He was very well dressed, as the porter had said, entirely in black, in perfectly new garments, and with a white cravat.
The porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in this correct bourgeois, in this probable notary, the fear-inspiring bearer of the corpse, who had sprung up at his door on the night of the 7th of June, tattered, muddy, hideous, haggard, his face masked in blood and mire, supporting in his arms the fainting Marius; still, his porter’s scent was aroused. When M. Fauchelevent arrived with Cosette, the porter had not been able to refrain from communicating to his wife this aside: “I don’t know why it is, but I can’t help fancying that I’ve seen that face before.”
M. Fauchelevent in Marius’ chamber, remained apart near the door. He had under his arm, a package which bore considerable resemblance to an octavo volume enveloped in paper. The enveloping paper was of a greenish hue, and appeared to be mouldy.
“Does the gentleman always have books like that under his arm?” Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who did not like books, demanded in a low tone of Nicolette.
“Well,” retorted M. Gillenormand, who had overheard her, in the same tone, “he’s a learned man. What then? Is that his fault? Monsieur Boulard, one of my acquaintances, never walked out without a book under his arm either, and he always had some old volume hugged to his heart like that.”
And, with a bow, he said aloud:
“Monsieur Tranchelevent. …”
Father Gillenormand did not do it intentionally, but inattention to proper names was an aristocratic habit of his.
“Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf of my grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle.”