#lesmiserables1972edit

“Be serious,” said Enjolras. “I am wild,” replied Grantaire. Enjolras meditated for a few moments, and made the gesture of a man who has taken a resolution. “Grantaire,” he said gravely, “I consent to try you. You shall go to the Barrière du Maine.” Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Café Musain. He went out, and five minutes later he returned. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre waistcoat. “Red,” said he as he entered, and he looked intently at Enjolras. Then, with the palm of his energetic hand, he laid the two scarlet points of the waistcoat across his breast.

Éponine caught Montparnasse’s hand. “Take care,” said he, “you’ll cut yourself, I’ve a knife open.” ... “My good friend, Mr. Montparnasse,” said Éponine, “I entreat you, you are a good fellow, don’t enter.” “Take care, you’ll cut yourself,” replied Montparnasse. ... “Well, go in, then, the rest of you,” exclaimed Montparnasse. “Do the job. I’ll stay here with the girl, and if she fails us—” He flashed the knife, which he held open in his hand, in the light of the lantern. ... As they went, Montparnasse muttered:— “Never mind! if they had wanted, I’d have cut her throat.”

“You are children,” said Thénardier, “we are losing time. The police are on our heels.” “Well,” said the ruffians, “let’s draw lots to see who shall go down first.” Thénardier exclaimed:— “Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack of boobies! You want to waste time, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger, by a short straw! With written names! Thrown into a hat!—” “Would you like my hat?” cried a voice on the threshold. All wheeled round. It was Javert. He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with a smile.

At that moment, he felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder. “Citizen,” said Enjolras to him, “my mother is the Republic.”

“Do you know English?” “No.” “Do you know German?” “No.” “So much the worse.” “Why?” “Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting up a sort of an encyclopædia, for which you might have translated English or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one can live by it.” “I will learn English and German.” “And in the meanwhile?” “In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch.”

“Oh! my mother!” said she. And she sank down as though on the point of death. He grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed her close, without knowing what he was doing. He supported her, though he was tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke; lightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed to him that he was accomplishing some religious act, and that he was committing a profanation. Moreover, he had not the least passion for this lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside himself with love. She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there, he stammered:— “You love me, then?” She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more than a barely audible breath:— “Hush! Thou knowest it!” And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb and intoxicated young man. He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips met? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills? A kiss, and that was all. . . . When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him:— “What is your name?” “My name is Marius,” said he. “And yours?” “My name is Cosette.”

Marius resumed:— “Now that I think of it, you ought to know my address: something might happen, one never knows; I live with that friend named Courfeyrac, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16.” He searched in his pocket, pulled out his penknife, and with the blade he wrote on the plaster of the wall:— “16 Rue de la Verrerie.” In the meantime, Cosette had begun to gaze into his eyes once more. “Tell me your thought, Marius; you have some idea. Tell it to me. Oh! tell me, so that I may pass a pleasant night.” “This is my idea: that it is impossible that God should mean to part us. Wait; expect me the day after to-morrow.” “What shall I do until then?” said Cosette. “You are outside, you go, and come! How happy men are! I shall remain entirely alone! Oh! How sad I shall be! What is it that you are going to do to-morrow evening? tell me.” “I am going to try something.” “Then I will pray to God and I will think of you here, so that you may be successful. I will question you no further, since you do not wish it. You are my master. I shall pass the evening to-morrow in singing that music from Euryanthe that you love, and that you came one evening to listen to, outside my shutters. But day after to-morrow you will come early. I shall expect you at dusk, at nine o’clock precisely, I warn you. Mon Dieu! how sad it is that the days are so long! On the stroke of nine, do you understand, I shall be in the garden.” “And I also.” And without having uttered it, moved by the same thought, impelled by those electric currents which place lovers in continual communication, both being intoxicated with delight even in their sorrow, they fell into each other’s arms, without perceiving that their lips met while their uplifted eyes, overflowing with rapture and full of tears, gazed upon the stars.