Les Misérables, v. 3/5: Marius

by Victor Hugo

  What did they do in Madame de T----'s salon? They were ultra. Thisremark, though what it represent has possibly not disappeared, has nomeaning at the present day, so let us explain it To be ultra is goingbeyond; it is attacking the sceptre in the name of the throne andthe mitre in the name of the altar; it is mismanaging the affair youhave in hand; it is kicking over the traces; it is disputing with theexecutioner about the degree of roasting which heretics should undergo;it is reproaching the idol for its want of idolatry; it is insultingthrough excess of respect; it is finding in the Pope insufficientPapism, in the King too little royalty, and too much light in thenight; it is being dissatisfied with alabaster, snow, the swan, and thelily, on behalf of whiteness; it is being a partisan of things to sucha pitch that you become their enemy; it is being so strong for, thatyou become against.

  The ultra spirit specially characterizes the first phase of theRestoration. Nothing in history ever resembled that quarter of an hourwhich begins in 1814 and terminates in 1820, with the accession of M.de Villèle, the practical man of the Right. These six years were anextraordinary moment, at once noisy and silent, silent and gloomy,enlightened, as it were, by a beam of dawn, and covered, at the sametime, by the darkness of the great catastrophe which still filled thehorizon, and was slowly sinking into the past. There was in thislight and this shadow an old society and a new society, buffoon andmelancholy, juvenile and senile, and rubbing its eyes, for nothingis so like a re-awaking as a return. There were groups that regardedFrance angrily and which France regarded ironically; the streets fullof honest old Marquis-owls, returned and returning, "ci-devants,"stupefied by everything; brave and noble gentlemen smiling at being inFrance and also weeping at it, ravished at seeing their country again,and in despair at not finding their monarchy; the nobility of theCrusades spitting on the nobility of the Empire, that is to say, of thesword; historic races that had lost all feeling of history; the sons ofthe companions of Charlemagne disdaining the companions of Napoleon.The swords, as we have said, hurled insults at one another; the swordof Fontenoy was ridiculous, and only a bar of rusty iron; the sword ofMarengo was odious, and only a sabre. The olden times misunderstoodyesterday, and no one had a feeling of what is great or what isridiculous. Some one was found to call Bonaparte Scapin. This world nolonger exists, and nothing connected with it, let us repeat, remainsat the present day. When we draw out of it some figure hap-hazard, andtry to bring it to bear again mentally, it seems to us as strange asthe antediluvian world; and, in fact, it was also swallowed up by adeluge and disappeared under two revolutions. What waves ideas are! Howquickly do they cover whatever they have a mission to destroy and bury,and how promptly do they produce unknown depths!

  Such was the physiognomy of the salon in those distant and candid dayswhen M. Martainville had more wit than Voltaire. These salons hada literature and politics of their own: people in them believed inFiévée, and M. Agier laid down the law there. M. Colnet, the publisherand bookseller of the Quai Malaquais, was commented on, and Napoleonwas fully the ogre of Corsica there. At a later date the introductioninto history of M. le Marquis de Buonaparté, Lieutenant-General of thearmies of the King, was a concession to the spirit of the age. Thesesalons did not long remain pure, and in 1818 a few doctrinaires, a veryalarming tinge, began to culminate in them. In matters of which theultras were very proud, the doctrinaires were somewhat ashamed; theyhad wit, they had silence, their political dogma was properly starchedwith hauteur, and they must succeed. They carried white neck-cloths andbuttoned coats to an excessive length, though it was useful. The faultor misfortune of the doctrinaire party was in creating old youth: theyassumed the posture of sages, and dreamed of grafting a temperate powerupon the absolute and excessive principle. They opposed, and at timeswith rare sense, demolishing liberalism by conservative liberalism;and they might be heard saying: "Have mercy on Royalism, for it hasrendered more than one service. It brought back traditions, worship,religion, and respect. It is faithful, true, chivalrous, loving, anddevoted, and has blended, though reluctantly, the secular grandeurs ofthe Monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. It is wrong in notunderstanding the Revolution, the Empire, glory, liberty, young ideas,young generations, and the age; but do we not sometimes act quite aswrongly against it? The Revolution of which we are the heirs oughtto be on good terms with everything. Attacking the Royalists is thecontrary of liberalism; what a fault and what blindness! RevolutionaryFrance fails in its respect to historic France; that is to say, to itsmother, to itself. After September 5th, the nobility of the Monarchywere treated like the nobility of the Empire after July 8th; they wereunjust to the eagle and we are unjust to the _fleur-de-lys_. There mustbe, then, always something to proscribe! Is it very useful to ungildthe crown of Louis XIV., and scratch off the escutcheon of Henri IV.?We sneer at M. de Vaublanc, who effaced the N's from the bridge ofJena; but he only did what we are doing. Bouvines belongs to us asmuch as Marengo, and the _fleur-de-lys_ are ours, like the N's. Theyconstitute our patrimony; then why should we diminish it? The countrymust be no more denied in the past than in the present; why should wenot have a grudge with the whole of history? Why should we not lovethe whole of France?" It was thus that the doctrinaires criticised andprotected the Royalists, who were dissatisfied at being criticised, andfurious at being protected.

