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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 mustaches, 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 revery 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.
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