Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [219]
Marius returned from Vernon early in the morning of the third day, was set down at his grandfather‘s, and, fatigued by the two nights passed in the coach, feeling the need of making up for his lack of sleep by an hour at the swimming school, ran quickly up to his room, took only time enough to lay off his travelling coat and the black ribbon which he wore about his neck, and went away to the bath.
M. Gillenormand, who had risen early like all old persons who are in good health, had heard him come in, and hastened as fast as he could with his old legs, to climb to the top of the stairs where Marius’ room was, that he might embrace him, question him while embracing him, and find out something about where he came from.
But the youth had taken less time to go down than the octogenarian to go up, and when Grandfather Gillenormand entered the garret room, Marius was no longer there.
The bed was not disturbed, and upon the bed were displayed without distrust the coat and the black ribbon.
“I like that better,” said M. Gillenormand.
And a moment afterwards he entered the parlour where Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder was already seated, embroidering her cab wheels.
The entrance was triumphal.
M. Gillenormand held in one hand the coat and in the other the neck ribbon, and cried:
“Victory! We are going to penetrate the mystery! we shall know the end of the end, we shall feel of the libertinism of our trickster! here we are with the romance even. I have the portrait.”
In fact, a black shagreen box, much like to a medallion, was fastened to the ribbon.
The old man took this box and looked at it some time without opening it, with that air of desire, ravishment, and anger, with which a poor, hungry devil sees an excellent dinner pass under his nose, when it is not for him.
“For it is evidently a portrait. I know all about that. This is worn tenderly upon the heart. What fools they are! Some abominable trollop, enough to make one shudder probably! Young folks have such bad taste in these days!”
“Let us see, father,” said the old maid.
The box opened by pressing a spring. They found nothing in it but a piece of paper carefully folded.
“From the same to the same,” said M. Gillenormand, bursting with laughter. “I know what that is. A love-letter!”
“Ah! then let us read it!” said the aunt.
And she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the paper and read this:
“For my son.—The emperor made me a baron upon the battlefield of Waterloo. Since the Restoration contests this title which I have bought with my blood, my son will take it and bear it. I need not say that he will be worthy of it.”
The feelings of the father and daughter cannot be described. They felt chilled as by the breath of a death’s head. They did not exchange a word. M. Gillenormand, however, said in a low voice, and as if talking to himself:
“It is the handwriting of that butcher.”
The aunt examined the paper, turned it on all sides, then put it back in the box.
Just at that moment, a little oblong package, wrapped in blue paper, fell from a pocket of the coat. Mademoiselle Gillenormand picked it up and unfolded the blue paper. It was Marius’ hundred cards. She passed one of them to M. Gillenormand, who read: Baron Marius Pontmercy.
The old man rang. Nicolette came. M. Gillenormand took the ribbon, the box, and the coat, threw them all on the floor in the middle of the parlour, and said:
“Take away those things.”
A full hour passed in complete silence. The old man and the old maid sat with their backs turned to one another, and were probably, each on their side, thinking over the same things. At the end of