The girl paled and hid her little white hands under the table. Javert noticed that she had pulled her handkerchief out of her purse and was silently tearing it to ribbons.
"May I proceed, Monsieur… what do you go by these days anyway?"
"Fauchelevent," said Valjean quietly.
Javert tore some crust off a piece of bread, which had just been provided to him by the obsequious waiter, tossed it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, as if savoring the information and the food with the same nerve endings.
"That's interesting," he said after swallowing. "I do recall a Fauchelevent, but I do not recall you being him."
"That's my uncle," suddenly spoke up Cosette without lifting her eyes from the table.
"Ah," said Javert, raising his eyebrows at the outburst. "Well, let it be so."
"I beg you, please let me send her home," pleaded Valjean softly, desperate to make himself heard to Javert and unheard to Cosette. "She is as innocent as a lamb – she has done nothing to deserve this! I don't want her to hear about me... For God's sake…"
"What is your name, mademoiselle?" asked Javert, ignoring Valjean's frantic whispers.
Cosette remained mute, petrified by her own earlier boldness. Javert waited.
"Answer the gentleman, dear," encouraged Valjean softly. "Answer him."
"I promise, mademoiselle, my bark is worse than my bite," said Javert with a thin smile. "What is your name?"
"Euphrasie Fauchelevent," came the barely audible reply.
"Euphrasie. A beautiful name. And how old are you, mademoiselle Fauchelevent?"
There was no trace of sarcasm to Javert's words, and Valjean suddenly felt intensely grateful to the man for not disputing a surname which he knew for certain to be false.
"Sixteen."
"Sixteen!" exclaimed Javert with the same peculiar smile. "Ah! A beautiful age. I often wish I were sixteen again."
"Really?" asked Cosette, recovering some of her earlier daring.
"Really," affirmed Javert and swirled the dregs of his wine in the wineglass. "But then I recall how life was at sixteen and I quickly un-wish it again. All in all, I prefer being old."
"I can't hardly imagine being old," said Cosette. Her hands had ceased tearing at her handkerchief under the table, Javert noticed, and were now straightening out the shreds, as if in apology.
"Why imagine at all?" shrugged Javert. "Just ask your fond father. He knows all about being old. Monsieur must be around sixty, I presume?" he continued half-turning to Valjean and assuming a comically ingratiating air. "I'm rather bad with ages, so don't hesitate to correct me, mademoiselle. Is he sixty? Or maybe closer to seventy?"
Javert made a show of peering intently at Valjean's white hair. "Ah, I see! Your grandfather is seventy-three, isn't he? Still not there? Seventy-four, perhaps?"
Cosette bit her lip to keep the corners of her mouth from rising. Javert noticed this. Valjean, however, was still staring with dejection at the oilskin covering the table and so did not.
"Seventy-five? No? Seventy-seven then?"
Valjean, who had convinced himself easily that any amount of mockery was worth Cosette's ensured freedom and safety and who had been sitting perfectly still in his chair, suddenly became aware of a new sound over the merry bustle of the cafe. Someone was tittering.
"Eighty?" forged on Javert. "No, no, on second thought, don't correct me - I'll get it eventually. Eighty-four? Eighty-six? Eighty-eight? Your great-grandfather is eighty-eight? A famous age to be, eighty-eight. No one ever asks you to help tidy up the house, and they bring you your teeth in a glass for supper."
There was a peal of muffled laughter, and Valjean raised his eyes in astonishment to see Cosette hide her face in her palms, elbows on the table and shoulders shaking helplessly.
"And now I seem to have said something funny," continued Javert, as if to himself. "I beg your pardon heartily, mademoiselle. I see my error now. Of course, I should have never meant to imply that monsieur was a day under ninety. That was indeed a silly thought, and I was a silly man for thinking it. My goodness, one can barely see his nose amidst all the wrinkles! I've got it now: your great-great-grandfather is ninety-five!"
"A hundred!" half-exclaimed half-gasped Cosette from behind her hands. "A hundred and ten!"
"Impossible," countered Javert with the same grave mien. "For starters, he still has hair. I know for a certain fact that it is illegal in the Department of Seine to have hair on one's head past the age of one hundred and eight, even though it be perfectly white. An ordinance has been in effect with regard to this matter ever since a complaint was lodged twenty years ago with the Paris municipal authorities by an aged Auvergnat of one hundred and eight against his one hundred and twenty-seven year old mother. It seems the matron had the habit of communicating her displeasure with him by pulling on his locks."
People from the neighboring tables were starting to turn around at the sound of
Cosette's now unrepressed mirth.
"I don't see why you laugh at this, mademoiselle, when it is perfectly true," continued Javert with a slight frown. "I have recently had the occasion to review the files concerning this case, and it was quite a tragic story: apparently, every time the plaintiff sat down to eat a snack, his mother would fly at him and tear at his hair, screaming in this way," – Javert suddenly raised his voice to a comical old crone's screech – "'Every woman on our block's got good obedient children, so how have I sinned before the Good Lord that he sent me a son with a liking for unripe apples?'" Yes, it was a sad story indeed," remarked Javert as he watched Cosette slide off her chair and under the table in a helpless fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Made all the papers at the time. It is really quite unkind of you to laugh at the poor gentleman's misfortune, mademoiselle."
And, ignoring Valjean's dumbfounded gaze and the scant applause from the surrounding tables, Javert clicked his tongue several times in mock dismay and downed the rest of his wine.