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.