Chapter Chapter 172 · 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 Marais, 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 he 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 curé. 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 curé 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 Thénardier. 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

Thénardier.”

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.