M. Madeleine. She understands a little more than she did of that name, now, and that history -- and yet still, she thinks she understands nothing at all.

"He--"

She can't say it, for a moment. Her father, a criminal! Her father, a convict! It feels ridiculous to even think it, horribly disloyal to ever say it, like the most surreal of accusations launched when he isn't even here to correct her.

"He stole bread. That's what M. Javert said. I'm sorry, Mother, I won't speak of him if it hurts you, but you see he called us to Father's side -- he told me the truth, I don't know what he's done to make you hate him so but he did us such a very good turn today. He said Father stole bread once, and he was -- he was that -- but then he became a mayor, he was so very humble and good, he was a savior of, of women and children and a man of God, he said that too, and I know he is the very best man imaginable."

Oh, she doesn't know what's disloyal and what isn't, now. What do you say, when truths don't sit easily together? She could pity a convict his suffering and pray for his soul, but she can't think of those groaning, shuffling, hardly human figures she saw once in the same thought as her wise strong saintly father.