t, obscure, and ineffable things which the glance lisps, Cosette did
not immediately understand. She returned thoughtfully to the house in
the Rue de l'Ouest, where Jean Valjean, according to his custom, had
come to spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking, she thought of
that strange young man, so long indifferent and icy, who now seemed to
pay attention to her, and it did not appear to her that this attention
was the least in the world agreeable to her. She was, on the contrary,
somewhat incensed at this handsome and disdainful individual. A
substratum of war stirred within her. It struck her, and the idea caused
her a wholly childish joy, that she was going to take her revenge at
last.

Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious, though
in an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon. Women play with
their beauty as children do with a knife. They wound themselves.

The reader will recall Marius' hesitations, his palpitations, his
terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. This vexed
Cosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean: "Father, let us stroll about
a little in that direction." Seeing that Marius did not come to her,
she went to him. In such cases, all women resemble Mahomet. And then,
strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is
timidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet
nothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending to approach each
other and assuming, each the other's qualities.

That day, Cosette's glance drove Marius beside himself, and Marius'
glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away confident, and Cosette
uneasy. From that day forth, they adored each other.

The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound
melancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the
day before. She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of soul in young
girls, which is composed of coldness and gayety, resembles snow. It
melts in love, which is its sun.

Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word uttered
in its terrestrial sense. On the books of profane music which entered
the convent, amour (love) was replaced by tambour (drum) or pandour.
This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations of the big girls,
such as: Ah, how delightful is the drum! or, Pity is not a pandour. But
Cosette had left the convent too early to have occupied herself much
with the "drum." Therefor