Marius was for a long time neither
dead nor alive. He had for several weeks a fever accompanied with delirium, and
serious cerebral symptoms resulting rather from the concussion produced by the wounds
in the head than from the wounds themselves.
He repeated the name of Cosette
during entire nights in the dismal loquacity of fever and with the gloomy
obstinacy of agony. The size of certain gashes was a serious danger, the
suppuration of large wounds always being liable to reabsorption, and
consequently to kill the. patient, under certain atmospheric influences; at
every change in the weather, at the slightest storm, the physician was anxious,
"Above all, let the wounded man have no excitement," he repeated. The
dressings were complicated and difficult, the fastening of cloths and bandages
with sparadrap not being invented at that period. Nicolette used for lint a
sheet "as big as a ceiling," said she. It was not without difficulty
that the chloruretted lotions and the nitrate of silver brought the gangrene to
an end. As long as there was danger, M. Gillenormand, in despair at the bedside
if his grandson, was, like Marius, neither dead nor alive.
Every day, and sometimes twice a
day, a very well-dressed gentleman with white hair, such was the description
given by the porter, came to inquire after the wounded man, and left a large package
of lint for the dressings.
At last, on the 7th of September,
four months, to a day, after the sorrowful night when they had brought him home
dying to his grandfather, the physician declared him out of danger.
Convalescence began. Marius was, however obliged still to remain for more than
two months stretched on a long chair, on account of the accidents resulting
from the fracture of the shoulder-blade. There is always a last wound like this
which will not close, and which prolongs the dressings, to the great disgust of
the patient.
However, this long sickness and this
long convalescence saved him from pursuit. In France, there is no anger, even
governmental, which six months does not extinguish. Emeutes, in the present
state of society, are so much the fault of everybody that they are followed by
a certain necessity of closing the eyes. Let us add that the infamous Gisquet
order, which enjoined physicians to inform against the wounded, having outraged
public opinion, and not only public opinion, but the king first of all, the
wounded were shielded and protected by this indignation; and, with the
exception of those who had been taken prisoners in actual combat, the
courts-martial dared not disturb any. Marius was therefore left in peace.
M. Gillenormand passed first through
every anguish, and there every ecstasy. They had great difficulty in preventing
him from passing every night with the wounded man; he had his large armchair brought
to the side of Marius' bed; he insisted that his daughter should take the
finest linen in the house for compresses and bandages. Mademoiselle
Gillenormand, like a prudent and elder person, found means to spare the fine
linen, while she left the grandfather to suppose that he was obeyed. M.
Gillenormand did not permit anybody to explain to him that for making lint
cambric is not so good as coarse linen, nor new linen so good as old. He
superintended all the dressings, from which Mademoiselle Gillenormand modestly
absented herself. When the dead flesh was cut with scissors, he would say: "aie!
aie!" Nothing was so touching as to see him hand a cup of gruel to the
wounded man with his gentle senile trembling. He overwhelmed the doctor with
questions. He did not perceive that he always asked the same.
At each new phase of improvement,
which continued to grow more and more visible, the grandfather raved. He did a
thousand mirthful things mechanically; he ran up and down stairs without
knowing why. A neighbour, a pretty woman withal, was amazed at receiving a
large bouquet one morning; it was M. Gillenormand who sent it to her. The husband
made a scene. M. Gillenormand attempted to take Nicolette upon his knees. He
called Marius Monsieur the Baron.
He cried, "Vive la
Republique!"
At every moment, he asked the
physician: "There is no more danger, is there!" He looked at Marius
with a grandmother's eyes. He brooded him when he ate. He no longer knew
himself, he no longer counted on himself. Marius was the master of the house,
there was abdication in his joy, he was the grandson of his grandson.
In this lightness of heart which
possessed him, he was the most venerable of children. For fear of fatiguing or
of annoying the convalescent, he got behind him to smile upon him. He was
contented, joyous, enraptured, delightful young. His white hairs added a sweet majesty
to the cheerful light upon his face. When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable.
There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age.
As for Marius, while he let them
dress his wounds and care for him, he had one fixed idea: Cosette.
Since the fever and the delirium had
left him, he had not uttered that name, and they might have supposed that he no
longer thought of it. He held his peace, precisely because his soul was in it.
He did not know what had become of
Cosette; the whole affair of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his
memory; shadows, almost indistinct, were floating in his mind, Eponine,
Gavroche, Mabeuf, the Thenardiers, all his friends mingled drearily with the smoke
of the barricade; the strange passage of M. Fauchelevent in that bloody drama
produced upon him the effect of an enigma in a tempest; he understood nothing
in regard to his own life; he neither knew how, nor by whom, he had been saved,
and nobody about him knew; all that they could tell him was that he had been
brought to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire in a fiacre by night; past, present,
future, all was now to him but the mist of a vague idea; but there was within
this mist an immovable point, one clear and precise feature, something which
was granite, a resolution, a will to find Cosette again. To him the idea of
life was not distinct from the idea of Cosette; he had decreed in his heart
that he would not accept the one without the other, and he was unalterably
determined to demand from anybody, no matter whom, who should wish to compel
him to live, from his grandfather, from Fate, from Hell, the restitution of his
vanished Eden.
He did not hide the obstacles from
himself.
Let us emphasise one point here: he
was not won over, and was little softened by all the solicitude and all the
tenderness of his grandfather. In the first place, he was not in the secret of
it all; then, in his sick man's reveries, still feverish perhaps, he distrusted
this gentleness as a new and strange thing, the object of which was to subdue
him. He remained cold. The grandfather expended his poor old smile for nothing.
Marius said to himself it was well so long as he, Marius, did not speak and
offered no resistance; but that, when the question of Cosette was raised, he
would find another face, and his grandfather's real attitude would be unmasked.
Then it would be harsh recrudescence of family questions, every sarcasm and every
objection at once: Fauchelevent, Coupelevent, fortune, poverty, misery, the
stone at the neck, the future. Violent opposition; conclusion, refusal. Marius
was bracing himself in advance.
And then, in proportion as he took
new hold of life, his former griefs reappeared, the old ulcers of his memory
reopened, he thought once more of the past. Colonel Pontmercy appeared again
between M. Gillenormand and him, Marius; he said to himself that there was no real
goodness to be hoped for from him who had been so unjust and so hard to his
father. And with health, there returned to him a sort of harshness towards his
grandfather. The old man bore it with gentleness.
