s sort.
Marius took it.
It smelled of tobacco.
Nothing evokes a memory like an odor.
Marius recognized that tobacco.
He looked at the superscription:
"To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci.
At his hotel."
The recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well.
It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a whole world within him.
This was certainly the paper, the fashion of folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had so diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
"Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I might have been baron Thenard, member of the Institute [academy of ciences], but I am not.
I only bear the same as him, happy if this memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses.
The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle.