“You must know that we have parents. Parents—you do not know much about such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is puerile and honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks implore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons; they desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up our stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the arms of Laffitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties! We return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects, fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us with speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu. “For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you no grudge for that. “Signed: BLACHEVELLE. FAMUEIL. LISTOLIER. FÉLIX THOLOMYÈS. “_Postscriptum_. The dinner is paid for.” The four young women looked at each other. Favourite was the first to break the silence. “Well!” she exclaimed, “it’s a very pretty farce, all the same.” “It is very droll,” said Zéphine. “That must have been Blachevelle’s idea,” resumed Favourite. “It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure, indeed.” “No,” said Dahlia; “it was one of Tholomyès’ ideas. That is evident. “In that case,” retorted Favourite, “death to Blachevelle, and long live Tholomyès!” “Long live Tholomyès!” exclaimed Dahlia and Zéphine. And they burst out laughing. Fantine laughed with the rest. An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomyès as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child. BOOK FOURTH—TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON’S POWER CHAPTER I—ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER There was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first quarter of this century, a sort of cook-shop which no longer exists. This cook-shop was kept by some people named Thénardier, husband and wife. It was situated in Boulanger Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat against the wall. Upon this board was painted something which resembled a man carrying another man on his back, the latter wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red spots represented blood; the rest of the picture consisted of smoke, and probably represented a battle. Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF SERGEANT OF WATERLOO (_Au Sargent de Waterloo_).