Cosette pressed the sheets of paper to her heart. What a lovely poetic soul he had! Enraptured she read some of the beautiful verses out loud. She pressed them to her heart again and read the whole letter aloud.
There was a rustling in the tree that hung over the garden wall. This was followed by a sharp cry of pain as someone fell out of it.
Cosette looked at the prone figure of a young man and did what any red-blooded sheltered 19th century young woman would do. She screamed her pretty little lungs out.
"Shhhh! Please, I beg of you!" The young man was trying to get up. "I just wanted to know...where did you get those...ah um...where did you get those verses?"
Cosette blinked in surprise. For a brigand he seemed very polite. "My own true love gave them to me!" She said as she waving the papers around in a grand gesture.
"Ah. Marius, gave them to you?" He brushed some dirt and leaves off of his clothing.
"Oh, I don't know what is name is." Cosette replied.
The young man blinked. "You don't? And yet you are madly in love with him? Huh. That's really strange. He seemed to know your name..."
"He is so mysterious and deep!" Cosette sighed.
"Yes, quite like a puddle." The young man muttered. "He's a plagiarist you know." He said in a louder tone of voice.
"Oh lord!" Cosette pressed her hand to her mouth. "How many men has he killed?"
"What?!" The young man looked befuddled. "A plagiarist is someone who steals-"
"Oh lord! What all has he stolen?!" Cosette wailed.
"No, no, you didn't let me finish, a plagiarist is someone-" Here the young man stopped and gently placed his hand over Cosette's mouth. "---Who steals someone else's work and passes it off as their own. You know, like poetry." He removed his hand and watched the young woman carefully.
"Oh. Well that isn't too bad then." Cosette said.
"Isn't too bad?! He stole my poetry! He wrote it out in his own hand and gave it to a girl that I have never even met, someone who doesn't even know his name, and passes it off as something that came from his soul---" The young man paused and then blushed in mid rant. "I'm sorry. My name is Jean, but my friends call me Jehan."
"I'm Cosette."
"Pretty name. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know, Cosette." He muttered. "Well, I'd better go before your father comes out and kills me like a dog in your garden."
"Oh, he's not home. He's a on a walk." Cosette said cheerfully, seeing nothing wrong in informing at strange man that she was alone and unprotected.
Jehan smiled politely as he hoisted himself over the garden wall, and landed gracefully on the sidewalk. He walked off in a hurry. He had someone he needed to visit.
There was a rustling in the tree that hung over the garden wall. This was followed by a sharp cry of pain as someone fell out of it.
Cosette looked at the prone figure of a young man and did what any red-blooded sheltered 19th century young woman would do. She screamed her pretty little lungs out.
"Shhhh! Please, I beg of you!" The young man was trying to get up. "I just wanted to know...where did you get those...ah um...where did you get those verses?"
Cosette blinked in surprise. For a brigand he seemed very polite. "My own true love gave them to me!" She said as she waving the papers around in a grand gesture.
"Ah. Marius, gave them to you?" He brushed some dirt and leaves off of his clothing.
"Oh, I don't know what is name is." Cosette replied.
The young man blinked. "You don't? And yet you are madly in love with him? Huh. That's really strange. He seemed to know your name..."
"He is so mysterious and deep!" Cosette sighed.
"Yes, quite like a puddle." The young man muttered. "He's a plagiarist you know." He said in a louder tone of voice.
"Oh lord!" Cosette pressed her hand to her mouth. "How many men has he killed?"
"What?!" The young man looked befuddled. "A plagiarist is someone who steals-"
"Oh lord! What all has he stolen?!" Cosette wailed.
"No, no, you didn't let me finish, a plagiarist is someone-" Here the young man stopped and gently placed his hand over Cosette's mouth. "---Who steals someone else's work and passes it off as their own. You know, like poetry." He removed his hand and watched the young woman carefully.
"Oh. Well that isn't too bad then." Cosette said.
"Isn't too bad?! He stole my poetry! He wrote it out in his own hand and gave it to a girl that I have never even met, someone who doesn't even know his name, and passes it off as something that came from his soul---" The young man paused and then blushed in mid rant. "I'm sorry. My name is Jean, but my friends call me Jehan."
"I'm Cosette."
"Pretty name. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know, Cosette." He muttered. "Well, I'd better go before your father comes out and kills me like a dog in your garden."
"Oh, he's not home. He's a on a walk." Cosette said cheerfully, seeing nothing wrong in informing at strange man that she was alone and unprotected.
Jehan smiled politely as he hoisted himself over the garden wall, and landed gracefully on the sidewalk. He walked off in a hurry. He had someone he needed to visit.