He bent over and picked up the purse.
He did not understand in the least, and opened it.
The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some small change; in the other lay six napoleons.
M. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper.
“That has fallen from heaven,” said Mother Plutarque.
BOOK FIFTH.—THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER I—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 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 Theodule 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.
CHAPTER II—COSETTE’S APPREHENSIONS
During the first fortnight in April, Jean Valjean took a journey.
This, as the reader knows, happened from time to time, at very long intervals.
He remained absent a day or two days at the utmost.
Where did he go?
No one knew, not even Cosette.
Once only, on the occasion of one of these departures, she had accompanied him in a hackney-coach as far as a little blind-alley at the corner of which she read: Impasse de la Planchette.
There he alighted, and the coach took Cosette back to the Rue de Babylone.
It was usually when money was lacking in the house that Jean Valjean took these little trips.
So Jean Valjean was absent.
He had said:
“I shall return in three days.”
That evening, Cosette was alone in the drawing-room.
In order to get rid of her ennui, she had opened her piano-organ, and had begun to sing, accompanying herself the while, the chorus from Euryanthe:
“Hunters astray in the wood!” which is probably the most beautiful thing in all the sphere of music.
When she had finished, she remained wrapped in thought.
All at once, it seemed to her that she heard the sound of footsteps in the garden.