Les Misérables: Essential Edition

t was in the second year of this silence, in the month of June, 1833, that Marius first saw her. He had been walking in the Luxembourg Gardens, following his usual solitary path, when his eyes fell upon a bench where sat an old man and a young girl. The old man might have been sixty, the girl might have been thirteen. They seemed to be father and daughter, though something indefinable in their manner suggested a relationship more complex. The girl possessed that indefinable grace which belongs to the transition from child to woman—that brief moment when the butterfly emerges from its chrysalis, still trembling with the memory of flight. Her hair was chestnut, her eyes were blue, and her complexion had that transparent pallor which speaks of sheltered life. She wore a simple dress of black merino, which, though plain, could not conceal the natural elegance of her form. As Marius watched—for he found himself unable to look away—she lifted her eyes from her book and gazed across the garden with an expression of such innocent gravity that it seemed to illuminate the very air around her.