After a bit of respite from his perch, Marius resumed his post to peer through the wall just before six o’clock. The only light in his neighbors’ nearly dark room was a coal fire that had been relit in the stove. Through the blue flame flickering above the coals, he could see that an iron poker had been thrust into them. In one corner of the room he also saw what appeared to be a pile of rope he had not noticed earlier, and in light of what he had already seen of Jondrette, he could not help but wonder if it were there for some sinister reason.
Jondrette had lit his pipe and was straddling his seatless chair. Obviously lost in thought, he finally looked up and said to his wife, “We’re going to need two chairs in here.”
“I’ll go and get a couple of them from our next-door neighbor,” she responded, as she quickly headed toward the door.
“Take a candle with you,” Jondrette instructed.
“No, that will only get me caught, and besides I have two chairs to carry. I’ll be able to see by the moonlight,” she said.
Realizing his neighbor did not intend to ask to borrow his chairs, Marius jumped down from his dresser and hoped to hide himself beneath his bed. Yet he did not have enough time, for he almost immediately heard the woman turning the door handle. He quickly blew out his candle and simply concealed himself in the shadows of the night by leaning against the wall.
Marius was frozen in place out of shock and horror, and seemed to disappear into the darkness as the woman entered his room. In the moonlight, she saw the only two chairs Marius owned, grabbed both of them, and quickly left, slamming the door behind her. Then reentering her own room, she set the two chairs on opposite sides of the table, jabbed the hot coals of the fire a few times with the poker, and walked over to the pile of rope in the corner. As she lifted it up to examine it, Marius realized that what he thought was simply a pile of rope was actually a sturdy-looking rope ladder with wooden rungs and two hooks with which to attach it to something such as a window ledge.
Jondrette, still straddling his chair, had allowed his pipe to go out—a sign he was quite preoccupied with his plan for the evening. On the other side of the wall, Marius had begun rummaging through his dresser drawer looking for something. Finally, he pulled one of the two pistols he owned from underneath some clothes, pondered it for a moment, and cocked it.
As he did so, the pistol emitted a sharp, precise click. Jondrette, startled by the sound, partially rose from his chair, listened intently for a few seconds, but then began to laugh out loud and said, “I am such a fool! That was only the old plaster of this building cracking!”
Marius returned to his post as a spy but kept the pistol in his hand.
Suddenly a distant sound lightly shook the remaining windowpanes of the Jondrettes’ room. Six o’clock was striking from the bell tower of Saint Médard’s Church. Jondrette marked each stroke by nodding his head up and down. Then he began to pace back and forth across the room but would stop occasionally to listen at the door. “I hope he shows,” he muttered to himself as he returned to his chair. Then just as he sat down, there was a knock on the door.
Jondrette’s wife jumped toward the door, opened it, and said, “Please come in, sir.”
“Yes, come in, kind sir!” Jondrette echoed as he quickly stood.
Marius then saw Monsieur Leblanc enter the nearly dark room that was lit only by the faint glow of the fire. He set four Louis on the table, while saying, “Monsieur Fabantou, this is for your rent and your most pressing necessities. We will take care of your other needs later.”
“Oh, you are too generous, sir!” Jondrette—or “Fabantou”—said, as he offered Monsieur Leblanc a chair.
Leblanc hardly had been seated before he noticed both pallets were now empty, and inquired, “How is your poor, wounded, little daughter?”
“Not well,” Jondrette replied with a mournful look on his face. “Her older sister has taken her to a doctor to have her wound dressed, but they should be back soon.”
“Madame Fabantou appears to be better,” Leblanc said in a questioning tone.
The woman suspiciously eyed their guest and stood between him and the door, apparently guarding the exit. And her strange pose and body language seemed to say she was ready for combat. Jondrette, continuing to play out his deception, stated, “Actually, she is dying. But just look at her! She has so much courage!”
While Jondrette was talking, Marius noticed a person quietly enter the dark room and move to the far end. He had entered so softly no one had even heard the door swing open on its hinges. Yet suddenly Leblanc saw him, and as a startled look flashed across his face, he asked, “Who is that man?”
“Him?” Jondrette offered. “He’s just a neighbor friend of mine. Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m sorry. What were you saying, Monsieur Fabantou?” Leblanc asked.
