Every word that Marius had just uttered produced on the visage of the old Royalist the effect of the puffs of air from a forge upon a blazing brand.
From a dull hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and from purple, flame-colored.
"Marius!" he cried.
"Abominable child!
I do not know what your father was!
I do not wish to know!
I know nothing about that, and I do not know him!
But what I do know is, that there never was anything but scoundrels among those men!
They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps, thieves!
I say all!
I say all! I know not one!
I say all!
Do you hear me, Marius!
See here, you are no more a baron than my slipper is!
They were all bandits in the service of Robespierre!
All who served B-u-o-naparte were brigands!
They were all traitors who betrayed, betrayed, betrayed their legitimate king!
All cowards who fled before the Prussians and the English at Waterloo!
That is what I do know! Whether Monsieur your father comes in that category, I do not know! I am sorry for it, so much the worse, your humble servant!"
In his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand who was the bellows.