In a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac’s friend. Youth is the season for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars. 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.
One morning, however, Courfeyrac abruptly addressed this interrogation to him:— 'By the way, have you any political opinions? ' 'The idea! ' said Marius, almost affronted by the question. 'What are you? ' 'A democrat-Bonapartist. ' 'The gray hue of a reassured rat,' said Courfeyrac.
On the following day, Courfeyrac introduced Marius at the Café Musain. Then he whispered in his ear, with a smile: 'I must give you your entry to the revolution. ' And he led him to the hall of the Friends of the A B C.
He presented him to the other comrades, saying this simple word which Marius did not understand: 'A pupil. ' Marius had fallen into a wasps’-nest of wits. However, although he was silent and grave, he was, nonetheless, both winged and armed.
Marius, up to that time solitary and inclined to soliloquy, and to asides, both by habit and by taste, was a little fluttered by this covey of young men around him. All these various initiatives solicited his attention at once, and pulled him about.
The tumultuous movements of these minds at liberty and at work set his ideas in a whirl. Sometimes, in his trouble, they fled so far from him, that he had difficulty in recovering them. He heard them talk of philosophy, of literature, of art, of history, of religion,