Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER II—MARIUS, EMERGING FROM CIVIL WAR, MAKES READY FOR DOMESTIC
1820 words | Chapter 424
WAR
For a long time, Marius was neither dead nor alive. For many weeks he
lay in a fever accompanied by delirium, and by tolerably grave cerebral
symptoms, caused more by the shocks of the wounds on the head than by
the wounds themselves.
He repeated Cosette’s name for whole nights in the melancholy loquacity
of fever, and with the sombre obstinacy of agony. The extent of some of
the lesions presented a serious danger, the suppuration of large wounds
being always liable to become re-absorbed, and consequently, to kill
the sick man, under certain atmospheric conditions; at every change of
weather, at the slightest storm, the physician was uneasy.
“Above all things,” he repeated, “let the wounded man be subjected to
no emotion.” The dressing of the wounds was complicated and difficult,
the fixation of apparatus and bandages by cerecloths not having been
invented as yet, at that epoch. Nicolette used up a sheet “as big as
the ceiling,” as she put it, for lint. It was not without difficulty
that the chloruretted lotions and the nitrate of silver overcame the
gangrene. As long as there was any danger, M. Gillenormand, seated in
despair at his grandson’s pillow, was, like Marius, neither alive nor
dead.
Every day, sometimes twice a day, a very well dressed gentleman with
white hair,—such was the description given by the porter,—came to
inquire about the wounded man, and left a large package of lint for the
dressings.
Finally, on the 7th of September, four months to a day, after the
sorrowful night when he had been brought back to his grandfather in a
dying condition, the doctor declared that he would answer for Marius.
Convalescence began. But Marius was forced to remain for two months
more stretched out on a long chair, on account of the results called up
by the fracture of his collar-bone. There always is a last wound like
that which will not close, and which prolongs the dressings
indefinitely, to the great annoyance of the sick person.
However, this long illness and this long convalescence saved him from
all pursuit. In France, there is no wrath, not even of a public
character, which six months will not extinguish. Revolts, in the
present state of society, are so much the fault of every one, that they
are followed by a certain necessity of shutting the eyes.
Let us add, that the inexcusable Gisquet order, which enjoined doctors
to lodge information against the wounded, having outraged public
opinion, and not opinion alone, but the King first of all, the wounded
were covered and protected by this indignation; and, with the exception
of those who had been made prisoners in the very act of combat, the
councils of war did not dare to trouble any one. So Marius was left in
peace.
M. Gillenormand first passed through all manner of anguish, and then
through every form of ecstasy. It was found difficult to prevent his
passing every night beside the wounded man; he had his big armchair
carried to Marius’ bedside; he required his daughter to take the finest
linen in the house for compresses and bandages. Mademoiselle
Gillenormand, like a sage and elderly person, contrived to spare the
fine linen, while allowing the grandfather to think that he was obeyed.
M. Gillenormand would not permit any one to explain to him, that for
the preparation of lint batiste is not nearly so good as coarse linen,
nor new linen as old linen. He was present at all the dressings of the
wounds from which Mademoiselle Gillenormand modestly absented herself.
When the dead flesh was cut away with scissors, he said: “Aïe! aïe!”
Nothing was more touching than to see him with his gentle, senile
palsy, offer the wounded man a cup of his cooling-draught. He
overwhelmed the doctor with questions. He did not observe that he asked
the same ones over and over again.
On the day when the doctor announced to him that Marius was out of
danger, the good man was in a delirium. He made his porter a present of
three louis. That evening, on his return to his own chamber, he danced
a gavotte, using his thumb and forefinger as castanets, and he sang the
following song:
“Jeanne est née à Fougère “Amour, tu vis en elle;
Vrai nid d’une bergère; Car c’est dans sa prunelle
J’adore son jupon, Que tu mets ton carquois.
Fripon. Narquois!
“Moi, je la chante, et j’aime,
Plus que Diane même,
Jeanne et ses durs tetons
Bretons.”61
Then he knelt upon a chair, and Basque, who was watching him through
the half-open door, made sure that he was praying.
Up to that time, he had not believed in God.
At each succeeding phase of improvement, which became more and more
pronounced, the grandfather raved. He executed a multitude of
mechanical actions full of joy; he ascended and descended the stairs,
without knowing why. A pretty female neighbor was amazed one morning at
receiving a big bouquet; it was M. Gillenormand who had sent it to her.
The husband made a jealous scene. M. Gillenormand tried to draw
Nicolette upon his knees. He called Marius, “M. le Baron.” He shouted:
“Long live the Republic!”
