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As for Jondrette, he had not taken off the new surtout, which was too large for him, and which M. Leblanc had given him, and his costume continued to present that contrast of coat and trousers which constituted the ideal of a poet in Courfeyrac's eyes. All at once, Jondrette lifted up his voice: "By the way! Now that I think of it. In this weather, he will come in a carriage.
At two o'clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac's quarters and flung himself, without undressing, on his mattress. The sun was shining brightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber which permits ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke, he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room with their hats on and all ready to go out.
The address was in a woman's hand and ran: "To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac's, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16." He broke the seal and read: "My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th."
And he went out every day. He lived in the Lark's meadow more than in Courfeyrac's lodgings. That was his real address: Boulevard de la Sante, at the seventh tree from the Rue Croulebarbe. That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself on the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight penetrated the freshly unfolded and luminous leaves. He was dreaming of "Her."
Cosette had called to "this young workman" and had handed him five francs and the letter, saying: "Carry this letter immediately to its address." Eponine had put the letter in her pocket. The next day, on the 5th of June, she went to Courfeyrac's quarters to inquire for Marius, not for the purpose of delivering the letter, but, a thing which every jealous and loving soul will comprehend, "to see."
He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre's philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly's cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac's dash, Bahorel's smile, Jean Prouvaire's melancholy, Joly's science, Bossuet's sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well.
Marius breathed freely in Courfeyrac's society, a decidedly new thing for him. Courfeyrac put no questions to him. He did not even think of such a thing. At that age, faces disclose everything on the spot. Words are superfluous. There are young men of whom it can be said that their countenances chatter. One looks at them and one knows them.
Every time that Marius entered and left, he carefully adjusted the bar of the gate in such a manner that no displacement was visible. He usually went away about midnight, and returned to Courfeyrac's lodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel: "Would you believe it? Marius comes home nowadays at one o'clock in the morning." Bahorel replied: "What do you expect?
He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's room, which was decent, and where a certain number of law-books backed up and completed by several dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the regulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac's quarters.
It chanced that in the Rue de la Verrerie, they passed in front of Courfeyrac's door. "This happens just right," said Courfeyrac, "I have forgotten my purse, and I have lost my hat." He quitted the mob and ran up to his quarters at full speed. He seized an old hat and his purse. He also seized a large square coffer, of the dimensions of a large valise, which was concealed under his soiled linen.
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