“What person?”
“Me!” said Jean Valjean.
Fauchelevent, who was seated, sprang up as though a bomb had burst under his chair.
“You!”
“Why not?”
Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up his face like a flash from heaven in the winter.
“You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said: ‘Mother Crucifixion is dead.’ and I add: ‘and Father Madeleine is buried.’ ”
“Ah! good, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously.”
“Very seriously, I must get out of this place.”
“Certainly.”
“I have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also.”
“Well?”
“The