tor for himself.
What account have we to demand of him? Is this the first time that the dung-heap has aided the spring to create the rose?
Marius made himself these replies, and declared to himself that they were good.
He had not dared to press Jean Valjean on all the points which we have just indicated, but he did not confess to himself that he did not dare to do it.
He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette, Cosette was splendidly pure.
That was sufficient for him. What enlightenment did he need?
Cosette was a light.
Does light require enlightenment?
He had everything; what more could he desire?
All,-- is not that enough?
Jean Valjean''s personal affairs did not concern him.
And bending over the fatal shadow of that man, he clung fast, convulsively, to the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch: "I am nothing to Cosette.
Ten years ago I did not know that she was in existence."
Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed.
Whatever he was, his part was finished.
Henceforth, there remained Marius to fulfil the part of Providence to Cosette.
Cosette had sought the azure in a person like herself, in her lover, her husband, her celestial male.
Cosette, as she took her flight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her hideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.