“Be at your ease,” said Marius, “I will keep your secret for myself alone.”
And, less touched, perhaps, than he ought to have been, but forced, for the last hour, to familiarize himself with something as unexpected as it was dreadful, gradually beholding the convict superposed before his very eyes, upon M. Fauchelevent, overcome, little by little, by that lugubrious reality, and led, by the natural inclination of the situation, to recognize the space which had just been placed between that man and himself, Marius added:
“It is impossible that I should not speak a word to you with regard to the deposit which you have so faithfully and honestly remitted. That is an act of probity. It is just that some recompense should be bestowed on you. Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you. Do not fear to set it very high.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied Jean Valjean, gently.
He remained in thought for a moment, mechanically passing the tip of his fore-finger across his thumb-nail, then he lifted up his voice:
“All is nearly over. But one last thing remains for me . . .”
“What is it?”
Jean Valjean struggled with what seemed a last hesitation, and, without voice, without breath, he stammered rather than said:
“Now that you know, do you think, sir, you, who are the master, that I ought not to see Cosette any more?”
“I think that would be better,” replied Marius coldly.