"Take a seat wherever, good sir," said the small man. "But quickly."
The bandaged figure and the curly young man came in as well and stood on either side of the small man. Together, they looked picturesque enough to suggest a grotesque and comical allegory: the evolution of a wicked man into an Egyptian mummy.
Valjean sat down to the table closest to the cellar door, carefully extended a leg underneath, in case the table needed to be tipped over forward, and put a fist on the table.
"I don't believe my eyes," said the smaller man after a pause. "It is our rich bourgeois grandfather from the Gorbeau place. No mistaking you. White as a chicken on top. Good to see that monster of a female didn't pluck out all your feathers."
"As I've said during our previous meeting to your friend Fabantou or Jondrette or whoever he was, I am neither rich, nor bourgeois. Nor am I a grandfather. So you are mistaken on all three counts."
"One hears this a lot these days," sighed the man. "The rich part, I mean. One would think there is no industry or agriculture left in poor old France. No one has any coin to spare!"
"Oh, I have a coin all right," said Valjean. "If I may be permitted to reach into my pocket?.."
The man gestured indulgently with the pistol. Valjean made a show of going through his pockets and frowned.
"Now that's odd," he said. "I'm clean." He looked pointedly at Barre-Carosse. "Everything was in place when I got here. Your pal here must've patted me down. Tell him to restore my property."
The man laughed a little. "Come, Barre-Carosse, aboule la carle."*
But Barre-Carosse was far too far into his cups to follow directions – his murky gaze did not even flicker to the small man at the sound of his name. It was the figure in bandages that came up to Barre-Carosse and stuck its hand unceremoniously into his pocket, pulling out a handful of change.
"'Ere's G'emer?" suddenly said Barre-Carosse, addressing the ransacker of his pockets.
"Down in the profonde," answered Valjean. "He wanted to get something in one of the boxes."
Barre-Carosse staggered to the cellar door, opened it and disappeared inside. Valjean pushed the door closed with his foot.
"Smells foul down there," he complained.
"Well?" asked the small man of the bandaged figure.
The man jingled the coins, shrugged and mumbled: "What can be had from what is here? A mutton leg and a mug of beer."
"There should be a sou coin in there," said Valjean.
"You wish to gift me with a sou coin?" asked the small man with a cold smile.
"Gift you? By no means. I expect to have it back when you're done looking."
The handsome young man raised an elegant eyebrow. The figure in bandages laughed out loud - a strangely carefree laugh, as though he were a student savoring a friend's quip in a café. Picking the large sou coin out of the handful, he tossed it to the small man and said:
"Here, Babet – go forth and deny yourself nothing."
Babet caught the coin, looked it over and shrugged as well. "It's a sou," he said. "An old one."
So you are Babet, thought Valjean. You were the other ring-leader in the Gorbeau house. Right, of course, Javert named you all. And the other fellow, who was he? Not the old man, not the long-haired man… What was your name?… it's on the tip of my tongue. How annoying. And was the pretty-boy there? Doesn't seem so…
"Look closer," said Valjean. "Turn it in two directions, like a pomade box. It unscrews."
Babet turned the sou in his fingers, then again. With his third effort, the coin came apart, and something glinting fell out of it. Babet bent down to pick up the tidbit.
"It's a sawblade. Careful you don't lose or break it. I might need it again someday," said Valjean.
"Why, so it is! What a marvelous little construction," said Babet admiringly. "Your own, is it? Benvenuto Cellini would be proud. So that's how you got out of your binds in the Gorbeau place! How clever of you. I take it you are an old hand at the pré?"
"Twenty years. My first arrest was under the Directory."
"Escaped or released?"
"First one, then the other. Then the former again."
"What did they get you for?"
"Stealing a loaf of bread."
Now even the young man joined in the laughter.
"To feed a gaggle of crying ragamuffins, no doubt?" said Babet sardonically.
"Believe it or not, you're right."
"And how much did the, uhm, loaf cost you?" asked the man with the bandages. His voice was peculiar, as though he were speaking through layers and layers of wool.
"Five years. Nineteen with interest."
Babet shook his head and hid the sou in his pocket. "How dear bread is! Kings and governments come and go, but bread remains dear. No, there is no justice for the little man in this world. Metaphorically speaking," he added, sizing up Valjean, who was easily twice as broad as he.
"Where has Barre-Carosse disappeared off to?" asked the young man. The bandaged man shrugged.
"Check," he suggested laconically.
The young man opened the cellar door and called out: "Ey, Barre-Carosse, what's the hold up?"
Suddenly, he began backing up. A grimace of horror twisted his handsome face.
"A traffic jam on the corner of Rue de Grenelle and Rue de Bacq," a voice sounded from the cellar, accompanied by soft, sure footsteps. "All vehicles must now detour through Rue de Villeran. Barre-Carosse** was urgently needed in his professional capacity."
Javert appeared in the doorway, wiping off his hands with some straw. There were blood splatters on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves.
*Abouler la carle – cough up the dough
** Barre-Carosse – lit. 'stop-carriage', a barricade put in the middle of the street to signal a detour.
