Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused; I have no fortune, neither hast thou. I hastened to thee, thou wert no longer there. Thou knowest the promise that I gave thee, I shall keep it. I die. I love thee. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee, and thou wilt smile.
Having nothing wherewith to seal this letter, he contented himself with folding the paper in four, and added the address:—
To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent,
at M. Fauchelevent’s, Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.
Having folded the letter, he stood in thought for a moment, drew out his pocketbook again, opened it, and wrote, with the same pencil, these four lines on the first page:—
My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais.
He put his pocketbook back in his pocket, then he called Gavroche.
The gamin, at the sound of Marius’ voice, ran up to him with his merry and devoted air.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” said Gavroche. “Good God! if it had not been for you, I should have been done for.”
“Do you see this letter?”
“Yes.”