Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER I—FULL LIGHT
2140 words | Chapter 335
The reader has probably understood that Éponine, having recognized
through the gate, the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet whither Magnon had
sent her, had begun by keeping the ruffians away from the Rue Plumet,
and had then conducted Marius thither, and that, after many days spent
in ecstasy before that gate, Marius, drawn on by that force which draws
the iron to the magnet and a lover towards the stones of which is built
the house of her whom he loves, had finally entered Cosette’s garden as
Romeo entered the garden of Juliet. This had even proved easier for him
than for Romeo; Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to
use a little force on one of the bars of the decrepit gate which
vacillated in its rusty recess, after the fashion of old people’s
teeth. Marius was slender and readily passed through.
As there was never any one in the street, and as Marius never entered
the garden except at night, he ran no risk of being seen.
Beginning with that blessed and holy hour when a kiss betrothed these
two souls, Marius was there every evening. If, at that period of her
existence, Cosette had fallen in love with a man in the least
unscrupulous or debauched, she would have been lost; for there are
generous natures which yield themselves, and Cosette was one of them.
One of woman’s magnanimities is to yield. Love, at the height where it
is absolute, is complicated with some indescribably celestial blindness
of modesty. But what dangers you run, O noble souls! Often you give the
heart, and we take the body. Your heart remains with you, you gaze upon
it in the gloom with a shudder. Love has no middle course; it either
ruins or it saves. All human destiny lies in this dilemma. This
dilemma, ruin, or safety, is set forth no more inexorably by any
fatality than by love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; also
coffin. The same sentiment says “yes” and “no” in the human heart. Of
all the things that God has made, the human heart is the one which
sheds the most light, alas! and the most darkness.
God willed that Cosette’s love should encounter one of the loves which
save.
Throughout the whole of the month of May of that year 1832, there were
there, in every night, in that poor, neglected garden, beneath that
thicket which grew thicker and more fragrant day by day, two beings
composed of all chastity, all innocence, overflowing with all the
felicity of heaven, nearer to the archangels than to mankind, pure,
honest, intoxicated, radiant, who shone for each other amid the
shadows. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown, and to Marius
that Cosette had a nimbus. They touched each other, they gazed at each
other, they clasped each other’s hands, they pressed close to each
other; but there was a distance which they did not pass. Not that they
respected it; they did not know of its existence. Marius was conscious
of a barrier, Cosette’s innocence; and Cosette of a support, Marius’
loyalty. The first kiss had also been the last. Marius, since that
time, had not gone further than to touch Cosette’s hand, or her
kerchief, or a lock of her hair, with his lips. For him, Cosette was a
perfume and not a woman. He inhaled her. She refused nothing, and he
asked nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius was satisfied. They lived
in this ecstatic state which can be described as the dazzling of one
soul by another soul. It was the ineffable first embrace of two maiden
souls in the ideal. Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau.
At that hour of love, an hour when voluptuousness is absolutely mute,
beneath the omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, the pure and seraphic
Marius, would rather have gone to a woman of the town than have raised
Cosette’s robe to the height of her ankle. Once, in the moonlight,
Cosette stooped to pick up something on the ground, her bodice fell
apart and permitted a glimpse of the beginning of her throat. Marius
turned away his eyes.
What took place between these two beings? Nothing. They adored each
other.
At night, when they were there, that garden seemed a living and a
sacred spot. All flowers unfolded around them and sent them incense;
and they opened their souls and scattered them over the flowers. The
wanton and vigorous vegetation quivered, full of strength and
intoxication, around these two innocents, and they uttered words of
love which set the trees to trembling.
What words were these? Breaths. Nothing more. These breaths sufficed to
trouble and to touch all nature round about. Magic power which we
should find it difficult to understand were we to read in a book these
conversations which are made to be borne away and dispersed like smoke
wreaths by the breeze beneath the leaves. Take from those murmurs of
two lovers that melody which proceeds from the soul and which
accompanies them like a lyre, and what remains is nothing more than a
shade; you say: “What! is that all!” eh! yes, childish prattle,
repetitions, laughter at nothing, nonsense, everything that is deepest
and most sublime in the world! The only things which are worth the
trouble of saying and hearing!
The man who has never heard, the man who has never uttered these
absurdities, these paltry remarks, is an imbecile and a malicious
fellow. Cosette said to Marius:—
“Dost thou know?—”
[In all this and athwart this celestial maidenliness, and without
either of them being able to say how it had come about, they had begun
to call each other _thou_.]
“Dost thou know? My name is Euphrasie.”
“Euphrasie? Why, no, thy name is Cosette.”
“Oh! Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when I was a
little thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Dost thou like that
name—Euphrasie?”
“Yes. But Cosette is not ugly.”
“Do you like it better than Euphrasie?”
“Why, yes.”
“Then I like it better too. Truly, it is pretty, Cosette. Call me
Cosette.”
And the smile that she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy of a
grove situated in heaven. On another occasion she gazed intently at him
and exclaimed:—
“Monsieur, you are handsome, you are good-looking, you are witty, you
are not at all stupid, you are much more learned than I am, but I bid
you defiance with this word: I love you!”
