om on the plum, the radiated crystal of the snow, the wing
of the butterfly powdered with feathers, are coarse compared to that
chastity which does not even know that it is chaste. The young girl is
only the flash of a dream, and is not yet a statue. Her bed-chamber is
hidden in the sombre part of the ideal. The indiscreet touch of a glance
brutalizes this vague penumbra. Here, contemplation is profanation.

We shall, therefore, show nothing of that sweet little flutter of
Cosette's rising.

An oriental tale relates how the rose was made white by God, but that
Adam looked upon her when she was unfolding, and she was ashamed and
turned crimson. We are of the number who fall speechless in the presence
of young girls and flowers, since we think them worthy of veneration.

Cosette dressed herself very hastily, combed and dressed her hair, which
was a very simple matter in those days, when women did not swell out
their curls and bands with cushions and puffs, and did not put crinoline
in their locks. Then she opened the window and cast her eyes around her
in every direction, hoping to descry some bit of the street, an angle of
the house, an edge of pavement, so that she might be able to watch for
Marius there. But no view of the outside was to be had. The back court
was surrounded by tolerably high walls, and the outlook was only on
several gardens. Cosette pronounced these gardens hideous: for the first
time in her life, she found flowers ugly. The smallest scrap of the
gutter of the street would have met her wishes better. She decided to
gaze at the sky, as though she thought that Marius might come from that
quarter.

All at once, she burst into tears. Not that this was fickleness of
soul; but hopes cut in twain by dejection--that was her case. She had a
confused consciousness of something horrible. Thoughts were rife in the
air, in fact. She told herself that she was not sure of anything, that
to withdraw herself from sight was to be lost; and the idea that Marius
could return to her from heaven appeared to her no longer charming but
mournful.

Then, as is the nature of these clouds, calm returned to her, and hope
and a sort of unconscious smile, which yet indicated trust in God.

Every one in the house was still asleep. A country-like silence reigned.
Not a shutter had been opened. The porter's lodge was closed. Toussaint
had not risen, and Cosette, naturally, thought that her father was
asleep. She must have suffe