g the syllables:

". . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette! before God, no.
Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy, I am a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my
living by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean.
I am not related to Cosette. Reassure yourself."

Marius stammered:

"Who will prove that to me?"

"I. Since I tell you so."

Marius looked at the man. He was melancholy yet tranquil. No lie could
proceed from such a calm. That which is icy is sincere. The truth could
be felt in that chill of the tomb.

"I believe you," said Marius.

Jean Valjean bent his head, as though taking note of this, and
continued:

"What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know that
she was in existence. I love her, it is true. One loves a child whom one
has seen when very young, being old oneself. When one is old, one feels
oneself a grandfather towards all little children. You may, it seems to
me, suppose that I have something which resembles a heart. She was an
orphan. Without either father or mother. She needed me. That is why I
began to love her. Children are so weak that the first comer, even a man
like me, can become their protector. I have fulfilled this duty towards
Cosette. I do not think that so slight a thing can be called a good
action; but if it be a good action, well, say that I have done it.
Register this attenuating circumstance. To-day, Cosette passes out of my
life; our two roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing for her. She is
Madame Pontmercy. Her providence has changed. And Cosette gains by the
change. All is well. As for the six hundred thousand francs, you do not
mention them to me, but I forestall your thought, they are a deposit.
How did that deposit come into my hands? What does that matter? I
restore the deposit. Nothing more can be demanded of me. I complete
the restitution by announcing my true name. That concerns me. I have a
reason for desiring that you should know who I am."

And Jean Valjean looked Marius full in the face.

All that Marius experienced was tumultuous and incoherent. Certain gusts
of destiny produce these billows in our souls.

We have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything within us
is dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us, which are
not always precisely those which should be said. There are sudden
revelations which one cannot bear, and which intoxicate like baleful
wine. Marius was stupefied by the novel si