That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as Marius left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his study, having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying: 'The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber.
' Cosette had taken the grandfather’s arm and was strolling in the garden. A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse paper, coarsely folded—the very sight of certain missives is displeasing. The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort. Marius took it.
It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription: 'To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel. ' The recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well.
It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes. Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes. The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a whole world within him.
This was certainly the paper, the fashion of folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco. The Jondrette garret rose before his mind. Thus, strange freak of chance!
one of the two scents which he had so diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read: 'Monsieur le Baron:—If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I might have been baron Thénard, member of the Institute [acadenmy of ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if