When he raised his eyes, Combeferre was no longer there.
Probably satisfied with his reply to the apotheosis, he had just taken his departure, and all, with the exception of Enjolras, had followed him.
The room had been emptied.
Enjolras, left alone with Marius, was gazing gravely at him.
Marius, however, having rallied his ideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten; there lingered in him a trace of inward fermentation which was on the point, no doubt, of translating itself into syllogisms arrayed against Enjolras, when all of a sudden, they heard some one singing on the stairs as he went.
It was Combeferre, and this is what he was singing:—
“Si Cesar m’avait donne
La gloire et la guerre,
Et qu’il me fallait quitter
L’amour de ma mere,
Je dirais au grand Cesar:
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char,
J’aime mieux ma mere, o gue!
J’aime mieux ma mere!”
The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang communicated to this couplet a sort of strange grandeur.
Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes diked on the ceiling, repeated almost mechanically:
“My mother?—”
At that moment, he felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder.
“Citizen,” said Enjolras to him, “my mother is the Republic.”
CHAPTER VI—RES ANGUSTA
That evening left Marius profoundly shaken, and with a melancholy shadow in his soul.
He felt what the earth may possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with the iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it; it feels only the wound; the quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later.
Marius was gloomy.
He had but just acquired a faith; must he then reject it already?
He affirmed to himself that he would not.
He declared to himself that he would not doubt, and he began to doubt in spite of himself.
To stand between two religions, from one of which you have not as yet emerged, and another into which you have not yet entered, is intolerable; and twilight is pleasing only to bat-like souls.
Marius was clear-eyed, and he required the true light.
The half-lights of doubt pained him.
Whatever may have been his desire to remain where he was, he could not halt there, he was irresistibly constrained to continue, to advance, to examine, to think, to march further.
Whither would this lead him?
He feared, after having taken so many steps which had brought him nearer to his father, to now take a step which should estrange him from that father.
His discomfort was augmented by all the reflections which occurred to him.
An escarpment rose around him.
He was in accord neither with his grandfather nor with his friends; daring in the eyes of the one, he was behind the times in the eyes of the others, and he recognized the fact that he was doubly isolated, on the side of age and on the side of youth.
He ceased to go to the Cafe Musain.
In the troubled state of his conscience, he no longer thought of certain serious sides of existence.
The realities of life do not allow themselves to be forgotten.
They soon elbowed him abruptly.
One morning, the proprietor of the hotel entered Marius’ room and said to him:—
“Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you.”
“Yes.”
“But I must have my money.”
“Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me,” said Marius.
Courfeyrac having made his appearance, the host left them. Marius then told him what it had not before occurred to him to relate, that he was the same as alone in the world, and had no relatives.
“What is to become of you?” said Courfeyrac.
“I do not know in the least,” replied Marius.
“What are you going to do?”
“I do not know.”
“Have you any money?”