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ness of soul; but hopes cut in twain by dejection—that was
her case. She had a confused consciousness of something
horrible. Thoughts were rife in the air, in fact. She told her-
self that she was not sure of anything, that to withdraw
herself from sight was to be lost; and the idea that Marius
could return to her from heaven appeared to her no longer
charming but mournful.
Then, as is the nature of these clouds, calm returned to
her, and hope and a sort of unconscious smile, which yet in-
dicated trust in God.
Every one in the house was still asleep. A country-like
silence reigned. Not a shutter had been opened. The por-
ter’s lodge was closed. Toussaint had not risen, and Cosette,
naturally, thought that her father was asleep. She must have
suffered much, and she must have still been suffering great-
ly, for she said to herself, that her father had been unkind;
but she counted on Marius. The eclipse of such a light was
decidedly impossible. Now and then, she heard sharp shocks
in the distance, and she said: ‘It is odd that people should
be opening and shutting their carriage gates so early.’ They
were the reports of the cannon battering the barricade.
A few feet below Cosette’s window, in the ancient and
perfectly black cornice of the wall, there was a martin’s nest;
the curve of this nest formed a little projection beyond the
cornice, so that from above it was possible to look into this
little paradise. The mother was there, spreading her wings
like a fan over her brood; the father fluttered about, flew
away, then came back, bearing in his beak food and kiss-
es. The dawning day gilded this happy thing, the great law,