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sort which complicate domestic dramas. They augment the
grievances in such cases, although, in reality, the wrongs
are not increased by them. While carrying Marius’ ‘duds’
precipitately to his chamber, at his grandfather’s command,
Nicolette had, inadvertently, let fall, probably, on the attic
staircase, which was dark, that medallion of black shagreen
which contained the paper penned by the colonel. Neither
paper nor case could afterwards be found. Marius was con-
vinced that ‘Monsieur Gillenormand’—from that day forth
he never alluded to him otherwise—had flung ‘his father’s
testament’ in the fire. He knew by heart the few lines which
the colonel had written, and, consequently, nothing was
lost. But the paper, the writing, that sacred relic,—all that
was his very heart. What had been done with it?
Marius had taken his departure without saying whith-
er he was going, and without knowing where, with thirty
francs, his watch, and a few clothes in a hand-bag. He had
entered a hackney-coach, had engaged it by the hour, and
had directed his course at hap-hazard towards the Latin
quarter.
What was to become of Marius?