Every moment, he kept asking the doctor: “Is he no longer in danger?”
He gazed upon Marius with the eyes of a grandmother. He brooded over
him while he ate. He no longer knew himself, he no longer rendered
himself an account of himself. Marius was the master of the house,
there was abdication in his joy, he was the grandson of his grandson.
In the state of joy in which he then was, he was the most venerable of
children. In his fear lest he might fatigue or annoy the convalescent,
he stepped behind him to smile. He was content, joyous, delighted,
charming, young. His white locks added a gentle majesty to the gay
radiance of his visage. When grace is mingled with wrinkles, it is
adorable. There is an indescribable aurora in beaming old age.
As for Marius, as he allowed them to dress his wounds and care for him,
he had but one fixed idea: Cosette.
After the fever and delirium had left him, he did not again pronounce
her name, and it might have been supposed that he no longer thought of
her. He held his peace, precisely because his soul was there.
He did not know what had become of Cosette; the whole affair of the Rue
de la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his memory; shadows that were
almost indistinct, floated through his mind, Éponine, Gavroche, Mabeuf,
the Thénardiers, all his friends gloomily intermingled with the smoke
of the barricade; the strange passage of M. Fauchelevent through that
adventure produced on him the effect of a puzzle in a tempest; he
understood nothing connected with his own life, he did not know how nor
by whom he had been saved, and no one of those around him knew this;
all that they had been able to tell him was, that he had been brought
home at night in a hackney-coach, to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire;
past, present, future were nothing more to him than the mist of a vague
idea; but in that fog there was one immovable point, one clear and
precise outline, something made of granite, a resolution, a will; to
find Cosette once more. For him, the idea of life was not distinct from
the idea of Cosette. He had decreed in his heart that he would not
accept the one without the other, and he was immovably resolved to
exact of any person whatever, who should desire to force him to
live,—from his grandfather, from fate, from hell,—the restitution of
his vanished Eden.
He did not conceal from himself the fact that obstacles existed.
Let us here emphasize one detail, he was not won over and was but
little softened by all the solicitude and tenderness of his
grandfather. In the first place, he was not in the secret; then, in his
reveries of an invalid, which were still feverish, possibly, he
distrusted this tenderness as a strange and novel thing, which had for
its object his conquest. He remained cold. The grandfather absolutely
wasted his poor old smile. Marius said to himself that it was all right
so long as he, Marius, did not speak, and let things take their course;
but that when it became a question of Cosette, he would find another
face, and that his grandfather’s true attitude would be unmasked. Then
there would be an unpleasant scene; a recrudescence of family
questions, a confrontation of positions, every sort of sarcasm and all
manner of objections at one and the same time, Fauchelevent,
Coupelevent, fortune, poverty, a stone about his neck, the future.
Violent resistance; conclusion: a refusal. Marius stiffened himself in
advance.
And then, in proportion as he regained life, the old ulcers of his
memory opened once more, he reflected again on the past, Colonel
Pontmercy placed himself once more between M. Gillenormand and him,
Marius, he told himself that he had no true kindness to expect from a
person who had been so unjust and so hard to his father. And with
health, there returned to him a sort of harshness towards his
grandfather. The old man was gently pained by this. M. Gillenormand,
without however allowing it to appear, observed that Marius, ever since
the latter had been brought back to him and had regained consciousness,
had not once called him father. It is true that he did not say
“monsieur” to him; but he contrived not to say either the one or the
other, by means of a certain way of turning his phrases. Obviously, a
crisis was approaching.
As almost always happens in such cases, Marius skirmished before giving
battle, by way of proving himself. This is called “feeling the ground.”
One morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke slightingly of
the Convention, apropos of a newspaper which had fallen into his hands,
and gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton, Saint-Juste and
Robespierre.—“The men of ’93 were giants,” said Marius with severity.
The old man held his peace, and uttered not a sound during the
remainder of that day.
Marius, who had always present to his mind the inflexible grandfather
of his early years, interpreted this silence as a profound
concentration of wrath, augured from it a hot conflict, and augmented
his preparations for the fray in the inmost recesses of his mind.
He decided that, in case of a refusal, he would tear off his bandages,
dislocate his collar-bone, that he would lay bare all the wounds which
he had left, and would reject all food. His wounds were his munitions
of war. He would have Cosette or die.
He awaited the propitious moment with the crafty patience of the sick.
That moment arrived.
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