Jean Valjean caught himself up.

“You know, madame, that I am peculiar, I have my freaks.”

Cosette struck her tiny hands together.

“Madame!⁠ ⁠… You know!⁠ ⁠… more novelties! What is the meaning of this?”

Jean Valjean directed upon her that heartrending smile to which he occasionally had recourse:

“You wished to be Madame. You are so.”

“Not for you, father.”

“Do not call me father.”

“What?”

“Call me ‘Monsieur Jean.’ ‘Jean,’ if you like.”