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entered it.
Precisely at that moment, the grandfather was on the
point of blowing his nose; he stopped short, holding his
nose in his handkerchief, and gazing over it at Cosette.
She appeared on the threshold; it seemed to him that she
was surrounded by a glory.
‘Adorable!’ he exclaimed.
Then he blew his nose noisily.
Cosette was intoxicated, delighted, frightened, in heav-
en. She was as thoroughly alarmed as any one can be by
happiness. She stammered all pale, yet flushed, she wanted
to fling herself into Marius’ arms, and dared not. Ashamed
of loving in the presence of all these people. People are piti-
less towards happy lovers; they remain when the latter most
desire to be left alone. Lovers have no need of any people
whatever.
With Cosette, and behind her, there had entered a man
with white hair who was grave yet smiling, though with a
vague and heartrending smile. It was ‘Monsieur Fauchelev-
ent”; it was Jean Valjean.
He was very well dressed, as the porter had said, entirely
in black, in perfectly new garments, and with a white cra-
vat.
The porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in
this correct bourgeois, in this probable notary, the fear-in-
spiring bearer of the corpse, who had sprung up at his door
on the night of the 7th of June, tattered, muddy, hideous,
haggard, his face masked in blood and mire, supporting
in his arms the fainting Marius; still, his porter’s scent was