“I was about to tell you, sir,” Jondrette answered, “that I have a painting to sell.” Yet as he spoke, he eyed his guest with the deceptively fierce gaze of a boa constrictor stalking its prey.
Just then the door creaked ever so slightly as a second man entered the room and promptly sat on one of the pallets behind Jondrette. Endeavoring to head off his guest’s suspicions, Jondrette said, “Don’t mind them. They both live in this building, and … as I was saying, I have a valuable painting I would like you to see, sir.”
Then Jondrette lit a small candle and turned a wooden panel around that had been leaning with its face toward the wall. Because of the dim light, Leblanc leaned forward to examine the painting more closely, and when he leaned back and turned around again, he now saw four nameless men in the room—three seated on the pallet and one stationed near the door. All were quiet and still, and their bare arms and faces were smeared with something black.
Monsieur Leblanc was beginning to feel quite uneasy and kept his eyes fixed on the four men. Perceiving his uneasiness, Jondrette said, “These are friends of mine—my neighbors. Their faces are black because they are all chimney sweeps. Please don’t trouble yourself about them, sir. Tell me … what do you think my painting is worth?”
“This is nothing but a sign from a tavern or something. It’s probably worth only three francs or so,” he answered reluctantly.
Jondrette responded with a sly smile on his face, “You’ve brought your money pouch with you, I presume? I will be happy with no less money than 1,000 crowns!”
Hearing what sounded to him as nothing short of a threat, Leblanc sprang from his chair, put his back to the wall, and quickly glanced around the room. Jondrette was to his left, next to the window, and the man’s wife and the four men were to his right, near the door. Jondrette, however, now knowing his ruse was becoming fully exposed, flashed a hideous smile. The little man stood as tall as he could, attempting to look Leblanc eye-to-eye, and yelled in a voice as loud as thunder, “Don’t you recognize me?”
Just then the door of the room abruptly opened, revealing three more men standing in the hallway—each wearing masks of black cloth to hide their identity. It appeared Jondrette had been expecting their arrival, for he immediately said to them, “Is everything ready?”
“Yes,” replied one of the men, who was quite thin, but who carried an iron-tipped club in his hand.
With a sickening laugh, Jondrette turned to Leblanc and asked again, “Don’t you recognize me?”
Leblanc scrutinized the man’s face for a moment, and said, “No.”
Then Jondrette moved as closely as possible to Leblanc’s calm face without actually pushing him backward, and exclaimed with apparent glee, “My name is not Fabantou. My name is not Jondrette. My name is Thénardier—the innkeeper in Montfermeil! Thénardier! Now do you remember me?”
An almost imperceptible tinge of red crossed Leblanc’s face, yet he replied with an incredibly calm voice, “No more than before.”
Marius did not hear Leblanc’s answer, for he was in shock the moment he heard Jondrette say, “My name is Thénardier.” His arms and legs began to tremble as he leaned against the wall, and he felt as though someone had just run a cold steel blade through his heart. His right hand, which was still holding the pistol, fell to his side so abruptly he nearly dropped the gun.
The news Jondrette was Thénardier had not seemed to faze Leblanc, but it had devastated Marius. His father’s dying words had inscribed that name on his heart. To Marius, his father’s instructions had become sacred—especially these: “A sergeant by the name of Thénardier saved my life. If my son ever meets him, I want him to do all the good he can for Thénardier.” And suddenly Jondrette’s daughter’s words came back to him as well: “Waterloo! My father served in the army there.” Could there be any doubt he was indeed the Thénardier who had saved his father’s life?
Yet this man—the very man to whom Marius had sought to devote himself—was a monster! The man who had saved Colonel Pontmercy appeared to be on the verge of committing a crime so horrendous Marius could not comprehend it fully. He now saw his father’s liberator as capable of murder. For so long, he had dreamed of throwing himself in gratitude at the man’s feet, but now that he had actually found him, he was ready to hand him over to the executioner!
Marius shuddered as he considered his options. If he fired his pistol, Monsieur Leblanc would be saved and Thénardier would be lost. Yet if he did not fire, Leblanc would be sacrificed and a monster would escape!
