to his heart
like that."

And, with a bow, he said aloud:

"Monsieur Tranchelevent . . ."

Father Gillenormand did not do it intentionally, but inattention to
proper names was an aristocratic habit of his.

"Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf of my
grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle."

Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.

"That's settled," said the grandfather.

And, turning to Marius and Cosette, with both arms extended in blessing,
he cried:

"Permission to adore each other!"

They did not require him to repeat it twice. So much the worse! the
chirping began. They talked low. Marius, resting on his elbow on his
reclining chair, Cosette standing beside him. "Oh, heavens!" murmured
Cosette, "I see you once again! it is thou! it is you! The idea of going
and fighting like that! But why? It is horrible. I have been dead for
four months. Oh! how wicked it was of you to go to that battle! What had
I done to you? I pardon you, but you will never do it again. A little
while ago, when they came to tell us to come to you, I still thought
that I was about to die, but it was from joy. I was so sad! I have not
taken the time to dress myself, I must frighten people with my looks!
What will your relatives say to see me in a crumpled collar? Do speak!
You let me do all the talking. We are still in the Rue de l'Homme Arme.
It seems that your shoulder was terrible. They told me that you could
put your fist in it. And then, it seems that they cut your flesh with
the scissors. That is frightful. I have cried till I have no eyes left.
It is queer that a person can suffer like that. Your grandfather has a
very kindly air. Don't disturb yourself, don't rise on your elbow, you
will injure yourself. Oh! how happy I am! So our unhappiness is over!
I am quite foolish. I had things to say to you, and I no longer know in
the least what they were. Do you still love me? We live in the Rue de
l'Homme Arme. There is no garden. I made lint all the time; stay, sir,
look, it is your fault, I have a callous on my fingers."

"Angel!" said Marius.

Angel is the only word in the language which cannot be worn out. No
other word could resist the merciless use which lovers make of it.

Then as there were spectators, they paused and said not a word more,
contenting themselves with softly touching each other's hands.

M. Gillenormand turned towards those who were in the room and cried:

"Talk