had not even the time for
deliberation, so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes
was hastening to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he
had thought himself the master, and which was now sweeping him away. He
was on the verge of swooning.

In the meantime, Thenardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no other
name, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort of frenzy
and wild triumph.

He seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney-piece with
so violent a bang that the wick came near being extinguished, and the
tallow bespattered the wall.

Then he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible look, and spit out these
words:--

"Done for! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked!"

And again he began to march back and forth, in full eruption.

"Ah!" he cried, "so I've found you again at last, Mister philanthropist!
Mister threadbare millionnaire! Mister giver of dolls! you old
ninny! Ah! so you don't recognize me! No, it wasn't you who came to
Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years ago, on Christmas eve, 1823! It
wasn't you who carried off that Fantine's child from me! The Lark! It
wasn't you who had a yellow great-coat! No! Nor a package of duds in
your hand, as you had this morning here! Say, wife, it seems to be his
mania to carry packets of woollen stockings into houses! Old charity
monger, get out with you! Are you a hosier, Mister millionnaire? You
give away your stock in trade to the poor, holy man! What bosh! merry
Andrew! Ah! and you don't recognize me? Well, I recognize you, that I
do! I recognized you the very moment you poked your snout in here. Ah!
you'll find out presently, that it isn't all roses to thrust yourself
in that fashion into people's houses, under the pretext that they are
taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of a poor man, to whom one
would give a sou, to deceive persons, to play the generous, to take away
their means of livelihood, and to make threats in the woods, and you
can't call things quits because afterwards, when people are ruined, you
bring a coat that is too large, and two miserable hospital blankets, you
old blackguard, you child-stealer!"

He paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment. One would
have said that his wrath had fallen into some hole, like the Rhone;
then, as though he were concluding aloud the things which he had been
saying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table with his fist, and
shouted:--