In 1831, in the area of Paris near the rue Boucherat, rue de Normandie, and rue de Saintonge, lived an old man called Monsieur Gillenormand. He was a bit of a curiosity to his neighbors, primarily because he had lived to quite an advanced age. At one time, he had been like everyone else, but had lived so long he no longer was like anyone around him. He was a man of the previous century and had a haughty bourgeois air he seemed to wear as a badge of honor. He was more than ninety years of age yet stood erect, spoke loudly, drank hard, had all thirty-two of his teeth, and still needed to wear his glasses only to read.
Gillenormand would get a shave every day by a nearby barber who not only was jealous of the old man but also detested him. The old man was proud of his self-declared discernment in all matters and also boasted that he was extremely shrewd. He had very little belief in God and would often stand with his hands in his pockets and declare, “The French Revolution is nothing but a bunch of lowlife scoundrels.”
Gillenormand had an unmarried daughter of fifty years of age, but whom he treated as though she were eight years old. In a rage, he would often chastise her severely and would have loved to see her horsewhipped. Yet because of her own prudishness, no one except her immediate family ever knew her first name. She always referred to herself simply as Mademoiselle Gillenormand.
Years ago her father had another daughter as well. She was born ten years after his first one, and the two girls had little in common. Although sisters, their character and countenance were as different from each other as possibly could be. The younger of the two had a charming disposition and had married a heroic soldier at an early age. The older sister also had dreams of marriage, but her goals of finding the “perfect wealthy man” were never realized. The younger had married the man of her dreams but had died while still quite youthful.
Mademoiselle Gillenormand lived with her father and did his housekeeping. Besides this spinster and her elderly father, there also was a little boy who lived in their house. Monsieur Gillenormand always addressed the child in the sternest of tones and would often wave his cane at the boy and yell, “Come here, you rascal!” or “Get in here, you good-for-nothing!” The child was the son of his deceased daughter and therefore was the man’s grandson. And because of his harsh treatment, the boy would tremble whenever his grandfather was nearby.
At this same time, in the not-too-distant town of Vernon, anyone crossing the beautiful bridge over the Seine often would catch a glimpse of a man working his flower garden bordering the bridge. The man was about fifty years of age, although he appeared much older, and wore a leather cap and wooden shoes, while his trousers and coat were made of coarse gray cloth. Pinned to his coat was a faded yellow ribbon. His face, deeply tanned by the sun, had a large scar running across the forehead and down the right cheek. By comparison his face was nearly black, while his hair was nearly white. His body was now stooped, and often he could be seen with his hoe and sickle in hand tending or cutting his flowers.
At the far end of his small plot of land, away from the Seine, stood a small house. The man lived a quiet and humble life in the cabin without any family but had a plain-looking woman who lived there as his servant and housekeeper. The tiny plot he called his garden was known all over Vernon for the beauty of the flowers the man cultivated there, and it was these flowers that provided his livelihood.
The man’s name was Georges Pontmercy, and anyone who knew anything of French military history knew the name. He was quite young during the time of the Revolution and had been a soldier in the Rhine Army. He had been equally adept as a soldier, handling a saber or a musket, or as an officer who could lead a squadron or a battalion of men. As a career soldier, he had later accompanied Napoléon to the island of Elba, and at Waterloo was the leader of a squadron that captured the flag of the Lunenburg battalion. He had taken the flag to the emperor and had cast it at his feet in spite of the fact that his face was bleeding profusely from a deep sword cut he had received during the battle. Napoléon, greatly pleased, proclaimed, “You are now a colonel, a baron, and an officer of the Legion of Honor!”
Thinking he would not survive the war, Pontmercy humbly replied, “Sir, I thank you on behalf of my widow.”
