身。
我在候客实等呆男爵先生的命令。
敬颂
大安
这封信的签名是“德纳”。
签的名不假，只是缩减了一点。
此外文字不知所云和别字连篇充分暴露了真情。这个身分证已经完备，不容再怀疑了。
马吕斯的情绪十分激动，惊愕之后，他感到了幸运。但愿现在再能找到他寻找的另一个人，那个救了他马吕斯的人，那么他就别无他求了。
他把写字台的抽屉打开拿出几张钞票，放入口袋，关上抽屉就按铃。巴斯克半开着门。
“带他进来。”马吕斯说。
巴斯克通报：
“德纳先生。”
一个人走了进来。
马吕斯又感到惊讶。进来的人他完全不认识。
这人年老，长着一个大鼻子，下巴隐藏在领结里，戴着绿色眼镜，加上双层绿绸遮光帽檐。头发光滑直齐眉梢，好象英国上流社会①马车夫的假发。他的头发花白。全身黑服，是一种磨损了的黑色，但还干净；一串装饰品在背心口袋上吊着，使人猜想是表链。他手里拿着一顶旧帽子，驼着背走路，鞠躬的深度使得背更驼了。
①上流社会，原文为英文high life。
一见面就使人注意到这人的衣服太肥大，虽然仔细扣上纽子，仍不象是为他缝制的。
这里有必要加一点题外的话。
当时在巴黎博特莱伊街，靠近兵工厂的地方，在一所不三不四的老房子里住着一个精明的犹太人，他的职业是把一个坏蛋化装成正派人。时间不要太久，不然，坏蛋会感到拘束。这种化装立即奏效，可以维持一两天，代价是三十个苏一天，办法是穿一套与一般正派人的穿着非常相似的服装。这个服装出租者的名字叫“更换商”，这是巴黎的扒手们送给他的绰号，不知道他的真姓名叫什么。他的服装室相当齐全。他用来打扮人的那些旧衣烂衫基本上还过得去。他划分专业和类型；在他铺子的每个钉子上都挂有社会上某种地位的人的磨损和起皱的服装，这里是行政官员的服装，那里是教士的服装，那里又是银行家的服装，在一个角落里又有着退伍军人的服装，而在另一处则是文人的服装，远一点的地方还有着政界人士的服装。这个人是诈骗犯在巴黎演出大型戏剧时的化装人。他的陋室是盗贼和骗子进出的后台。一个褴褛的坏蛋走进这个服装室，放下三十个苏，挑选适合他今天要演出的角色的服装，当他走下阶梯时，这个坏蛋就已变成一个人物了。第二天，衣服又很诚实地被送回来。这个“更换商”，他把一切都信托给小偷，也从未被盗窃过。这些服装有一个缺点，“不合身”，因为不是为穿衣的人定做的，对有些人太瘦，对有些人则太肥，没有一个人穿了合身。任何一个比普通身材高大或矮小的坏蛋，穿了“更换商”的服装都感到不自在。不能太胖或太瘦，“更换商”只考虑到一般的身材。他随便找一个乞丐来量体裁衣，那个人不胖，不瘦，不高也不矮。因此要求都合身有时是困难的，只得由“更换商”的主顾自己迁就了事。特殊的身材活该倒霉！譬如政界人士的服装，上下一身黑，因此是恰当的，但皮特①穿了嫌太肥，加斯特尔西加拉②又嫌太瘦。和政界人士相称的服装在“更换商”的服装目录里标明如下，我们照抄在此：“黑呢上衣一件，黑色紧面薄呢裤一条，绸背心一件，长统靴和衬衣。”边上还写着“过去的大使”。还有注解，我们界人士，过去的大使相称。这套衣服，我们可以这样说，已经相当旧了；缝线发白，胳膊肘的某一处有一个隐约可见的扣子大小的洞，此外，前胸缺少一颗扣子；这只是一点细节；政客的手应该随时都插在衣服里靠胸的地方，它的作用就是要遮住缺少的扣子。
①皮特（Pitt，1708-1778），英国政治家。
②加斯特尔西加拉（Castelcicala），那不勒斯王国驻巴黎的大使。
