He stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically taking pinches of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on the table, and he added:⁠—

“And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor.”

Javert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man, who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole station-house, and bade him “leave the room,”⁠—Javert, that haughty man, was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity⁠— M. Madeleine made no other reply to his prayer than the abrupt question:⁠—

“And what does this man say?”