End of the Brigand — Les Misérables

The conclusion of Marius's classical studies coincided with Gillenormand's departure from society. The old man bade farewell to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de T's salon, and established himself in the Marais, in the house of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with Nicolette, who had succeeded Magnon, and that short-breathed Basque. In 1827 Marius had just attained his seventeenth year. One evening, on his return home, he saw his grandfather holding a letter. You will set out for Vernon tomorrow. Why? To see your father. Marius was seized with a trembling fit. Nothing could have been more unexpected, or more disagreeable. It was forcing estrangement into reconciliation. He was convinced that his father, the slasher, did not love him, since he had abandoned him to others. Feeling that he was not beloved, he did not love. Nothing is more simple, he said to himself. It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence. Set out tomorrow morning. There is a coach at six. He crushed the letter and thrust it into his pocket. A night diligence from the Rue du Bouloi passed through Vernon. Neither of them thought of asking after it.

The next day, at twilight, Marius reached Vernon. He asked for Pontmercy's house. In his own mind he agreed with the Restoration, and did not recognize colonel or baron. A woman with a little lamp opened the door. Can I speak with him? She shook her head. But I am his son. He is expecting me. He no longer expects you, said the woman. Then he perceived that she was weeping. In a room lighted by a tallow candle there were three men: one standing, one kneeling, one lying on the floor in his shirt. The one on the floor was the colonel. Brain fever had taken him three days before. He had written to demand his son. On the evening of Marius's arrival he had risen in delirium, crying, My son is not coming! I shall go to meet him! Then he ran out and fell prostrate in the antechamber. He had just expired. The doctor had arrived too late. The son had also arrived too late. By the dim light a large tear could be distinguished on the pale cheek, trickled from the dead eye. The eye was extinguished, but the tear was not yet dry. That tear was his son's delay.

Marius gazed on that man whom he beheld for the first time: the open eyes which saw not, the white locks, the brown lines of sword-thrusts, the red stars of bullets, the gigantic scar that stamped heroism on a face on which God had imprinted goodness. He reflected that this man was his father, and that this man was dead, and a chill ran over him. The sorrow he felt was the sorrow he would have felt for any other man stretched out in death. The servant lamented, the priest sobbed, the doctor wiped his eyes; the corpse itself was weeping. They gazed at Marius without a word; he was the stranger there. He dropped his hat, to produce the impression that grief had deprived him of strength, and despised himself for it. The colonel had left nothing. The servant found a scrap of paper: the Emperor had made him a Baron at Waterloo; the son should take the title; a sergeant named Thenardier had saved his life, and if the son met him he should do him all the good he could. Marius preserved the paper out of that vague respect for death which is always imperious. Gillenormand had the sword and uniform sold. The neighbours pillaged the rare flowers. Marius remained forty-eight hours. In two days the colonel was buried, and in three forgotten. Marius wore crape on his hat. That was all.