spot in the sky.

She did not question herself as to the peculiarity of a chimney-pot
which is afraid of being caught in the act, and which retires when some
one looks at its shadow, for the shadow had taken the alarm when Cosette
had turned round, and Cosette had thought herself very sure of this.
Cosette's serenity was fully restored. The proof appeared to her to
be complete, and it quite vanished from her mind, whether there could
possibly be any one walking in the garden during the evening or at
night.

A few days later, however, a fresh incident occurred.

CHAPTER III--ENRICHED WITH COMMENTARIES BY TOUSSAINT

In the garden, near the railing on the street, there was a stone bench,
screened from the eyes of the curious by a plantation of yoke-elms,
but which could, in case of necessity, be reached by an arm from the
outside, past the trees and the gate.

One evening during that same month of April, Jean Valjean had gone out;
Cosette had seated herself on this bench after sundown. The breeze was
blowing briskly in the trees, Cosette was meditating; an objectless
sadness was taking possession of her little by little, that invincible
sadness evoked by the evening, and which arises, perhaps, who knows,
from the mystery of the tomb which is ajar at that hour.

Perhaps Fantine was within that shadow.

Cosette rose, slowly made the tour of the garden, walking on the
grass drenched in dew, and saying to herself, through the species of
melancholy somnambulism in which she was plunged: "Really, one needs
wooden shoes for the garden at this hour. One takes cold."

She returned to the bench.

As she was about to resume her seat there, she observed on the spot
which she had quitted, a tolerably large stone which had, evidently, not
been there a moment before.

Cosette gazed at the stone, asking herself what it meant. All at once
the idea occurred to her that the stone had not reached the bench all by
itself, that some one had placed it there, that an arm had been thrust
through the railing, and this idea appeared to alarm her. This time, the
fear was genuine; the stone was there. No doubt was possible; she did
not touch it, fled without glancing behind her, took refuge in the
house, and immediately closed with shutter, bolt, and bar the door-like
window opening on the flight of steps. She inquired of Toussaint:--

"Has my father returned yet?"

"Not yet, Mademoiselle."

[We have already noted once for all t