M. Gillenormand, without manifesting
it in any way, noticed that Marius, since he had been brought home and restored
to consciousness had not once said to him "father." He did not say
monsieur, it is true; but he found means to say neither the one nor the other,
by a certain manner of turning his sentences.
A crisis was evidently approaching.
As it almost always happens in
similar cases, Marius, in order to try himself, skirmished before offering
battle. This is called feeling the ground. One morning it happened that M.
Gillenormand, over a newspaper which had fallen into his hands, spoke lightly
of the Convention and discharged a royalist epiphonema upon Danton, Saint Just,
and Robespierre. "The men of '93 were giants," said Marius, sternly.
The old man was silent, and did not whisper for the rest of the day.
Marius, who had always present to
his mind the inflexible grandfather of his early years, saw in this silence an
intense concentration of anger, augured from it a sharp conflict, and increased
his preparations for combat in the inner recesses of his thought.
He determined that in case of
refusal he would tear off his bandages, dislocate his shoulder, lay bare, and
open his remaining wounds, and refuse all nourishment. His wounds were his
ammunition. To have Cosette or to die.
He waited for the favourable moment
with the crafty patience of the sick.
That moment came.
One day M. Gillenormand, while his
daughter was putting in order the vials and the cups upon the marble top of the
bureau, bent over Marius and said to him in his most tender tone:
"Do you see, my darling Marius,
in your place I would eat meat now rather than fish. A fried sole is excellent
to begin a convalescence, but, to put the sick man on his legs, it takes a good
cutlet."
Marius, nearly all whose strength
had returned, gathered it together, sat up in bed, rested his clenched hands on
the sheets, looked his grandfather in the face, assumed a terrible air, and
said:
"This leads me to say something
to you."
"What is it?"
"It is that I wish to
marry."
"Foreseen," said the
grandfather. And he burst out laughing.
"How foreseen?"
"Yes, foreseen. You shall have
her, your lassie."
Marius, astounded, and overwhelmed
by the dazzling burst of happiness, trembled in every limb.
M. Gillenormand continued:
"Yes, you shall have her, your
handsome, pretty little girl. She comes every day in the shape of an old
gentleman to inquire after you. Since you were wounded, she has passed her time
in weeping and making lint. I have made inquiry. She lives in the Rue de l'Homme
Arme, Number Seven. Ah, we are ready! Ah! you want her! you shall have her.
That catches you. You had arranged your little plot; you said to yourself: I am
going to make it known bluntly to that grandfather, to that mummy of the
Regency and of the Directory, to that old beau, to that Dorante become a
Geronte; he has had his levities too, himself, and his amours and his
grisettes, and his Cosettes; he has made his display, he has had his wings, he
has eaten his spring bread; he must remember it well. We shall see. Battle. Ah!
you take the bug by the horns. That is good. I propose a cutlet, and you
answer: 'A propos, I wish to marry.' That is what I call a transition. Ah! you
had reckoned upon some bickering. You didn't know that I was an old coward. What
do you say to that? You are spited. To find your grandfather still more stupid
than yourself, you didn't expect that, you lose the argument which you were to
have made to me, monsieur advocate; it is provoking. Well, it is all the same,
rage. I do what you wish, that cuts you out of it, idiot. Listen. I have made
inquiries, I am sly too; she is charming, she is modest, the lancer is not
true, she has made heaps of lint, she is a jewel, she worships you; if you had
died, there would have been three of us; her bier would have accompanied mine.
I had a strong notion, as soon as you were better, to plant her square at your bedside,
but it is only in romances that they introduce young girls unceremoniously to
the side of the side of the pretty wounded men who interest them. That does not
do. What would your aunt have said? You have been quite naked three-quarters of
the time, my goodman. Ask Nicolette, who has not left you a minute, if it was
possible for a woman to be here. And then what would the doctor have said? That
doesn't cure a fever, a pretty girl. Finally, it is all right; don't let us
talk any more about it, it is said, it is done, it is fixed; take her. Such is
my ferocity. Do you see, I saw that you did not love me; I said: What is there
that I can do, then, to make this animal love me? I said: Hold on! I have my
little Cosette under my hand; I will give her to him, he must surely love a
little then, or let him tell why. Ah! you thought that the old fellow was going
to storm, to make a gruff voice, to cry No, and to lift his cane upon all this dawn.
Not at all. Cosette, so be it; love, so be it; I ask nothing better. Monsieur,
take the trouble to marry. Be happy, my dear child."
This said, the old man burst into
sobs.
And he took Marius' head, and he
hugged it in both arms against his old breast, and they both began to weep.
That is one of the forms of supreme happiness.
"Father!" exclaimed
Marius.
"Ah! you love me then!"
said the old man.
There was an ineffable moment. They
choked and could not speak.
At last the old man stammered:
"Come! the ice is broken. He
has called me, 'Father.'"
Marius released his head from his
grandfather's arms, and said softly:
"But, father, now that I am
well, it seems to me that I could see her."
"Foreseen again, you shall see
her tomorrow."
"Father!"
"What?"
"Why not to-day?"
"Well, to-day. Here goes for
to-day. You have called me 'Father,' three times, it is well worth that. I will
see to it. She shall be brought to you
Cosette and Marius saw each other
again.
What the interview was, we will not
attempt to tell. There are things which we should not undertake to paint; the
sun is of the number.
The whole family, including Basque
and Nicolette, were assembled in Marius' room when Cosette entered.
She appeared on the threshold; it
seemed as if she were in a cloud.
Just at that instant the grandfather
was about to blow his nose; he stopped short, holding his nose in his
handkerchief, and looking at Cosette above it:
"Adorable!" he exclaimed.
Then he blew his nose with a loud
noise.
Cosette was intoxicated, enraptured,
startled, in Heaven. She was as frightened as one can be by happiness. She
stammered, quite pale, quite red, wishing to throw herself into Marius' arms,
and not daring to. Ashamed to show her love before all those people. We are pitiless
towards happy lovers; we stay there when they have the strongest desire to be
alone. They, however, have no need at all of society.
With Cosette and behind her had
entered a man with white hair, grave, smiling nevertheless, but with a vague
and poignant smile. This was "Monsieur Fauchelevent;" this was Jean
Valjean.
He was very well dressed, as the
porter had said, in a new black suit, with a white cravat.
