第 二百四十九 章 · OLD PEOPLE ARE MADE TO GO OUT OPPORTUNELY

When evening came, Jean Valjean went out; Cosette dressed herself. She

arranged her hair in the most becoming manner, and she put on a dress

whose bodice had received one snip of the scissors too much, and which,

through this slope, permitted a view of the beginning of her throat,

and was, as young girls say, “a trifle indecent.” It was not in the

least indecent, but it was prettier than usual. She made her toilet

thus without knowing why she did so.

Did she mean to go out? No.

Was she expecting a visitor? No.

At dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy in her

kitchen, which opened on the back yard.

She began to stroll about under the trees, thrusting aside the branches

from time to time with her hand, because there were some which hung

very low.

In this manner she reached the bench.

The stone was still there.

She sat down, and gently laid her white hand on this stone as though

she wished to caress and thank it.

All at once, she experienced that indefinable impression which one

undergoes when there is some one standing behind one, even when she

does not see the person.

She turned her head and rose to her feet.

It was he.

His head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and pale. His black

clothes were hardly discernible. The twilight threw a wan light on his

fine brow, and covered his eyes in shadows. Beneath a veil of

incomparable sweetness, he had something about him that suggested death

and night. His face was illuminated by the light of the dying day, and

by the thought of a soul that is taking flight.

He seemed to be not yet a ghost, and he was no longer a man.

He had flung away his hat in the thicket, a few paces distant.

Cosette, though ready to swoon, uttered no cry. She retreated slowly,

for she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. By virtue of something

ineffable and melancholy which enveloped him, she felt the look in his

eyes which she could not see.

Cosette, in her retreat, encountered a tree and leaned against it. Had

it not been for this tree, she would have fallen.

Then she heard his voice, that voice which she had really never heard,

barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, and murmuring:—

“Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live on as I was

living, and I have come. Have you read what I placed there on the

bench? Do you recognize me at all? Have no fear of me. It is a long

time, you remember the day, since you looked at me at the Luxembourg,

near the Gladiator. And the day when you passed before me? It was on

the 16th of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly a year ago. I have

not seen you for a long time. I inquired of the woman who let the

chairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you. You lived in the

Rue de l’Ouest, on the third floor, in the front apartments of a new

house,—you see that I know! I followed you. What else was there for me

to do? And then you disappeared. I thought I saw you pass once, while I

was reading the newspapers under the arcade of the Odéon. I ran after

you. But no. It was a person who had a bonnet like yours. At night I

came hither. Do not be afraid, no one sees me. I come to gaze upon your

windows near at hand. I walk very softly, so that you may not hear, for

you might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you, you turned

round, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy. Did it affect

you because I heard you singing through the shutters? That could not

hurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are my angel! Let me come

sometimes; I think that I am going to die. If you only knew! I adore

you. Forgive me, I speak to you, but I do not know what I am saying; I

may have displeased you; have I displeased you?”

“Oh! my mother!” said she.

And she sank down as though on the point of death.

He grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed her

close, without knowing what he was doing. He supported her, though he

was tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke;

lightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed to

him that he was accomplishing some religious act, and that he was

committing a profanation. Moreover, he had not the least passion for

this lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside

himself with love.

She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there, he

stammered:—

“You love me, then?”

She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more than

a barely audible breath:—

“Hush! Thou knowest it!”

And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb and

intoxicated young man.

He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The

stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips

met? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that

the rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind

the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?

A kiss, and that was all.

Both started, and gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes.

They felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the damp

earth, nor the wet grass; they looked at each other, and their hearts

were full of thoughts. They had clasped hands unconsciously.

She did not ask him, she did not even wonder, how he had entered there,

and how he had made his way into the garden. It seemed so simple to her

that he should be there!

From time to time, Marius’ knee touched Cosette’s knee, and both

shivered.

At intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered on her lips

like a drop of dew on a flower.

Little by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion followed

silence, which is fulness. The night was serene and splendid overhead.

These two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their

dreams, their intoxications, their ecstasies, their chimæras, their

weaknesses, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had

longed for each other, their despair when they had ceased to see each

other. They confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, which nothing

could augment, their most secret and most mysterious thoughts. They

related to each other, with candid faith in their illusions, all that

love, youth, and the remains of childhood which still lingered about

them, suggested to their minds. Their two hearts poured themselves out

into each other in such wise, that at the expiration of a quarter of an

hour, it was the young man who had the young girl’s soul, and the young

girl who had the young man’s soul. Each became permeated with the

other, they were enchanted with each other, they dazzled each other.

When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she

laid her head on his shoulder and asked him:—

“What is your name?”

“My name is Marius,” said he. “And yours?”

“My name is Cosette.”

BOOK SIXTH—LITTLE GAVROCHE