Marius covered Cosette's letter with kisses; she loved him, then, and for a moment he had an idea that he ought not to die; but then he said to himself, "Her father is taking her to England, and my grandfather will not give his consent to the marriage; no change has taken place in fatality." Dreamers like Marius undergo such supreme despondencies, and desperate resolves issue from them; the fatigue of living is insupportable, and death is sooner over. Then he thought that two duties were left him to accomplish,--inform Cosette of his death and send her his last farewell, and save from the imminent catastrophe which was preparing, that poor boy, brother and Thénardier's son. He had a pocket-book about him, the same which had contained the paper on which he had written so many love-thoughts for Cosette; he tore out a leaf, and wrote in pencil these few lines,-- "Our marriage was impossible; I asked my grand-father's consent, and he refused to give it; I have no fortune, nor have you. I ran to your house, and did not find you there; you remember the pledge I made to you, and I have kept it. I die. I love you; and when you read this my soul will be near you and smile upon you." Having nothing with which to seal this letter, he merely folded it, and wrote on it the address:-- "To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchelevent's, No. 7, Rue de l'Homme Armé." The letter folded, he stood for a moment in thought, then opened his pocket-book again, and wrote with the same pencil these lines on the first page. "My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, No. 6, Rue des Filles du Calvaire, in the Marais." He returned the book to his coat pocket, and then summoned Gavroche. The lad, on hearing Marius's voice, ran up with his joyous and devoted face. "Will you do something for me?" "Everything," said Gavroche. "God of Gods! my goose would have been cooked without you." "You see this letter?" "Yes." "Take it. Leave the barricade at once,"--Gavroche began scratching his ear anxiously,--"and to-morrow morning you will deliver it at its address No. 7, Rue de l'Homme Armé." The heroic lad replied,-- "Well, but during that time the barricade will be attacked, and I shall not be here." "The barricade will not be attacked again till daybreak, according to all appearances, and will not be taken till to-morrow afternoon." The new respite which the assailants granted to the barricade was really prolonged; it was one of those intermissions frequent in night-fights, which are always followed by redoubled obstinacy. "Well," said Gavroche, "suppose I were to deliver your letter to-morrow morning?" "It will be too late, for the barricade will probably be blockaded, all the issues guarded, and you will be unable to get out. Be off at once."