The porter was a thousand miles from
recognising in this correct bourgeois, in this probable notary, the frightful
corpse-bearer who landed at his door on the night of the 7th of June, ragged,
muddy, hideous, haggard, his face masked by blood and dirt, supporting the fainting
Marius in his arms; still his porter's scent was awakened. When M. Fauchelevent
had arrived with Cosette, the porter could not help confiding this remark to
his wife: "I don't know why I always imagine that I have seen that face
somewhere."
Monsieur Fauchelevent, in Marius'
room, stayed near the door, as if apart. He had under his arm a package similar
in appearance to an octavo volume, wrapped in paper. The paper of the envelope
was greenish, and seemed mouldy.
"Does this gentleman always
have books under his arm like that?" asked Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who
did not like books, in a low voice of Nicolette.
"Well," answered M.
Gillenormand, who had heard her, in the same tone, "he is a scholar. What
then? is it his fault? Monsieur Boulard, whom I knew, never went out without a
book, he neither, and always had an old volume against his heart, like
that."
And bowing, he said, in a loud
voice:
"Monsieur Tranchelevent-"
Father Gillenormand did not do this
on purpose, but inattention to proper names was an aristocratic way he had.
"Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have
the honour of asking of you for my grandson, Monsieur the Baron Marius
Pontmercy, the hand of mademoiselle."
Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.
"It is done," said the
grandfather.
And, turning towards Marius and
Cosette, with arms extended and blessing, he cried: "Permission to adore
each other."
They did not make him say it twice.
It was all the same! The cooing began. They talked low, Marius leaning on his
long chair, Cosette standing near him. "Oh, my God!" murmured
Cosette, "I see you again! It is you! it is you! To have gone to fight
like that! But why! It is horrible. For four months I have been dead. Oh, how naughty
it is to have been in that battle! What had I done to you? I pardon you, but
you won't do it again. Just now, when they came to tell us to come, I thought
again I should die, but it was of joy. I was so sad! I did not take time to
dress myself; I must look like a fright. What will your relatives say of me, to
see me with a collar ragged? But speak now! You let me do all the talking. We
are still in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. Your shoulder, that was terrible. They told
me they could put their fist into it. And then they have cut your flesh with
scissors. That is frightful. I have cried; I have no eyes left. It is strange
that anybody can suffer like that. Your grandfather has a very kind appearance.
Don't disturb yourself; don't rest on your elbow; take care, you will hurt
yourself. Oh, how happy I am! So our trouble is all over! I am very silly. I
wanted to say something to you that I have forgotten completely. Do you love me
still? We live in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. There is no garden. I have been
making lint all the time. Here, monsieur, look, it is your fault, my fingers
are callous." "Angel!" said Marius.
Angel is the only word in the
language which cannot be worn out. No other word would resist the pitiless use
which lovers make of it.
Then, as there were spectators, they
stopped, and did not say another word, contenting themselves with touching each
other's hands very gently.
M. Gillenormand turned towards all
those who were in the room, and cried:
"Why don't you talk loud, the
rest of you? Make a noise, behind the scenes. Come, a little uproar, the devil!
so that these children can chatter at their ease."
And, approaching Marius and Cosette,
he said to them very low:
"Make love. Don't be
disturbed."
Aunt Gillenormand witnessed with
amazement this irruption of light into her aged interior. This amazement was
not at all aggressive; it was not the least in the world the scandalised and
envious look of an owl upon two ringdoves; it was the dull eye of a poor
innocent girl of fifty-seven; it was incomplete life beholding that triumph,
love.
"Mademoiselle Gillenormand the
elder," said her father to her, "I told you plainly that this would
happen."
He remained silent a moment and
added:
"Behold the happiness of
others."
Then he turned towards Cosette:
"How pretty she is! how pretty
she is! She is a Greuze. You are going to have her all alone to yourself then,
rascal! Ah! my rogue, you have a narrow escape from me, you are lucky, if I
were not fifteen years too old, we would cross swords for who should have her.
Stop! I am in love with you, mademoiselle. That is very natural. It is your
right. Ah! the sweet pretty charming little wedding that this is going to make!
Saint Denis du Saint Sacrement is our parish, but I will have a dispensation so
that you may be married at Saint Paul's. The church is better. It was built by
the Jesuits. It is more coquettish. It is opposite the fountain of Cardinal de
Birague. The masterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur. It is called Saint
Loup. You must go there when you are married. It is worth the journey. Mademoiselle,
I am altogether of your opinion, I want girls to marry, they are made for that.
There is a certain St. Catherine whom I would always like to see with her hair
down. To be an old maid, that is fine, but it is cold. The Bible says:
Multiply. To save the people, we need Jeanne d'Arc; but to make the people, we
used Mother Gigogne. So, marry, beauties. I really don't see the good of being an
old maid. I know very well that they have a chapel apart in the church, and
that the talk a good deal about the sisterhood of the Virgin; but, zounds, a
handsome husband, a fine fellow, and, at the end of the year, a big
flaxen-haired boy who sucks you merrily, and who has good folds of fat on his
legs, and who squeezes your breast by handfuls in his little rosy paws, while
he laughs like the dawn, that is better after all than holding a taper at
vespers and singing Turris eburnea!"
The grandfather executed a pirouette
upon his ninety year old heels and began to talk again, like a spring which
flies back: -
Ainsi, bornant le cours de tes
revasseries.
Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu
tu te maries.
"By the way!"
"What, father?"
"Didn't you have an intimate
friend?"
"Yes, Courfeyrac."
"What has become of him?"
"He is dead."
"Very well."
He sat down near them, made Cosette
sit down, and took their four hands in his old wrinkled hands:
"She is exquisite, this
darling. She is a masterpiece, this Cosette! She is a very little girl and a
very great lady. She will be only a baroness, that is stooping; she was born a
marchioness. Hasn't she lashes for you? My children, fix it well in your
noddles that you are in the right of it. Love one another. Be foolish about it.
Love is the foolishness of men, and the wisdom of God. Adore each other. Only,"
added he, suddenly darkening, "what a misfortune! This is what I am
thinking of! More than half of what I have is in annuity; as long as I live,
it's all well enough, but after my death, twenty years from now, ah! my poor
children, you will not have a sou. Your beautiful white hands, Madame the
Baroness, will do the devil the honour to pull him by the tail."
"Mademoiselle Euphrasie
Fauchelevent has six hundred thousand francs."
It was Jean Valjean's voice.