In the meantime, Thénardier had been pacing back and forth while raving like a mad conqueror in front of Leblanc. He exclaimed, “So, I’ve found you once again, Monsieur Philanthropist! Monsieur Threadbare Millionaire! You say you don’t recognize me. So, it wasn’t you who came to my inn in Montfermeil eight years ago, on Christmas Eve of 1823! Well, I recognize you! Yes I do! I recognized you the moment you poked your ugly snout in here. You scoundrel! You child stealer!”
Monsieur Leblanc responded in a quiet, calm voice, “You are mistaken, sir. I am a very poor man—anything but a millionaire. I don’t know you. You are mistaking me for someone else.”
“So,” Thénardier roared, “you don’t know who I am. That’s a lie!”
“Excuse me, sir,” Monsieur Leblanc said with an extremely polite tone to his voice, “I see that you are a criminal!”
“Yes! A criminal! That’s what rich gentlemen would call me! Yes, it’s true that I am bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I have no bread, that I don’t have a single sou to my name, and that I am a criminal. So what!” the little man said defiantly. Then turning his bloodshot eyes toward Leblanc, he said impatiently, “Do you have anything else to say before we put handcuffs on you?” But Leblanc did not say one word while Thénardier briefly turned his back to his captive.
Leblanc seized the moment before Thénardier could turn back around. He swiftly kicked a chair over with his foot, threw the table over with his fists, and with what seemed to be a single bound, was at the window. He had climbed halfway through the window by the time six of the strong fists of “the chimney sweeps” had grabbed him and forcefully dragged him back into the filthy room. All the while, Madame Thénardier had grabbed him by his hair as well and was pulling with the men toward the center of the room.
At this point, the other men who had been waiting in the hallway rushed into the room. One of them raised his club—ready to bludgeon poor Monsieur Leblanc’s head. Marius could wait no longer. He thought to himself, My dear father, forgive me!
Yet just as Marius was about to pull the trigger of his pistol, he heard Thénardier shout, “Don’t hurt him!” Instead of exasperating Thénardier, it seems Leblanc’s escape attempt had actually calmed his captor. He repeated, “Don’t hurt him!”
With the urgency of his intervention having passed, Marius saw no reason not to wait a little longer with his pistol still frozen to his hand. While he waited, however, a new struggle of Herculean proportions began to take place in the room across the wall. With one swift blow to the chest, Leblanc sent the small, old man tumbling across the floor. Then sweeping the same hand back, he knocked down two more of his assailants and pinned each of them to the floor—one under each of his knees.
The wretched men were gasping for air under the tremendous pressure of what felt like a granite millstone sitting on their chests. Finally, four more men grabbed Leblanc by his arms and his neck, yet he still managed to keep the two men pinned to the floor. In this strange position, he was in control of two while being controlled by others. At this point, Marius could barely see Leblanc, for he had nearly disappeared beneath this horrible group of criminals. They looked to him like a pack of wild dogs fighting over their prey.
At last the men succeeded in throwing the poor man across the room and onto the pallet near the window and then stood back staring at him with a kind of reverential awe because of his strength. All the while, Madame Thénardier had not released her grasp on his hair and had been tossed across the room as well. Seeing what appeared to him to be an amusing sight, Thénardier simply said to his wife, “You shouldn’t get mixed up in this. You’ll tear your shawl.”
Then instructing his fellow criminals, he said, “Search him!” But to Thénardier’s disappointment, they found only a leather pouch containing six francs and a handkerchief Thénardier immediately put in his own pocket. Next he walked to the corner of the room, threw some rope to the men, and said, “Tie him to that pallet.” They tied him securely, so that he was sitting upright on the makeshift bed with his feet on the floor. As the last knot was being tied Thénardier grabbed a chair and sat down directly in front of his prisoner.
Suddenly Thénardier no longer looked like himself. Over the course of just a few moments, his countenance had changed from a look of unbridled violence to one of tranquil yet cunning politeness. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his rough-looking mob of men who still held Leblanc in their grasp. He said, “Stand back a little. Let me have a chat with the gentleman.” Then turning to his captive, he said, “Monsieur, you were wrong to try to escape through the window. You could have broken a leg. Now if you will allow me, I would like to have a civil conversation with you.” Saying this, he stood, walked unpretentiously toward the fire, and shoved the screen aside so that his prisoner could plainly see the white-hot poker still embedded in the glowing coals.
