His black coat bore the weary folds of a garment that has been up all night.
The elbows were whitened with the down which the friction of cloth against linen leaves behind it.
Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor at his feet by the sun.
There came a sound at the door, and he raised his eyes.
Marius entered, his head well up, his mouth smiling, an indescribable light on his countenance, his brow expanded, his eyes triumphant. He had not slept either.
"It is you, father!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of Jean Valjean; "that idiot of a Basque had such a mysterious air!
But you have come too early.
It is only half past twelve.
Cosette is asleep."
That word:
"Father," said to M. Fauchelevent by Marius, signified: supreme felicity.
There had always existed, as the reader knows, a lofty wall, a coldness and a constraint between them; ice which must be broken or melted.
Marius had reached that point of intoxication when the wall was lowered, when the ice dissolved, and when M. Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette, a father.
He continued:
his words poured forth, as is the peculiarity of divine paroxysms of joy.
"How glad I am to see you!
If you only knew how we missed you yesterday! Good morning, father.●本●作●品●由●思●兔●在●線●閱●讀●網●友●整●理●上●傳●