Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774)

by Hugo, Victor; Donougher, Christine (TRN)

  But however this might be, he had made an immense stride. Where once he had seen nothing but the fall of monarchy he now saw the rise of France. What had been for him a sunset was now a dawn. His whole direction was reversed.

  All this took place in him without his family being aware of it. When in the course of his secret travail he had completely shed his former skin of a Bourbon-supporter and an ultra; when he had stripped away the aristocrat, the Jacobite and the royalist to become wholly a revolutionary, profoundly a democrat and very nearly a republican, he visited an engraver on the Quai des Orfèvres and ordered a hundred visiting-cards bearing the name ‘Le Baron Marius Pontmercy’. It was no more than a logical outcome of the change in him, in which everything gravitated around his father. But since he knew no one, and could not leave the cards with any hall-porter, he kept them in his pocket.

  Another inevitable consequence was that as he drew nearer to his father, to the colonel’s memory and to the things for which he had fought for twenty-five years, so he moved further away from his grandfather. As we have said, Monsieur Gillenormand’s attitudes had for a long time jarred upon him. They were separated by all the disharmonies that must arise between a serious-minded young man and a frivolous old one. The gaiety of Gerontius affronts and exasperates the melancholy of Werther. Insofar as they had held the same political opinions and thought in the same general terms, Marius and his grandfather had met, as it were, on a bridge. But when this bridge collapsed the gulf between them was manifest. Marius was filled with resentment at the thought that Monsieur Gillenormand, for nonsensical reasons, had ruthlessly separated him from the colonel, depriving the father of his child and the child of its father. In his newfound reverence for his father he came almost to hate the old man.

  But none of this was apparent. Only that he grew more and more reserved, spoke little at meals and was seldom at home. When his aunt reproached him with this he answered her gently, talking about study-courses, examinations, lectures, and so on. His grandfather stuck to his infallible diagnosis. ‘The boy’s in love. I know the symptoms.’

  Now and then he went away for short periods.

  ‘Where does he go?’ his aunt wondered.

  On one of these occasions, which were always short, he went to Montfermeil, obeying his father’s injunction to look for the former Waterloo sergeant, the innkeeper Thénardier. But Thénardier had been sold up, the inn was closed and no one knew what had become of him. Marius’s inquiries kept him away from home for four days.

  ‘He’s certainly got it badly,’ said his grandfather.

  They had a notion that he had taken to wearing on his chest, concealed under his shirt, something that hung by a black ribbon from his neck.

  VII

  The ‘wench’

  Mention has been made of a cavalry-officer.

  He was Monsieur Gillenormand’s great-nephew, on his father’s side, and his life was spent performing garrison duties in places remote from the family circle. Lieutenant Théodule Gillenormand had everything that was needed for a young man to be known as a fine officer. He had a ‘girl’s waist’, a dashing way of carrying his sabre and a curled moustache. He very seldom came to Paris, so seldom that Marius had never met him. He was, as we may have said, Aunt Gillenormand’s favourite, her preference being due to the fact that she almost never saw him. To see nothing of a person makes it possible to credit him with all the perfections.

  One morning Mlle Gillenormand withdrew to her own room in a state of as much perturbation as her placid nature allowed. Marius had again applied to his grandfather for leave of absence. This had been granted, but the old gentleman had muttered in a frowning aside, ‘He’s getting worse than ever.’ Mlle Gillenormand, greatly intrigued, had paused on the stairs to exclaim, ‘It’s really too much!’ and had followed this with a question: ‘Where in the world does he get to?’ She suspected some more or less illicit romance, a woman veiled in secrecy, clandestine meetings, and she longed to know more. The hint of scandal is by no means abhorrent to such saintly natures.

  To allay the undue excitement which these speculations aroused, she picked up her needle and settled down to one of those pieces of embroidery of which the design, under the Empire and the Restoration, consisted largely of carriage-wheels. A dull task and an absent-minded worker. She had been occupied with it for some time when the door opened and there stood Lieutenant Théodule, respectfully saluting her. She uttered a cry of delight. A woman may be elderly, prudish, devout and an aunt, but it is still pleasant to have a lancer walk into one’s sitting room.

