Bab Bab 189 · THE SOBRIQUET: MODE OF FORMATION OF FAMILY NAMES

Marius was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of medium stature,

with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow,

well-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity,

and with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over

his whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded,

without thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic

sweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by way of

Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered

the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which

distinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race. He was at that period

of life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal

parts, of depth and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he

had all that is required to be stupid: one more turn of the key, and he

might be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very

genial. As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth

the whitest in the world, his smile corrected the severity of his face,

as a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous

smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his

glance was large.

At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed that young

girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid, with death in

his soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old

clothes, and that they were laughing at them; the fact is, that they

stared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him.

This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had

made him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he

fled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely,—stupidly, as

Courfeyrac said.

Courfeyrac also said to him: “Do not aspire to be venerable” [they

called each other _thou_; it is the tendency of youthful friendships to

slip into this mode of address]. “Let me give you a piece of advice, my

dear fellow. Don’t read so many books, and look a little more at the

lasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint

of fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized.”

On other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said:—“Good morning,

Monsieur l’Abbé!”

When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius

avoided women, both young and old, more than ever for a week to come,

and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.

Nevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, two women

whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever. In

truth, he would have been very much amazed if he had been informed that

they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his

chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: “Seeing that his servant woman

wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.” The other was a

sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked

at.

For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the

Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the Pépinière, a man

and a very young girl, who were almost always seated side by side on

the same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de

l’Ouest side. Every time that that chance which meddles with the

strolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that

walk,—and it was nearly every day,—he found this couple there. The man

appeared to be about sixty years of age; he seemed sad and serious; his

whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military

men who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration,

Marius would have said: “He is an ex-officer.” He had a kindly but

unapproachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of

any one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed

hat, which always appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt,

that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A

grisette who passed near him one day, said: “Here’s a very tidy

widower.” His hair was very white.

The first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated

herself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted, she was a sort

of child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost

homely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome

eyes. Only, they were always raised with a sort of displeasing

assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the

scholars in a convent; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black

merino. They had the air of being father and daughter.

Marius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little

girl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and thereafter paid no

attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him.

They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl

chattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but little, and,

at times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.

Marius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk. He

invariably found them there.

This is the way things went:—

Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was furthest from

their bench; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in front

of them, then returned to the extremity whence he had come, and began

again. This he did five or six times in the course of his promenade,

and the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its

having occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That

personage, and that young girl, although they appeared,—and perhaps

because they appeared,—to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some

attention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along

the Pépinière from time to time; the studious after their lectures, the

others after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the

last, had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he

had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled,

discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Impressed solely

with the child’s gown and the old man’s hair, he had dubbed the

daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father, Monsieur Leblanc, so

that as no one knew them under any other title, this nickname became a

law in the default of any other name. The students said: “Ah! Monsieur

Leblanc is on his bench.” And Marius, like the rest, had found it

convenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.

We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, in order to

facilitate this tale.

So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, during the first

year. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid.