however, raising his tone:
“Apropos of that quagmire, you’re a hearty animal. Why didn’t you toss the man in there?”
Jean Valjean preserved silence.
Thénardier 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 tomorrow 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. Someone has passed through the sewer. 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 attention, 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.”