he
did not yield; this was no more a characteristic of his physical than
of his moral nature, but he felt himself giving way internally. For four
years he had been waiting for Marius, with his foot firmly planted, that
is the exact word, in the conviction that that good-for-nothing young
scamp would ring at his door some day or other; now he had reached
the point, where, at certain gloomy hours, he said to himself, that
if Marius made him wait much longer--It was not death that was
insupportable to him; it was the idea that perhaps he should never see
Marius again. The idea of never seeing Marius again had never entered
his brain until that day; now the thought began to recur to him, and
it chilled him. Absence, as is always the case in genuine and natural
sentiments, had only served to augment the grandfather's love for the
ungrateful child, who had gone off like a flash. It is during December
nights, when the cold stands at ten degrees, that one thinks oftenest of
the son.

M. Gillenormand was, or thought himself, above all things, incapable
of taking a single step, he--the grandfather, towards his grandson; "I
would die rather," he said to himself. He did not consider himself
as the least to blame; but he thought of Marius only with profound
tenderness, and the mute despair of an elderly, kindly old man who is
about to vanish in the dark.

He began to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness.

M. Gillenormand, without however acknowledging it to himself, for it
would have rendered him furious and ashamed, had never loved a mistress
as he loved Marius.

He had had placed in his chamber, opposite the head of his bed, so that
it should be the first thing on which his eyes fell on waking, an
old portrait of his other daughter, who was dead, Madame Pontmercy,
a portrait which had been taken when she was eighteen. He gazed
incessantly at that portrait. One day, he happened to say, as he gazed
upon it:--

"I think the likeness is strong."

"To my sister?" inquired Mademoiselle Gillenormand. "Yes, certainly."

"The old man added:--

"And to him also."

Once as he sat with his knees pressed together, and his eyes almost
closed, in a despondent attitude, his daughter ventured to say to him:--

"Father, are you as angry with him as ever?"

She paused, not daring to proceed further.

"With whom?" he demanded.

"With that poor Marius."

He raised his aged head, laid his withered and emaciated fist on the
ta