ry of stars.

These felicities are the true ones. There is no joy outside of these
joys. Love is the only ecstasy. All the rest weeps.

To love, or to have loved,--this suffices. Demand nothing more. There
is no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a
fulfilment.

CHAPTER III--THE INSEPARABLE

What had become of Jean Valjean?

Immediately after having laughed, at Cosette's graceful command, when
no one was paying any heed to him, Jean Valjean had risen and had gained
the antechamber unperceived. This was the very room which, eight months
before, he had entered black with mud, with blood and powder, bringing
back the grandson to the grandfather. The old wainscoting was garlanded
with foliage and flowers; the musicians were seated on the sofa on which
they had laid Marius down. Basque, in a black coat, knee-breeches, white
stockings and white gloves, was arranging roses round all of the dishes
that were to be served. Jean Valjean pointed to his arm in its sling,
charged Basque to explain his absence, and went away.

The long windows of the dining-room opened on the street. Jean Valjean
stood for several minutes, erect and motionless in the darkness, beneath
those radiant windows. He listened. The confused sounds of the banquet
reached his ear. He heard the loud, commanding tones of the grandfather,
the violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts of laughter, and
through all that merry uproar, he distinguished Cosette's sweet and
joyous voice.

He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and returned to the Rue de
l'Homme Arme.

In order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint-Louis, the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and the Blancs-Manteaux; it was a little
longer, but it was the road through which, for the last three months,
he had become accustomed to pass every day on his way from the Rue de
l'Homme Arme to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in order to avoid the
obstructions and the mud in the Rue Vielle-du-Temple.

This road, through which Cosette had passed, excluded for him all
possibility of any other itinerary.

Jean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted his candle and mounted
the stairs. The apartment was empty. Even Toussaint was no longer there.
Jean Valjean's step made more noise than usual in the chambers. All the
cupboards stood open. He penetrated to Cosette's bedroom. There were no
sheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with ticking, and without a case
or la