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‘Apropos of that quagmire, you’re a hearty animal. Why
didn’t you toss the man in there?’
Jean Valjean preserved silence.
Thenardier resumed, pushing the rag which served him
as a cravat to the level of his Adam’s apple, a gesture which
completes the capable air of a serious man:
‘After all, you acted wisely. The workmen, when they
come to-morrow to stop up that hole, would certainly have
found the stiff abandoned there, and it might have been
possible, thread by thread, straw by straw, to pick up the
scent and reach you. Some one has passed through the sew-
er. Who? Where did he get out? Was he seen to come out?
The police are full of cleverness. The sewer is treacherous
and tells tales of you. Such a find is a rarity, it attracts atten-
tion, very few people make use of the sewers for their affairs,
while the river belongs to everybody. The river is the true
grave. At the end of a month they fish up your man in the
nets at Saint-Cloud. Well, what does one care for that? It’s
carrion! Who killed that man? Paris. And justice makes no
inquiries. You have done well.’
The more loquacious Thenardier became, the more mute
was Jean Valjean.
Again Thenardier shook him by the shoulder.
‘Now let’s settle this business. Let’s go shares. You have
seen my key, show me your money.’
Thenardier was haggard, fierce, suspicious, rather men-
acing, yet amicable.
There was one singular circumstance; Thenardier’s man-
ners were not simple; he had not the air of being wholly at his