Chapter Chapter 244 · SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS COMBINED

Cosette’s grief, which had been so poignant and lively four or five

months previously, had, without her being conscious of the fact,

entered upon its convalescence. Nature, spring, youth, love for her

father, the gayety of the birds and flowers, caused something almost

resembling forgetfulness to filter gradually, drop by drop, into that

soul, which was so virgin and so young. Was the fire wholly extinct

there? Or was it merely that layers of ashes had formed? The truth is,

that she hardly felt the painful and burning spot any longer.

One day she suddenly thought of Marius: “Why!” said she, “I no longer

think of him.”

That same week, she noticed a very handsome officer of lancers, with a

wasp-like waist, a delicious uniform, the cheeks of a young girl, a

sword under his arm, waxed moustaches, and a glazed schapka, passing

the gate. Moreover, he had light hair, prominent blue eyes, a round

face, was vain, insolent and good-looking; quite the reverse of Marius.

He had a cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer

doubtless belonged to the regiment in barracks in the Rue de Babylone.

On the following day, she saw him pass again. She took note of the

hour.

From that time forth, was it chance? she saw him pass nearly every day.

The officer’s comrades perceived that there was, in that “badly kept”

garden, behind that malicious rococo fence, a very pretty creature, who

was almost always there when the handsome lieutenant,—who is not

unknown to the reader, and whose name was Théodule Gillenormand,—passed

by.

“See here!” they said to him, “there’s a little creature there who is

making eyes at you, look.”

“Have I the time,” replied the lancer, “to look at all the girls who

look at me?”

This was at the precise moment when Marius was descending heavily

towards agony, and was saying: “If I could but see her before I

die!”—Had his wish been realized, had he beheld Cosette at that moment

gazing at the lancer, he would not have been able to utter a word, and

he would have expired with grief.

Whose fault was it? No one’s.

Marius possessed one of those temperaments which bury themselves in

sorrow and there abide; Cosette was one of those persons who plunge

into sorrow and emerge from it again.

Cosette was, moreover, passing through that dangerous period, the fatal

phase of feminine reverie abandoned to itself, in which the isolated

heart of a young girl resembles the tendrils of the vine which cling,

as chance directs, to the capital of a marble column or to the post of

a wine-shop: A rapid and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, be

she rich or poor, for wealth does not prevent a bad choice;

misalliances are made in very high circles, real misalliance is that of

souls; and as many an unknown young man, without name, without birth,

without fortune, is a marble column which bears up a temple of grand

sentiments and grand ideas, so such and such a man of the world

satisfied and opulent, who has polished boots and varnished words, if

looked at not outside, but inside, a thing which is reserved for his

wife, is nothing more than a block obscurely haunted by violent,

unclean, and vinous passions; the post of a drinking-shop.

What did Cosette’s soul contain? Passion calmed or lulled to sleep;

something limpid, brilliant, troubled to a certain depth, and gloomy

lower down. The image of the handsome officer was reflected in the

surface. Did a souvenir linger in the depths?—Quite at the

bottom?—Possibly. Cosette did not know.

A singular incident supervened.