You’ll see how well the whole thing will work.
I shall be away as short a time as possible, it’s a fine stroke of business, do you look after the house.”
And with both fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, he stood for a moment in thought, then exclaimed:—
“Do you know, it’s mighty lucky, by the way, that he didn’t recognize me!
If he had recognized me on his side, he would not have come back again.
He would have slipped through our fingers!
It was my beard that saved us! my romantic beard! my pretty little romantic beard!”
And again he broke into a laugh.
He stepped to the window.
The snow was still falling, and streaking the gray of the sky.
“What beastly weather!” said he. Then lapping his overcoat across his breast:— “This rind is too large for me.
Never mind,” he added, “he did a devilish good thing in leaving it for me, the old scoundrel!
If it hadn’t been for that, I couldn’t have gone out, and everything would have gone wrong!
What small points things hang on, anyway!”
And pulling his cap down over his eyes, he quitted the room.
He had barely had time to take half a dozen steps from the door, when the door opened again, and his savage but intelligent face made its appearance once more in the opening.
“I came near forgetting,” said he.
“You are to have a brazier of charcoal ready.”
And he flung into his wife’s apron the five-franc piece which the “philanthropist” had left with him.
“A brazier of charcoal?” asked his wife.
“Yes.”
“How many bushels?”
“Two good ones.”
“That will come to thirty sous.
With the rest I will buy something for dinner.”
“The devil, no.”
“Why?”
“Don’t go and spend the hundred-sou piece.”
“Why?”
“Because I shall have to buy something, too.”
“What?”
“Something.”
“How much shall you need?”
“Whereabouts in the neighborhood is there an ironmonger’s shop?”
“Rue Mouffetard.”
“Ah! yes, at the corner of a street; I can see the shop.”
“But tell me how much you will need for what you have to purchase?”
“Fifty sous—three francs.”
“There won’t be much left for dinner.”
“Eating is not the point to-day.
There’s something better to be done.”
“That’s enough, my jewel.”
At this word from his wife, Jondrette closed the door again, and this time, Marius heard his step die away in the corridor of the hovel, and descend the staircase rapidly.
At that moment, one o’clock struck from the church of Saint-Medard.
CHAPTER XIII—SOLUS CUM SOLO, IN LOCO REMOTO, NON COGITABUNTUR ORARE PATER NOSTER
Marius, dreamer as he was, was, as we have said, firm and energetic by nature.
His habits of solitary meditation, while they had developed in him sympathy and compassion, had, perhaps, diminished the faculty for irritation, but had left intact the power of waxing indignant; he had the kindliness of a brahmin, and the severity of a judge; he took pity upon a toad, but he crushed a viper.
Now, it was into a hole of vipers that his glance had just been directed, it was a nest of monsters that he had beneath his eyes.
“These wretches must be stamped upon,” said he.
Not one of the enigmas which he had hoped to see solved had been elucidated; on the contrary, all of them had been rendered more dense, if anything; he knew nothing more about the beautiful maiden of the Luxembourg and the man whom he called M. Leblanc, except that Jondrette was acquainted with them.