Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious, though in an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon.
Women play with their beauty as children do with a knife.
They wound themselves.
The reader will recall Marius’ hesitations, his palpitations, his terrors.
He remained on his bench and did not approach.
This vexed Cosette.
One day, she said to Jean Valjean:
“Father, let us stroll about a little in that direction.”
Seeing that Marius did not come to her, she went to him.
In such cases, all women resemble Mahomet.
And then, strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is more simple.
It is the two sexes tending to approach each other and assuming, each the other’s qualities.
That day, Cosette’s glance drove Marius beside himself, and Marius’ glance set Cosette to trembling.
Marius went away confident, and Cosette uneasy.
From that day forth, they adored each other.
The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound melancholy.
It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the day before.
She no longer recognized it.
The whiteness of soul in young girls, which is composed of coldness and gayety, resembles snow.
It melts in love, which is its sun.
Cosette did not know what love was.
She had never heard the word uttered in its terrestrial sense.
On the books of profane music which entered the convent, amour (love) was replaced by tambour (drum) or pandour.
This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations of the big girls, such as: Ah, how delightful is the drum! or, Pity is not a pandour.
But Cosette had left the convent too early to have occupied herself much with the “drum.”
Therefore, she did not know what name to give to what she now felt.
Is any one the less ill because one does not know the name of one’s malady?
She loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly.
She did not know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, useful or dangerous, eternal or temporary, allowable or prohibited; she loved.
She would have been greatly astonished, had any one said to her:
“You do not sleep?
But that is forbidden!
You do not eat?
Why, that is very bad!
You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart?
That must not be!
You blush and turn pale, when a certain being clad in black appears at the end of a certain green walk?
But that is abominable!”
She would not have understood, and she would have replied:
“What fault is there of mine in a matter in which I have no power and of which I know nothing?”
It turned out that the love which presented itself was exactly suited to the state of her soul.
It was a sort of admiration at a distance, a mute contemplation, the deification of a stranger.
It was the apparition of youth to youth, the dream of nights become a reality yet remaining a dream, the longed-for phantom realized and made flesh at last, but having as yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor exigence, nor defect; in a word, the distant lover who lingered in the ideal, a chim?ra with a form.
Any nearer and more palpable meeting would have alarmed Cosette at this first stage, when she was still half immersed in the exaggerated mists of the cloister.
She had all the fears of children and all the fears of nuns combined.
The spirit of the convent, with which she had been permeated for the space of five years, was still in the process of slow evaporation from her person, and made everything tremble around her.
In this situation he was not a lover, he was not even an admirer, he was a vision.
She set herself to adoring Marius as something charming, luminous, and impossible.
As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she smiled at him with all frankness.
Every day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk with impatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself unspeakably happy, and thought in all sincerity that she was expressing her whole thought when she said to Jean Valjean:—