At length the old man stammered:
“Come! his mouth is unstopped at last. He has said: ‘Father’ to me.”
Marius disengaged his head from his grandfather’s arms, and said gently:
“But, father, now that I am quite well, it seems to me that I might see her.”
“Agreed again, you shall see her to-morrow.”
“Father!”
“What?”
“Why not to-day?”
“Well, to-day then. Let it be to-day. You have called me ‘father’ three times, and it is worth it. I will attend to it. She shall be brought hither. Agreed, I tell you. It has already been put into verse. This is the ending of the elegy of the ‘Jeune Malade’ by André Chénier, by André Chénier whose throat was cut by the ras . . . by the giants of ’93.”
M. Gillenormand fancied that he detected a faint frown on the part of Marius, who, in truth, as we must admit, was no longer listening to him, and who was thinking far more of Cosette than of 1793.