journey. Jean
Valjean caused the answer "no" to be given.

Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth, Marius.

Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also
been absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his
father's grave.

Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed it.

Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the
ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach
as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have
elsewhere said, "looks before her." Nature divides living beings into
those who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are
departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving towards
the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old, and
involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first insensible,
increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The boughs, without
becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It is no fault of
theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid lights, love.
Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of each other, but
there is no longer a close connection. Young people feel the cooling
off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not blame these poor
children.

CHAPTER II--LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL

One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the
street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where Gavroche
had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the 6th of
June; he remained there a few moments, then went up stairs again. This
was the last oscillation of the pendulum. On the following day he did
not leave his apartment. On the day after that, he did not leave his
bed.

His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or
potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and
exclaimed:

"But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!"

"Certainly I did," replied Jean Valjean.

"The plate is quite full."

"Look at the water jug. It is empty."

"That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have
eaten."

"Well," said Jean Valjean, "what if I felt hungry only for water?"

"That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it
is called fever."

"I will eat to-morrow."

"Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is i