Then they are left draped in darkness, which circumstances Jean Valjean thinks far from ideal for meeting with a practical stranger. He reaches behind him to find the switch that turns in the small crystalline lamp mounted to the wall at the head of his bed, and its anemic light touches the room.

“I should much prefer sleep,” he answers curtly. It is rare that he is so blunt of speech, but the churlish jest, if not the interruption of his sleep, requires little courtesy in return. “But indeed we have met once before, among the Coalition of Refugees.”

He remains sitting in the bed, which is certainly no way to greet someone, but then there are no customary manners to dictate a late night meeting with one who appears suddenly in another’s chambers. Moreover, he wears only a night shirt. Nevertheless, he shall give his name, since it seems they will be sharing these tight quarters.

“I did not get your name that time, monsieur. I am Fauchelevent.”