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world; another proof that in that ravishing opera called love,
the libretto counts for almost nothing;
For Marius, to listen to Cosette discussing finery;
For Cosette, to listen to Marius talk in politics;
To listen, knee pressed to knee, to the carriages rolling
along the Rue de Babylone;
To gaze upon the same planet in space, or at the same
glowworm gleaming in the grass;
To hold their peace together; a still greater delight than
conversation;
Etc., etc.
In the meantime, divers complications were approach-
ing.
One evening, Marius was on his way to the rendezvous,
by way of the Boulevard des Invalides. He habitually walked
with drooping head. As he was on the point of turning the
corner of the Rue Plumet, he heard some one quite close to
him say:—
‘Good evening, Monsieur Marius.’
He raised his head and recognized Eponine.
This produced a singular effect upon him. He had not
thought of that girl a single time since the day when she had
conducted him to the Rue Plumet, he had not seen her again,
and she had gone completely out of his mind. He had no rea-
sons for anything but gratitude towards her, he owed her his
happiness, and yet, it was embarrassing to him to meet her.
It is an error to think that passion, when it is pure and
happy, leads man to a state of perfection; it simply leads him,
as we have noted, to a state of oblivion. In this situation, man