如果马吕斯熟悉巴黎这种隐秘的机构的话，他立刻就会认出，巴斯克引进来的客人身上所穿的政客服装就是从“更换商”那儿的钩子上租来的。
马吕斯看见进来的人并非是他所等待的人，于是感到失望，他对新来的人表示不欢迎，他从头到脚打量着他，当时这人正在深深地鞠躬，他不客气地问他：
“您有什么事？”
这人用一个亲善的露齿笑容作了回答，这笑容有点象鳄鱼的温存微笑：
“我觉得在社交界里我不可能没有荣幸见到过男爵先生。我想几年前我在巴格拉西翁公主夫人家中见到过您，还在法国贵族院议员唐勃莱子爵大人的沙龙里和您见过面。”
这些是无赖常用的策略，装出认识一个不相识的人。
马吕斯密切注意着这人的说话，琢磨着他的口音和动作，但他的失望增加了，这种带鼻音的声调，和他期待的尖锐生硬的声音完全不同，他象坠入五里雾中。
“我既不认识巴格拉西翁夫人，也不认识唐勃莱先生，”他说，“我从没去过这两家。”
他带着易怒的声调回答着。这人仍亲切地坚持说：
“那我就是在夏多勃里昂家里见到过先生！我和夏多勃里昂很熟悉，他很和气。有时他对我说：‘德纳我的朋友……你不来和我干一杯吗？’”
马吕斯的神气越来越严厉：
“我从来没有荣幸被夏多勃里昂接待过。简单地直说吧，您来干什么？”
这人听了这严酷的语气，更深深地鞠躬：
“男爵先生，请听我说，在美洲巴拿马那边一个地区，有一个村子叫若耶，这村子只有一所房子。一栋四层楼的由太阳晒干的砖所砌成的四方的大房子，四方房子的每一边有五百尺长，每层比下层退进十二尺，这样在房屋四周的前面就有一个绕屋的平台，当中是一个内院，那里堆积着粮食和武器，没有窗子，但有枪眼，没有门，但有梯子，梯子从地上架到二层平台，再从第二层架到第三层，从三层架到四层，再用梯子下到内院，房间没有门，只有吊门，房间也没有楼梯，只有梯子；夜间关上吊门拿走梯子，大口枪和马枪都在枪眼里瞄准着，无法走进去，这里白天是一所房子，晚上是一座堡垒，有八百住户，这村子就是这样的。为什么要如此小心呢？因为这是一个危险地区，有很多吃人的人，为什么人们要去呢？因为这是个绝妙的地方；那里找得到黄金。”
“您究竟要干什么？”马吕斯因失望而变得不耐烦，打断了他的话。
“我要说的是，男爵先生，我是一个疲惫的老外交家。旧文化使我厌倦，我想过过未开化的生活。”
“还有呢？”
“男爵先生，自私是世间的法律。无产的雇农看见公共马车走过就回过头去，有产的农民在自己的田里劳动就不回头。穷人的狗对着富人叫，富人的狗对着穷人叫。人人都为自己，钱财是人们追求的目的。金子是磁石。”
“还有什么话？快说完。”
“我想到若耶去安家。我们一家三口，妻子和女儿，一个很漂亮的姑娘。旅途长而旅费贵，我需要一点钱。”
“这和我有什么关系？”马吕斯问。
这不相识的人把下巴伸出领结外，好象秃鹫的动作，并用双重意味的微笑来回答。
“难道男爵先生没有读过我的信吗？”
这话有点说对了。事实上是马吕斯没有十分注意信的内容。他看到笔迹，忽略了内容。他几乎想不起来了。目前他又得到了一条新的线索。他注意到这个细节：我的妻子和女儿，他用深刻的目光盯住这个陌生人。一个审判官也不如他看得更仔细，他等于在窥伺，他只是回答：
“说清楚点。”
陌生人把两手插在背心的口袋中，抬起头但并不撑直脊背，他那通过眼镜的绿目光也在细察着马吕斯。
“好吧，男爵先生，我说清楚点。我有一个秘密向您出售。”
“一个秘密！”
“一个秘密。”
“和我有关？”
“多少有点。”
“什么秘密？”
马吕斯一边听着，同时越来越仔细观察这个人。
“我开始时不提报酬，”陌生人说，“对我所讲的您会感到很有意思。”
