little globules of catoptric radiance on the white painted wall above her head—myriads of will-o’-the-wisp “Peter Pans” were there dancing and dodging, mingling and leaping, darting elusively hither and yon— like the pleasures of life which she had sought and was still seeking to grasp m her firm white hand. And she lay there lazily gazing upward at them and felt that life was good and that she had nothing to regret but much to give her pride, and only wished that the bubbles of joy were not evanescent (as she knew perfectly well they were) and did not burst even as you quaffed the wine of life. She lay there like an Egyptian queen or an Indian princess and, if we are to believe history, rather less cruel and more decent than either, and wondered whether she would turn over for another little doze or tell Fantine to bring her breakfast. She was in that state of complete comfort where the fact that, if she pursued the latter course, she would have to elect between marmalade and honey, made her quite ready to remain as she was, in a state of somewhat unstable mental equilibrium. She knew however that the unchanging laws of her nature would shortly drag her