He had not yet uttered a word,
nobody seemed even to remember that he was there, and he stood erect and
motionless behind all these happy people.
"How is Mademoiselle Euphrasie
in question?" asked the grandfather, startled.
"That is me," answered
Cosette.
"Six hundred thousand
francs!" resumed M. Gillenormand.
"Less fourteen or fifteen
thousand francs, perhaps," said Jean Valjean. And he laid on the table the
package which Aunt Gillenormand had taken for a book.
Jean Valjean opened the package
himself; it was a bundle of bank-notes. They ran through them, and they counted
them. There were five hundred bills of a thousand francs, and a hundred and
sixty-eight of five hundred. In all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand
francs.
"That is a good book,"
said M. Gillenormand.
"Five hundred and eighty-four
thousand francs!" murmured the aunt.
"This arranges things very
well, does it not, Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder?" resumed the
grandfather. "This devil of a Marius, he has found you a grisette
millionaire on the tree of dreams! Then trust in the love-making of young folks
nowadays! Students find studentesses with six hundred thousand francs. Cherubin
works better than Rothschild."
"Five hundred and eighty-four
thousand francs!" repeated Mademoiselle Gillenormand in an undertone.
"Five hundred and eighty-four! you might call it six hundred thousand,
indeed!"
As for Marius and Cosette, they were
looking at each other during this time; they paid little attention to this incident.
The reader has doubtless understood,
without it being necessary to explain at length, that Jean Valjean, after the
Champmathieu affair, had been able, thanks to his first escape for a few days
to come to Paris, and to, withdraw the sum made by him, under the name of Monsieur
Madeleine, at Montreuil-sur-mer, from Laffitte's in time; and that, in the fear
of being retaken, which happened to him, in fact, a short time after, he had
concealed and buried that sum in the forest of Montfermeil, in the place called
the Blaru grounds. The sum, six hundred and thirty thousand francs, all in
bank-notes, was of small bulk, and was contained in a box; but to preserve the
box from moisture he had placed it in an oaken chest, full of chestnut shavings.
In the same chest, he had put his other treasure, the bishop's candlesticks. It
will be remembered that he carried away these candlesticks when he escaped from
Montreuil-sur-mer.
Afterwards, whenever Jean Valjean
was in need of money, he went to the Blaru glade for it. Hence the absences of
which we have spoken. He had a pickaxe somewhere in the bushes, in a
hiding-place known only to himself. When he saw Marius convalescent, feeling
that the hour was approaching when this money might be useful, he had gone
after it.
The real sum was five hundred and
eighty-four thousand five hundred francs. Jean Valjean took out five hundred
francs for himself. "We will see afterwards," thought he.
The difference between this sum and
the six hundred and thirty thousand francs withdrawn from Laffitte's
represented the expenses of ten years, from 1823 to 1833. The five years spent
in the convent had cost only five thousand francs.
Jean Valjean put the two silver
candlesticks upon the mantel, where they shone, to Toussaint's great
admiration.
Moreover, Jean Valjean knew that he
was delivered from Javert. It had been mentioned in his presence, and he had
verified the fact in the "Moniteur," which published it, that an
inspector of police, named Javert, had been found drowned under a washerwoman's
boat between the Pont au Change and Pont Neuf, and that a paper left by this
man, otherwise irreproachable and highly esteemed by his chiefs, led to a belief
that he had committed suicide during a fit of mental aberration. "In
fact," thought Jean Valjean, "since having me in his power, he let me
go, he must already have been crazy."
All the preparations were made for
the marriage. The physician being consulted said that it might take place in
February. This was in December. Some ravishing weeks of perfect happiness
rolled away.
The least happy was not the
grandfather. He would remain for a quarter of an hour at a time gazing at
Cosette.
"The wonderful pretty
girl!" he exclaimed. "And her manners are so sweet and so good. It is
of no use to say my love my heart, she is the most charming girl that I have
ever seen in my life. Besides, she will have virtues for you sweet as violets.
She is a grace, indeed! You can but live nobly with such a creature. Marius, my
boy, you are a baron, you are rich, don't pettifog, I beg of you."
Cosette and Marius had passed
abruptly from the grave to paradise. There had been but little caution in the
transition, and they would have been stunned if they had not been dazzled.
"Do you understand anything
about it?" said Marius to Cosette.
"No," answered Cosette,
"but it seems to me that the good God is caring for us."
Jean Valjean did all, smoothed all,
conciliated all made all easy. He hastened towards Cosette's happiness with as
much eagerness, and apparently as much joy, as Cosette herself.
As he had been a mayor, he knew how
to solve a delicate problem, in the secret of which he was alone: Cosette's
civil state. To bluntly give her origin, who knows? that might prevent the
marriage. He drew Cosette out of all difficulty. He arranged a family of dead
people for her, a sure means of incurring no objection. Cosette was what
remained of an extinct family; Cosette was not his daughter, but the daughter of
another Fauchelevent. Two brothers Fauchelevent had been gardeners at the
convent of the Petit Picpus. They went to this convent, the best
recommendations and the most respectable testimonials abounded; the good nuns,
little apt and little inclined to fathom questions of paternity, and
understanding no malice, had never known very exactly of which of the two
Fauchelevents little Cosette was the daughter. They said what was wanted of
them, and said it with zeal. A notary's act was drawn up. Cosette became before
the law Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent. She was declared an orphan. Jean
Valjean arranged matters in such a way as to be designated, under the name of
Fauchelevent, as Cosette's guardian, with M. Gillenormand as overseeing
guardian.
As for the five hundred and
eighty-four thousand francs, that was a legacy left to Cosette by a dead person
who desired to remain unknown. The original legacy had been five hundred and
ninety-four thousand francs; but ten thousand francs had been expended for Mademoiselle
Euphrasie's education, of which five thousand francs were paid to the convent
itself. This legacy, deposited in the hands of a third party, was to be given
up to Cosette at her majority or at the time of her marriage. Altogether this
was very acceptable, as we see, especially with a basis of more than half a
million. There were indeed a few singularities here and there, but nobody saw
them; one of those interested had his eyes bandaged by love, the other by the
six hundred thousand francs.
Cosette learned that she was not the
daughter of that old man whom she had so long called father. He was only a
relative; another Fauchelevent was her real father. At any other time, this
would have broken her heart. But at this ineffable hour, it was only a little shadow,
a darkening, and she had so much joy that this cloud was of short duration. She
had Marius. The young man came, the goodman faded away; such is life.
