Valjean was growing weary of the story. Weary of the farce. Weary of Ultime Fauchelevant.
Weary of deception on the whole. It was time to tell her the truth.
Entering the cafe (years in the States had not changed his internal vocabulary any more than it had really softened his accent,) Jean Valjean strode over to his daughter, looking as full of regret as a man could and kissed both her cheeks.