Skill follows ardor.
Let us confine ourselves here to this sketch.
In the course of this narrative, the author of this book has encountered in his path this curious moment of contemporary history; he has been forced to cast a passing glance upon it, and to trace once more some of the singular features of this society which is unknown to-day.
But he does it rapidly and without any bitter or derisive idea.
Souvenirs both respectful and affectionate, for they touch his mother, attach him to this past.
Moreover, let us remark, this same petty world had a grandeur of its own.
One may smile at it, but one can neither despise nor hate it.
It was the France of former days.
Marius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do.
When he emerged from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather confided him to a worthy professor of the most purely classic innocence.
This young soul which was expanding passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant.
Marius went through his years of college, then he entered the law school.
He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe.
He did not love his grandfather much, as the latter’s gayety and cynicism repelled him, and his feelings towards his father were gloomy.
He was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, proud, religious, enthusiastic lad; dignified to harshness, pure to shyness.
CHAPTER IV—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.