And then, Cosette had been
accustomed for long years to see enigmas about her: everybody who has had a
mysterious childhood is always ready for certain renunciations.
She continued, however, to say
"Father" to Jean Valjean.
Cosette, in raptures, was enthusiastic
about Grandfather Gillenormand. It is true that he loaded her with madrigals
and with presents. While Jean Valjean was building a normal condition in society
for Cosette, and a possession of an unimpeachable state, M. Gillenormand was
watching over the wedding corbeille. Nothing amused him so much as being
magnificent. He had given Cosette a dress of Binche guipure which descended to
him from his own grandmother. "These fashions have come round again,"
said he, "old things are the rage, and the young women of my old age dress
like the old women of my childhood."
He rifled his respectable
round-bellied bureaus of Coromandel lac which had not been opened for years.
"Let us put these dowagers to the confession," said he; "Let us
see what they have in them." He noisily stripped the deep drawers full of
toilets of all his wives, of all his mistresses, and of all his ancestresses.
Pekins, damasks, lampas, painted moires, dresses of gros de Tours, Indian
handkerchiefs embroidered with a gold which could be washed, dauphines in the piece
finished on both sides, Genoa and Alencon point, antique jewellery,
comfit-boxes of ivory ornamented with microscopic battles, clothes, ribbons, he
lavished all upon Cosette. Cosette, astonished, desperately in love with Marius
and wild with gratitude towards M. Gillenormand, dreamed of a boundless
happiness clad in satin and velvet. Her wedding corbeille appeared to her
upborne by seraphim. Her soul soared into the azure on wings of Mechlin lace.
The intoxication of the lovers was
only equalled, as we have said, by the ecstasy of the grandfather. It was like
a flourish of trumpets in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire.
Every morning, a new offering of
finery from the grandfather to Cosette. Every possible furbelow blossomed out
splendidly about her.
One day Marius, who was fond of
talking gravely in the midst of his happiness, said in reference to I know not
what incident:
"The men of the revolution are
so great that they already have the prestige of centuries, like Cato and like
Phocion, and each of them seems a memoire antique (antique memory)."
"Moire antique!" exclaimed
the old man. "Thank you, Marius. That is precisely the idea that I was in
search of."
And the next day a magnificent dress
of tea-coloured moire antique was added to Cosette's corbeille.
Aunt Gillenormand beheld it all with
her imperturbable placidity. She had had within five or six months a certain
number of emotions; Marius returned, Marius brought back bleeding, Marius
brought back from a barricade, Marius dead, then alive, Marius reconciled,
Marius bethrothed, Marius marrying a pauper, Marius marrying a millionaire. The
six hundred thousand francs had been her last surprise. Then her first
communicant indifference returned to her. She went regularly to the offices,
picked over her rosary, read her prayer-book, whispered Aves in one part of the
house, while they were whispering I Love Yous in the other, and, vaguely, saw
Marius and Cosette as two shadows. The shadow was herself.
There is a certain condition of
inert asceticism in which the soul, neutralised by torpor, a stranger to what
might be called the business of living, perceives, with the exception of
earthquakes and catastrophes, no human impressions, neither pleasant
impressions, nor painful impressions. "This devotion," said
Grandfather Gillenormand to his daughter, "corresponds to a cold in the
head. You smell nothing of life. No bad odour, but no good one."
Still, the six hundred thousand
francs had determined the hesitation of the old maid. Her father had acquired
the habit of counting her for so little, that he had not consulted her in
regard to the consent to Marius' marriage. He had acted with impetuosity,
according to his wont, having, a despot become a slave, but one thought, to satisfy
Marius. As for the aunt, that the aunt existed, and that she might have an
opinion, he had not even thought; and, perfect sheep as she was, this had
ruffled her. A little rebellious inwardly, but outwardly impassible, she said
to herself: "My father settles the question of the marriage without me, I
will settle the question of the inheritance without him." She was rich, in
fact, and her father was not. She had therefore reserved her decision
thereupon. It is probable that, if the marriage had been poor, she would have
left it poor. So much the worse for monsieur, my nephew! He marries a beggar,
let him be a beggar. But Cosette's half-million pleased the aunt, and changed
her feelings in regard to this pair of lovers. Some consideration is due to six
hundred thousand francs, and it was clear that she could not do otherwise than
leave her fortune to these young people, since they no longer needed it.
It was arranged that the couple
should live with the grandfather. M. Gillenormand absolutely insisted upon
giving them his room, the finest in the house. "It will rejuvenate
me," he declared. "It is an old project. I always had the idea of
making a wedding in my room." He filled this room with a profusion of gay
old furniture. He hung the walls and the ceiling with an extraordinary stuff
which he had in the piece, and which he believed to be from Utrecht, a satin background
with golden immortelles, and velvet auriculas. "With this stuff,"
said he, "the Duchess d'Anville's bed was draped at La Roche Guyon."
He put a little Saxony figure on the mantel, holding a muff over her naked
belly.
M. Gillenormand's library became the
attorney's office which Marius required; an office, it will be remembered,
being rendered necessary by the rules of the order.
The lovers saw each other every day.
Cosette came with M. Fauchelevent. "It is reversing the order of
things," said Mademoiselle Gillenormand, "that the intended should
come to the house to be courted like this." But Marius' convalescence had
led to the habit; and the armchairs in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, better
for long talks than the straw chairs of the Rue de l'Homme Arme, had rooted it.
Marius and M. Fauchelevent saw one another, but did not speak to each other.
That seemed to be understood. Every girl needs a chaperon. Cosette could not
have come without M. Fauchelevent. To Marius, M. Fauchelevent was the condition
of Cosette. He accepted it. In bringing upon the carpet, vaguely and generally,
matters of policy, from the point of view of the general amelioration of the
lot of all, they succeeded in saying a little more than yes and no to each
other. Once, on the subject of education, which Marius wished gratuitous and obligatory,
multiplied under all forms, lavished upon all like the air and the sunshine, in
one word, respirable by the entire people, they fell into unison and almost
into a conversation. Marius remarked on this occasion that M. Fauchelevent
talked well and even with a certain elevation of language. There was, however,
something wanting. M. Fauchelevent had something less than a man of the world,
and something more.
