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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 arrondisse-
ment 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 him-
self. 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 for-