The days that follow weddings are solitary. People respect the meditations of the happy pair. And also, their tardy slumbers, to some degree. The tumult of visits and congratulations only begins later on.
On the morning of the 17th of February, it was a little past midday when Basque, with napkin and feather-duster under his arm, busy in setting his antechamber to rights, heard a light tap at the door. There had been no ring, which was discreet on such a day.
Basque opened the door, and beheld M. Fauchelevent. He introduced him into the drawing-room, still encumbered and topsy-turvy, and which bore the air of a field of battle after the joys of the preceding evening. 'Dame, sir,' remarked Basque, 'we all woke up late. ' 'Is your master up?
' asked Jean Valjean. 'How is Monsieur’s arm? ' replied Basque. 'Better. Is your master up? ' 'Which one? the old one or the new one? ' 'Monsieur Pontmercy. ' 'Monsieur le Baron,' said Basque, drawing himself up. A man is a Baron most of all to his servants.
He counts for something with them; they are what a philosopher would call, bespattered with the title, and that flatters them. Marius, be it said in passing, a militant republican as he had proved, was now a Baron in spite of himself.
A small revolution had taken place in the family in connection with this title. It was now M. Gillenormand who clung to it, and Marius who detached himself from it. But Colonel Pontmercy had written: 'My son will bear my title. ' Marius obeyed.
And then, Cosette, in whom the woman was beginning to dawn, was delighted to be a Baroness. 'Monsieur le Baron? ' repeated Basque. 'I will go and see. I will tell him that M. Fauchelevent is here. ' 'No. Do not tell him