Marius shifted his thin books left and right restlessly as he paced. He couldn't exactly place what he was feeling. Giddy? Nervous? Maybe both. He wanted to see her again, but at the same time, he was so awkward and desperate it was ungodly. He stopped before a bench that stood amongst a bed of yellow flowers. He looked around once before sitting down, his books sprawling across his lap. He hoped she was near.

Marius recalled her light eyes, framed by dark lashes. Those eyes had met his so briefly from across the garden, he was quite sure he had imagined it. But it had been enough. The moment itself was so surreal; Marius had first experienced the sensation of spinning, of such bright delight that he had feared he would float away. His sense of grounding and logic were severed, his soul was a lost kite, quite vulnerable to the supernatural wind. There was smile in her eyes, a strange mixture of happiness and disbelief at his jolted image. But as quickly as the moment had arrived, she was gone, leaving Marius struck and staring at the back of her bonnet. He remembered running; running away from the Luxembourg Gardens and away from the witching eyes. This glance was the end of everything logical in Marius Pontmercy's existence. The smiling stare followed him. Her visage burned into the back of his weary eyelids, which despite the lack of sleep, welcomed each memory of her. When some form of coherency had returned to Marius, he insisted she hadn't been real. There were no such things as walking angels in Paris. But rational thought was clouded by a fierce need to locate her, to be graced by those light eyes once more.

So there he was, on a cloudy day in the summer of 1831, waiting in the sprawling gardens for a glimpse of the girl with the enchanted eyes. He waited beneath a cover of cool gray clouds, watching the grounds intently for any sign of her. He waited with a racing heart for hours, hoping and dreading seeing her addictive countenance.