“What then?”
“So he is the father.”
“What concern is that of mine?”
“I tell you that he’s the father.”
“As if he were the only father.”
“Listen.”
“What?”
“I can’t go out otherwise than masked.
Here I’m concealed, no one knows that I’m here.
But to-morrow, there will be no more maskers.
It’s Ash Wednesday.
I run the risk of being nabbed.
I must sneak back into my hole.
But you are free.”
“Not particularly.”
“More than I am, at any rate.”
“Well, what of that?”
“You must try to find out where that wedding party went to.”
“Where it went?”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Where is it going then?”
“To the Cadran-Bleu.”
“In the first place, it’s not in that direction.”
“Well! to la Rapee.”
“Or elsewhere.”
“It’s free.
Wedding parties are at liberty.”
“That’s not the point at all.
I tell you that you must try to learn for me what that wedding is, who that old cove belongs to, and where that wedding pair lives.”
“I like that! that would be queer.
It’s so easy to find out a wedding party that passed through the street on a Shrove Tuesday, a week afterwards.
A pin in a hay-mow!
It ain’t possible!”
“That don’t matter.
You must try.
You understand me, Azelma.”
The two files resumed their movement on both sides of the boulevard, in opposite directions, and the carriage of the maskers lost sight of the “trap” of the bride.
CHAPTER II—JEAN VALJEAN STILL WEARS HIS ARM IN A SLING
To realize one’s dream.
To whom is this accorded?
There must be elections for this in heaven; we are all candidates, unknown to ourselves; the angels vote.
Cosette and Marius had been elected.
Cosette, both at the mayor’s office and at church, was dazzling and touching.
Toussaint, assisted by Nicolette, had dressed her.
Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta, her robe of Binche guipure, a veil of English point, a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath of orange flowers; all this was white, and, from the midst of that whiteness she beamed forth.
It was an exquisite candor expanding and becoming transfigured in the light. One would have pronounced her a virgin on the point of turning into a goddess.
Marius’ handsome hair was lustrous and perfumed; here and there, beneath the thick curls, pale lines—the scars of the barricade—were visible.
The grandfather, haughty, with head held high, amalgamating more than ever in his toilet and his manners all the elegances of the epoch of Barras, escorted Cosette.
He took the place of Jean Valjean, who, on account of his arm being still in a sling, could not give his hand to the bride.