3.V.5.4. MADEMOISELLE GILLENORMAND ENDS BY NO LONGER THINKING
IT A 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 Arme. 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
Arme. 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 turtle-doves, 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.
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 revasseries,
Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries."
"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."
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.