“Say all, say all!” he cried. “You are Cosette’s father!”
And he retreated a couple of paces with a movement of indescribable horror.
Jean Valjean elevated his head with so much majesty of attitude that he seemed to grow even to the ceiling.
“It is necessary that you should believe me here, sir; although our oath to others may not be received in law . . .”
Here he paused, then, with a sort of sovereign and sepulchral authority, he added, articulating slowly, and emphasizing 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.