Marius was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of medium stature,
with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow,
well-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity,
and with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over
his whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded,
without thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic
sweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by way of
Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered
the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which
distinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race. He was at that period
of life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal
parts, of depth and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he
had all that is required to be stupid: one more turn of the key, and he
might be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very
genial. As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth
the whitest in the world, his smile corrected the severity of his face,
as a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous
smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his
glance was large.
At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed that young
girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid, with death in
his soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old
clothes, and that they were laughing at them; the fact is, that they
stared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him.
This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had
made him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he
fled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely,—stupidly, as
Courfeyrac said.
Courfeyrac also said to him: “Do not aspire to be venerable” [they
called each other _thou_; it is the tendency of youthful friendships to
slip into this mode of address]. “Let me give you a piece of advice, my
dear fellow. Don’t read so many books, and look a little more at the
lasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint
of fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized.”
On other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said:—“Good morning,
Monsieur l’Abbé!”
When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius
avoided women, both young and old, more than ever for a week to come,
and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.
Nevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, two women
whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever. In
truth, he would have been very much amazed if he had been informed that
they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his
chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: “Seeing that his servant woman
wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.” The other was a
sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked
at.
For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the
Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the Pépinière, a man
and a very young girl, who were almost always seated side by side on
the same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de
l’Ouest side. Every time that that chance which meddles with the
strolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that
walk,—and it was nearly every day,—he found this couple there. The man
appeared to be about sixty years of age; he seemed sad and serious; his
whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military
men who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration,
Marius would have said: “He is an ex-officer.” He had a kindly but
unapproachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of
any one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed
hat, which always appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt,
that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A
grisette who passed near him one day, said: “Here’s a very tidy
widower.” His hair was very white.
The first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated
herself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted, she was a sort
of child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost
homely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome
eyes. Only, they were always raised with a sort of displeasing
assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the
scholars in a convent; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black
merino. They had the air of being father and daughter.
Marius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little
girl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and thereafter paid no
attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him.
They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl
chattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but little, and,
at times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.
Marius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk. He
invariably found them there.
This is the way things went:—
Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was furthest from
their bench; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in front
of them, then returned to the extremity whence he had come, and began
again. This he did five or six times in the course of his promenade,
and the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its
having occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That
personage, and that young girl, although they appeared,—and perhaps
because they appeared,—to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some
attention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along
the Pépinière from time to time; the studious after their lectures, the
others after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the
last, had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he
had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled,
discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Impressed solely
with the child’s gown and the old man’s hair, he had dubbed the
daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father, Monsieur Leblanc, so
that as no one knew them under any other title, this nickname became a
law in the default of any other name. The students said: “Ah! Monsieur
Leblanc is on his bench.” And Marius, like the rest, had found it
convenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.
We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, in order to
facilitate this tale.
So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, during the first
year. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid.