In the corners, three or four armchairs, drawn close together in a circle, had the appearance of continuing a conversation.
The whole effect was cheerful.
A certain grace still lingers round a dead feast.
It has been a happy thing.
On the chairs in disarray, among those fading flowers, beneath those extinct lights, people have thought of joy.
The sun had succeeded to the chandelier, and made its way gayly into the drawing-room.
Several minutes elapsed.
Jean Valjean stood motionless on the spot where Basque had left him.
He was very pale.
His eyes were hollow, and so sunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearly disappeared in their orbits.
His black coat bore the weary folds of a garment that has been up all night.
The elbows were whitened with the down which the friction of cloth against linen leaves behind it.
Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor at his feet by the sun.
There came a sound at the door, and he raised his eyes.
Marius entered, his head well up, his mouth smiling, an indescribable light on his countenance, his brow expanded, his eyes triumphant.
He had not slept either.
“It is you, father!” he exclaimed, on catching sight of Jean Valjean; “that idiot of a Basque had such a mysterious air!
But you have come too early.
It is only half past twelve.
Cosette is asleep.”
That word: “Father,” said to M. Fauchelevent by Marius, signified: supreme felicity.
There had always existed, as the reader knows, a lofty wall, a coldness and a constraint between them; ice which must be broken or melted.
Marius had reached that point of intoxication when the wall was lowered, when the ice dissolved, and when M. Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette, a father.
He continued: his words poured forth, as is the peculiarity of divine paroxysms of joy.
“How glad I am to see you!
If you only knew how we missed you yesterday!
Good morning, father.
How is your hand?
Better, is it not?”
And, satisfied with the favorable reply which he had made to himself, he pursued:
“We have both been talking about you.
Cosette loves you so dearly!
You must not forget that you have a chamber here, We want nothing more to do with the Rue de l’Homme Arme.
We will have no more of it at all.
How could you go to live in a street like that, which is sickly, which is disagreeable, which is ugly, which has a barrier at one end, where one is cold, and into which one cannot enter?
You are to come and install yourself here.
And this very day.
Or you will have to deal with Cosette.
She means to lead us all by the nose, I warn you.
You have your own chamber here, it is close to ours, it opens on the garden; the trouble with the clock has been attended to, the bed is made, it is all ready, you have only to take possession of it.
Near your bed Cosette has placed a huge, old, easy-chair covered with Utrecht velvet and she has said to it:
‘Stretch out your arms to him.’
A nightingale comes to the clump of acacias opposite your windows, every spring.
In two months more you will have it.
You will have its nest on your left and ours on your right.
By night it will sing, and by day Cosette will prattle.
Your chamber faces due South.
Cosette will arrange your books for you, your Voyages of Captain Cook and the other,—Vancouver’s and all your affairs.
I believe that there is a little valise to which you are attached, I have fixed upon a corner of honor for that.
You have conquered my grandfather, you suit him.