  ‘You, Théodule!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’m passing through, aunt.’

  ‘Well, come and kiss me.’

  ‘There,’ said Thèodule, doing so. Aunt Gillenormand went to her writing-desk.

  ‘You’ll stay at least for the week?’

  ‘Alas, I must leave this evening.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘There’s no help for it.’

  ‘Dear Théodule, do stay a little longer.’

  ‘My heart says yes, but duty says no. It’s quite simple. We’re being transferred from Melun to Faillon and we have to go by way of Paris. So I thought, I’ll look in and see my aunt.’

  ‘Well, this is for your trouble,’ and she pressed ten louis into his hand.

  ‘For my pleasure, dear aunt.’

  He kissed her again, and she had the pleasure of feeling her chest scratched by the braid of a military uniform.

  ‘Are you riding with the rest of your regiment?’

  ‘No. I wanted to see you so I got a special dispensation. My groom’s taking my horse and I’m travelling by coach. And while I think of it, there’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It seems that my cousin, Marius Pontmercy, will also be on the coach.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ exclaimed Mlle Gillenormand, suddenly all eager curiosity.

  ‘I saw his name on the list when I went to reserve my seat – Marius Pontmercy.’

  ‘The wicked fellow!’ his aunt cried. ‘I’m afraid your cousin is not a well-conducted young man like you. So he’s going to spend the night in a coach.’

  ‘Just like me.’

  ‘Yes, but with you it’s duty, with him it’s riotous living.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Théodule.

  At this point something remarkable happened to Mlle Gillenormand: she had an idea. Had she been a man she might well have clapped a hand to her forehead. She said urgently:

  ‘It’s true, is it not, that your cousin doesn’t know you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen him, but he has never condescended to notice me.’

  ‘And you’ll be travelling on the same coach.’

  ‘Him on top, me inside.’

  ‘Where does the coach go?’

  ‘To Andelys.’

  ‘Is that where Marius is going?’

  ‘Unless he gets off somewhere on the way, as I shall be doing. I have to change at Vernon for the Gaillon coach. I’ve no idea of Marius’s destination.’

  ‘Marius! Such an absurd name. How can anyone be called Marius? At least your name is Théodule.’

  ‘I’d rather it was Alfred,’ said the young man.

  ‘Well, anyway, Théodule, I want you to listen to me.’

  ‘Yes, aunt.’

  ‘And pay great attention.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The fact is, Marius is often away from home.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘He goes somewhere. He’s sometimes away for several nights.’

  ‘Is he indeed!’

  ‘We want to know what is going on.’

  Théodule replied with the calm of a seasoned warrior, ‘A flutter, you can bank on it.’ He added with a boisterous laugh, ‘A wench, that’s to say.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said his aunt, seeming to hear the voice of Monsieur Gillenormand and fortified in her own convictions by this repetition of the word ‘wench’. ‘And I want y
ou to do us a favour. Follow Marius if you can. He doesn’t know you, so there will be no difficulty. If it’s a girl, try to catch sight of her and write and tell us all about her. Your grandfather will be greatly interested.’

  Théodule had no particular fondness for work of this kind, but he was grateful for the ten louis and had a feeling that more might follow.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll do my best.’ And he reflected glumly: ‘So I’m to play gooseberry.’

  His aunt embraced him.

  ‘You’re not the sort to indulge in these escapades, dear Théodule. You’re disciplined, you have principles and a sense of duty. You wouldn’t leave your home to go gallivanting after some shameless hussy.’

  Théodule grinned the grin of a pickpocket commended for honesty.

  Marius, when he boarded the coach that evening, had no idea that he was being watched. As for the watchdog, his first act was to fall asleep, and he snored all night. At daybreak the guard roused the passengers who had to change at Vernon and Théodule remembered that this was where he got out. Then, as his wits returned, he remembered his aunt, the ten louis and his promise to keep an eye on his cousin. The thought made him laugh.

