CHAPTER II.
THE GIDDINESS OF PERFECT BLISS.
Cosette and Marius lived vaguely in the intoxication of their madness,and they did not notice the cholera which was decimating Paris in thatvery month. They had made as many confessions to each other as theycould; but they had not extended very far beyond their names. Mariushad told Cosette that he was an orphan, Pontmercy by name, a lawyer byprofession, and gaining a livelihood by writing things for publishers;his father was a colonel, a hero, and he, Marius, had quarrelled withhis grandfather, who was very rich. He also incidentally remarked thathe was a baron; but this did not produce much effect on Cosette. Mariusa baron? She did not understand it, and did not know what the wordmeant, and Marius was Marius to her. For her part, she confided to himthat she had been educated at the convent of the Little Picpus; thather mother was dead, like his; that her father's name was Fauchelevent,that he was very good and gave a great deal to the poor, but washimself poor, and deprived himself of everything, while depriving herof nothing. Strange to say, in the species of symphony which Mariushad lived in since he found Cosette again, the past, even the mostrecent, had become so confused and distant to him that what Cosettetold him completely satisfied him. He did not even dream of talking toher about the nocturnal adventure in the garret, the Thénardiers, theburning, the strange attitude and singular flight of her father. Mariusmomentarily forgot all this; he did not know at night what he had donein the morning, where he had breakfasted, or who had spoken to him; hehad a song in his ears which rendered him deaf to every other thought,and he only existed during the hours when he saw Cosette. As he was inheaven at that time, it was perfectly simple that he should forget theearth. Both of them bore languidly the undefinable weight of immaterialjoys; that is the way in which those somnambulists called lovers live.
Alas! who is there that has not experienced these things? Why does anhour arrive when we emerge from this azure, and why does life go onafterwards?
Love almost takes the place of thought. Love is, indeed, an ardentforgetfulness. It is absurd to ask passion for logic; for there isno more an absolute logical concatenation in the human heart thanthere is a perfect geometric figure in the celestial mechanism. ForCosette and Marius nothing more existed than Marius and Cosette; thewhole universe around them had fallen into a gulf, and they livedin a golden moment, with nothing before them, nothing behind them.Marius scarce remembered that Cosette had a father. It was blottedfrom his brain by his bedazzlement. Of what did these lovers talk? Aswe have seen, of flowers, swallows, the setting sun, the rising moon,and all the important things. They had told themselves everythingexcept everything; for the everything of lovers is nothing. Of whatuse would it be to talk of her father, the realities, that den, thosebandits, that adventure? And was it quite certain that the nightmarehad existed? They were two, they adored each other, and there was onlythat, there was nothing else. It is probable that this unconsciousnessof death behind us is inherent to the arrival in Paradise. Have we seendemons? Are there any? Have we trembled? Have we suffered? We no longerknow, and there is a roseate cloud over it all.
Hence these two beings lived in this way, very high up, and with allthe unverisimilitude which there is in nature; neither at the nadirnor at the zenith, but between man and the seraphs, above the mud andbelow the ether, in the clouds. They were not so much flesh and bone,as soul and ecstasy from head to foot, already too sublimated to walkon earth, and still too loaded with humanity to disappear in ether,and held in suspense like atoms which are waiting to be precipitated;apparently beyond the pale of destiny, and ignorant of that rut,yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow; amazed, transported, and floating atmoments with a lightness sufficient for a flight in the infinitude, andalmost ready for the eternal departure. They slept awake in this sweetlulling; oh, splendid lethargy of the real over-powered by the ideal!At times Cosette was so beautiful that Marius closed his eyes beforeher. They best way of gazing at the soul is with closed eyes. Mariusand Cosette did not ask themselves to what this would lead them, andlooked at each other as if they had already arrived. It is a strangeclaim on the part of men to wish that love should lead them somewhere.