BOOK FIFTH.--THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING
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
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 mustaches, 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
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 Theodule Gillenormand,--
"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 revery 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.