  The ultras marked the first epoch of the Revolution, and theCongregation characterized the second; skill succeeded impetuosity. Letus close our sketch at this point.

  In the course of his narrative, the author of this book found on hisroad this curious moment of contemporary history, and thought himselfbound to take a passing glance at it, and retrace some of the singularfeatures of this society, which is unknown at the present day. Buthe has done so rapidly, and without any bitter or derisive idea, foraffectionate and respectful reminiscences, connected with his mother,attach him to this past. Moreover, let him add, this little world had agrandeur of its own, and though we may smile at it, we cannot despiseor hate it. It was the France of other days.

  Marius Pontmercy, like most children, received some sort of education.When he left the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather intrustedhim to a worthy professor of the finest classical innocence. Thisyoung mind, just expanding, passed from a prude to a pedant. Mariusspent some years at college, and then entered the law-school; he wasroyalist, fanatic, and austere. He loved but little his grandfather,whose gayety and cynicism ruffled him, and he was gloomy as regardedhis father. In other respects, he was an ardent yet cold, noble,generous, proud, religious, and exalted youth; worthy almost toharshness, and fierce almost to savageness.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE END OF THE BRIGAND.

  The conclusion of Marius's classical studies coincided with M.Gillenormand's retirement from society; the old gentleman bade farewellto the Faubourg St. Germain and Madame de T----'s drawing-room, andproceeded to establish himself in the Marais at his house in the Ruedes Filles du Calvaire. His servants were, in addition to the porter,that Nicolette who succeeded Magnon, and that wheezing, short-windedBasque, to whom we have already alluded. In 1827 Marius attained hisseventeenth year; on coming home one evening he saw his grandfatherholding a letter in his hand.

  "Marius," said M. Gillenormand, "you will start to-morrow for Vernon."

  "What for?" Marius asked.

  "To see your father."

  Marius trembled, for he had thought of everything excepting this,--thathe might one day be obliged to see his father. Nothing could be moreunexpected, more surprising, and, let us add, more disagreeable forhim. It was estrangement forced into approximation, and it was not anannoyance so much as a drudgery. Marius, in addition to his motives ofpolitical antipathy, was convinced that his father, the trooper, as M.Gillenormand called him in his good-tempered days, did not love him;that was evident, as he had abandoned him thus and left him to others.Not feeling himself beloved, he did not love; and he said to himselfthat nothing could be more simple. He was so stupefied that he did notquestion his grand
father, but M. Gillenormand continued,--

  "It seems that he is ill, and asks for you."

  And after a silence he added,--

  "Start to-morrow morning. I believe there is a coach which leaves atsix o'clock and gets to Vernon at nightfall. Go by it, for he says thatthe matter presses."

  Then he crumpled up the letter and put it in his pocket. Mariuscould have started the same night, and have been with his fatherthe next morning; a diligence at that time used to run at night toRouen, passing through Vernon. But neither M. Gillenormand nor Mariusdreamed of inquiring. On the evening of the following day Mariusarrived at Vernon, and asked the first passer-by for the house of"Monsieur Pontmercy;" for in his mind he was of the same opinion asthe Restoration, and did not recognize either his father's Barony orColonelcy. The house was shown him; he rang, and a woman holding asmall hand-lamp opened the door for him.

  "Monsieur Pontmercy?" Marius asked.

  The woman stood motionless.

  "Is this his house?" Marius continued.

  The woman shook her head in the affirmative.

  "Can I speak to him?"

  The woman made a negative sign.

  "Why, I am his son," Marius added; "and he expects me."

