ung
girl's fit of sulks, the cloud of a moment, there would be nothing left
of it in a day or two; but he meditated on the future, and, as was his
habit, he thought of it with pleasure. After all, he saw no obstacle to
their happy life resuming its course. At certain hours, everything seems
impossible, at others everything appears easy; Jean Valjean was in the
midst of one of these good hours. They generally succeed the bad
ones, as day follows night, by virtue of that law of succession and
of contrast which lies at the very foundation of nature, and which
superficial minds call antithesis. In this peaceful street where he had
taken refuge, Jean Valjean got rid of all that had been troubling him
for some time past. This very fact, that he had seen many shadows, made
him begin to perceive a little azure. To have quitted the Rue
Plumet without complications or incidents was one good step already
accomplished. Perhaps it would be wise to go abroad, if only for a few
months, and to set out for London. Well, they would go. What difference
did it make to him whether he was in France or in England, provided he
had Cosette beside him? Cosette was his nation. Cosette sufficed for
his happiness; the idea that he, perhaps, did not suffice for Cosette's
happiness, that idea which had formerly been the cause of his fever
and sleeplessness, did not even present itself to his mind. He was in a
state of collapse from all his past sufferings, and he was fully entered
on optimism. Cosette was by his side, she seemed to be his; an optical
illusion which every one has experienced. He arranged in his own mind,
with all sorts of felicitous devices, his departure for England with
Cosette, and he beheld his felicity reconstituted wherever he pleased,
in the perspective of his revery.

As he paced to and fro with long strides, his glance suddenly
encountered something strange.

In the inclined mirror facing him which surmounted the sideboard, he saw
the four lines which follow:--

"My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We
shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. In a week we
shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th."

Jean Valjean halted, perfectly haggard.

Cosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the sideboard in
front of the mirror, and, utterly absorbed in her agony of grief, had
forgotten it and left it there, without even observing that she had left
it wide open, and open at