And Marius, in the very heavens, thought he heard a strain sung by a
star.
Or she bestowed on him a gentle tap because he coughed, and she said to
him:—
“Don’t cough, sir; I will not have people cough on my domain without my
permission. It’s very naughty to cough and to disturb me. I want you to
be well, because, in the first place, if you were not well, I should be
very unhappy. What should I do then?”
And this was simply divine.
Once Marius said to Cosette:—
“Just imagine, I thought at one time that your name was Ursule.”
This made both of them laugh the whole evening.
In the middle of another conversation, he chanced to exclaim:—
“Oh! One day, at the Luxembourg, I had a good mind to finish breaking
up a veteran!” But he stopped short, and went no further. He would have
been obliged to speak to Cosette of her garter, and that was
impossible. This bordered on a strange theme, the flesh, before which
that immense and innocent love recoiled with a sort of sacred fright.
Marius pictured life with Cosette to himself like this, without
anything else; to come every evening to the Rue Plumet, to displace the
old and accommodating bar of the chief-justice’s gate, to sit elbow to
elbow on that bench, to gaze through the trees at the scintillation of
the on-coming night, to fit a fold of the knee of his trousers into the
ample fall of Cosette’s gown, to caress her thumb-nail, to call her
_thou_, to smell of the same flower, one after the other, forever,
indefinitely. During this time, clouds passed above their heads. Every
time that the wind blows it bears with it more of the dreams of men
than of the clouds of heaven.
This chaste, almost shy love was not devoid of gallantry, by any means.
To pay compliments to the woman whom a man loves is the first method of
bestowing caresses, and he is half audacious who tries it. A compliment
is something like a kiss through a veil. Voluptuousness mingles there
with its sweet tiny point, while it hides itself. The heart draws back
before voluptuousness only to love the more. Marius’ blandishments, all
saturated with fancy, were, so to speak, of azure hue. The birds when
they fly up yonder, in the direction of the angels, must hear such
words. There were mingled with them, nevertheless, life, humanity, all
the positiveness of which Marius was capable. It was what is said in
the bower, a prelude to what will be said in the chamber; a lyrical
effusion, strophe and sonnet intermingled, pleasing hyperboles of
cooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet and
exhaling a celestial perfume, an ineffable twitter of heart to heart.
“Oh!” murmured Marius, “how beautiful you are! I dare not look at you.
It is all over with me when I contemplate you. You are a grace. I know
not what is the matter with me. The hem of your gown, when the tip of
your shoe peeps from beneath, upsets me. And then, what an enchanted
gleam when you open your thought even but a little! You talk
astonishingly good sense. It seems to me at times that you are a dream.
Speak, I listen, I admire. Oh Cosette! how strange it is and how
charming! I am really beside myself. You are adorable, Mademoiselle. I
study your feet with the microscope and your soul with the telescope.”
And Cosette answered:—
“I have been loving a little more all the time that has passed since
this morning.”
Questions and replies took care of themselves in this dialogue, which
always turned with mutual consent upon love, as the little pith figures
always turn on their peg.
Cosette’s whole person was ingenuousness, ingenuity, transparency,
whiteness, candor, radiance. It might have been said of Cosette that
she was clear. She produced on those who saw her the sensation of April
and dawn. There was dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of the
auroral light in the form of a woman.
It was quite simple that Marius should admire her, since he adored her.
But the truth is, that this little school-girl, fresh from the convent,
talked with exquisite penetration and uttered, at times, all sorts of
true and delicate sayings. Her prattle was conversation. She never made
a mistake about anything, and she saw things justly. The woman feels
and speaks with the tender instinct of the heart, which is infallible.
No one understands so well as a woman, how to say things that are, at
once, both sweet and deep. Sweetness and depth, they are the whole of
woman; in them lies the whole of heaven.
In this full felicity, tears welled up to their eyes every instant. A
crushed lady-bug, a feather fallen from a nest, a branch of hawthorn
broken, aroused their pity, and their ecstasy, sweetly mingled with
melancholy, seemed to ask nothing better than to weep. The most
sovereign symptom of love is a tenderness that is, at times, almost
unbearable.
And, in addition to this,—all these contradictions are the lightning
play of love,—they were fond of laughing, they laughed readily and with
a delicious freedom, and so familiarly that they sometimes presented
the air of two boys.
Still, though unknown to hearts intoxicated with purity, nature is
always present and will not be forgotten. She is there with her brutal
and sublime object; and however great may be the innocence of souls,
one feels in the most modest private interview, the adorable and
mysterious shade which separates a couple of lovers from a pair of
friends.
They idolized each other.
The permanent and the immutable are persistent. People live, they
smile, they laugh, they make little grimaces with the tips of their
lips, they interlace their fingers, they call each other _thou_, and
that does not prevent eternity.
Two lovers hide themselves in the evening, in the twilight, in the
invisible, with the birds, with the roses; they fascinate each other in
the darkness with their hearts which they throw into their eyes, they
murmur, they whisper, and in the meantime, immense librations of the
planets fill the infinite universe.
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