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that the cloud did not last long. She had Marius. The young
man arrived, the old man was effaced; such is life.
And then, Cosette had, for long years, been habituated
to seeing enigmas around her; every being who has had a
mysterious childhood is always prepared for certain renun-
ciations.
Nevertheless, she continued to call Jean Valjean: Father.
Cosette, happy as the angels, was enthusiastic over Fa-
ther Gillenormand. It is true that he overwhelmed her with
gallant compliments and presents. While Jean Valjean was
building up for Cosette a normal situation in society and an
unassailable status, M. Gillenormand was superintending
the basket of wedding gifts. Nothing so amused him as be-
ing magnificent. He had given to Cosette a robe of Binche
guipure which had descended to him from his own grand-
mother.
‘These fashions come up again,’ said he, ‘ancient things
are the rage, and the young women of my old age dress like
the old women of my childhood.’
He rifled his respectable chests of drawers in Coroman-
del lacquer, with swelling fronts, which had not been opened
for years.—‘Let us hear the confession of these dowagers,’ he
said, ‘let us see what they have in their paunches.’ He nois-
ily violated the pot-bellied drawers of all his wives, of all his
mistresses and of all his grandmothers. Pekins, damasks,
lampas, painted moires, robes of shot gros de Tours, India
kerchiefs embroidered in gold that could be washed, dau-
phines without a right or wrong side, in the piece, Genoa
and Alencon point lace, parures in antique goldsmith’s