Les Miserables (Movie Tie-in) (9781101612774)

by Hugo, Victor; Donougher, Christine (TRN)

  Clearly a crisis was approaching. As nearly always happens, Marius skirmished before joining battle. It happened one morning that Monsieur Gillenormand, glancing at the newspaper, let fall a frivolously royalist remark on the Convention and Danton, Saint-Just and Robespierre.

  ‘Those men of ’93 were giants,’ Marius said angrily.

  The old man did not say another word, and Marius, never forgetting the inflexible grandparent of former years, saw in his silence a manifestation of deeply buried anger, and prepared himself for the struggle that must come. He was resolved that if Cosette were denied him he would strip the bandages off his wounds and refuse all food. His wounds were his armoury. He would have Cosette or die.

  III

  Marius attacks

  One day while his daughter was tidying the room Monsieur Gillenormand bent over Marius’s bed and said to him most tenderly:

  ‘If I were you, dear Marius, I would begin to eat more meat than fish. A fried sole is excellent at the beginning of convalescence; but a good chop is what a man needs to put him on his feet.’

  Marius, whose strength was now almost quite restored, sat up with clenched fists and glared at his grandfather.

  ‘There is something I have to say to you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to get married.’

  ‘But of course,’ said the old man, laughing.

  ‘How do you mean – of course?’

  ‘That’s understood. You shall have your little girl.’

  Marius trembled with sheer amazement.

  ‘You shall have her,’ Monsieur Gillenormand repeated. ‘She comes here every day in the shape of an elderly gentleman who asks for news of you. Since your injury she has spent her time weeping and making bandages. I know all about her. She lives at No. 7, Rue de l’Homme-Armé. You didn’t think of that, did you? You thought to yourself, “I’ll put it to him squarely, that old relic of the ancien régime. He was a beau once; he had his flutter and his wenches. He had his fun, and now we’ll see.” A battle, you thought, and you’d take the bull by the horns. So I suggest that you should eat a chop and you say you want to get married! What a jump! You thought there was bound to be an argument, not knowing what an old coward I am. You didn’t expect to find your grandfather even sillier than yourself, too busy thinking of all the things you were going to say to me. But I’m not so foolish. I’ve made inquiries. I know that she’s charming and good and that she adores you. If you had died there would have been three of us – her coffin and mine alongside your own. I had thought, when you were better, of simply bringing her to your bedside; but that’s the sort of romantic situation that only happens in novels. What would your aunt have said? And the doctor? A pretty girl is no cure for fever. So there you are, and no need to say any more. I knew you did not care for me, and I thought, what can I do to make him love me? I thought, I can give him Cosette. You expected me to play the tyrant and ruin everything. Not a bit of it – Cosette is yours. Nothing could be better. Be so good as to get married, my dear sir. And be happy, my dear, dear boy.’

  Having said which the old man burst into tears. He clasped Marius’s head to his chest and they wept together.

  ‘Father!’ cried Marius.

  ‘At last you love me!’ the old man said.

  There was a moment of supreme happiness during which neither could speak. Then the old man stammered:

  ‘So at last you’ve said it – father.’

  Marius gently disengaged his head.

  ‘Father, now that I’m so much better I think I should be allowed to see her.’

  ‘You shall. You shall see her tomorrow.’

  ‘But father –’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Why not today?’

  ‘Well then, today. You have called me “father” three times and that has earned it. It is like the end of a poem by André Chénier, whose throat was cut by those vill— those giants of ’93.’

  Monsieur Gillenormand thought he had caught the trace of a frown on Marius’s face, although the truth is that, his mind filled with thoughts of Cosette, Marius had not even heard him. Trembling at the thought that he might have blundered in that reference to the murderers of André Chénier, the old man hurriedly went out.

  ‘Well, that was not the way to put it. There was nothing evil about those great men of the Revolution. They were heroes, not a doubt of it. But they found André Chénier troublesome, and so they had him guillo— I mean, they asked him in the public interest if he wouldn’t mind …’

  But he could find no way of ending the sentence. While his daughter smoothed Marius’s pillows he ran out of the room as hurriedly as his age allowed, shut the door behind him, and, foaming with rage, found himself face to face with Basque. He seized him by the collar and cried:

  ‘By all the gods, those villains murdered him!’

  ‘Murdered who?’

  ‘André Chénier.’

  ‘Certainly, monsieur,’ said the startled Basque.

  IV

  Mlle Gillenormand and Monsieur Fauchelevent

  Cosette and Marius saw one another again. What it meant to them we shall not attempt to say. There are things beyond description, of which the sun is one.

  All the household, including Basque and Nicolette, were assembled in Marius’s room when she entered. She stood in the doorway, seeming enveloped in a glow of light. The old man, at that moment, had been about to blow his nose. He stopped short, gazing at Cosette over his handkerchief.

  ‘Exquisite,’ he cried and loudly blew.

  Cosette was in Heaven, as dazed as a person can be by sheer happiness. She stood stammering, pale and pink, waiting to fling herself into Marius’s arms, but not venturing to do so, afraid of thus showing her love to the world. We are pitiless to happy lovers, hampering them with our presence when they only want to be alone.

