How stupid they are!
Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, probably!
Young men have such bad taste nowadays!”
“Let us see, father,” said the old spinster.
The case opened by the pressure of a spring.
They found in it nothing but a carefully folded paper.
“From the same to the same,” said M. Gillenormand, bursting with laughter.
“I know what it is.
A billet-doux.”
“Ah! let us read it!” said the aunt. And she put on her spectacles.
They unfolded the paper and read as follows:—
“For my son.—The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield 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.”
The feelings of father and daughter cannot be described.
They felt chilled as by the breath of a death’s-head.
They did not exchange a word.
Only, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking to himself:—
“It is the slasher’s handwriting.”
The aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all directions, then put it back in its case.
At the same moment a little oblong packet, enveloped in blue paper, fell from one of the pockets of the great-coat.
Mademoiselle Gillenormand picked it up and unfolded the blue paper.
It contained Marius’ hundred cards.
She handed one of them to M. Gillenormand, who read: Le Baron Marius Pontmercy.
The old man rang the bell.
Nicolette came.
M. Gillenormand took the ribbon, the case, and the coat, flung them all on the floor in the middle of the room, and said:—
“Carry those duds away.”
A full hour passed in the most profound silence.
The old man and the old spinster had seated themselves with their backs to each other, and were thinking, each on his own account, the same things, in all probability.
At the expiration of this hour, Aunt Gillenormand said:—“A pretty state of things!”
A few moments later, Marius made his appearance.
He entered.
Even before he had crossed the threshold, he saw his grandfather holding one of his own cards in his hand, and on catching sight of him, the latter exclaimed with his air of bourgeois and grinning superiority which was something crushing:—
“Well! well! well! well! well! so you are a baron now.
I present you my compliments.
What is the meaning of this?”
Marius reddened slightly and replied:— “It means that I am the son of my father.”
M. Gillenormand ceased to laugh, and said harshly:—
“I am your father.”
“My father,” retorted Marius, with downcast eyes and a severe air, “was a humble and heroic man, who served the Republic and France gloriously, who was great in the greatest history that men have ever made, who lived in the bivouac for a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and bullets, in snow and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured two flags, who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and abandoned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was to love too fondly two ingrates, his country and myself.”
This was more than M. Gillenormand could bear to hear.
At the word republic, he rose, or, to speak more correctly, he sprang to his feet.
Every word that Marius had just uttered produced on the visage of the old Royalist the effect of the puffs of air from a forge upon a blazing brand.
From a dull hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and from purple, flame-colored.
“Marius!” he cried.
“Abominable child!
I do not know what your father was!
I do not wish to know!
I know nothing about that, and I do not know him!