even said to
himself, in confused and suppressed stammerings of voluptuousness which
did not make their way to the light, that there was not a ribbon of her
gown, not a mesh in her stockings, not a fold in her bodice, which was
not his. Beside Cosette he felt himself beside his own property, his
own thing, his own despot and his slave. It seemed as though they had
so intermingled their souls, that it would have been impossible to tell
them apart had they wished to take them back again.--"This is mine."
"No, it is mine." "I assure you that you are mistaken. This is my
property." "What you are taking as your own is myself."--Marius was
something that made a part of Cosette, and Cosette was something which
made a part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette within him. To have Cosette,
to possess Cosette, this, to him, was not to be distinguished from
breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, of this intoxication, of
this virgin possession, unprecedented and absolute, of this sovereignty,
that these words: "We are going away," fell suddenly, at a blow, and
that the harsh voice of reality cried to him: "Cosette is not yours!"

Marius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been living, as we have said,
outside of life; those words, going away! caused him to re-enter it
harshly.

He found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his hand was very
cold. She said to him in her turn: "What is the matter?"

He replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard him:--

"I did not understand what you said."

She began again:--

"This morning my father told me to settle all my little affairs and to
hold myself in readiness, that he would give me his linen to put in a
trunk, that he was obliged to go on a journey, that we were to go away,
that it is necessary to have a large trunk for me and a small one for
him, and that all is to be ready in a week from now, and that we might
go to England."

"But this is outrageous!" exclaimed Marius.

It is certain, that, at that moment, no abuse of power, no violence, not
one of the abominations of the worst tyrants, no action of Busiris, of
Tiberius, or of Henry VIII., could have equalled this in atrocity,
in the opinion of Marius; M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter off to
England because he had business there.

He demanded in a weak voice:--

"And when do you start?"

"He did not say when."

"And when shall you return?"

"He did not say when."

Marius rose and said coldly:--

"Cos