Despite the honors bestowed on him by the emperor, all that had taken place during the Hundred Days’ War was forgotten once King Louis XVIII came to power. Pontmercy was no longer considered to be a colonel, a baron, or an officer of the Legion of Honor, and was sent to Vernon where he could be kept under surveillance. Yet he continued to sign his letters as Colonel Baron Pontmercy and would always wear his yellow ribbon, which was the designation of an officer of the Legion of Honor. The Attorney for the Crown had warned him not to wear the decoration “illegally,” as he put it, but Pontmercy retorted, “I don’t know whether I no longer understand French or whether you no longer speak it. All I know is that I don’t understand what you’re saying.” He then defiantly wore the ribbon eight straight days, and because of the esteem he enjoyed among the people, the attorney did not dare prosecute him. Yet his pay was reduced to half the normal compensation for a retired soldier, which is what forced him to lease the smallest house he could find in Vernon.
Between the two wars, while Emperor Napoléon was in power, Pontmercy had found time to marry, and it was he who was the heroic soldier who had married the younger of Monsieur Gillenormand’s daughters. The old bourgeois man had reluctantly given his daughter permission to marry and had sighed at the time, “I guess even the greatest of families are forced into this.” The new Madame Pontmercy became an admirable woman in every sense and lived a life worthy of her famous soldier husband. Yet in 1815 she had died unexpectedly, leaving a small son who became the joy of the colonel’s life. However, Monsieur Gillenormand demanded possession of his grandson and declared he would disinherit the lad unless Pontmercy gave the child to him. The boy’s father, believing he was doing what was best for the child, yielded to the grandfather and then attempted to transfer his love to his flowers instead. After this he tried to keep his lonely mind occupied with his trivial tasks or thoughts of his past glories.
Monsieur Gillenormand had no contact whatsoever with his son-in-law but occasionally would refer to him mockingly as “His Baronship.” He and Pontmercy had agreed that the colonel should never attempt to see his son or speak to him under penalty of seeing the boy returned yet disowned and disinherited. Gillenormand and his spinster daughter thought of Pontmercy as a man afflicted with the plague and intended to raise the child in their own way. Pontmercy submitted to all of this, continuing to think it was in the boy’s best interest and that no one but he himself was sacrificing anything.
Actually, Gillenormand’s estate did not amount to much, but the boy stood to inherit a considerable sum from Mademoiselle Gillenormand. She had inherited a large estate from her mother’s side of the family, and her sister’s son was her natural heir.
The boy’s name was Marius, and he knew only that his father was living. No one volunteered any information to him, and he was discouraged from asking questions. Yet due to his grandfather’s whispers and innuendoes, he picked up the fact that his father was to be thought of only with a sense of painful shame.
While Marius was growing up in this way, his father, Colonel Baron Pontmercy, would slip away from Vernon every two or three months, and like a criminal violating his parole, would quietly sneak into Paris. He would conceal himself behind a pillar in the Saint Sulpice Church at the time the boy’s aunt would take him to Mass. Barely daring to breathe, lest Mademoiselle Gillenormand should turn and see him, he would stand there trembling as he gazed at his son.
The priest, from his vantage point near the altar, often would see a man quietly standing near a pillar of the church. He wondered about this man who stood there staring at a boy in the pew while large tears streamed down the man’s scarred face.
The priest’s heart went out to him.
Marius Pontmercy pursued his studies well as a child, and upon finally being somewhat free from the hands of his aunt and his grandfather, the young man entered college and then law school. He did not love his grandfather very much, for the old man’s cynicism repelled him and wounded his spirit. And his feelings toward his father were nothing but a dark void. On the whole, he had a stern personality but was passionate to the point of fanaticism in his political leanings, declaring himself to be a Royalist. He was proud yet generous, was a religious and enthusiastic young man, and was honorable and pure to a fault.
One evening in 1827, when Marius was seventeen, he returned home and saw his grandfather holding a letter. As soon as he walked in, his grandfather looked up and said, “Marius, tomorrow you must go to Vernon.”
“Why?” Marius asked, with a puzzled look on his face, for he knew no one in that town.
“To see your father,” his grandfather said dryly.
