name was, in reality, Madame Burgon, as we have found
out, but this iconoclast, Courfeyrac, respected nothing,--Ma'am Bougon
observed, with stupefaction, that M. Marius was going out again in his
new coat.

He went to the Luxembourg again, but he did not proceed further than his
bench midway of the alley. He seated himself there, as on the preceding
day, surveying from a distance, and clearly making out, the white
bonnet, the black dress, and above all, that blue light. He did not stir
from it, and only went home when the gates of the Luxembourg closed. He
did not see M. Leblanc and his daughter retire. He concluded that they
had quitted the garden by the gate on the Rue de l'Ouest. Later on,
several weeks afterwards, when he came to think it over, he could never
recall where he had dined that evening.

On the following day, which was the third, Ma'am Bougon was
thunderstruck. Marius went out in his new coat. "Three days in
succession!" she exclaimed.

She tried to follow him, but Marius walked briskly, and with immense
strides; it was a hippopotamus undertaking the pursuit of a chamois.
She lost sight of him in two minutes, and returned breathless,
three-quarters choked with asthma, and furious. "If there is any sense,"
she growled, "in putting on one's best clothes every day, and making
people run like this!"

Marius betook himself to the Luxembourg.

The young girl was there with M. Leblanc. Marius approached as near as
he could, pretending to be busy reading a book, but he halted afar off,
then returned and seated himself on his bench, where he spent four hours
in watching the house-sparrows who were skipping about the walk, and who
produced on him the impression that they were making sport of him.

A fortnight passed thus. Marius went to the Luxembourg no longer for the
sake of strolling there, but to seat himself always in the same spot,
and that without knowing why. Once arrived there, he did not stir.
He put on his new coat every morning, for the purpose of not showing
himself, and he began all over again on the morrow.

She was decidedly a marvellous beauty. The only remark approaching a
criticism, that could be made, was, that the contradiction between
her gaze, which was melancholy, and her smile, which was merry, gave
a rather wild effect to her face, which sometimes caused this sweet
countenance to become strange without ceasing to be charming.

CHAPTER VI--TAKEN PRISONER

On one of the las