  Standing behind Cosette was a white-haired man, grave but nevertheless smiling – a vaguely touching smile. It was ‘Monsieur Fauchelevent’ – that is to say, Jean Valjean. As the porter had said, he was very well dressed, entirely in new black garments, with a white cravat.

  The porter was not within miles of discerning, in that respectable figure, the ragged, mud-smeared person who on 7 June had brought the unconscious Marius to the door. Nevertheless his porter’s instinct was aroused, and he had not been able to refrain from saying to his wife, ‘I don’t know why it is, but I can’t help feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  Monsieur Fauchelevent was standing somewhat apart from the others. He had under his arm a package that looked like a volume wrapped in paper, the paper being greenish in colour and seeming damp.

  ‘Does the gentleman always have a book under his arm?’ Nicolette murmured to Mlle Gillenormand, who did not care for books.

  ‘Why,’ said Monsieur Gillenormand in the same low tone, ‘he’s a man of learning. So what is wrong with that? Monsieur Boulard, whom I used to know, never went anywhere without a book under his arm.’

  Raising his voice and bowing, he said:

  ‘Monsieur Tranchelevent …’ He did not do it on purpose; but inattention to proper names was one of his aristocratic habits. ‘Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honour, on behalf of my grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’

  Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.

  ‘Then that is settled,’ said the old man, and turning to Marius and Cosette with arms upraised he said: ‘My children, you are free to love one another.’

  They did not need telling twice. The billing and cooing began. ‘To see you again,’ Cosette murmured, standing by the chaise-longue. ‘To know that it is really you! Why did you go and fight? How dreadful! For four months I have felt that I was dead. How cruel of you, when I had done you no harm. You are forgiven, but you must never do it again. When I had the message asking me to come here I thought that I should die of joy. I have not even troubled to dress up. I must look terrible … But you don’t say anythi
ng. Why do you let me do all the talking? We’re still in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. And your dreadful wound – I cried my eyes out. That anyone should suffer so much. Your grandfather looks very nice. No, don’t try to stand up, it might be bad for you. Oh, I’m so happy, wild with happiness! Do you still love me? We live in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. There’s no garden. I’ve done nothing but make bandages, look at the blister on my finger, you bad man!’ …

  ‘Angel!’ Marius said: the word that never wears out, the one most often used by lovers … And then, since there were others present, they fell silent, only touching each other’s hand. Monsieur Gillenormand turned to the rest of the company and cried:

  ‘Well talk, can’t you! Make a little noise so that they can chatter in comfort!’ He bent over them. ‘And call each other tu. Don’t be afraid.’

  Aunt Gillenormand with a kind of amazement was observing the bright scene in her faded home. There was nothing shocked or envious in her gaze: it was that of an innocent creature of fifty-seven, a wasted life witnessing the triumph of love. Her father said to her:

  ‘I told you this would happen to you …’ He paused and went on after a moment’s silence, ‘ … to see the happiness of others.’ Then he turned to Cosette. ‘So sweetly pretty, like a painting by Greuze. And to think that she’s to be all yours, you rascal! If I weren’t fifteen years too old we’d fight a duel for her. Young lady, I am in love with you, and no wonder. What a charming wedding it will be! Saint-Denis du Saint-Sacrement is our parish, but I’ll get a dispensation for you to be married in Saint-Paul, which is a nicer church, built by the Jesuits. The masterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur, the church of Saint-Loup. You must go there when you’re married. I am wholly on your side, Mademoiselle; all young ladies should get married, it’s what they’re for. Be fruitful and multiply. What can be better than that?’ The old man skipped on his ninety-year-old heels and said to Marius: ‘By the way – did you not have a close friend?

  ‘There was Courfeyrac.’

  ‘What’s become of him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Ah, well.’

  He made Cosette sit down, sat beside them and took their four hands in his own.

  ‘So enchanting, this Cosette, a true masterpiece. A young girl and a great lady. It’s a pity she’ll only be a baroness, she should be a marquise. Get it well into your heads, my children, that you are on the right road. Love is the folly of men and the wisdom of God. Love one another. But now I come to think of it, more than half of all I possess is tied up in an annuity. My poor children, what will you do after my death in twenty years’ time?’

  A quiet voice said: ‘Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent has six hundred thousand francs.’

  It was Jean Valjean who had spoken. Hitherto he had not uttered a word, but had stood silently contemplating the happy group.

  ‘And who is this Mademoiselle Euphrasie?’ the old man asked.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Cosette.

  ‘Six hundred thousand?’ exclaimed the old man.

  ‘Less a few thousand francs,’ said Valjean, and he put the parcel which Aunt Gillenormand had supposed to be a book on the table. Opening it he disclosed a bundle of banknotes, which, being counted, amounted to five hundred thousand-franc notes and one hundred and sixty-eight five-hundred-franc notes – in all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.

  ‘Well that’s a very handsome book,’ said Monsieur Gillenormand.

  ‘Five hundred and eighy-four thousand francs,’ murmured the aunt.

