Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER IV—MADEMOISELLE GILLENORMAND ENDS BY NO LONGER THINKING IT A
1914 words | Chapter 427
BAD THING THAT M. FAUCHELEVENT SHOULD HAVE ENTERED WITH SOMETHING UNDER
HIS ARM
Cosette and Marius beheld each other once more.
What that interview was like we decline to say. There are things which
one must not attempt to depict; the sun is one of them.
The entire family, including Basque and Nicolette, were assembled in
Marius’ chamber at the moment when Cosette entered it.
Precisely at that moment, the grandfather was on the point of blowing
his nose; he stopped short, holding his nose in his handkerchief, and
gazing over it at Cosette.
She appeared on the threshold; it seemed to him that she was surrounded
by a glory.
“Adorable!” he exclaimed.
Then he blew his nose noisily.
Cosette was intoxicated, delighted, frightened, in heaven. She was as
thoroughly alarmed as any one can be by happiness. She stammered all
pale, yet flushed, she wanted to fling herself into Marius’ arms, and
dared not. Ashamed of loving in the presence of all these people.
People are pitiless towards happy lovers; they remain when the latter
most desire to be left alone. Lovers have no need of any people
whatever.
With Cosette, and behind her, there had entered a man with white hair
who was grave yet smiling, though with a vague and heartrending smile.
It was “Monsieur Fauchelevent”; it was Jean Valjean.
He was very well dressed, as the porter had said, entirely in black, in
perfectly new garments, and with a white cravat.
The porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in this correct
bourgeois, in this probable notary, the fear-inspiring bearer of the
corpse, who had sprung up at his door on the night of the 7th of June,
tattered, muddy, hideous, haggard, his face masked in blood and mire,
supporting in his arms the fainting Marius; still, his porter’s scent
was aroused. When M. Fauchelevent arrived with Cosette, the porter had
not been able to refrain from communicating to his wife this aside: “I
don’t know why it is, but I can’t help fancying that I’ve seen that
face before.”
M. Fauchelevent in Marius’ chamber, remained apart near the door. He
had under his arm, a package which bore considerable resemblance to an
octavo volume enveloped in paper. The enveloping paper was of a
greenish hue, and appeared to be mouldy.
“Does the gentleman always have books like that under his arm?”
Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who did not like books, demanded in a low
tone of Nicolette.
“Well,” retorted M. Gillenormand, who had overheard her, in the same
tone, “he’s a learned man. What then? Is that his fault? Monsieur
Boulard, one of my acquaintances, never walked out without a book under
his arm either, and he always had some old volume hugged to his heart
like that.”
And, with a bow, he said aloud:
“Monsieur Tranchelevent....”
Father Gillenormand did not do it intentionally, but inattention to
proper names was an aristocratic habit of his.
“Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf of
my grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle.”
Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.
“That’s settled,” said the grandfather.
And, turning to Marius and Cosette, with both arms extended in
blessing, he cried:
“Permission to adore each other!”
They did not require him to repeat it twice. So much the worse! the
chirping began. They talked low. Marius, resting on his elbow on his
reclining chair, Cosette standing beside him. “Oh, heavens!” murmured
Cosette, “I see you once again! it is thou! it is you! The idea of
going and fighting like that! But why? It is horrible. I have been dead
for four months. Oh! how wicked it was of you to go to that battle!
What had I done to you? I pardon you, but you will never do it again. A
little while ago, when they came to tell us to come to you, I still
thought that I was about to die, but it was from joy. I was so sad! I
have not taken the time to dress myself, I must frighten people with my
looks! What will your relatives say to see me in a crumpled collar? Do
speak! You let me do all the talking. We are still in the Rue de
l’Homme Armé. It seems that your shoulder was terrible. They told me
that you could put your fist in it. And then, it seems that they cut
your flesh with the scissors. That is frightful. I have cried till I
have no eyes left. It is queer that a person can suffer like that. Your
grandfather has a very kindly air. Don’t disturb yourself, don’t rise
on your elbow, you will injure yourself. Oh! how happy I am! So our
unhappiness is over! I am quite foolish. I had things to say to you,
and I no longer know in the least what they were. Do you still love me?
We live in the Rue de l’Homme Armé. There is no garden. I made lint all
the time; stay, sir, look, it is your fault, I have a callous on my
fingers.”
“Angel!” said Marius.
_Angel_ is the only word in the language which cannot be worn out. No
other word could resist the merciless use which lovers make of it.
Then as there were spectators, they paused and said not a word more,
contenting themselves with softly touching each other’s hands.
M. Gillenormand turned towards those who were in the room and cried:
“Talk loud, the rest of you. Make a noise, you people behind the
scenes. Come, a little uproar, the deuce! so that the children can
chatter at their ease.”
And, approaching Marius and Cosette, he said to them in a very low
voice:
“Call each other _thou_. Don’t stand on ceremony.”