  ‘He may have got out long ago,’ he reflected as he buttoned his tunic. ‘He could have got out at Poissy or Triel or Meulan or Mantes, if it wasn’t Rolleboise or Pacy. What the devil am I going to write to the old girl?’

  But at this moment he saw through the window a pair of black trousers descending from the top of the coach. It was Marius.

  A peasant-girl with a basket of flowers had come up as the postilions changed horses and was urging the travellers to buy bouquets for their ladies. Marius bought an extravagant bunch of the best she had to offer.

  ‘Upon my soul,’ reflected Théodule, ‘she must be a remarkably pretty woman if she’s worth all that lot. I must certainly have a look at her.’ And he proceeded to follow Marius, no longer because of his promise but from plain curiosity, like a hound hunting on its own account.

  Marius paid no attention to him. One or two fashionably-clad women had got out of the coach, but he had not so much as glanced at them. He seemed to be unconscious of what was going on around him.

  ‘He’s in love, all right,’ said Théodule.

  Marius was making for the church.

  ‘Better and better,’ reflected Théodule. ‘The church, of course. The best kind of rendez-vous is the one with a bit of religion in it. Nothing like a soulful glance under the noses of the saints!’

  But when he reached the church Marius did not go inside but walked round it and vanished behind one of the buttresses.

  ‘So they’re meeting in the open,’ thought Théodule. ‘Well, let’s have a look at the wench.’

  He advanced cautiously round the buttress and then stopped dead in dismay.

  Marius was kneeling on the grass with his face hidden in his hands. He had arranged his bunch of flowers. Close by where he knelt was a cross of black wood bearing the following name in white letters: COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY.

  The ‘wench’ was a grave.

  VIII

  Marble meets granite

  It was here that Marius had come the first time he left Paris and here that he came every time, when his grandfather said, ‘He’s on the rampage.’

  Lieutenant Théodule was utterly taken aback by his discovery. He experienced a disagreeable and singular emotion which he was incapable of analysing, a mingling of respect for the dead and respect for a colonel. He withdrew, leaving Marius alone in the cemetery, and there was an element of military discipline in his withdrawal. Death had confronted him wearing officer’s epaulettes and he came near to greeting it with a military salute. Not knowing what to write to his aunt, he decided to write nothing at all, and probably there would have been no sequel to his discovery had not the mysterious working of chance caused that incident in Vernon to be followed almost immediately by a repercussion in Paris.

  Marius returned home in the early morning three days later, wearied by two sleepless nights of coach travel. He went straight up to his room, and feeling the need to refresh himself with an hour at the swimming school, went straight off to the baths, having only stopped to shed his top-coat and the black ribbon which he wore round his neck.

  Monsieur Gillenormand, who like all elderly persons in good health had risen early, heard him come in. As nimbly as his old legs would allow, he hurried up to Marius’s attic room meaning only to embrace him and perhaps, by adroit questioning, glean some notion of where he had been. But the youth moved faster than the octogenarian, and by the time he had climbed the stairs Marius was gone.

  His bed had not been touched and the top-coat and black ribbon lay trustingly upon it.

  ‘Better still,’ said Monsieur Gillenormand.

  A minute later he was in the drawing-room, where his daughter was busy with her cartwheel embroidery. He made a triumphal entry, bringing with him the top-coat and the ribbon.

  ‘Victory!’ he cried. ‘Now we shall get to the bottom of the mystery. We shall put our finger on the spot. We shall plumb the riddle to its depths and spy out our cunning rascal’s romance. I have the portrait.’

  A small case of black shagreen, something like a medallion, was attached to the ribbon. The old man examined it for some moments without opening it, savouring it greedily and angrily like a starving beggar witnessing the serving of a rich meal that is not for him.

