o one to mention the child to him； and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed。 At first； he hoped that this Buonapartist； this Jacobin； this terrorist； this Septembrist； would return。
But the weeks passed by； years passed； to M。 Gillenormand's great despair； the 〃blood…drinker〃 did not make his appearance。
〃I could not do otherwise than turn him out；〃 said the grandfather to himself； and he asked himself： 〃If the thing were to do over again； would I do it？〃
His pride instantly answered 〃yes；〃 but his aged head； which he shook in silence； replied sadly 〃no。〃
He had his hours of depression。 He missed Marius。
Old men need affection as they need the sun。 It is warmth。
Strong as his nature was； the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him。
Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards 〃that rogue〃； but he suffered。 He never inquired about him； but he thought of him incessantly。 He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner； he was still merry and violent as of old； but his merriment had a convulsive harshness； and his violences always terminated in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection。
He sometimes said： 〃Oh！ if he only would return； what a good box on the ear I would give him！〃
As for his aunt； she thought too little to love much； Marius was no longer for her much more than a vague black form； and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had。
What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was； that he locked it all up within his breast； and did not allow its existence to be divined。 His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke。
It sometimes happened that officious busybodies spoke to him of Marius； and asked him：
〃What is your grandson doing？〃 〃What has bee of him？〃
The old bourgeois replied with a sigh； that he was a sad case； and giving a fillip to his cuff； if he wished to appear gay：
〃Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other。〃
While the old man regretted； Marius applauded himself。 As is the case with all good…hearted people； misfortune had eradicated his bitterness。
He only thought of M。 Gillenormand in an amiable light； but he had set his mind on not receiving anything more from the man who had been unkind to his father。 This was the mitigated translation of his first indignation。 Moreover； he was happy at having suffered； and at suffering still。 It was for his father's sake。
The hardness of his life satisfied and pleased him。
He said to himself with a sort of joy that it was certainly the least he could do； that it was an expiation； that； had it not been for that； he would have been punished in some other way and later on for his impious indifference towards his father； and such a father！ that it would not have been just that his father should have all the suffering； and he none of it； and that； in any case； what were his toils and his destitution pared with the colonel's heroic life？ that； in short； the only way for him to approach his father and resemble him； was to be brave in the face of indigence； as the other had been valiant before the enemy； and that that was； no doubt； what the colonel had meant to imply by the words： 〃He will be worthy of it。〃
Words which Marius continued to wear； not on his breast； since the colonel's writing had disappeared； but in his heart。
And then； on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors； he had been only a child； now he was a man。
He felt it。
Misery； we repeat； had been good for him。
Poverty in youth； when it succeeds； has this magnificent property about it； that it turns the whole will towards effort； and the whole soul towards aspiration。 Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous； hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life。
The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractions； horse races； hunting； dogs； tobacco； gaming； good repasts； and all the rest of it； occupations for the baser side of the soul； at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides。
The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty； he eats； when he has eaten； he has nothing more but meditation。
He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis； he gazes at the sky； space； the stars； flowers； children； the humanity among which he is suffering； the creation amid which he beams。 He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soul； he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God。
He dreams； he feels himself great； he dreams on； and feels himself tender。 From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the passion of the man who meditates。
An admirable sentiment breaks forth in him； forgetfulness of self and pity for all。 As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers； gives； and lavishes to souls which stand open； and refuses to souls that are closed； he es to pity； he the millionnaire of the mind； the millionnaire of money。
All hatred departs from his heart； in proportion as light penetrates his spirit。
And is he unhappy？ No。 The misery of a young man is never miserable。
The first young lad who es to hand； however poor he may be； with his strength； his health； his rapid walk； his brilliant eyes； his warmly circulating blood； his black hair； his red lips； his white teeth； his pure breath； will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor。 And then； every morning； he sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread； and while his hands earn his bread； his dorsal column gains pride； his brain gathers ideas。
His task finished； he returns to ineffable ecstasies； to contemplation； to joys； he beholds his feet set in afflictions； in obstacles； on the pavement； in the nettles； sometimes in the mire； his head in the light。
He is firm serene； gentle； peaceful； attentive； serious； content with little； kindly； and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks：
work； which makes him free； and thought； which makes him dignified。
This is what had happened with Marius。
To tell the truth； he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation。
From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty； he had stopped； thinking it good to be poor； and retrenching time from his work to give to thought； that is to say； he sometimes passed entire days in meditation； absorbed； engulfed； like a visionary； in the mute voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance。 He had thus propounded the problem of his life：
to toil as little as possible at material labor； in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is impalpable； in other words； to bestow a few hours on real life； and to cast the rest to the infinite。
As he believed that he lacked nothing； he did not perceive that contemplation； thus understood； ends by being one of the forms of idleness； that he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities of life； and that he was resting