  ‘That settles matters very nicely, does it not, Mlle Gillenormand?’ the old man said. ‘This young rogue of a Marius, he finds a millionairess in his dreamland. Trust the young people of nowadays. Students find girl-students worth six hundred thousand francs. Cherubino is a better man than Rothschild.’

  ‘Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!’ Mlle Gillenormand murmured again. ‘As good as six hundred thousand!’

  But as to Marius and Cosette, they were gazing into each other’s eyes, scarcely aware of this trifle.

  V

  How to safeguard your money

  No lengthy explanation is needed for the reader to understand that after the Champmathieu affair Jean Valjean had been able, during his brief escape, to come to Paris and withdraw from the Laffitte bank the money he had accumulated as Monsieur Madeleine. Fearing recapture, he had buried it in the clearing in the Montfermeil wood. The sum of 630,000 francs in banknotes was not bulky and could be put in a box; but to safeguard the box from damp he had put it in an oak chest filled with chestnut shavings. In this he had also put the bishop’s candlesticks which he had taken from Montreuil-sur-mer. It was Valjean whom the road-mender, Boulatruelle, had seen. When he needed money Valjean had returned to the clearing, which accounts for the absences we have referred to; and when he knew Marius to be convalescent, foreseeing that the entire sum would come in useful, he had gone to retrieve it. This was the last time Boulatruelle had seen him. He had inherited his pickaxe.

  The sum then remaining had amounted to 584,500 francs. Valjean had kept the five hundred for himself. ‘We shall see how it works out,’ he reflected.

  The difference between this sum and the 630,000 francs withdrawn from Laffite represented the expenditure often years – from 1823 to 1833. The time in the convent had cost only 5,000 francs. Valjean had put the silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece, where they glittered to the great admiration of Toussaint.

  For the rest, Valjean knew that he had nothing more to fear from Javert. It had been reported in the Moniteur that his drowned body had been found under a washerwoman’s boat between the Pont au Change and the Pont Neuf. He had been a policeman with an irreproachable record, highly esteemed by his superiors, who concluded that he must have committed suicide while of unsound mind. ‘Well,’ reflected Jean Valjean, ‘since he had me and let me go, that may well be true.’

  VI

  Two old gentlemen prepare for the happiness of Cosette

  Preparations for the wedding were put in hand. The month was December and the doctor, being consulted, declared that it might take place in February. Several weeks of perfect bliss ensued, and Monsieur Gillenormand was far from being the least happy. He spent hours in the contemplation of Cosette.

  ‘The sweet, pretty girl,’ he said. ‘So gentle and so good. Never have I seen so delightful a girl. Who could live anything but nobly with such a creature? Marius, my boy, you are a baron and you are rich. Don’t, I beseech, you, waste your time lawyering.’

  Cosette and Marius had been transported so rapidly from the depths to the heights that they would have been dazed had they not been dazzled.

  ‘Do you understand it all?’ he asked Cosette.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I feel that God is watching over us.’

  Jean Valjean arranged everything and made everything easy, speeding Cosette’s happiness with as much pleasure, or so it appeared, as she felt herself. Having been a mayor, he knew how to solve an awkward problem, that of Cosette’s civic status. To reveal the truth about her origin might, who knows, have prevented the marriage. He endowed her with a dead family, which meant that no one could make demands on her. She was not his daughter but the daughter of another Fauchelevent. Two Fauchelevent brothers had worked as gardeners in the Petit-Picpus convent; and the fact was confirmed by the nuns, who, little interested in the matter of paternity, had never troubled to inquire which of them was her father. They willingly said what was wanted, a document was prepared and Cosette acquired the legal state of Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent, an orphan. Jean Valjean, under the name of Fauchelevent, became her guardian and Monsieur Gillenormand her deputy guardian.

  As for the money, it had been bequeathed to Cosette by a person who had preferred to remain anonymous. The original sum had been 594,000 francs; but of this 10,000 francs had been spent on little Euphrasie’s education, 500 going to the convent. The legacy, held by a trustee, was to go to Cosette when she attained
her majority or when she married. All of which, it will be seen, was highly acceptable, particularly since the sum involved exceeded half a million. There were one or two trifling oddities, but these passed unnoticed.

  Cosette had to learn that she was not the daughter of the old man whom for so long she had addressed as father, and that another Fauchelevent was her real parent. At any other time she would have been greatly distressed, but in her present state of happiness this scarcely troubled her. She had Marius; and the coming of the young man made the older less important. And all her life she had been surrounded by mystery, so that this last change was not hard to accept. In any case she continued to call Jean Valjean ‘father’.

  She had taken a great liking to Monsieur Gillenormand, who showered presents on her. While Jean Valjean arranged her civic status, he attended to her trousseau, delighting in its magnificence. He gave her a dress of Binche lace which had come to him from his grandmother, saying that it was again becoming fashionable. ‘Old styles are all the rage,’ he said. ‘The young women nowadays dress just as they did when I was young.’ He rifled wardrobes filled with the belongings of his wives and mistresses; damask and moiré and painted Indian cloths, lacework from Genoa and Alençon, all kinds of elegant frivolity were lavished on the rapturous Cosette, whose soul soared skyward on Mechlin lace wings. It was a time of endless festivity in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.