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did I get such an idea?’ said she; ‘no, I am ugly.’ She had not
slept well, that was all, her eyes were sunken and she was
pale. She had not felt very joyous on the preceding evening
in the belief that she was beautiful, but it made her very sad
not to be able to believe in it any longer. She did not look
at herself again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to
dress her hair with her back turned to the mirror.
In the evening, after dinner, she generally embroidered
in wool or did some convent needlework in the drawing-
room, and Jean Valjean read beside her. Once she raised her
eyes from her work, and was rendered quite uneasy by the
manner in which her father was gazing at her.
On another occasion, she was passing along the street,
and it seemed to her that some one behind her, whom she
did not see, said: ‘A pretty woman! but badly dressed.’ ‘Bah!’
she thought, ‘he does not mean me. I am well dressed and
ugly.’ She was then wearing a plush hat and her merino
gown.
At last, one day when she was in the garden, she heard
poor old Toussaint saying: ‘Do you notice how pretty Co-
sette is growing, sir?’ Cosette did not hear her father’s reply,
but Toussaint’s words caused a sort of commotion within
her. She fled from the garden, ran up to her room, flew to the
looking-glass,—it was three months since she had looked at
herself,—and gave vent to a cry. She had just dazzled her-
self.
She was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agree-
ing with Toussaint and her mirror. Her figure was formed,
her skin had grown white, her hair was lustrous, an unac-