In the first place, he was not in the secret; then, in his reveries of an invalid, which were still feverish, possibly, he distrusted this tenderness as a strange and novel thing, which had for its object his conquest.
He remained cold.
The grandfather absolutely wasted his poor old smile.
Marius said to himself that it was all right so long as he, Marius, did not speak, and let things take their course; but that when it became a question of Cosette, he would find another face, and that his grandfather’s true attitude would be unmasked.
Then there would be an unpleasant scene; a recrudescence of family questions, a confrontation of positions, every sort of sarcasm and all manner of objections at one and the same time, Fauchelevent, Coupelevent, fortune, poverty, a stone about his neck, the future.
Violent resistance; conclusion: a refusal.
Marius stiffened himself in advance.
And then, in proportion as he regained life, the old ulcers of his memory opened once more, he reflected again on the past, Colonel Pontmercy placed himself once more between M. Gillenormand and him, Marius, he told himself that he had no true kindness to expect from a person who had been so unjust and so hard to his father.
And with health, there returned to him a sort of harshness towards his grandfather.
The old man was gently pained by this.
M. Gillenormand, without however allowing it to appear, observed that Marius, ever since the latter had been brought back to him and had regained consciousness, had not once called him father.
It is true that he did not say “monsieur” to him; but he contrived not to say either the one or the other, by means of a certain way of turning his phrases.
Obviously, a crisis was approaching.
As almost always happens in such cases, Marius skirmished before giving battle, by way of proving himself.
This is called “feeling the ground.”
One morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke slightingly of the Convention, apropos of a newspaper which had fallen into his hands, and gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton, Saint-Juste and Robespierre.—“The men of ‘93 were giants,” said Marius with severity.
The old man held his peace, and uttered not a sound during the remainder of that day.
Marius, who had always present to his mind the inflexible grandfather of his early years, interpreted this silence as a profound concentration of wrath, augured from it a hot conflict, and augmented his preparations for the fray in the inmost recesses of his mind.
He decided that, in case of a refusal, he would tear off his bandages, dislocate his collar-bone, that he would lay bare all the wounds which he had left, and would reject all food.
His wounds were his munitions of war.
He would have Cosette or die.
He awaited the propitious moment with the crafty patience of the sick.
That moment arrived.
CHAPTER III—MARIUS ATTACKED
One day, M. Gillenormand, while his daughter was putting in order the phials and cups on the marble of the commode, bent over Marius and said to him in his tenderest accents:
“Look here, my little Marius, if I were in your place, I would eat meat now in preference to fish.
A fried sole is excellent to begin a convalescence with, but a good cutlet is needed to put a sick man on his feet.”
Marius, who had almost entirely recovered his strength, collected the whole of it, drew himself up into a sitting posture, laid his two clenched fists on the sheets of his bed, looked his grandfather in the face, assumed a terrible air, and said:
“This leads me to say something to you.”
“What is it?”
“That I wish to marry.”
“Agreed,” said his grandfather.—And he burst out laughing.
“How agreed?”
“Yes, agreed.
You shall have your little girl.”
Marius, stunned and overwhelmed with the dazzling shock, trembled in every limb.
M. Gillenormand went on:
“Yes, you shall have her, that pretty little girl of yours.
She comes every day in the shape of an old gentleman to inquire after you.
Ever since you were wounded, she has passed her time in weeping and making lint.
I have made inquiries.
She lives in the Rue de l’Homme Arme, No. 7.
Ah! There we have it!
Ah! so you want her!
Well, you shall have her.
You’re caught.
You had arranged your little plot, you had said to yourself:—‘I’m going to signify this squarely to my grandfather, to that mummy of the Regency and of the Directory, to that ancient beau, to that Dorante turned Geronte; he has indulged in his frivolities also, that he has, and he has had his love affairs, and his grisettes and his Cosettes; he has made his rustle, he has had his wings, he has eaten of the bread of spring; he certainly must remember it.’
Ah! you take the cockchafer by the horns.
That’s good.
I offer you a cutlet and you answer me: