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why. A pretty female neighbor was amazed one morning at
receiving a big bouquet; it was M. Gillenormand who had
sent it to her. The husband made a jealous scene. M. Gille-
normand tried to draw Nicolette upon his knees. He called
Marius, ‘M. le Baron.’ He shouted: ‘Long live the Republic!’
Every moment, he kept asking the doctor: ‘Is he no lon-
ger in danger?’ He gazed upon Marius with the eyes of a
grandmother. He brooded over him while he ate. He no lon-
ger knew himself, he no longer rendered himself an account
of himself. Marius was the master of the house, there was
abdication in his joy, he was the grandson of his grandson.
In the state of joy in which he then was, he was the most
venerable of children. In his fear lest he might fatigue or an-
noy the convalescent, he stepped behind him to smile. He
was content, joyous, delighted, charming, young. His white
locks added a gentle majesty to the gay radiance of his vis-
age. When grace is mingled with wrinkles, it is adorable.
There is an indescribable aurora in beaming old age.
As for Marius, as he allowed them to dress his wounds
and care for him, he had but one fixed idea: Cosette.
After the fever and delirium had left him, he did not
again pronounce her name, and it might have been sup-
posed that he no longer thought of her. He held his peace,
precisely because his soul was there.
He did not know what had become of Cosette; the whole
affair of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his
memory; shadows that were almost indistinct, floated
through his mind, Eponine, Gavroche, Mabeuf, the Thenar-
diers, all his friends gloomily intermingled with the smoke