Page 1543 - les-miserables

garden, another infraction of the rules which Jean Valjean
seemed to have imposed upon himself, and to the custom
of remaining in her chamber which melancholy had caused
Cosette to adopt, Cosette, in a wrapper, was standing erect
in that negligent attire of early morning which envelops
young girls in an adorable way and which produces the ef-
fect of a cloud drawn over a star; and, with her head bathed
in light, rosy after a good sleep, submitting to the gentle
glances of the tender old man, she was picking a daisy to
pieces. Cosette did not know the delightful legend, I love
a little, passionately, etc.—who was there who could have
taught her? She was handling the flower instinctively, inno-
cently, without a suspicion that to pluck a daisy apart is to
do the same by a heart. If there were a fourth, and smiling
Grace called Melancholy, she would have worn the air of that
Grace. Jean Valjean was fascinated by the contemplation of
those tiny fingers on that flower, and forgetful of everything
in the radiance emitted by that child. A red-breast was war-
bling in the thicket, on one side. White cloudlets floated
across the sky, so gayly, that one would have said that they
had just been set at liberty. Cosette went on attentively tear-
ing the leaves from her flower; she seemed to be thinking
about something; but whatever it was, it must be something
charming; all at once she turned her head over her shoul-
der with the delicate languor of a swan, and said to Jean
Valjean: ‘Father, what are the galleys like?’

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