Marius, inwardly and in the depth of
his thought, surrounded this M. Fauchelevent, who was to him simply benevolent
and cold, with all sorts of silent questions. There came to him at intervals
doubts about his own recollections. In his memory there was a hole, a black place,
an abyss scooped out by four months of agony. Many things were lost in it. He
was led to ask himself if it were really true; that he had seen M.
Fauchelevent, such a man, so serious and so calm, in the barricade.
This was not, however, the only
stupor which the appearances and the disappearances of the past had left in his
mind. We must not suppose that he was delivered from all those obsessions of
the memory which force us, even when happy, even when satisfied, to look back
with melancholy. The head which does not turn towards the horizons of the past,
contains neither thought nor love. At moments, Marius covered his face with his
hands, and the vague past tumultuously traversed the twilight which filled his
brain. He saw Mabeuf fall again, he heard Gavroche singing beneath the grape,
he felt upon his lip the chill of Eponine's forehead; Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean
Proutaire, Combeferre, Bossuet, Grantaire, all his friends, rose up before him,
then dissipated. All these beings, dear, sorrowful, valiant, charming or
tragical, were they dreams? had they really existed? The emeute had wrapped
everything in its smoke. These great fevers have great dreams. He interrogated
himself; he groped within himself; he was dizzy with all these vanished
realities. Where were they all then? Was it indeed true that all were dead? A
fall into the darkness had carried off all, except himself. It all seemed to
him to have disappeared as if behind a curtain at a theatre. There are such curtains
which drop down in life. God is passing to the next act.
And himself, was he really the same
man? He, the poor; he was rich; he, the abandoned, he had a family; he, the
despairing, he was marrying Cosette. It seemed to him that he had passed
through a tomb, and that he had gone in black, and that he had come out white. And
in this tomb, the others had remained. At certain moments, all these beings of
the past, returned and present, formed a circle about him and rendered him
gloomy; then he thought of Cosette, and again became serene; but it required
nothing less than this felicity to efface this catastrophe.
M. Fauchelevent almost had a place
among these vanished beings. Marius hesitated to believe that the Fauchelevent
of the barricade was the same as this Fauchelevent in flesh and blood, so
gravely seated near Cosette. The first was probably one of those nightmares
coming and going with his hours of delirium. Moreover, their natures showing a
steep front to each other, no question was possible from Marius to M.
Fauchelevent. The idea of it did not even occur to him. We have already
indicated this characteristic circumstance.
Two men who have a common secret,
and who, by a sort of tacit agreement, do not exchange a word upon the subject,
such a thing is less rare than one would think.
Once only, Marius made an attempt.
He brought the Rue de la Chanvrerie into the conversation, and, turning towards
M. Fauchelevent, he said to him:
"You are well acquainted with
that street?"
"What street?"
"The Rue de la
Chanvrerie."
"I have no idea of the name of
that street," answered M. Fauchelevent in the most natural tone in the
world.
The answer, which bore upon the name
of the street, and not upon the street itself, appeared to Marius more
conclusive than it was.
"Decidedly," thought be,
"I have been dreaming. I have had a hallucination. It was somebody who
resembled him. M. Fauchelevent was not there."
The enchantment, great as it was,
did not efface other preoccupations from Marius' mind.
During the preparations for the
marriage, and while waiting for the time fixed upon, he had some difficult and
careful retrospective researches made.
He owed gratitude on several sides,
he owed some on his father's account, he owed some on his own.
There was Thenardier; there was the
unknown man who had brought him, Marius, to M. Gillenormand's.
Marius persisted in trying to find
these two men, not intending to marry, to be happy, and to forget them, and
fearing lest these debts of duty unpaid might cast a shadow over his life, so
luminous henceforth. It was impossible for him to leave all these arrears unsettled
behind him; and he wished, before entering joyously into the future, to have a
quittance from the past.
That Thenardier was a scoundrel,
took away nothing from this fact that he had saved Colonel Pontmercy.
Thenardier was a bandit to everybody except Marius.
And Marius, ignorant of the real
scene of the battle-field of Waterloo, did not know this peculiarity, that his
father was, with reference to Thenardier, in this singular situation, that he
owed his life to him without owing him any thanks.
None of the various agents whom
Marius employed, succeeded in finding Thenardier's track. Effacement seemed
complete on that side. The Thenardiess had died in prison pending the
examination on the charge. Thenardier and his daughter Azelma, the two who
alone remained of that woeful group, had plunged back into the shadow. The gulf
of the social Unknown had silently closed over these beings. There could no
longer even be seen on the surface that quivering, that trembling, those
obscure concentric circles which announce that something has fallen there, and
that we may cast in the lead.
The Thenardiess being dead,
Boulatruelle being put out of the case, Claquesous having disappeared, the
principal accused having escaped from prison, the prosecution for the ambuscade
at the Gorbeau house was almost abortive. The affair was left in deep obscurity.
The Court of Assizes was obliged to content itself with two subalterns,
Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, and Demi-Liard, alias Deux
Milliards, who were tried and condemned to ten years at the galleys. Hard
labour for life was pronounced against their accomplices who had escaped and
did not appear. Thenardier, chief and ringleader, was, also for non-appearance,
condemned to death. This condemnation was the only thing which remained in
regard to Thenardier, throwing over that buried name its ominous glare, like a
candle beside a bier.
Moreover, by crowding Thenardier
back into the lowest depths, for fear of being retaken, this condemnation added
to the thick darkness which covered this man.
As for the other, as for the unknown
man who had saved Marius, the researches at first had some result, then stopped
short. They succeeded in finding the fiacre which had brought Marius to the Rue
des Filles du Calvaire on the evening of the 6th of June. The driver declared
that on the 6th of June, by order of a police officer, he had been
"stationed," from three o'clock in the afternoon until night, on the
quai of the Champs Elysees, above the outlet of the Grand Sewer; that, about nine
o'clock in the evening, the grating of the sewer, which overlooks the river
beach, was opened; that a man came out, carrying another man on his shoulders,
who seemed to be dead; that the officer, who was watching at that point,
arrested the living man, and seized the dead man; that, on the order of the officer,
he, the driver, received "all those people" into the fiacre; that
they went first to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire; that they left the dead man
there; that the dead man was Monsieur Marius, and that he, the driver,
recognised him plainly, although he was alive "this time;" that they
then got into his carriage again; that he whipped up his horses; that, within a
few steps of the door of the Archives, he had been called to stop; that there
in the street, he had been paid and left, and that the officer took away the
other man; that he knew nothing more, that the night was very dark.
