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A month passed； then another。
Marius was still with Courfeyrac。 He had learned from a young licentiate in law； an habitual frequenter of the courts； that Thenardier was in close confinement。
Every Monday； Marius had five francs handed in to the clerk's office of La Force for Thenardier。
As Marius had no longer any money； he borrowed the five francs from Courfeyrac。
It was the first time in his life that he had ever borrowed money。
These periodical five francs were a double riddle to Courfeyrac who lent and to Thenardier who received them。
〃To whom can they go？〃 thought Courfeyrac。
〃Whence can this e to me？〃 Thenardier asked himself。
Moreover； Marius was heart…broken。 Everything had plunged through a trap…door once more。
He no longer saw anything before him； his life was again buried in mystery where he wandered fumblingly。 He had for a moment beheld very close at hand； in that obscurity； the young girl whom he loved； the old man who seemed to be her father； those unknown beings； who were his only interest and his only hope in this world； and； at the very moment when he thought himself on the point of grasping them； a gust had swept all these shadows away。 Not a spark of certainty and truth had been emitted even in the most terrible of collisions。
No conjecture was possible。
He no longer knew even the name that he thought he knew。
It certainly was not Ursule。
And the Lark was a nickname。
And what was he to think of the old man？
Was he actually in hiding from the police？ The white…haired workman whom Marius had encountered in the vicinity of the Invalides recurred to his mind。
It now seemed probable that that workingman and M。 Leblanc were one and the same person。
So he disguised himself？
That man had his heroic and his equivocal sides。 Why had he not called for help？
Why had he fled？
Was he； or was he not； the father of the young girl？
Was he； in short； the man whom Thenardier thought that he recognized？
Thenardier might have been mistaken。
These formed so many insoluble problems。 All this； it is true； detracted nothing from the angelic charms of the young girl of the Luxembourg。
Heart…rending distress； Marius bore a passion in his heart； and night over his eyes。 He was thrust onward； he was drawn； and he could not stir。 All had vanished； save love。
Of love itself he had lost the instincts and the sudden illuminations。
Ordinarily； this flame which burns us lights us also a little； and casts some useful gleams without。 But Marius no longer even heard these mute counsels of passion。 He never said to himself：
〃What if I were to go to such a place？ What if I were to try such and such a thing？〃
The girl whom he could no longer call Ursule was evidently somewhere； nothing warned Marius in what direction he should seek her。
His whole life was now summed up in two words； absolute uncertainty within an impenetrable fog。 To see her once again； he still aspired to this； but he no longer expected it。
To crown all； his poverty had returned。
He felt that icy breath close to him； on his heels。
In the midst of his torments； and long before this； he had discontinued his work； and nothing is more dangerous than discontinued work； it is a habit which vanishes。 A habit which is easy to get rid of； and difficult to take up again。
A certain amount of dreaming is good； like a narcotic in discreet doses。 It lulls to sleep the fevers of the mind at labor； which are sometimes severe； and produces in the spirit a soft and fresh vapor which corrects the over…harsh contours of pure thought； fills in gaps here and there； binds together and rounds off the angles of the ideas。
But too much dreaming sinks and drowns。 Woe to the brain…worker who allows himself to fall entirely from thought into revery！
He thinks that he can re…ascend with equal ease； and he tells himself that； after all； it is the same thing。
Error！
Thought is the toil of the intelligence； revery its voluptuousness。 To replace thought with revery is to confound a poison with a food。
Marius had begun in that way； as the reader will remember。 Passion had supervened and had finished the work of precipitating him into chimaeras without object or bottom。
One no longer emerges from one's self except for the purpose of going off to dream。 Idle production。
Tumultuous and stagnant gulf。
And； in proportion as labor diminishes； needs increase。
This is a law。
Man； in a state of revery； is generally prodigal and slack； the unstrung mind cannot hold life within close bounds。
There is； in that mode of life； good mingled with evil； for if enervation is baleful； generosity is good and healthful。 But the poor man who is generous and noble； and who does not work； is lost。
Resources are exhausted； needs crop up。
Fatal declivity down which the most honest and the firmest as well as the most feeble and most vicious are drawn； and which ends in one of two holds； suicide or crime。
By dint of going outdoors to think； the day es when one goes out to throw one's self in the water。
Excess of revery breeds men like Escousse and Lebras。
Marius was descending this declivity at a slow pace； with his eyes fixed on the girl whom he no longer saw。
What we have just written seems strange； and yet it is true。
The memory of an absent being kindles in the darkness of the heart； the more it has disappeared； the more it beams； the gloomy and despairing soul sees this light on its horizon； the star of the inner night。
Shethat was Marius' whole thought。
He meditated of nothing else； he was confusedly conscious that his old coat was being an impossible coat； and that his new coat was growing old； that his shirts were wearing out； that his hat was wearing out； that his boots were giving out； and he said to himself：
〃If I could but see her once again before I die！〃
One sweet idea alone was left to him； that she had loved him； that her glance had told him so； that she did not know his name； but that she did know his soul； and that； wherever she was； however mysterious the place； she still loved him perhaps。 Who knows whether she were not thinking of him as he was thinking of her？
Sometimes； in those inexplicable hours such as are experienced by every heart that loves； though he had no reasons for anything but sadness and yet felt an obscure quiver of joy； he said to himself： 〃It is her thoughts that are ing to me！〃
Then he added： 〃Perhaps my thoughts reach her also。〃
This illusion； at which he shook his head a moment later； was sufficient； nevertheless； to throw beams； which at times resembled hope； into his soul。
From time to time； especially at that evening hour which is the most depressing to even the dreamy； he allowed the purest； the most impersonal； the most ideal of the reveries which filled his brain； to fall upon a notebook which contained nothing else。
He called this 〃writing to her。〃
It must not be supposed that his reason was deranged。 Quite the contrary。
He had lost the faculty of working and of moving firmly towards any fi