  "He no longer expects you," the woman said.

  Then he noticed that she was crying; she pointed to the door of aparlor, and he went in. In this room, which was lighted by a tallowcandle placed on the mantel-piece, there were three men, one standing,one on his knees, and one lying full length upon the floor in hisshirt. The one on the floor was the Colonel; the other two were aphysician and a priest praying. The Colonel had been attacked by abrain fever three days before, and having a foreboding of evil, hewrote to M. Gillenormand, asking for his son. The illness grew worse,and on the evening of Marius' arrival at Vernon the Colonel had anattack of delirium. He leaped out of bed, in spite of the maid-servant,crying, "My son does not arrive, I will go to meet him." Then he lefthis bed-room, and fell on the floor of the ante-room; he had justexpired. The physician and the curé were sent for, but both arrived toolate; the son had also arrived too late. By the twilight gleam of thecandle, a heavy tear, which had fallen from the Colonel's dead eye,could be noticed on his pallid cheek. The eye was lustreless, but thetear had not dried up. This tear was his son's delay.

  Marius gazed upon this man whom he saw for the first time and thelast, upon this venerable and manly face, these open eyes which nolonger saw, this white hair, and the robust limbs upon which couldbe distinguished here and there brown lines which were sabre-cuts,and red stars which were bullet-holes. He gazed at the gigantic scarwhich imprinted heroism on this face, upon which God had imprintedgentleness. He thought that this man was his father, and that this manwas dead, and he remained cold. The sorrow he felt was such as he wouldhave felt in the presence of any other man whom he might have seenlying dead before him.

  Mourning and lamentation were in this room. The maid-servant wasweeping in a corner, the priest was praying, and could be heardsobbing, the physician wiped his eyes, and the corpse itself wept. Thephysician, priest, and woman looked at Marius through their afflictionwithout saying a word, for he was the stranger. Marius, who was solittle affected, felt ashamed and embarrassed at his attitude, and helet the hat which he held in his hand fall on the ground, in order toinduce a belief that sorrow deprived him of the strength to hold it. Atthe same time he felt a species of remorse, and despised himself foracting thus. But was it his fault? he had no cause to love his father.

  The Colonel left nothing, and the sale of the furniture scarce coveredthe funeral expenses. The maid-servant found a scrap of paper, whichshe handed to Marius. On it were the following lines, written by theColonel:--

  "_For my son_. The Emperor made me a Baron on the field of Waterloo,and as the Restoration contests this title, which I purchased withmy blood, my son will assume it and wear it. Of course he will beworthy of it." On the back the Colonel had added, "At this same battleof Waterloo a sergeant saved my life; his name is Thénardier, and Ibelieve that he has recently kept a small inn in a village near Paris,either Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meet this Thénardier he willdo all he can for him."

  Not through any affection for his father, but owing to that vaguerespect for death which is ever so imperious in the heart of man,Marius took this paper and put it away. Nothing was left of theColonel. M. Gillenormand had his sword and uniform sold to the Jews;the neighbors plundered the garden and carried off the rare flowers,while the others became brambles and died. Marius remained onlyforty-eight hours in Vernon. After the funeral he returned to Paris andhis legal studies, thinking no more of his father than if he had neverexisted. In two days the Colonel was buried, and in three forgotten.

  Marius had a crape on his hat, and that was all.

  CHAPTER V.

  MARIUS MEETS A CHURCHWARDEN.

  Marius had retained the religious habits of his childhood. OneSunday, when he went to hear Mass at St. Sulpice, in the Chapel ofthe Virgin to which his aunt took him when a boy, being on that daymore than usually absent and thoughtful, he placed himself behinda pillar, and knelt, without paying attention to the fact, upon aUtrecht velvet chair, on the back of which was written, "MonsieurMabœuf, Churchwarden." The Mass had scarce begun when an old gentlemanpresented himself, and said to Marius,--

  "This is my place, sir."

  Marius at once stepped aside, and the old gentleman took his seat. WhenMass was ended Marius stood pensively for a few moments, till the oldgentleman came up to him and said,--

  "I ask your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you just now, and fortroubling you afresh at this moment; but you must have considered meill-bred, and so I wish to explain the matter to you."

  "It is unnecessary, sir," said Marius.

