There came a moment in Marius'' life, when he swept his own landing, when he bought his sou''s worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer''s, when he waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker''s and purchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though he had stolen it.
Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the butcher''s shop on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm, who had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the butcher''s astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between two books, and went away. It was Marius.
On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he lived for three days.
On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the third he gnawed the bone.
Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and sent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on every occasion, saying that he needed nothing.
He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we have just described was effected within him.
From that time forth, he had not put off his black garments.
But his garments were quitting him.