  ‘It can only be a portrait, the sort of thing one wears on one’s heart. How absurd they are! Probably some abominable strumpet, enough to make one shudder. The young have such bad taste these days.’

  ‘Do open it, father,’ the old maid said.

  The case opened with a spring catch. They found nothing in it but a carefully folded sheet of paper.

  ‘The old, old story!’ cried Monsieur Gillenormand, bursting into laughter. ‘Of course it’s a love-letter.’

  ‘We must read it!’ his daughter cried.

  She put on her glasses and they read it together. What they read was Colonel Pontmercy’s dying message to his son.

  The effect of this upon the old man and his daughter cannot be described. They were chilled as though by the presence of the dead. Neither spoke a word except that Monsieur Gillenormand muttered to himself, ‘It’s the bandit’s handwriting, no doubt of that.’

  The lady, after inspecting the document from every angle, replaced it in the case. At the same time something had fallen out of a pocket of the top-coat, a small, rectangular packet wrapped in blue paper. Mlle Gillenormand picked it up and undid it. It contained Marius’s hundred visiting-cards. She handed one of them to her father, who read: Le Baron Marius Pontmercy.

  The old man rang the bell for Nicolette. He picked up ribbon, case, and top-coat and tossed them into the middle of the room.

  ‘Take those things away.’

  A full hour passed in total silence. The old man and the old maid sat with their backs to each other thinking their separate thoughts, which were probably much the same. At length Mlle Gillenormand said:

  ‘Pretty!’

  A few minutes later Marius appeared, having just returned from the swimming-bath. Before he had even crossed the threshold his grandfather, who still had one of the visiting-cards in his hand, cried out in the sneering, bourgeois tone of voice which was so crushing in its effect:

  ‘Well, well, well, well – so it seems you’re a baron! My compliments. May I ask what this means?’

  Marius flushed slightly.

  ‘It means that I’m my father’s son.’

  Monsieur Gillnormand ceased to smile and said harshly:

  ‘I am your father.’

  ‘My father,’ said Marius, speaking steadfastly with lowered eyes, ‘was a humble, heroic man who gallantly served the Republic and France and was great in the greatest chapter in human history. He passed a quarter of a century under canvas, under cannon – and musket-fire by day and in snow and mud and rain at night. He captured two standar
ds, received twenty wounds and died forgotten and neglected, having only one fault to his account, that he had given too much of his heart to two ingrates, his country and myself.’

  This was more than Monsieur Gillenormand could endure. At the word ‘republic’ he had risen, or, to be more exact, leapt to his feet, and each successive word uttered by Marius had affected him, old royalist that he was, like the puff of a bellows on a brazier. His colour had mounted from grey to pink, from pink to scarlet and from scarlet to flame.

  ‘Marius!’ he thundered. ‘Abominable boy. I know nothing of your father and do not want to know. But I know this, that all those people were villains and scoundrels, robbers and murderers. All of them, I tell you! Every one! I admit of no exceptions. Do you hear me? As for you, you are no more a baron than my slipper. The men who served Robespierre were villains and the men who served Bonaparte were knaves. They were renegades who betrayed – betrayed – betrayed their lawful king, and cowards who ran away from the Prussians and English at Waterloo! That is what I know. If your father was one of them, so much the worse. I know nothing of him. And that is that. I am your humble servant, Monsieur.’

  Now it was Marius who was the brazier and his grandfather who was the bellows. The young man stood trembling in every limb while his senses reeled. He was the priest who sees his relics scattered to the winds, the fakir who sees his idol spat upon. That such things should be said in his presence was not to be borne, but what was he to do? His father had been grossly insulted, but the offender was his grandfather. How avenge the one without assailing the other? He could not insult his grandfather, but it was equally impossible for him to ignore the insult to his father. The hallowed grave on one side and white hairs on the other. He paused for some moments in furious indecision. Then, with his eyes fixed on the old man, he cried in a ringing voice:

  ‘Down with the Bourbons and that fat pig Louis XVIII!’