“说下去！”
“男爵先生，您家里有一个盗贼和一个杀人犯。”
马吕斯一阵震颤。
“在我家里？不会。”他说。
陌生人镇定地、用衣袖肘刷刷帽子，继续说：
“杀人犯和盗贼。男爵先生请注意，我这里说的并不是往事，不是过期的，失效的，不是法律的具体规定和神前忏悔可以取消的，我讲的是最近的事，眼前的事，此刻尚未被法律发现的事。我说下去。这个人骗取了您的信任，几乎钻进了您的家庭，他用了一个假名。我告诉您他的真名，我不要分文来向您说。”
“我听着。”
“他叫冉阿让。”
“我知道。”
“我告诉您他是谁，但仍不要报酬。”
“说吧！”
“他是一个老苦役犯。”
“我知道。”
“您知道是因为我荣幸地向您说了。”
“不是。我早已知道了。”
马吕斯冷冷的语气，两次“我知道”的回答，说话简短，表示不愿交谈，引起了陌生人的一点暗火。他那发怒的目光偷偷瞥了马吕斯一眼，但又立刻熄灭了。这目光虽然如此迅速，但人们只要见过一次，以后就会认出来的，而且也没逃过马吕斯的眼睛。某种火焰只能出自某些灵魂，它会烧着眼睛，这个思想的通风洞；眼镜不能遮蔽任何东西，就象在地狱前面放上一块玻璃一样。
陌生人微笑着又说：
“我不敢反驳男爵先生。总而言之，您知道我是了解实情的。现在我要告诉您的事情只有我一个人知道。这与男爵夫人的财产有关。这是一个特殊的秘密，它可以出售，我先献给您，价钱便宜，两万法郎。”
“这秘密和其他的一样，我也知道。”
那人感到需要杀点价：
“男爵先生，给一万法郎吧，我就说。”
“我再重复一遍，您没有什么可告诉我的。我已知道您要说些什么了。”
这人的眼中又闪出一道光，他大声叫喊起来：
“今天我总得要吃饭呀。我对您说，这是一个特殊的秘密。
男爵先生，我要说了，我就说。给我二十法郎好了。”
马吕斯的眼睛盯住他：
“我知道您的特殊秘密，就象我知道冉阿让的名字，也象我知道您的名字一样。”
“我的名字？”
“是的。”
“这不难，男爵先生，我荣幸地写给您了，并向您说了：德纳。”
“第。”
“什么？”
“德纳第。”
“这是谁？”
在危急之中，箭猪会竖起刺来，金龟子会装死，老看守人员会摆出架势，这人就大笑起来。
于是他用手指掸去衣袖上的一点灰尘。
马吕斯继续说：
“您也是工人容德雷特，演员法邦杜，诗人尚弗洛，西班牙贵人堂·阿尔瓦内茨，又是妇人巴利查儿。”
“什么妇人？”
“您在孟费郿开过小酒店。”
“小酒店！从没有过的事。”
“我对您说，您是德纳第。”
“我否认。”
“还有，您是一个坏蛋，拿着。”
这时马吕斯从口袋里抽出一张钞票，摔在他脸上。
“谢谢！对不起！五百法郎！男爵先生！”
这人惊惶失措，鞠躬，抓住钞票，仔细瞧。
“五百法郎！”他惊讶地又说一遍。他含含糊糊地轻声说道：“值钱的钞票！”
于是突然又说：
“好吧，”他大声说，“让我们舒服一下吧。”
说后他用猴子般灵敏的速度，把头发朝后一甩，抓下眼镜，从鼻孔里取出那两根鸡毛管并把它们藏起来，这是刚才已提到的东西，并且在这本书的另一页上也已经见到过。他象脱帽那样改变了他的脸谱。
他的眼睛发亮了；一个凹凸不平、有的地方有着疙瘩的、皱得出奇的丑的额头露出来了，鼻子又恢复鹰钩形；这个诡谲凶狠的掠夺者的外形现在又出现了。
“男爵先生完全正确，”他用清晰的失去鼻音的声音说，“我是德纳第。”
他把驼背伸直了。
德纳第，确实是他，他非常吃惊，如果他能慌乱的话，他也会慌乱的。他是打算来使人大吃一惊的，结果是他自己吃了一惊。这种屈辱的代价是五百法郎，总之，他还是收下；但不免仍感到惊愕。