  "No, it is not," the old man continued, "for I do not wish you tohave a bad opinion of me. I am attached to this seat, and it seemsto me that the Mass is better here, and I will tell you my reason.To this spot I saw during ten years, at regular intervals of two orthree months, a poor worthy father come, who had no other opportunityor way of seeing his son, because they were separated through familyarrangements. He came at the hour when he knew that his son wouldbe brought to Mass. The boy did not suspect that his father washere--perhaps did not know, the innocent, that he had a father. Thelatter kept behind a pillar so that he might not be seen, looked at hischild and wept; for the poor man adored him, as I could see. This spothas become, so to speak, sanctified for me, and I have fallen into thehabit of hearing Mass here. I prefer it to the bench to which I shouldhave a right as churchwarden. I even knew the unfortunate gentlemanslightly. He had a father-in-law, a rich aunt, and other relatives,who threatened to disinherit the boy if the father ever saw him, andhe sacrificed himself that his son might one day be rich and happy.They were separated through political opinions, and though I certainlyapprove of such opinions, there are persons who do not know where tostop. Good gracious! because a man was at Waterloo he is not a monster;a father should not be separated from his child on that account. Hewas one of Bonaparte's colonels, and is dead, I believe. He lived atVernon, where I have a brother who is curé, and his name was somethinglike Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had, on my word, a great sabre-cut."

  "Pontmercy," Marius said, turning pale.

  "Precisely, Pontmercy; did you know him?"

  "He was my father, sir."

  The old churchwarden clasped his hands and exclaimed,--

  "Ah! you are the boy! Yes, yes, he would be a man now. Well, poor boy!you may say that you had a father who loved you dearly."

  Marius offered his arm to the old gentleman and conducted him to hishouse. The next day he said to M. Gillenormand,--

  "Some friends of mine have arranged a shooting-party; will you allow meto go away for three days?"

  "Four," the grandfather answered; "go and amuse yourself." And hewhispered to his daughter with a wink, "Some love affair!"

  CHAPTER VI.

  WHAT RESULTED FROM MEETING
A CHURCHWARDEN.

  Where Marius went we shall learn presently. He was away three days,then returned to Paris, went straight to the library of the Law-schooland asked for a file of the _Moniteur_. He read it; he read all thehistories of the Republic and the Empire; the Memorial of St. Helena,all the memoirs, journals, bulletins, and proclamations,--he fairlydevoured them. The first time he came across his father's name in abulletin of the grand army he had a fever for a whole week. He calledupon the generals under whom George Pontmercy had served; among others,Count H----. The churchwarden, whom he saw again, told him of the lifeat Vernon, the Colonel's retirement, his flowers, and his solitude.Marius had at last a perfect knowledge of this rare, sublime, andgentle man, this species of lion-lamb, who had been his father.

  While occupied with this study, which filled all his moments as well asall his thoughts, he scarce ever saw the Gillenormands. He appeared atmeals, but when sought for after them he could not be found. His auntsulked, but old Gillenormand smiled. "Stuff, stuff, it is the rightage!" At times the old man would add, "Confound it! I thought that itwas an affair of gallantry, but it seems that it is a passion." It wasa passion in truth, for Marius was beginning to adore his father.

  At the same time an extraordinary change took place in his ideas,and the phases of this change were numerous and successive. As thisis the history of many minds in our day, we deem it useful to followthese phases step by step, and indicate them all. The history he hadjust read startled him, and the first effect was bedazzlement. TheRepublic, the Empire, had hitherto been to him but monstrous words,--the Republic a guillotine in the twilight; the Empire a sabre in thenight. He had looked into it, and where he had only expected to finda chaos of darkness he had seen, with a species of extraordinarysurprise, mingled with fear and delight, stars flashing,--Mirabeau,Vergniaud, St. Just, Robespierre, Camille Desmoulins, and Danton,--anda sun rise, Napoleon. He knew not where he was, and he recoiled,blinded by the brilliancy. Gradually, when the first surprise had wornoff, he accustomed himself to this radiance. He regarded the deedwithout dizziness, and examined persons without terror; the Revolutionand the Empire stood out in luminous perspective before his visionaryeyeballs; he saw each of these two groups of events and facts containedin two enormous facts: the Revolution in the sovereignty of civic rightrestored to the masses, the Empire in the sovereignty of the Frenchidea imposed on Europe; he saw the great figure of the people emergefrom the Revolution, the great figure of France from the Empire, andhe declared to himself on his conscience that all this was good.