One day, M. Gillenormand, while his daughter was putting in order the
phials and cups on the marble of the commode, bent over Marius and said
to him in his tenderest accents: “Look here, my little Marius, if I
were in your place, I would eat meat now in preference to fish. A fried
sole is excellent to begin a convalescence with, but a good cutlet is
needed to put a sick man on his feet.”
Marius, who had almost entirely recovered his strength, collected the
whole of it, drew himself up into a sitting posture, laid his two
clenched fists on the sheets of his bed, looked his grandfather in the
face, assumed a terrible air, and said:
“This leads me to say something to you.”
“What is it?”
“That I wish to marry.”
“Agreed,” said his grandfather.—And he burst out laughing.
“How agreed?”
“Yes, agreed. You shall have your little girl.”
Marius, stunned and overwhelmed with the dazzling shock, trembled in
every limb.
M. Gillenormand went on:
“Yes, you shall have her, that pretty little girl of yours. She comes
every day in the shape of an old gentleman to inquire after you. Ever
since you were wounded, she has passed her time in weeping and making
lint. I have made inquiries. She lives in the Rue de l’Homme Armé, No.