尽管他化了装，第一次来见这位彭眉胥男爵，这位彭眉胥男爵就认出了他，并且还彻底了解他。这男爵非但知道德纳第的事，同时似乎也知道冉阿让的事。这个基本上还没长胡子的青年是个什么人？他如此冷酷然而又如此慷慨，他知道别人的名字，知道别人所有的名字，慷慨解囊，但叱责骗子又象法官，赏他们钱时又象个受骗的傻瓜。
我们记得，德纳第虽曾是马吕斯的邻居，但却从没见过他，这在巴黎是常有的事；他曾隐隐约约听到他的女儿们提到过有个穷青年叫马吕斯，住在那幢房子里。他给他写过我们知道的那封信，但并不认识他。在他思想里还不可能把这个马吕斯和彭眉胥男爵先生联系起来。
至于彭眉胥的名字，我们记得在滑铁卢战场上，德纳第只听到最后两个音，他对这两个音①一直是蔑视的，人们看不起简单的一声道谢，这是合情合理的。
①“彭眉胥”（Pontmercy）后面两个音是“眉胥”，与法文中的“谢谢”（merci）发音相同。
此外，他让女儿阿兹玛跟踪二月十六日的新婚夫妇，依靠女儿，再靠自己的搜索，结果他得知很多情节，从他黑暗的深处，他抓住了不止一根秘密线索。他施展了不少伎俩后发现了，或至少在尽量归纳推理后，猜到他那天在大阴沟里遇到的是什么人。从这个人，很容易就得到了他的名字。他知道彭眉胥男爵夫人就是珂赛特。但关于这一点，他打算谨慎从事。珂赛特是谁？他自己也不很清楚。他模糊地预感到是个私生子，芳汀的历史他一直觉得是有点不明不白的，谈这些有什么用呢？为保守秘密而得些报酬吗？他有，或认为自己有比这更值钱的东西要出卖。还有，按照表面的情况看，没有证据就来向彭眉胥男爵泄露“您的夫人是个私生儿”，这样的结果会使告密者的腰部挨到丈夫的脚踢。
在德纳第看来，和马吕斯的谈话还没有开始。他不得不先退却，改变战略，放弃阵地，上另一道前线，主要之事尚未达成协议，他已有五百法郎在口袋里了。此外他还有一些有决定意义的东西要说，他觉得来对抗这个既无所不知又武装得那么好的彭眉胥男爵他仍是个强者。象德纳第这种性格的人，所有的对话都是在搏斗。在即将进行的这场搏斗中，自己的情况究竟如何？他不知道他说话的对象是谁，但他知道要说的内容是什么。他很快暗暗地检阅了一下自己的力量，在说过了“我是德纳第”之后，他等待着。
马吕斯在深思。他终于抓到了德纳第。这个人，他多么希望能找到他，现在就在身边了。他可以实践彭眉胥上校的叮嘱了。这位英雄欠了这个贼的情，他父亲从墓底开给他马吕斯的汇票至今没有兑现，他感到是种羞辱。面对德纳第时他思想里也有着复杂的想法，他感到应为上校不幸被这类坏蛋所救而复仇。但不管怎样，他是满意的。他终于要把上校的幽灵从这下流的债权人那里救出来，他感到他将把父亲身后的名誉从债务的牢狱中解救出来。
除了这一责任外，还有另外一点他也要搞清楚，如果他能办到的话，那就是珂赛特财产的来源问题。机会好象已在眼前，德纳第可能知道一些情况。深探这个人的底细可能有用处。他就从这里开始。
德纳第已把这“值钱的钞票”藏进了背心的口袋里，温和到接近柔情的程度望着马吕斯。
马吕斯打破了沉默：
“德纳第，我对您说出了您的名字。现在，您想告诉我的秘密，要不要我来向您说？我也有我的情报，我，您会觉察到我知道得比您更多。冉阿让，您说他是杀人犯和盗贼。他是盗贼，因为他抢劫了一个富有的手工业厂主马德兰先生，并使他破了产。他是个杀人犯，因为他杀死了警察沙威。”
“我不懂，男爵先生。”德纳第说。