At this Marius began to tremble. He often had thought about his father but never dreamed he would be asked to actually see him. Nothing could have been more unexpected, or more unpleasant, in his thinking. What had been nearly a lifetime of estrangement was now being forced into reconciliation.
In addition to seeing his father in the wrong political camp, he was convinced that the “slasher”—as his grandfather called his father on a good day—did not love him. To him, this was undeniable, since he had abandoned him into the care of others. Therefore, feeling he was not loved, he did not love in return. Nothing could be simpler, he thought.
Marius was so taken aback by his grandfather’s words that he was speechless. His grandfather explained, “It appears your father is quite ill and is requesting your presence.” After a short pause, the old man added, “You must leave first thing tomorrow morning. There is a coach that leaves at six o’clock and arrives in the early evening. This message says for you to hurry.”
Seeing his task as unpleasant, nevertheless, Marius considered it his duty to obey. So the next evening at dusk, Marius found himself in Vernon. He asked the first person he saw for “Monsieur Pontmercy’s house.” He refused to say, “Colonel Pontmercy’s house,” for in his own mind, he agreed with the restoration of the king, and therefore did not recognize his father’s claim to his title of either colonel or baron.
The house was quickly pointed out to him. He rang the bell, and a woman opened the door and stood before him with a lamp in her hand. Marius simply asked, “Monsieur Pontmercy?” The woman remained motionless.
Marius then demanded, “Is this his house?”
The woman nodded, at which Marius added, “Then may I speak with him?”
At these words, the woman shook her head.
“But I am his son!” insisted Marius. “He is expecting me.”
“He is no longer expecting you,” the woman said. Suddenly Marius noticed that the woman was weeping as she pointed to the door of one of the rooms.
Marius quickly entered the room that was lit by only one candle sitting on the fireplace mantel. In the room were three men: one standing, one kneeling, and one lying on the floor. The one on the floor was the colonel, and the one kneeling was a priest who was obviously engaged in prayer. The one standing was the man’s doctor.
Even in the dim light of the candle, a large tear could be seen on the pale cheek of the colonel, one that had trickled from his now dark eye. The light of his eyes had been extinguished, yet the tear was not yet dry. Marius was just moments too late, and his father’s tear was for his son’s delay.
Marius gazed at his father, a man he had not seen for many years. He looked at his strong, manly face and his eyes, which were still open but no longer could see him. He noticed his white hair and then his muscular arms, which bore the marks of many swords and bullet holes. Finally, he contemplated the large scar across the man’s face. The scar spoke of heroism, but something greater marked his entire countenance—the goodness of God.
As he reflected on the fact that this man was his father and that he was now dead, a chill ran down his spine. Yet the sorrow he felt was no greater than he would have felt for any other dead man he would have happened to see.
The colonel had left no estate, and the sale of his furniture would barely cover his burial expenses. While Marius stood there motionless, the old woman handed him a scrap of paper. On the note, written in the colonel’s own handwriting, were these words:
For my son, Marius.
Emperor Napoléon made me a baron on the battlefield of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to the title, which was purchased with my own blood, I leave it to my son. He shall take it, and I am confident that over time he will be worthy of its use. Also, during that same battle, a sergeant by the name of Thénardier saved my life. I have heard that recently he has been running a little inn in Montfermeil, a village in the outskirts of Paris. If my son ever meets him, I want him to do all the good he can for Thénardier.
Marius took the paper and kept it safe, not so much from a sense of duty to his father, but due to a sense of vague respect for death that seems to be inherently demanded by the hearts of men. Nothing else remained of the poor colonel. Monsieur Gillenormand even had his son-in-law’s sword and uniform sold to an old clothing dealer. And the dead man’s neighbors devastated his beautiful garden and pillaged his rare flowers. All the flowering plants ultimately were taken over by weeds and died as well.
After his father’s burial, some forty-eight hours later Marius returned to Paris and to his law studies. He wore a bit of black crepe on his hat but had no more thoughts of his father than if the man had never lived at all.
In two days, the colonel was buried, and in three—forgotten.