CHAPTER V--COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER

  As Cosette read, she gradually fell into thought. At the very momentwhen she raised her eyes from the last line of the note-book, thehandsome officer passed triumphantly in front of the gate,--it was hishour; Cosette thought him hideous.

  She resumed her contemplation of the book. It was written in the mostcharming of chirography, thought Cosette; in the same hand, but withdivers inks, sometimes very black, again whitish, as when ink has beenadded to the inkstand, and consequently on different days. It was,then, a mind which had unfolded itself there, sigh by sigh, irregularly,without order, without choice, without object, hap-hazard. Cosettehad never read anything like it. This manuscript, in which she alreadyperceived more light than obscurity, produced upon her the effect of ahalf-open sanctuary. Each one of these mysterious lines shone beforeher eyes and inundated her heart with a strange radiance. The educationwhich she had received had always talked to her of the soul, and neverof love, very much as one might talk of the firebrand and not of theflame. This manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and sweetly revealedto her all of love, sorrow, destiny, life, eternity, the beginning,the end. It was as if a hand had opened and suddenly flung upon hera handful of rays of light. In these few lines she felt a passionate,ardent, generous, honest nature, a sacred will, an immense sorrow, andan immense despair, a suffering heart, an ecstasy fully expanded. Whatwas this manuscript? A letter. A letter without name, without address,without date, without signature, pressing and disinterested, an enigmacomposed of truths, a message of love made to be brought by an angel andread by a virgin, an appointment made beyond the bounds of earth, thelove-letter of a phantom to a shade. It was an absent one, tranquil anddejected, who seemed ready to take refuge in death and who sent to theabsent love, his lady, the secret of fate, the key of life, love. Thishad been written with one foot in the grave and one finger in heaven.These lines, which had fallen one by one on the paper, were what mightbe called drops of soul.

  Now, from whom could these pages come? Who could have penned them?

  Cosette did not hesitate a moment. One man only.

  He!

  Day had dawned once more in her spirit; all had reappeared. She felt anunheard-of joy, and a profound anguish. It was he! he who had written!he was there! it was he whose arm had been thrust through that railing!While she was forgetful of him, he had found her again! But had sheforgotten him? No, never! She was foolish to have thought so for asingle moment. She had always loved him, always adored him. The fire hadbeen smothered, and had smouldered for a time, but she saw all plainlynow; it had but made headway, and now it had burst forth afresh, andhad inflamed her whole being. This note-book was like a spark whichhad fallen from that other soul into hers. She felt the conflagrationstarting up once more.

  She imbued herself thoroughly with every word of the manuscript: "Ohyes!" said she, "how perfectly I recognize all that! That is what I hadalready read in his eyes." As she was finishing it for the third time,Lieutenant Théodule passed the gate once more, and rattled his spursupon the pavement. Cosette was forced to raise her eyes. She thought himinsipid, silly, stupid, useless, foppish, displeasing, impertinent, andextremely ugly. The officer thought it his duty to smile at her.

  She turned away as in shame and indignation. She would gladly havethrown something at his head.

  She fled, re-entered the house, and shut herself up in her chamber toperuse the manuscript once more, to learn it by heart, and to dream.When she had thoroughly mastered it she kissed it and put it in herbosom.

  All was over, Cosette had fallen back into deep, seraphic love. Theabyss of Eden had yawned once more.

  All day long, Cosette remained in a sort of bewilderment. She scarcelythought, her ideas were in the state of a tangled skein in her brain,she could not manage to conjecture anything, she hoped through a tremor,what? vague things. She dared make herself no promises, and she didnot wish to refuse herself anything. Flashes of pallor passed over hercountenance, and shivers ran through her frame. It seemed to her, atintervals, that she was entering the land of chimæras; she said toherself: "Is this reality?" Then she felt of the dear paper within herbosom under her gown, she pressed it to her heart, she felt its anglesagainst her flesh; and if Jean Valjean had seen her at the moment, hewould have shuddered in the presence of that luminous and unknown joy,which overflowed from beneath her eyelids.--"Oh yes!" she thought, "itis certainly he! This comes from him, and is for me!"

  And she told herself that an intervention of the angels, a celestialchance, had given him back to her.

  Oh transfiguration of love! Oh dreams! That celestial chance, thatintervention of the angels, was a pellet of bread tossed by one thief toanother thief, from the Charlemagne Courtyard to the Lion's Ditch, overthe roofs of La Force.