M.Gillenormand never mentioned the colonel，except when he occasionally made mocking allusions to'his Baronship.'
It had been expressly agreed that Pontmercy should never attempt to see his son nor to speak to him，under penalty of having the latter handed over to him disowned and disinherited.For the Gillenormands，Pontmercy was a man afflicted with the plague.They intended to bring up the child in their own way.
Perhaps the colonel was wrong to accept these conditions，but he submitted to them，thinking that he was doing right and sacrificing no one but himself.
The inheritance of Father Gillenormand did not amount to much；but the inheritance of Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder was considerable.This aunt，who had remained unmarried，was very rich on the maternal side，and her sister's son was her natural heir.
The boy，whose name was Marius，knew that he had a father，but nothing more.No one opened his mouth to him about it.
Nevertheless，in the society into which his grandfather took him，whispers，innuendoes，and winks，had eventually enlightened the little boy's mind；he had finally understood something of the case，and as he naturally took in the ideas and opinions which were，so to speak，the air he breathed，by a sort of infiltration and slow penetration，he gradually came to think of his father only with shame and with a pain at his heart.
While he was growing up in this fashion，the colonel slipped away every two or three months，came to Paris on the sly，like a criminal breaking his ban，and went and posted himself at Saint-Sulpice，at the hour when Aunt Gillenormand led Marius to the mass.There，trembling lest the aunt should turn round，concealed behind a pillar，motionless，not daring to breathe，he gazed at his child.The scarred veteran was afraid of that old spinster.
From this had arisen his connection with the cure of Vernon，M.l'Abbe Mabeuf.
That worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint-Sulpice，who had often observed this man gazing at his child，and the scar on his cheek，and the large tears in his eyes.
That man，who had so manly an air，yet who was weeping like a woman，had struck the warden.That face had clung to his mind.
One day，having gone to Vernon to see his brother，he had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge，and had recognized the man of Saint-Sulpice.The warden had mentioned the circumstance to the cure，and both had paid the colonel a visit，on some pretext or other.
This visit led to others.
The colonel，who had been extremely reserved at first，ended by opening his heart，and the cure and the warden finally came to know the whole history，and how Pontmercy was sacrificing his happiness to his child's future.This caused the cure to regard him with veneration and tenderness，and the colonel，on his side，became fond of the cure.
And moreover，when both are sincere and good，no men so penetrate each other，and so amalgamate with each other，as an old priest and an old soldier.At bottom，the man is the same.
The one has devoted his life to his country here below，the other to his country on high；that is the only difference.
Twice a year，on the first of January and on St.George's day，Marius wrote duty letters to his father，which were dictated by his aunt，and which one would have pronounced to be copied from some formula；this was all that M.Gillenormand tolerated；and the father answered them with very tender letters which the grandfather thrust into his pocket unread.
ONE OF THE RED SPECTRES OF THAT EPOCH
Any one who had chanced to pass through the little town of Vernon at this epoch，and who had happened to walk across that fine monumental bridge，which will soon be succeeded，let us hope，by some hideous iron cable bridge，might have observed，had he dropped his eyes over the parapet，a man about fifty years of age wearing a leather cap，and trousers and a waistcoat of coarse gray cloth，to which something yellow which had been a red ribbon，was sewn，shod with wooden sabots，tanned by the sun，his face nearly black and his hair nearly white，a large scar on his forehead which ran down upon his cheek，bowed，bent，prematurely aged，who walked nearly every day，hoe and sickle in hand，in one of those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the bridge，and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of terraces，charming enclosures full of flowers of which one could say，were they much larger：
'these are gardens，'and were they a little smaller：'these are bouquets.'
All these enclosures abut upon the river at one end，and on a house at the other.
The man in the waistcoat and the wooden shoes of whom we have just spoken，inhabited the smallest of these enclosures and the most humble of these houses about 1817.
He lived there alone and solitary，silently and poorly，with a woman who was neither young nor old，neither homely nor pretty，neither a peasant nor a bourgeoise，who served him.The plot of earth which he called his garden was celebrated in the town for the beauty of the flowers which he cultivated there.These flowers were his occupation.
By dint of labor，of perseverance，of attention，and of buckets of water，he had succeeded in creating after the Creator，and he had invented certain tulips and certain dahlias which seemed to have been forgotten by nature.
He was ingenious；he had forestalled Soulange Bodin in the formation of little clumps of earth of heath mould，for the cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from America and China.
He was in his alleys from the break of day，in summer，planting，cutting，hoeing，watering，walking amid his flowers with an air of kindness，sadness，and sweetness，sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful for hours，listening to the song of a bird in the trees，the babble of a child in a house，or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at the tip of a spear of grass，of which the sun made a carbuncle.
His table was very plain，and he drank more milk than wine.
A child could make him give way，and his servant scolded him.
