Ah, weren't they happy?
He loved her, she loved him. A story as old as the day. Love, I scoff at love. Love is for people who believe in it. Love is the invisible veil that blinds women otherwise digging their own grave; the drink that impairs man of all judgment. Just as there are alcoholics there are likewise those addicted to love, such as Marius. Poor sap, in love with love itself.
I scoffed at Cosette then and I scoff at her now. What was she really, but a heartless bloodsucker, taking Marius's soul and claiming it hers alone? What was she really, but a lucky heroine, such as one in a dime store novel? Perfect, she was, kind, beautiful. Marius was too self-centered to be the hero, too afraid to be the knight in shining armor. Of course, Cosette seemed not to be a damsel in distress.
Seeing Marius truly happy for the first time that day was like a blow to the heart. Marius, the poorest member of the group, living in the decrepit old Gorbeau tenement; happy! The most wretched of us was the first to find true love, the first to really feel happiness. Seeing Marius happy made me realize I missed my own chance at happiness; got drunk on it.
Ah, weren't they happy?