Returning to his seat, Thénardier continued, “I’m sure we can come to an amicable understanding. I was wrong to have lost my temper with you just now. I realize that in spite of your wealth, you have expenses of your own. Who doesn’t? I’m not out to ruin you, for I’m really not a greedy person. I’m willing to make a personal sacrifice—so I’m only going to ask you for 200,000 francs.”
Monsieur Leblanc did not utter a word as Thénardier went on to say, “This is a trifling amount of money to you. You will never miss it. And I promise you this will be the end of the matter—that I will make no further demands of you. I know you’re going to tell me you don’t have that kind of money on you right now, but not to worry! There’s only one thing I’m going to ask of you. I want you to write what I’m about to dictate to you.”
At this point, he paused, glanced at the hot poker sitting in the fire, and smiled as he said, “I warn you not to tell me you don’t know how to write—or else!” Then he pushed the table toward Leblanc and set a pen, ink, and paper before him, and demanded, “Write!”
The prisoner finally spoke. “How do you expect me to write when my hands are bound?”
Turning to one of his cohorts, Thénardier instructed, “Untie the gentleman’s right arm.” Thénardier then dipped the pen in the ink, handed it to Leblanc, and said, “Write this: ‘My dear daughter.’ ” Hearing this, the prisoner shuddered, hesitated, and then glared at his captor, who shouted, “Write it!”
Leblanc obeyed, as Thénardier continued his dictation, by saying, “Come here immediately. It is imperative I have your help. Come with the person who has delivered this note to you. I am waiting for you.”
“Now,” insisted Thénardier, “Sign your name. What is it?”
“Urbain Fabre,” the prisoner said.
Thénardier, with the slyness of a cat, pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, which he had earlier taken from the man. Holding it near the candle, he saw the letters U.F. Then he said, “So, your name is Urbain Fabre. Yet simply sign the letter ‘U.F.’ ”
Once the prisoner signed the letter, Thénardier demanded, “Address it to your daughter at your address.”
The prisoner thought for a moment before writing, “Mademoiselle Fabre, 17 rue Saint Dominique d’Enfer.”
As soon as Leblanc finished, Thénardier grabbed the letter and yelled to his wife, “Take this to his daughter. There is a carriage waiting at the door. And get back here quickly!”
The old woman left and was gone only a short time before frantically reentering the room. She was nearly breathless and her eyes were obviously enraged as she declared, “He gave us a false address! There’s no such street number and no one in that area even knew his name.”
Marius, still watching from across the wall, noticed one of Thénardier’s men pick up an ax. Nevertheless, Marius breathed a sigh of relief, knowing his “Ursula” was safe for now.
Thénardier, now thoroughly exasperated with his prisoner, leaned against the table and remained silent for several minutes. Then staring at the hot poker, he roared at the man, “A false address! What did you hope to gain by that?”
“To gain time!” the prisoner thundered. At this he jumped to his feet and cast aside the rope that once had bound his left arm. While Madame Thénardier had been gone, he had secretly managed—with very little movement—to untie himself. Then before the mob could descend on him once again, he grabbed the white-hot poker from the fire and brandished it over his head, while defiantly saying, “If you think you can make me write what I don’t choose to write—you are dead wrong!”
With the poker still in his hand, he pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and added, “Watch this!” He proceeded to place the glowing tip of the poker against the flesh of his arm, which instantly began to sizzle from the extreme heat. This horrifying sight, and the resulting horrific odor, caused even the most hardened of the criminals who were watching to shudder. Marius reeled in horror as well, yet hardly a muscle of the prisoner’s face even twitched at the pain as the hot iron sank deeply into the smoking wound.
Next Leblanc fixed his eyes on Thénardier. His look was stern but not filled with any sign of hatred. Continuing to look his captor in the eyes, he said, “You should have no more fear of me than I have of you!” Finally, pulling the poker away from his burned arm, he hurled it through the window, which had remained open from his previous escape attempt. It fell into the night, landed in the snow, and immediately sent up a plume of steam. Having done this, he added, “Do what you please with me.”
“Grab him!” Thénardier yelled. Two men grabbed him once again, while the man with the ax faced him, threatening to crush his skull at the slightest movement.
