United States or Iceland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
They felt chilled as by the breath of a death's-head. They did not exchange a word. Only, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking to himself: "It is the slasher's handwriting." The aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all directions, then put it back in its case.
They were obliged to alter their course, and the simplest way was to turn through the boulevard. One of the invited guests observed that it was Shrove Tuesday, and that there would be a jam of vehicles. "Why?" asked M. Gillenormand "Because of the maskers." "Capital," said the grandfather, "let us go that way.
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 renunciations. Nevertheless, she continued to call Jean Valjean: Father. Cosette, happy as the angels, was enthusiastic over Father Gillenormand. It is true that he overwhelmed her with gallant compliments and presents.
M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbons, and had a horror of 1789; he was forever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during the Terror, and how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety and cleverness in order to escape having his head cut off.
Then all that you have to live upon is the twelve hundred livres that I allow you?" Marius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued: "Then I understand the girl is rich?" "As rich as I am." "What! No dowry?" "No." "Expectations?" "I think not." "Utterly naked! What's the father?" "I don't know." "And what's her name?" "Mademoiselle Fauchelevent." "Fauchewhat?" "Fauchelevent."
In his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand who was the bellows. Marius quivered in every limb, he did not know what would happen next, his brain was on fire. He was the priest who beholds all his sacred wafers cast to the winds, the fakir who beholds a passer-by spit upon his idol. It could not be that such things had been uttered in his presence. What was he to do?
Mademoiselle Gillenormand, like a sage and elderly person, contrived to spare the fine linen, while allowing the grandfather to think that he was obeyed. M. Gillenormand would not permit any one to explain to him, that for the preparation of lint batiste is not nearly so good as coarse linen, nor new linen as old linen.
When it sometimes happened to him and to whom does it not happen? to say: "Oh! if I were only rich!" it was not when ogling a pretty girl, as was the case with Father Gillenormand, but when contemplating an old book. He lived alone with an old housekeeper. He was somewhat gouty, and when he was asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism, lay crooked up in the folds of his sheets.
Father Gillenormand had seated himself, with a beaming countenance, beside Marius. As he listened to him and drank in the sound of his voice, he enjoyed at the same time a protracted pinch of snuff. At the words "Rue Plumet" he interrupted his inhalation and allowed the remainder of his snuff to fall upon his knees. "The Rue Plumet, the Rue Plumet, did you say? Let us see!
M. Gillenormand followed him with his eyes, and at the moment when the door opened, and Marius was on the point of going out, he advanced four paces, with the senile vivacity of impetuous and spoiled old gentlemen, seized Marius by the collar, brought him back energetically into the room, flung him into an armchair and said to him: "Tell me all about it!"
Word Of The Day