He raised his eyes and recognized the unhappy girl who had come to him one morning, Éponine, the elder of Thénardier's daughters; he now knew what her name was. Strange to say, she had grown poorer and more beautiful, two things which he had not thought possible. She had accomplished a double progress, toward light and toward distress. Her feet were bare and her clothes torn, as on the day when she so boldly entered his room, but the tatters were two months older, the holes larger, and the rags filthier. She had the same hoarse voice, the same forehead wrinkled and bronzed by exposure, the same free, absent, and wandering look, but she had, in addition, on her countenance, something startled and lamentable, which passing through prisons adds to misery. She had pieces of straw and hay in her hair, not that, like Ophelia, she had gone mad through contagion with Hamlet's lunacy, but because she had slept in some stable-loft. And with all that she was beautiful. What a star thou art, O youth! She had stopped in front of Marius with a little joy on her livid face, and something like a smile, and it was some minutes ere she could speak. "I have found you!" she said at last. "Father Mabœuf was right, it was in this boulevard! How I have sought you, if you only knew! Do you know that I have been in quod for a fortnight? They let me go as there was no charge against me, and besides I had not attained years of discretion by two months. Oh, how I have looked for you the last six weeks! So you no longer live down there?" "No," said Marius. "Ah, I understand, on account of that thing; well, such disturbances are unpleasant, and you moved. Hilloh, why do you wear an old hat like that? A young man like you ought to be handsomely dressed. Do you know, Monsieur Marius, that M. Mabœuf calls you Baron Marius,--I forget what, but you are not a Baron, are you? Barons are old swells, who walk in front of the Luxembourg Palace, where there is the most sun, and read the _Quotidienne_ for a sou. I went once with a letter for a Baron who was like that, and more than a hundred years of age. Tell me, where do you live now?" Marius did not answer. "Ah," she added, "you have a hole in your shirt-front, I must mend it for you." Then she continued with an expression which gradually grew gloomier,-- "You do not seem pleased to see me?" Marius held his tongue. She was also silent for a moment, and then exclaimed,-- "If I liked, I could compel you to look pleased." "What do you mean?" Marius asked. She bit her lip, and apparently hesitated, as if suffering from some internal struggle. At length she seemed to make up her mind. "All the worse, but no matter, you look sad and I wish you to be pleased, only promise me, though, that you will laugh, for I want to see you laugh and hear you say, 'Ah! that is famous!' Poor Monsieur Marius! you know you promised you would give me all I wanted." "Yes, but speak, can't you?"