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ntelligible to virginity； had ended by fancying that she had had as little mother as possible。 She did not even know her mother's name。
Whenever she asked Jean Valjean； Jean Valjean remained silent。
If she repeated her question； he responded with a smile。
Once she insisted； the smile ended in a tear。
This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness。
Was it prudence？
Was it respect？
Was it a fear that he should deliver this name to the hazards of another memory than his own？
So long as Cosette had been small； Jean Valjean had been willing to talk to her of her mother； when she became a young girl； it was impossible for him to do so。
It seemed to him that he no longer dared。
Was it because of Cosette？
Was it because of Fantine？
He felt a certain religious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette's thought； and of placing a third in their destiny。
The more sacred this shade was to him； the more did it seem that it was to be feared。 He thought of Fantine； and felt himself overwhelmed with silence。
Through the darkness； he vaguely perceived something which appeared to have its finger on its lips。
Had all the modesty which had been in Fantine； and which had violently quitted her during her lifetime； returned to rest upon her after her death； to watch in indignation over the peace of that dead woman； and in its shyness； to keep her in her grave？
Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure？ We who believe in death； are not among the number who will reject this mysterious explanation。
Hence the impossibility of uttering； even for Cosette； that name of Fantine。
One day Cosette said to him：
〃Father； I saw my mother in a dream last night。
She had two big wings。 My mother must have been almost a saint during her life。〃
〃Through martyrdom；〃 replied Jean Valjean。
However； Jean Valjean was happy。
When Cosette went out with him； she leaned on his arm； proud and happy； in the plenitude of her heart。
Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within him with delight； at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive； so wholly satisfied with himself alone。
The poor man trembled； inundated with angelic joy； he declared to himself ecstatically that this would last all their lives； he told himself that he really had not suffered sufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss； and he thanked God； in the depths of his soul； for having permitted him to be loved thus； he； a wretch； by that innocent being。
BOOK THIRD。THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET
CHAPTER V
THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS AN ENGINE OF WAR
One day； Cosette chanced to look at herself in her mirror； and she said to herself：
〃Really！〃
It seemed to her almost that she was pretty。
This threw her in a singularly troubled state of mind。
Up to that moment she had never thought of her face。 She saw herself in her mirror； but she did not look at herself。 And then； she had so often been told that she was homely； Jean Valjean alone said gently：
〃No indeed！ no indeed！〃 At all events； Cosette had always thought herself homely； and had grown up in that belief with the easy resignation of childhood。 And here； all at once； was her mirror saying to her； as Jean Valjean had said：
〃No indeed！〃
That night； she did not sleep。
〃What if I were pretty！〃 she thought。
〃How odd it would be if I were pretty！〃 And she recalled those of her panions whose beauty had produced a sensation in the convent； and she said to herself：
〃What！
Am I to be like Mademoiselle So…and…So？〃
The next morning she looked at herself again； not by accident this time； and she was assailed with doubts：
〃Where 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 Cosette is growing； sir？〃 Cosette did not hear her father's reply； but Toussaint's words caused a sort of motion 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 herself。
She was beautiful and lovely； she could not help agreeing with Toussaint and her mirror。
Her figure was formed； her skin had grown white； her hair was lustrous； an unaccustomed splendor had been lighted in her blue eyes。
The consciousness of her beauty burst upon her in an instant； like the sudden advent of daylight； other people noticed it also； Toussaint had said so； it was evidently she of whom the passer…by had spoken； there could no longer be any doubt of that； she descended to the garden again； thinking herself a queen； imagining that she heard the birds singing； though it was winter； seeing the sky gilded； the sun among the trees； flowers in the thickets； distracted； wild； in inexpressible delight。
Jean Valjean； on his side； experienced a deep and undefinable oppression at heart。
In fact； he had； for some time past； been contemplating with terror that beauty which seemed to grow more radiant every day on Cosette's sweet face。
The dawn that was smiling for all was gloomy for him。
Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before she became aware of it herself。
But； from the very first day； that unexpected light which was rising slowly and enveloping the whole of the young girl's person； wounded Jean Valjean's sombre eye。 He felt that it was a change in a happy life； a life so happy that he did not dare to move for fear of disarranging something。 This man； who had passed through all manner of distresses； who was still all bleeding from the bruises of fate； who had been almost wicked and who had bee almost a saint； who； after having dragged the chain of the galleys； was now dragging the invisible but heavy chain of indefinite misery； this man whom the law had not released from its grasp and who could be seized at any moment and brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad daylight of public opprobrium； this man accepted all； excused all； pardoned all； and merely asked of Providence； of man； of the law； of society； of nature； of the