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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; al-
though 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 em-
phasizing 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 Co-
sette. Reassure yourself.’
Marius stammered:
‘Who will prove that to me?’
‘I. Since I tell you so.’
Marius looked at the man. He was melancholy yet tran-
quil. No lie could proceed from such a calm. That which
is icy is sincere. The truth could be felt in that chill of the
tomb.
‘I believe you,’ said Marius.
Jean Valjean bent his head, as though taking note of this,
and continued:
‘What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did
not know that she was in existence. I love her, it is true. One
loves a child whom one has seen when very young, being
old oneself. When one is old, one feels oneself a grandfather
towards all little children. You may, it seems to me, suppose
that I have something which resembles a heart. She was an