it was fortunate that it was not there and that
it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was just, that his
grandfather had been the true guardian of his father's glory, and that
it was far better that the colonel's sword should be sold at auction,
sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old junk, than that it
should, to-day, wound the side of his country.

And then he fell to weeping bitterly.

This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he could
not. Since she was gone, he must needs die. Had he not given her his
word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant
that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that
she no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning,
without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What
was the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what!
should he retreat after going so far? should he flee from danger after
having approached it? should he slip away after having come and peeped
into the barricade? slip away, all in a tremble, saying: "After all, I
have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is
civil war, and I shall take my leave!" Should he abandon his friends who
were expecting him? Who were in need of him possibly! who were a mere
handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love, to
country, to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of
patriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father
was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on
the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him: "March on, you
poltroon!"

Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his
head.

All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just been
effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought which
is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to
be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt that he
was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more
as lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly
transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the
eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery
recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left none of
them unanswered.

Let us see, why should his father be