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would have been invented there.
The whole thickness of a house and a multitude of unin-
habited rooms separated this den from the boulevard, and
the only window that existed opened on waste lands en-
closed with walls and palisades.
Jondrette had lighted his pipe, seated himself on the
seatless chair, and was engaged in smoking. His wife was
talking to him in a low tone.
If Marius had been Courfeyrac, that is to say, one of
those men who laugh on every occasion in life, he would
have burst with laughter when his gaze fell on the Jondrette
woman. She had on a black bonnet with plumes not unlike
the hats of the heralds-at-arms at the coronation of Charles
X., an immense tartan shawl over her knitted petticoat,
and the man’s shoes which her daughter had scorned in the
morning. It was this toilette which had extracted from Jon-
drette the exclamation: ‘Good! You have dressed up. You
have done well. You must inspire confidence!’
As for Jondrette, he had not taken off the new surtout,
which was too large for him, and which M. Leblanc had giv-
en him, and his costume continued to present that contrast
of coat and trousers which constituted the ideal of a poet in
Courfeyrac’s eyes.
All at once, Jondrette lifted up his voice:—
‘By the way! Now that I think of it. In this weather, he
will come in a carriage. Light the lantern, take it and go
down stairs. You will stand behind the lower door. The very
moment that you hear the carriage stop, you will open the
door, instantly, he will come up, you will light the staircase