Perfect innocence，almost caught up into heaven in a mysterious assumption，attached to the earth by virtue，already possessing something of heaven through holiness.
On the one hand，confidences over crimes，which are exchanged in whispers；on the other，the confession of faults made aloud.And what crimes！
And what faults！
On the one hand，miasms；on the other，an ineffable perfume.On the one hand，a moral pest，guarded from sight，penned up under the range of cannon，and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims；on the other，the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth.There，darkness；here，the shadow；but a shadow filled with gleams of light，and of gleams full of radiance.
Two strongholds of slavery；but in the first，deliverance possible，a legal limit always in sight，and then，escape.
In the second，perpetuity；the sole hope，at the distant extremity of the future，that faint light of liberty which men call death.
In the first，men are bound only with chains；in the other，chained by faith.
What flowed from the first？
An immense curse，the gnashing of teeth，hatred，desperate viciousness，a cry of rage against human society，a sarcasm against heaven.
What results flowed from the second？
Blessings and love.
And in these two places，so similar yet so unlike，these two species of beings who were so very unlike，were undergoing the same work，expiation.
Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former；that personal expiation，the expiation for one's self.
But he did not understand that of these last，that of creatures without reproach and without stain，and he trembled as he asked himself：The expiation of what？
What expiation？
A voice within his conscience replied：
'The most divine of human generosities，the expiation for others.'
Here all personal theory is withheld；we are only the narrator；we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view，and we translate his impressions.
Before his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation，the highest possible pitch of virtue；the innocence which pardons men their faults，and which expiates in their stead；servitude submitted to，torture accepted，punishment claimed by souls which have not sinned，for the sake of sparing it to souls which have fallen；the love of humanity swallowed up in the love of God，but even there preserving its distinct and mediatorial character；sweet and feeble beings possessing the misery of those who are punished and the smile of those who are recompensed.
And he remembered that he had dared to murmur！
Often，in the middle of the night，he rose to listen to the grateful song of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities，and the blood ran cold in his veins at the thought that those who were justly chastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy，and that he，wretch that he was，had shaken his fist at God.
There was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply，like a warning whisper from Providence itself：
the scaling of that wall，the passing of those barriers，the adventure accepted even at the risk of death，the painful and difficult ascent，all those efforts even，which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation，he had made in order to gain entrance into this one.
Was this a symbol of his destiny？
This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancholy resemblance to that other one whence he had fled，and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar.
Again he beheld gratings，bolts，iron bars——to guard whom？
Angels.
These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers，he now beheld once more around lambs.
This was a place of expiation，and not of punishment；and yet，it was still more austere，more gloomy，and more pitiless than the other.
These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts.A cold，harsh wind，that wind which had chilled his youth，traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vultures；a still harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.
Why？
When he thought on these things，all that was within him was lost in amazement before this mystery of sublimity.
In these meditations，his pride vanished.
He scrutinized his own heart in all manner of ways；he felt his pettiness，and many a time he wept.
All that had entered into his life for the last six months had led him back towards the Bishop's holy injunctions；Cosette through love，the convent through humility.
Sometimes at eventide，in the twilight，at an hour when the garden was deserted，he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk which skirted the chapel，in front of the window through which he had gazed on the night of his arrival，and turned towards the spot where，as he knew，the sister was making reparation，prostrated in prayer.Thus he prayed as he knelt before the sister.
It seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God.
Everything that surrounded him，that peaceful garden，those fragrant flowers，those children who uttered joyous cries，those grave and simple women，that silent cloister，slowly permeated him，and little by little，his soul became compounded of silence like the cloister，of perfume like the flowers，of simplicity like the women，of joy like the children.
And then he reflected that these had been two houses of God which had received him in succession at two critical moments in his life：
the first，when all doors were closed and when human society rejected him；the second，at a moment when human society had again set out in pursuit of him，and when the galleys were again yawning；and that，had it not been for the first，he should have relapsed into crime，and had it not been for the second，into torment.
His whole heart melted in gratitude，and he loved more and more.
Many years passed in this manner；Cosette was growing up.
[The end of Volume II.'Cosette']