Marius, we have said, recollected
nothing. He merely remembered having been seized from behind by hand at the
moment he fell backwards into the barricades, then all became a blank to him.
He had recovered consciousness only at M. Gillenormand's.
He was lost in conjectures.
He could not doubt his own identity.
How did it come about, however, that, falling in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he
had been picked up by the police officer on the banks of the Seine, near the
Pont des Invalides? Somebody had carried him from the quartier of the markets to
the Champs Elysees. And how? By the sewer. Unparalleled devotion!
Somebody? who?
It was this man whom Marius sought.
Of this man, who was his saviour,
nothing; no trace; not the least indication.
Marius, although compelled to great
reserve in this respect, pushed his researches as far as the prefecture of
police. There, no more than elsewhere, did the information obtained lead to any
eclaircissement. The prefecture knew less than the driver of the fiacre. They
had no knowledge of any arrest made on the 6th of June at the grating of the
Grand Sewer; they had received no officer's report upon that fact, which, at
the prefecture, was regarded as a fable. They attributed the invention of this
fable to the driver. A driver who wants drink-money is capable of anything,
even of imagination. The thing was certain, for all that, and Marius could not doubt
it, unless by doubting his own identity, as we have just said.
Everything, in this strange enigma,
was inexplicable.
This man, this mysterious man, whom
the driver had seen come out of the grating of the Grand Sewer bearing Marius
senseless upon his back, and whom the police officer on the watch had arrested
in the very act of saving an insurgent, what had become of him? what had become
of the officer himself? Why had this officer kept silence? had the man
succeeded in escaping? had he bribed the officer? Why did this man give no sign
of life to Marius, who owed everything to him? His disinterestedness was not
less wonderful than his devotion. Why did not this man reappear? Perhaps he was
above recompense, but nobody is above gratitude. Was he dead? what kind of a
man was this? how did he look? Nobody could tell. The driver answered:
"The night was very dark." Basque and Nicolette, in their amazement,
had only looked at their young master covered with blood. The porter, whose candle
had lighted the tragic arrival of Marius, alone had noticed the man in
question, and this is the description which he gave of him: "This man was
horrible."
In the hope of deriving aid in his
researches from them, Marius had had preserved the bloody clothes which he wore
when he was brought back to his grandfather's. On examining the coat, it was
noticed that one skirt was oddly torn. A piece was missing.
One evening, Marius spoke, before
Cosette and Jean Valjean, of all this singular adventure, of the numberless inquiries
which he had made, and of the uselessness of his efforts. The cold countenance
of "Monsieur Fauchelevent" made him impatient. He exclaimed with a vivacity
which had almost the vibration of anger:
"Yes, that man, whoever he may
be, was sublime. Do you know what he did, monsieur? He intervened like the
archangel. He must have thrown himself into the midst of the combat, have
snatched me out of it, have opened the sewer, have drawn me into it, have borne
me through it! He must have made his way for more than four miles through hideous
subterranean galleries, bent, stooping in the darkness, in the cloaca, more
than four miles, monsieur, with a corpse upon his back! And with what object?
With the single object of saving that corpse. And that corpse was I. He said to
himself: 'There is perhaps a glimmer of life still there; I will risk my own
life for that miserable spark!' And his life, he did not risk it once, but
twenty times! And each step was a danger. The proof is, that on coming out of
the sewer he was arrested. Do you know, monsieur, that that man did all that?
And he could expect no recompense. What was I? An insurgent. What was I? A
vanquished man. Oh! if Cosette's six hundred thousand francs were mine-"
"They are yours,"
interrupted Jean Valjean.
"Well," resumed Marius,
"I would give them to find that man!"
Jean Valjean kept silence.
The night of the 16th of February,
1833, was a blessed night. Above, its shade the heavens were opened. It was the
wedding night of Marius and Cosette.
The day had been adorable.
It had not been the sky-blue
festival dreamed by the grandfather, a fairy scene with a confusion of cherubs
and cupids above the heads of the married pair, a marriage worthy a frieze
panel; but it had been sweet and mirthful.
In 1833, a hundred years ago,
marriage was not performed at a full trot.
It was still imagined it that day,
strange to tell, that a marriage is an intimate and social festival; that a
patriarchal banquet does not spoil a domestic solemnity, that gaiety, even excessive,
provided it be seemly, does no harm to happiness, and finally that it is
venerable and good that the fusion of these two destinies whence a family is to
arise, should commence in the house, and that the household should have the
nuptial chamber for a witness henceforth.
And they have the shamelessness to
be married at home.
The marriage took place, therefore,
according to that now obsolete fashion, at M. Gillenormand's.
Natural and ordinary as this matter
of marriage may be, the banns to be published, the deeds to be drawn up, the
mairie, the church, always render it somewhat complex. They could not be ready
before the 16th of February.
Now, we mention this circumstance
for the pure satisfaction of being exact, it happened that the 16th was Mardi
Gras. Hesitations, scruples, particularly from Aunt Gillenormand.
"Mardi Gras!" exclaimed
the grandfather. "So much the better. There is a proverb: -
Mariage un Mardi Gras,
N'aura point d'enfants ingrats. -
Let us go on. Here goes for the
16th! Do you want to put it off, you, Marius?"
"Certainly not!" answered
the lover.
"Let us get married," said
the grandfather.
So the marriage took place on the
16th, notwithstanding the public gaiety. It rained that day, but there is
always a little patch of blue in the sky at the service of happiness, which
lovers see, even though the rest of creation be under an umbrella.
On the previous evening, Jean
Valjean had handed to Marius, in presence of M. Gillenormand, the five hundred
and eighty-four thousand francs.
The marriage being performed under
the law of community, the deeds were simple.
Toussaint was henceforth useless to
Jean Valjean; Cosette had inherited her and had promoted her to the rank of
waiting-maid.
As for Jean Valjean, there was a
beautiful room in the Gillenormand house furnished expressly for him, and
Cosette had said to him so irresistibly: "Father, I pray you," that
she had made him almost promise that he would come and occupy it.
A few days before the day fixed for
the marriage, an accident happened to Jean Valjean; he slightly bruised the
thumb of his right hand. It was not serious; and he had allowed nobody to take
any trouble about it, nor to dress it, nor even to see his hurt, not even
Cosette. It compelled him, however, to muffle his hand in a bandage. And to
carry his arm in a sling, and prevented his signing anything. M. Gillenormand,
as Cosette's overseeing guardian, took his place.
