After smiling because Cosette told him to, Valjean rose while no one was looking and went out to the front room. It was the same room he had entered eight months before, covered in mud, blood and gunpowder, bringing the grandson back to the grandfather. Now its old panelling was hung with flowers and leaves, and the musicians sat on the sofa where Marius had been laid that night. He showed the servant his arm in its sling, asked him to explain his absence, and left the house.
For a long time he stood in the dark beneath the dining-room windows and listened to the feast. The grandfather’s loud voice came down to him, with violins, the clink of plates and glasses, and laughter. Among it all he picked out Cosette’s sweet voice.
He made his way home to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. The route was a little roundabout, but for three months it was the way he had walked every day with Cosette. As long as there was a road Cosette had walked, he could not take any other.