“By whom?”
“By messieurs the wagoners.”
“How many are there of them?”
“Twelve.”
“There is enough food there for twenty.”
“They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance.”
The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, “I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain.”
Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, “Go away!”
At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: “Stop! there’s enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?”
So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause.