“Anything you like.”
“Anything I like?”
“Yes.”
“You shall have the address.”
She dropped her head; then, with a brusque movement, she pulled to the door, which closed behind her.
Marius found himself alone.
He dropped into a chair, with his head and both elbows on his bed, absorbed in thoughts which he could not grasp, and as though a prey to vertigo.
All that had taken place since the morning, the appearance of the angel, her disappearance, what that creature had just said to him, a gleam of hope floating in an immense despair,—this was what filled his brain confusedly.
All at once he was violently aroused from his reverie.
He heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these words, which were fraught with a strange interest for him:—
“I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized him.”
Of whom was Jondrette speaking?
Whom had he recognized?
M. Leblanc?
The father of “his Ursule”?
What!
Did Jondrette know him?
Was Marius about to obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the information without which his life was so dark to him?
Was he about to learn at last who it was that he loved, who that young girl was? Who her father was?
Was the dense shadow which enwrapped them on the point of being dispelled? Was the veil about to be rent?
Ah! Heavens!
He bounded rather than climbed upon his commode, and resumed his post near the little peep-hole in the partition wall.
Again he beheld the interior of Jondrette’s hovel.
CHAPTER XII—THE USE MADE OF M. LEBLANC’S FIVE-FRANC PIECE
Nothing in the aspect of the family was altered, except that the wife and daughters had levied on the package and put on woollen stockings and jackets.
Two new blankets were thrown across the two beds.
Jondrette had evidently just returned. He still had the breathlessness of out of doors.
His daughters were seated on the floor near the fireplace, the elder engaged in dressing the younger’s wounded hand.
His wife had sunk back on the bed near the fireplace, with a face indicative of astonishment.
Jondrette was pacing up and down the garret with long strides.
His eyes were extraordinary.
The woman, who seemed timid and overwhelmed with stupor in the presence of her husband, turned to say:—
“What, really?
You are sure?”
“Sure!
Eight years have passed!
But I recognize him!
Ah! I recognize him.
I knew him at once!
What! Didn’t it force itself on you?”
“No.”
“But I told you:
‘Pay attention!’
Why, it is his figure, it is his face, only older,—there are people who do not grow old, I don’t know how they manage it,—it is the very sound of his voice.
He is better dressed, that is all!
Ah! you mysterious old devil, I’ve got you, that I have!”
He paused, and said to his daughters:—
“Get out of here, you!—It’s queer that it didn’t strike you!”
They arose to obey.
The mother stammered:— “With her injured hand.”