2.M.3.4. END OF THE BRIGAND
THE conclusion of Marius' classical studies coincided with
M. Gillenormand's departure from society. The old man bade
farewell to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de
T.'s salon, and established himself in the Mardis, in his house
of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. There he had for servants,
in addition to the porter, that chambermaid, Nicolette, who
had succeeded to Magnon, and that short-breathed and pursy
Basque, who have been mentioned above.
In 1827, Marius had just attained his seventeenth year.
One evening, on his return home, he saw his grandfather holding
a letter in his hand.
"Marius," said M. Gillenormand, "you will set out for
Vernon
to-morrow."
"Why?" said Marius.
"To see your father."
Marius was seized with a trembling fit. He had thought of
everything except this — that he should one day be called upon
to see his father. Nothing could be more unexpected, more
surprising, and, let us admit it, more disagreeable to him. It
was forcing estrangement into reconciliation. It was not an
affliction, but it was an unpleasant duty.
Marius, in addition to his motives of political antipathy,
was
convinced that his father, the slasher, as M.
Gillenormand
called him on his amiable days, did not love him; this was
evident, since he had abandoned him to others. Feeling that
he was not beloved, he did not love. "Nothing is more simple,"
he said to himself.
He was so astounded that he did not question M.
Gillenormand.
The grandfather resumed: —
"It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence."
And after a pause, he added: —
"Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach
which
leaves the Cour des Fontaines at six o'clock, and which arrives
in the evening. Take it. He says that here is haste."
Then he crushed the letter in his hand and thrust it into
his
pocket. Marius might have set out that very evening and have
been with his father on the following morning. A diligence
from the Rue du Bouloi took the trip to Rouen by night at
that date, and passed through Vernon. Neither Marius nor
M.Gillenormand thought of making inquiries about it.
The next day, at twilight, Marius reached Vernon. People
were just beginning to light their candles. He asked the first
person whom be met for "M. Pontmercy's house." For in his
own mind, he agreed with the Restoration, and like it, did not
recognize his father's claim to the title of either colonel or
baron.
The house was pointed out to him. He rang; a woman with
a little lamp in her hand opened the door.
"M. Pontmercy?" said Marius.
The woman remained motionless.
"Is this his house?" demanded Marius.
The woman nodded affirmatively.
"Can I speak with him?"
The woman shook her head.
"But I am his son!" persisted Marius. "He is expecting
me."
"He no longer expects you," said the woman.
Then he perceived that she was weeping.
She pointed to the door of a room on the ground-floor; he
entered.
In that room, which was lighted by a tallow candle
standing
on the chimney-piece, there were three men, one standing
erect, another kneeling, and one lying at full length, on the
floor in his shirt. The one on the floor was the colonel.
The other two were the doctor, and the priest, who was
engaged in prayer.
The colonel had been attacked by brain fever three days
previously. As he had a foreboding of evil at the very beginning
of his illness, he had written to M. Gillenormand to
demand his son. The malady had grown worse. On the very
evening of Marius' arrival at Vernon, the colonel had had
an attack of delirium; he had risen from his bed, in spite of
the servant's efforts to prevent him, crying: "My son is not
coming! I shall go to meet him!" Then he ran out of his
room and fell prostrate on the floor of the antechamber. He
had just expired.
The doctor had been summoned, and the cure. The doctor
had arrived too late. The son had also arrived too late.
By the dim light of the candle, a large tear could be
distinguished
on the pale and prostrate colonel's cheek, where it had
trickled from his dead eye. The eye was extinguished, but the
tear was not yet dry. That tear was his son's delay.
Marius gazed upon that man whom he beheld for the first
time, on that venerable and manly face, on those open eyes
which saw not, on those white locks, those robust limbs, on
which, here and there, brown lines, marking sword-thrusts,
and a sort of red stars, which indicated bullet-holes, were
visible. He contemplated that gigantic sear which stamped
heroism on that countenance upon which God had imprinted
goodness. He reflected that this man was his father, and that
this man was dead, and a chill ran over him.
The sorrow which he felt was the sorrow which he would
have felt in the presence of any other man whom he had
chanced to behold stretched out in death.
Anguish, poignant anguish, was in that chamber. The
servant-woman was lamenting in a corner, the cure was praying,
and his sobs were audible, the doctor was wiping his eyes;
the corpse itself was weeping.
The doctor, the priest, and the woman gazed at Marius in
the midst of their affliction without uttering a word; he was
the stranger there. Marius, who was far too little affected,
felt ashamed and embarrassed at his own attitude; he held
his hat in his hand; and he dropped it on the floor, in order
to produce the impression that grief had deprived him of the
strength to hold it.
At the same time, he experienced remorse, and he despised
himself for behaving in this manner. But was it his fault?
He did not love his father? Why should he!
The colonel had left nothing. The sale of big furniture
barely paid the expenses of his burial.
The servant found a scrap of paper, which she handed to
Marius. It contained the following, in the colonel's
handwriting: —
"For my son. — The Emperor made me a Baron on
the
battle-field of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my
right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son
shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a
matter of course." Below, the colonel had added: "At that
same battle of Waterloo, a sergeant saved my life. The man's
name was Thenardier. I think that he has recently been keeping
a little inn, in a village in the neighborhood of Paris, at
Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meets him, he will do all
the good he can to Thenardier."
Marius took this paper and preserved it, not out of duty
to
his father, but because of that vague respect for death which
is always imperious in the heart of man.
Nothing remained of the colonel. M. Gillenormand had his
sword and uniform sold to an old-clothes dealer. The neighbors
devastated the garden and pillaged the rare flowers. The
other plants turned to nettles and weeds, and died.
Marius remained only forty-eight hours at Vernon. After
the interment he returned to Paris, and applied himself again
to his law studies, with no more thought of his father than if
the latter had never lived. In two days the colonel was buried,
and in three forgotten.
Marius wore crape on his hat. That was all.