Jean Valjean does not forget the galley, the Bagne. There a man knows no privacy, holds no scrap of dignity; he is made to wear trousers with buttons lining the full length of the leg, so that the irons at his ankles need never be removed. Then he was not a man, but reduced to an animal. At present, however, he can afford the manners of a civilized man.

“We shall have to see when time is allowed to flow naturally again,” he answers with a note of contemplation. “For now, I am sure you too would benefit from sleep after the long journey to get here.”

With that, he reaches up to switch off the light again.

“May the Lord keep your soul.”

They would talk more on the morrow, he is sure. And light sleeper that he is, if Rumlow were to wake up first, he would follow soon after.