Marius had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had entered the
house with very little hope, and quitted it with immense despair.
However, and those who have observed the depths of the human
heart will understand this, the officer, the lancer, the ninny,
Cousin Theodule, had left no trace in his mind. Not the slightest.
The dramatic poet might, apparently, expect some complications from
this revelation made point-blank by the grandfather to the grandson.
But what the drama would gain thereby, truth would lose.
Marius was at an age when one believes nothing in the line of evil;
later on comes the age when one believes everything. Suspicions are
nothing else than wrinkles. Early youth has none of them.
That which overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous over Candide.
Suspect Cosette! There are hosts of crimes which Marius could sooner
He began to wander about the streets, the resource of those who suffer.
He thought of nothing, so far as he could afterwards remember.
At two o'clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac's quarters
and flung himself, without undressing, on his mattress. The sun
was shining brightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber
which permits ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke,
he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the
room with their hats on and all ready to go out.
Courfeyrac said to him:--
"Are you coming to General Lamarque's funeral?"
It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.
He went out some time after them. He put in his pocket the pistols
which Javert had given him at the time of the adventure on the 3d
of February, and which had remained in his hands. These pistols
were still loaded. It would be difficult to say what vague thought
he had in his mind when he took them with him.
All day long he prowled about, without knowing where he was going;
it rained at times, he did not perceive it; for his dinner, he purchased
a penny roll at a baker's, put it in his pocket and forgot it.
It appears that he took a bath in the Seine without being aware of it.
There are moments when a man has a furnace within his skull.
Marius was passing through one of those moments. He no longer hoped
for anything; this step he had taken since the preceding evening.
He waited for night with feverish impatience, he had but one idea
clearly before his mind;--this was, that at nine o'clock he should
see Cosette. This last happiness now constituted his whole future;
after that, gloom. At intervals, as he roamed through the most deserted
boulevards, it seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris.
He thrust his head out of his revery and said: "Is there fighting
At nightfall, at nine o'clock precisely, as he had promised Cosette,
he was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the grating he
forgot everything. It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette;
he was about to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced,
and he felt only a profound and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which
one lives centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful property,
that at the moment when they are passing they fill the heart completely.
Marius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the garden.
Cosette was not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him.
He traversed the thicket, and approached the recess near the flight
of steps: "She is waiting for me there," said he. Cosette was
not there. He raised his eyes, and saw that the shutters of the house
were closed. He made the tour of the garden, the garden was deserted.
Then he returned to the house, and, rendered senseless by love,
intoxicated, terrified, exasperated with grief and uneasiness,
like a master who returns home at an evil hour, he tapped on
the shutters. He knocked and knocked again, at the risk of seeing
the window open, and her father's gloomy face make its appearance,
and demand: "What do you want?" This was nothing in comparison
with what he dimly caught a glimpse of. When he had rapped,
he lifted up his voice and called Cosette.--"Cosette!" he cried;
"Cosette!" he repeated imperiously. There was no reply. All was over.
No one in the garden; no one in the house.
Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which was as black
and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He gazed at the stone
seat on which he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette.
Then he seated himself on the flight of steps, his heart filled
with sweetness and resolution, he blessed his love in the depths
of his thought, and he said to himself that, since Cosette was gone,
all that there was left for him was to die.
All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the street,
and which was calling to him through the trees:--
He started to his feet.
"Hey?" said he.
"Mr. Marius, are you there?"
"Mr. Marius," went on the voice, "your friends are waiting for you
at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie."
This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled the hoarse,
rough voice of Eponine. Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside
the movable bar, passed his head through the aperture, and saw
some one who appeared to him to be a young man, disappearing at
a run into the gloom.