|
MARIUS
Marius had left M. Gillenormand in despair.
He had entered the house with very little hope, and quitted
it with immense despair.
However, and those who have observed the depths of the human
heart will understand this, the officer, the lancer, the ninny,
Cousin Theodule, had left no trace in his mind.
Not the slightest. The dramatic poet might, apparently, expect
some complications from this revelation made point-blank by the
grandfather to the grandson. But what the drama would gain thereby,
truth would lose. Marius was at an age when one believes nothing
in the line of evil; later on comes the age when one believes
everything.
Suspicions are nothing else than wrinkles.
Early youth has none of them. That which overwhelmed Othello
glides innocuous over Candide. Suspect Cosette!
There are hosts of crimes which Marius could sooner have committed.
He began to wander about the streets, the resource of those
who suffer. He thought of nothing, so far as he could afterwards
remember. At two o'clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac's
quarters and flung himself, without undressing, on his mattress.
The sun was shining brightly when he sank into that frightful
leaden slumber which permits ideas to go and come in the brain.
When he awoke, he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre
standing in the room with their hats on and all ready to go out.
Courfeyrac said to him:--
"Are you coming to General Lamarque's funeral?"
It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.
He went out some time after them.
He put in his pocket the pistols which Javert had given him
at the time of the adventure on the 3d of February, and which
had remained in his hands.
These pistols were still loaded.
It would be difficult to say what vague thought he had in
his mind when he took them with him.
All day long he prowled about, without knowing where he was
going; it rained at times, he did not perceive it; for his dinner,
he purchased a penny roll at a baker's, put it in his pocket and
forgot it. It appears that he took a bath in the Seine without
being aware of it. There are moments when a man has a furnace
within his skull. Marius was passing through one of those moments.
He no longer hoped for anything; this step he had taken since
the preceding evening. He waited for night with feverish impatience,
he had but one idea clearly before his mind;--this was, that at
nine o'clock he should see Cosette.
This last happiness now constituted his whole future; after
that, gloom.
At intervals, as he roamed through the most deserted boulevards,
it seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris. He thrust
his head out of his revery and said:
"Is there fighting on hand?"
At nightfall, at nine o'clock precisely, as he had promised
Cosette, he was in the Rue Plumet.
When he approached the grating he forgot everything.
It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette; he was
about to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced,
and he felt only a profound and unheard-of joy.
Those minutes in which one lives centuries always have this
sovereign and wonderful property, that at the moment when they
are passing they fill the heart completely.
Marius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the garden.
Cosette was not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him.
He traversed the thicket, and approached the recess near the flight
of steps:
"She is waiting for me there," said he.
Cosette was not there.
He raised his eyes, and saw that the shutters of the house
were closed.
He made the tour of the garden, the garden was deserted. Then
he returned to the house, and, rendered senseless by love, intoxicated,
terrified, exasperated with grief and uneasiness, like a master
who returns home at an evil hour, he tapped on the shutters.
He knocked and knocked again, at the risk of seeing the window
open, and her father's gloomy face make its appearance, and demand:
"What do you want?"
This was nothing in comparison with what he dimly caught a
glimpse of.
When he had rapped, he lifted up his voice and called Cosette.--"Cosette!"
he cried; "Cosette!" he repeated imperiously.
There was no reply.
All was over. No one in the garden; no one in the house.
Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which
was as black and as silent as a tomb and far more empty.
He gazed at the stone seat on which he had passed so many
adorable hours with Cosette. Then he seated himself on the flight
of steps, his heart filled with sweetness and resolution, he blessed
his love in the depths of his thought, and he said to himself
that, since Cosette was gone, all that there was left for him
was to die.
All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from
the street, and which was calling to him through the trees:--
"Mr. Marius!"
He started to his feet.
"Hey?" said he.
"Mr. Marius, are you there?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Marius," went on the voice, "your friends
are waiting for you at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie."
This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him.
It resembled the hoarse, rough voice of Eponine.
Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside the movable bar,
passed his head through the aperture, and saw some one who appeared
to him to be a young man, disappearing at a run into the gloom.
|