Aunt Gillenormand looked on in amazement at this irruption of light in
her elderly household. There was nothing aggressive about this
amazement; it was not the least in the world like the scandalized and
envious glance of an owl at two turtledoves, it was the stupid eye of a
poor innocent seven and fifty years of age; it was a life which had
been a failure gazing at that triumph, love.
“Mademoiselle Gillenormand senior,” said her father to her, “I told you
that this is what would happen to you.”
He remained silent for a moment, and then added:
“Look at the happiness of others.”
Then he turned to Cosette.
“How pretty she is! how pretty she is! She’s a Greuze. So you are going
to have that all to yourself, you scamp! Ah! my rogue, you are getting
off nicely with me, you are happy; if I were not fifteen years too old,
we would fight with swords to see which of us should have her. Come
now! I am in love with you, mademoiselle. It’s perfectly simple. It is
your right. You are in the right. Ah! what a sweet, charming little
wedding this will make! Our parish is Saint-Denis du Saint Sacrament,
but I will get a dispensation so that you can be married at Saint-Paul.
The church is better. It was built by the Jesuits. It is more
coquettish. It is opposite the fountain of Cardinal de Birague. The
masterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur. It is called
Saint-Loup. You must go there after you are married. It is worth the
journey. Mademoiselle, I am quite of your mind, I think girls ought to
marry; that is what they are made for. There is a certain
Sainte-Catherine whom I should always like to see uncoiffed.62 It’s a
fine thing to remain a spinster, but it is chilly. The Bible says:
Multiply. In order to save the people, Jeanne d’Arc is needed; but in
order to make people, what is needed is Mother Goose. So, marry, my
beauties. I really do not see the use in remaining a spinster! I know
that they have their chapel apart in the church, and that they fall
back on the Society of the Virgin; but, sapristi, a handsome husband, a
fine fellow, and at the expiration of a year, a big, blond brat who
nurses lustily, and who has fine rolls of fat on his thighs, and who
musses up your breast in handfuls with his little rosy paws, laughing
the while like the dawn,—that’s better than holding a candle at
vespers, and chanting _Turris Eburnea!_”
The grandfather executed a pirouette on his eighty-year-old heels, and
began to talk again like a spring that has broken loose once more:
“Ainsi, bornant les cours de tes rêvasseries,
Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries.”63
“By the way!”
“What is it, father?”
“Have not you an intimate friend?”
“Yes, Courfeyrac.”
“What has become of him?”
“He is dead.”
“That is good.”
He seated himself near them, made Cosette sit down, and took their four
hands in his aged and wrinkled hands:
“She is exquisite, this darling. She’s a masterpiece, this Cosette! She
is a very little girl and a very great lady. She will only be a
Baroness, which is a come down for her; she was born a Marquise. What
eyelashes she has! Get it well fixed in your noddles, my children, that
you are in the true road. Love each other. Be foolish about it. Love is
the folly of men and the wit of God. Adore each other. Only,” he added,
suddenly becoming gloomy, “what a misfortune! It has just occurred to
me! More than half of what I possess is swallowed up in an annuity; so
long as I live, it will not matter, but after my death, a score of
years hence, ah! my poor children, you will not have a sou! Your
beautiful white hands, Madame la Baronne, will do the devil the honor
of pulling him by the tail.”64
At this point they heard a grave and tranquil voice say:
“Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent possesses six hundred thousand
francs.”
It was the voice of Jean Valjean.
So far he had not uttered a single word, no one seemed to be aware that
he was there, and he had remained standing erect and motionless, behind
all these happy people.
“What has Mademoiselle Euphrasie to do with the question?” inquired the
startled grandfather.
“I am she,” replied Cosette.
“Six hundred thousand francs?” resumed M. Gillenormand.
“Minus fourteen or fifteen thousand francs, possibly,” said Jean
Valjean.
And he laid on the table the package which Mademoiselle Gillenormand
had mistaken for a book.
Jean Valjean himself opened the package; it was a bundle of bank-notes.
They were turned over and counted. There were five hundred notes for a
thousand francs each, and one hundred and sixty-eight of five hundred.
In all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.
“This is a fine book,” said M. Gillenormand.
“Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!” murmured the aunt.
“This arranges things well, does it not, Mademoiselle Gillenormand
senior?” said the grandfather. “That devil of a Marius has ferreted out
the nest of a millionaire grisette in his tree of dreams! Just trust to
the love affairs of young folks now, will you! Students find
studentesses with six hundred thousand francs. Cherubino works better
than Rothschild.”
“Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!” repeated Mademoiselle
Gillenormand, in a low tone. “Five hundred and eighty-four! one might
as well say six hundred thousand!”
As for Marius and Cosette, they were gazing at each other while this
was going on; they hardly heeded this detail.
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