“我把话说清楚，听着，大约在一八二二年时，在加来海峡省的一个区，有一个过去和司法机关有过纠葛的人，名叫马德兰先生，他后来改过自新，恢复了名誉。这人成为一个不折不扣的正直的人。他创建一种行业制造黑玻璃珠子，使得全城发了财。至于他自己也发了财，那是次要的，可以说是偶然的。他是穷人的救济者，他设立医院，开办学校，探望病人，给姑娘们钱作嫁妆，援助寡妇，抚育孤儿，他好象是地方上的一个保护人。他拒绝接受勋章，他被提名为市长。一个释放了的苦役犯知道这人过去被判过刑的隐情，揭发了这人并使他被捕，这个苦役犯又利用这人被捕来到巴黎，从拉菲特银行棗我这个情报是出纳员供给的棗，用一个假签名，领走了马德兰存款上五十万以上的法郎。这个抢劫了马德兰先生的苦役犯就是冉阿让，至于另一桩事，您也没有什么可告诉我的。冉阿让杀死了沙威，他用手枪打死的，我当时正在场。”
德纳第神气地向马吕斯看了一眼，就象一个吃败仗的人又抓住了胜利，并在一分钟内收回了所有失地，但他立刻又恢复了微笑，下级在上级前的得胜应该显得温和，德纳第只向马吕斯说：
“男爵先生，我们走岔道了。”
他为了要强调这句话，故意把一串饰物抡了一转。
“怎么！”马吕斯说，“您能驳倒这些吗？这是事实。”
“这是幻想。我荣幸地得到男爵先生的信任，使我有义务向他这样说，首先要注意事实和正义。我不愿见到有人不公正地控告别人。男爵先生，冉阿让并没有抢劫马德兰，还有冉阿让也没有杀死沙威。”
“这真叫人很难相信！为什么？”
“为了两个原因。”
“哪两个？说。”
“第一，他没有抢劫马德兰先生，因为冉阿让本人就是马德兰先生。”
“您说什么？”
“而第二，他没有杀死沙威，因为杀死沙威的人，就是沙威自己。”
“您这是什么意思？”
“我的意思是沙威是自杀的。”
“拿出证据来！拿出证明来！”马吕斯怒不可遏地叫着。
德纳第一字一句地重新说了一遍，好象在念十二音节的古诗。
“警察---沙威---被发现---溺死在---交易所桥的---一条船下。”
“拿出证据来。”
德纳第在旁边的口袋里取出一个灰色大信封，好象装有一些折成大小不等的纸。
“我有我的案卷。”他镇静地说。
他又补充道：
“男爵先生，为了您的利益，我曾深入了解我的冉阿让。我说冉阿让和马德兰就是一个人，我又说沙威除了沙威自己以外，没有别人杀死他，我这样说，我是有证据的。不是手写的证据，手写是可疑的，可以为献殷勤而随便乱写，我的证据是印刷品。”
德纳第一边说，一边从信封里取出两张发黄、陈旧、有一大股烟味的报纸。其中一张，折叠的边缘部分已破碎，成块地掉下来，看来比另一张更陈旧。
“两件事情，两种证据。”德纳第说。于是他把两张打开的报纸递给马吕斯。
这两张报纸读者都知道，最旧的那张是一八二三年七月二十五日的《白旗报》，我们可以在本书的第三卷第一四八页看到原文。证实了马德兰先生和冉阿让确是一个人；另一张是一八三二年六月十五日的《通报》，证明沙威的自杀，附加说明这是引自沙威向警署署长的口头汇报：当他被囚在麻厂街街垒时，一个宽宏大量的暴动者饶了他一命，那人持枪可以打死他，但却没有打他的脑袋而只向空中放了枪。
马吕斯读了，这是明显的事，日期确切，证据无可怀疑，这两张报纸不是为了证明德纳第的话而故意印刷出来的，在《通报》上刊登的消息又是警署官方提供的。马吕斯不能怀疑。那个出纳员提供的情况是假的，自己也搞错了。冉阿让，忽然变伟大了，从云雾中出来，马吕斯禁不住欢快地叫道：
“那么，这不幸的人是一个可敬可佩的人！这笔财产真是他的！他就是马德兰，整整一个地区的护卫者！冉阿让是沙威的救命人！这是个英雄！一个圣人！”
“他
