第二百三十八章 六 战斗开始
珂赛特在她的阴影里，和马里尤斯在他的阴影里一样，都准备好要燃烧起来。命运怀着神秘而致命的耐心，慢慢地将这两个充溢着激情风暴的电火、这两个负荷着爱情如同乌云负荷着闪电的灵魂——它们注定要像云在闪电中一样在一瞥里泛滥交融——拉到一起。
在恋爱故事里，眼光被滥用得太多，以致最终声名狼藉。如今人们几乎不敢说两个人是因为互相看了一眼而堕入爱河。然而，人们正是这样堕入爱河的，而且这是唯一的方式。其余的都算不了什么，其余的只是后来的事。两个灵魂通过交换那粒火花而相互传递的巨大震撼，没有比这更真实的了。
就在那个特定的时刻，当珂赛特无意中射出那使马里尤斯心烦意乱的目光时，马里尤斯并没有怀疑，他也投出了一道使珂赛特心烦意乱的目光。
他给了她同样的好处和同样的痛苦。
她长期以来习惯看见他，并且像姑娘们那样，在眼睛望着别处的时候，依然审视着，看见了马里尤斯。当珂赛特已经开始认为马里尤斯很英俊时，马里尤斯却依然觉得珂赛特很丑。但是，由于他并没有注意她，这个年轻人对她来说算不了什么。
然而，她还是忍不住对自己说，他有一头漂亮的头发，一双漂亮的眼睛，漂亮的牙齿，当她听见他与同伴交谈时，有一种迷人的声调，他走路时的姿态不好看——如果你愿意这么说的话——但有一种他独有的优雅，他看起来一点也不笨，他整个人高贵、温柔、质朴、骄傲，总之，虽然他看起来贫穷，但气质很好。
在他们终于四目相对的那一天，他们的目光互相诉说了那些最初的、模糊的、难以言喻的东西——也就是目光嗫嚅着说出的话——珂赛特并没有立刻明白。她若有所思地回到了西街的房子里，让瓦尔让按照惯例在那里住了六个星期。第二天早上醒来时，她想起了那个奇怪的年轻人，他长期以来冷漠而冰冷，现在似乎开始注意她了，她觉得这种注意丝毫不能让她感到愉快。相反，她对那个英俊而傲慢的家伙有点恼怒。一种好斗的情绪在她心中涌动。她想到她终于要报仇了，这个想法让她感到一种孩子气的快乐。
知道自己很美，她模模糊糊地感到自己拥有了一件武器。女人玩弄她们的美貌，就像孩子玩弄一把刀。他们会伤到自己。
读者还记得马里尤斯的犹豫、心跳和恐惧。他仍然坐在长凳上，没有靠近。这惹恼了珂赛特。一天，她对让瓦尔让说：“爸爸，我们去那边散散步吧。”看到马里尤斯没有向她走来，她就走向了他。在这种情况下，所有女人都像穆罕默德。还有，说来奇怪，一个年轻人真正爱情的第一个征兆是胆怯；而一个年轻姑娘则是大胆。这让人惊讶，但再简单不过了。这是两性在靠近时，各自承担了对方的品质。
那天，珂赛特的一瞥让马里尤斯欣喜若狂，而马里尤斯的一瞥让珂赛特颤抖。马里尤斯满怀信心地离开了，珂赛特却心绪不宁。从那天起，他们相互崇拜了。
珂赛特首先感受到的是一种迷茫而深刻的忧郁。她觉得她的灵魂从昨天起就变黑了。她不再认得它了。年轻姑娘们灵魂的洁白，由冰冷和快乐构成，如同雪。它在爱——它的太阳——中融化了。
珂赛特不知道什么是爱。她从未听人说过这个词在世俗意义上的用法。在进入修道院的世俗音乐的书本上，amour（爱）被tambour（鼓）或pandour（潘多尔琴）所取代。这给“大姑娘们”的想象制造了谜题，比如：“啊，鼓声多么悦耳！”或者，“怜悯不是潘多尔琴。”但是珂赛特离开修道院太早，还来不及过多地关心“鼓”。因此，她不知道如何称呼她现在感受到的东西。一个人不知道自己的疾病的名字，就不会病得那么重吗？
她爱得越热烈，是因为她在无知中爱着。她不知道这是好事还是坏事，是有用还是危险，是永恒还是短暂，是允许还是禁止；她只是爱着。如果有人对她说：“你不睡觉？可这是不允许的！你不吃东西？呃，这很糟糕！你感到压抑和心悸？这可不行！当一个穿黑衣服的人出现在某条绿色小路的尽头时，你就会脸红苍白？这可太可恶了！”她会不明白，并且会回答：“在我无法控制并且一无所知的事情上，我又有什么过错呢？”
结果，出现的爱情恰好符合她灵魂的状态。这是一种远距离的崇拜，一种无声的凝视，对一个陌生人的神化。这是青春对青春的显现，是夜晚的梦想变成了现实，却依然是梦想，是渴望的幽灵终于实现并成为肉身，但还没有名字、过错、污点、要求或缺陷；一句话，是停留在理想中的遥远的情人，一个有形体的幻影。任何更近、更可触摸的相遇都会吓到珂赛特，在她还半沉浸在修道院夸张的迷雾中的这个最初阶段。她既有孩子所有的恐惧，又有修女所有的恐惧。她身上浸染了五年之久的修道院精神，仍在缓慢地从她身上蒸发，使周围的一切都颤抖。在这种情况下，他不是情人，甚至不是倾慕者，而是一个幻影。她开始崇拜马里尤斯，认为他是迷人、光明、不可能的。
由于极端的纯真接近于极端的卖弄风情，她坦率地对他微笑。
每天，她都焦急地等待着他们散步的时刻，她在那里看到了马里尤斯，她感到难以言喻的幸福，并且真心诚意地认为，当她对让瓦尔让说：
“卢森堡公园是多么迷人的花园啊！”时，她已经表达了自己的全部想法。
马里尤斯和珂赛特彼此都蒙在鼓里。他们互相不搭话，不打招呼，互不相识；他们只是互相看见；就像天上的星星，相隔数百万里，靠互相凝视而活着。
珂赛特就这样逐渐变成了一个女人，美丽而充满爱意，意识到自己的美丽，却对爱情浑然不觉。而且，由于无知，她还有点卖弄风情。
Cosette in her shadow, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire.
Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, slowly drew together
these two beings, all charged and all languishing with the stormy
electricity of passion, these two souls which were laden with love as
two clouds are laden with lightning, and which were bound to overflow
and mingle in a look like the clouds in a flash of fire.
The glance has been so much abused in love romances that it has finally
fallen into disrepute. One hardly dares to say, nowadays, that two
beings fell in love because they looked at each other. That is the way
people do fall in love, nevertheless, and the only way. The rest is
nothing, but the rest comes afterwards. Nothing is more real than these
great shocks which two souls convey to each other by the exchange of
that spark.
At that particular hour when Cosette unconsciously darted that glance
which troubled Marius, Marius had no suspicion that he had also
launched a look which disturbed Cosette.
He caused her the same good and the same evil.
She had been in the habit of seeing him for a long time, and she had
scrutinized him as girls scrutinize and see, while looking elsewhere.
Marius still considered Cosette ugly, when she had already begun to
think Marius handsome. But as he paid no attention to her, the young
man was nothing to her.
Still, she could not refrain from saying to herself that he had
beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, handsome teeth, a charming tone of
voice when she heard him conversing with his comrades, that he held
himself badly when he walked, if you like, but with a grace that was
all his own, that he did not appear to be at all stupid, that his whole
person was noble, gentle, simple, proud, and that, in short, though he
seemed to be poor, yet his air was fine.
On the day when their eyes met at last, and said to each other those
first, obscure, and ineffable things which the glance lisps, Cosette
did not immediately understand. She returned thoughtfully to the house
in the Rue de l’Ouest, where Jean Valjean, according to his custom, had
come to spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking, she thought of
that strange young man, so long indifferent and icy, who now seemed to
pay attention to her, and it did not appear to her that this attention
was the least in the world agreeable to her. She was, on the contrary,
somewhat incensed at this handsome and disdainful individual. A
substratum of war stirred within her. It struck her, and the idea
caused her a wholly childish joy, that she was going to take her
revenge at last.
Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious, though in
an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon. Women play with
their beauty as children do with a knife. They wound themselves.
The reader will recall Marius’ hesitations, his palpitations, his
terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. This vexed
Cosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean: “Father, let us stroll
about a little in that direction.” Seeing that Marius did not come to
her, she went to him. In such cases, all women resemble Mahomet. And
then, strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is
timidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet
nothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending to approach each
other and assuming, each the other’s qualities.
That day, Cosette’s glance drove Marius beside himself, and Marius’
glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away confident, and
Cosette uneasy. From that day forth, they adored each other.
The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound
melancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the
day before. She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of soul in young
girls, which is composed of coldness and gayety, resembles snow. It
melts in love, which is its sun.
Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word
uttered in its terrestrial sense. On the books of profane music which
entered the convent, _amour_ (love) was replaced by _tambour_ (drum) or
_pandour_. This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations of the
_big girls_, such as: _Ah, how delightful is the drum! _ or, _Pity is
not a pandour_. But Cosette had left the convent too early to have
occupied herself much with the “drum.” Therefore, she did not know what
name to give to what she now felt. Is any one the less ill because one
does not know the name of one’s malady?
She loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly. She
did not know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, useful or
dangerous, eternal or temporary, allowable or prohibited; she loved.
She would have been greatly astonished, had any one said to her: “You
do not sleep? But that is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that is very
bad! You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? That must not
be! You blush and turn pale, when a certain being clad in black appears
at the end of a certain green walk? But that is abominable!” She would
not have understood, and she would have replied: “What fault is there
of mine in a matter in which I have no power and of which I know
nothing?”
It turned out that the love which presented itself was exactly suited
to the state of her soul. It was a sort of admiration at a distance, a
mute contemplation, the deification of a stranger. It was the
apparition of youth to youth, the dream of nights become a reality yet
remaining a dream, the longed-for phantom realized and made flesh at
last, but having as yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor
exigence, nor defect; in a word, the distant lover who lingered in the
ideal, a chimæra with a form. Any nearer and more palpable meeting
would have alarmed Cosette at this first stage, when she was still half
immersed in the exaggerated mists of the cloister. She had all the
fears of children and all the fears of nuns combined. The spirit of the
convent, with which she had been permeated for the space of five years,
was still in the process of slow evaporation from her person, and made
everything tremble around her. In this situation he was not a lover, he
was not even an admirer, he was a vision. She set herself to adoring
Marius as something charming, luminous, and impossible.
As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she smiled at him
with all frankness.
Every day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk with
impatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself unspeakably happy,
and thought in all sincerity that she was expressing her whole thought
when she said to Jean Valjean:—
“What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is!”
Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another. They did not
address each other, they did not salute each other, they did not know
each other; they saw each other; and like stars of heaven which are
separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing at each other.
It was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and developed,
beautiful and loving, with a consciousness of her beauty, and in
ignorance of her love. She was a coquette to boot through her
ignorance.