As Marius watched, suddenly he heard Thénardier and his wife quietly speaking to one another as they seemingly stood right below him on the other side of the wall. They agreed with each other there was only one thing left to do, and that was, as they said, “Cut his throat.” The evil old man then slowly walked toward the table, opened the drawer, and removed a sharp knife.
Marius, feeling time had run out for Monsieur Leblanc, wildly glanced around him out of a sense of instinct and desperation. Just as he did, his eyes fell upon a sheet of paper lying on the table, illuminated by a ray of light from the full moon. The words on the paper, which were written that very morning by the older of the Thénardier daughters, seemed to jump off the page at him. They read: THE POLICE ARE HERE!
Suddenly an idea flashed through Marius’s mind—something that possibly might save Monsieur Leblanc’s life. He grabbed the paper, jumped back onto his dresser, and quickly broke off a piece of plaster, making the hole in the wall somewhat larger. Then using the plaster as a weight, he wrapped the paper around it, and pushed it through the hole into the Thénardiers’ room.
The note rolled noisily across the floor, just as Thénardier was heading for his prisoner with the knife. Madame Thénardier, seeing the note, yelled, “What is this?”
The old woman rushed to pick up the paper and handed it to her husband, as he demanded, “Where did this come from?”
“Thrown through the window. Where else?” the old woman reasoned.
Thénardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it near the candle. “This is Éponine’s handwriting!” he exclaimed. Not wanting to share the words with everyone, he simply handed the note to his wife and quietly said, “Quickly! Grab the rope ladder! Let’s get out of here! And leave the bacon in the mousetrap!”
“Without cutting his throat?” the woman asked.
“We don’t have time!” Thénardier yelled, as he hooked the ladder to the window ledge and threw the other end down the side of the building. Then he added, “The bourgeoisie go first!” while he proceeded to climb through the window.
As he started to throw his leg over the ledge, however, one of his cohorts roughly grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back into the room. Then the brutally strong man said with an air of anger, “Not so fast, you old dog! After us!”
“Quit acting like children!” Thénardier shouted. “The police are on our heels!”
Then one of the criminals said with a great deal of sarcasm in his voice, “Why don’t we stand around while we draw names from a hat to see who goes first?”
Yet just as he said these words, a deep voice came from the doorway and sternly said, “Would you like to use my hat?” Suddenly every eye in the room was fixed on the man who had spoken. With a smile on his face, the man was holding his hat toward the motley group of criminals.
It was Javert.
Earlier that evening, while making his usual rounds, Javert had noticed an unusual amount of activity at the Gorbeau House. Seeing men who had the seedy look of criminals, and noticing carriages coming and going, he had posted his men and himself among the trees across the street from the house. Growing increasingly impatient, and sure these men were up to no good, he finally decided to enter the upstairs room of the Thénardiers.
Javert had arrived just in the nick of time. He returned his hat to his head and walked into the room with his arms folded across his chest. His cane was stuck under one arm, and he had a sword still in its sheath at his side. As he walked toward the men, he spoke calmly but very deliberately and said, “You will not go out through the window, but down the stairway.” Then he added with a sly smile, “The stairs are less dangerous.” Immediately after warning the men, his entire squad of some fifteen men came tramping up the stairs and began handcuffing the criminals.
The large throng of men cast large shadows across the walls from the dim light of the only candle in the room, as Javert shouted, “Handcuff them all!”
As they grabbed Madame Thénardier, she stared at her shackled hands, began to weep, and asked through her sobs, “What about my poor daughters?”
“They are in good hands,” Javert responded coldly. Then he glanced across the room and noticed the criminals’ prisoner, who had not said a word and was sitting with his head bowed. “Untie that gentleman!” he instructed his men.
As they untied Leblanc, Javert sat down at the table by the candle and began to use the pen, ink, and paper there to begin preparing his police report. After he had written a few lines, he looked toward one of his officers and said, “Have that gentleman who was tied up step forward.” At this, the policemen looked behind them, as Javert added with surprise, “Well? Where is he?”
Yet apparently Marius was the only one to notice that “the prisoner,” Monsieur Leblanc, Monsieur Urbain Fabre, and the father of “his Ursula”—whoever he was—had disappeared. One of the policemen ran to the window, only to see the rope ladder swinging slightly. But no one was in sight.
Javert cursed under his breath, grit his teeth, and said sadly, “He must have been the biggest catch of them all!”