We shall take the reader neither to
the mairie nor to the church. We hardly follow two lovers as far as that, and
we generally turn our backs upon the drama as soon as it puts its bridegroom's
bouquet into his buttonhole. We shall merely mention an incident which, although
unnoticed by the wedding party, marked its progress from the Rue des Filles du
Calvaire to Saint Paul's.
They were repaving, at that time,
the northern extremity of the Rue Saint Louis. It was fenced off where it
leaves the Rue du Parc Royal. It was impossible for the wedding carriages to go
directly to Saint Paul's. It was necessary to change the route, and the
shortest way was to turn off by the boulevard. One of the guests observed that
it was Mardi Gras, and that the boulevard would be encumbered with carriages.
"Why?" asked M. Gillenormand. "On account of the masks."
"Capital!" said the grandfather; "let us go that way. These young
folks are marrying; they are going to enter upon the serious things of life. It
will prepare them for it to see a bit of masquerade."
They went by the boulevard. The
first of the wedding carriages contained Cosette and Aunt Gillenormand, M.
Gillenormand, and Jean Valjean. Marius, still separated from his betrothed,
according to the custom, did not come till the second. The nuptial cortege, on leaving
the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, was involved in the long procession of
carriages which made an endless chain from the Madeleine to the Bastille and
from the Bastille to the Madeleine.
Masks abounded on the boulevard. It
was of no avail that it rained at intervals; Pantaloon and Harlequin were
obstinate. In the good-humour of that winter of 1833, Paris had disguised
herself as Venice. We see no such Mardi Gras nowadays. Everything being an expanded
carnival, there is no longer any carnival.
The cross-alleys were choked with
passengers, and the windows with the curious. The terraces which crown the
peristyles of the theatres were lined with spectators. Besides the masks, they
beheld that row, peculiar to Mardi Gras as well as to Longchamps, of vehicles
of all sorts, hackney coaches, spring carts, carrioles, cabriolets, moving in order,
rigorously riveted to one another by the regulations of the police, and, as it
were, running in grooves. Whoever is in one of these vehicles is, at the same time,
spectator and spectacle. Sergents de ville kept those two interminable parallel
files on the lower sides of the boulevard moving with a contrary motion, and
watched, so that nothing should hinder their double current, over those two
streams of carriages flowing, the one down, the other up, the one towards the
Chaussee d'Antin. the other towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine. The emblazoned
carriages of the peers of France, and the ambassadors, kept the middle of the
roadway, going and coming freely. Certain magnificent and joyous corteges,
especially the Fat Ox, had the same privilege. In this gaiety of Paris, England
cracked her whip; the postchaise of Lord Seymour, teased with a nickname by the
populace, passed along with a great noise.
From time to time, there was a block
somewhere in the procession of vehicles; one or the other of the two lateral
files stopped until the knot was disentangled; one carriage obstructed was
enough to paralyse the whole line. Then they resumed their course.
The wedding carriages were in the
file going towards the Bastille, and moving along the right side of the
boulevard. At the Rue du Pont aux Choux, there was a stop for a time. Almost at
the same instant, on the other side, the other file, which was going towards
the Madeleine, also stopped. There was at this point of that file, a
carriage-load of masks.
From one side of the boulevard to
the other, the carriage in
which the masks were, looked into
the carriage opposite, in which was
the bride.
"Hullo!" said a mask,
"a wedding."
"A sham wedding," replied
another. "We are the genuine."
And, too far off to be able to
accost the wedding party, fearing moreover the call of the sergents de ville,
the two masks looked elsewhere.
The whole carriage-load of masks had
enough to do a moment afterwards, the multitude began to hoot at it, which is
the caress of the populace to the maskers, and the two masks which had just spoken
were obliged to make front to the street with their comrades, and had none too
many of all the weapons from the storehouse of the markets, to answer the
enormous jaw of the people. A frightful exchange of metaphors was carried on
between the masks and the crowd.
Meanwhile, two other masks in the
same carriage, a huge-nosed Spaniard with an oldish air and enormous black
moustaches, and a puny jade, a very young girl, with a black velvet mask, had
also noticed the wedding party, and, while their companions and the passers-by
were lampooning one another, carried on a dialogue in a low tone.
Their aside was covered by the
tumult and lost in it. The gusts of rain had soaked the carriage, which was
thrown wide open; the February wind is not warm; even while answering the
Spaniard, the girl, with her low-necked dress, shivered, laughed, and coughed.
This was the dialogue:
"Say, now."
"What, daron?" *
"Do you see that old
fellow?"
"What old fellow?"
"There, in the first roulotte
of the wedding party by our side."
"Who has his arm hooked into a
black cravat?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"I am sure I know him."
"Ah!"
"Can you see the bride by
stooping over?"
"No."
"And the groom?"
"There is no groom in that
roulotte."
"Pshaw!"
"Unless it may be the other old
fellow."
"Bend forward well and try to
see the bride."
"I can't."
"It's all the same, that old fellow
who has something the matter with his paw, I am sure I know him."
"And what good does it do you
to know him?"
"Nobody knows. Sometimes!"
"I don't get much amusement out
of old men, for my part."
"I know him."
"Know him to your heart's
content."
"How the devil is he at the
wedding?"
"We are at it, too,
ourselves."
"Where does this wedding party
come from?"
"How do I know?"
"Listen."
"What?"
"You must do something."
"What?"
"Get out of our roulotte and
filer * that wedding party."
"What for?"
"To know where it goes and what
it is. Make haste to get out, run, my daughter you are young."
"I can't leave the
carriage."
"Why not?"
"I am rented."
"Ah, the deuce!"
"I owe my day to the
prefecture."
"That is true."
"If I leave the carriage, the
first officer who sees me arrests me. You know very well."
"Yes, I know."
"To-day I am bought by the
governmant
"It is all the same. That old
fellow worries me."
"Old men worry you. You are not
a young girl, however."
"He is in the first
carriage."
"Well?"
"In the bride's roulotte."
"What then?"
"Then he is the father."
"What is that to me?"
"I tell you that he is the
father."
"There isn't any other
father."
"Listen."
"What?"
"For my part, I can hardly go
out unless I am masked. Here, I am hidden, nobody knows that I am here. But tomorrow,
there are no more masks. It is Ash-Wednesday. I risk falling. * I must get back
to my hole. You are free." -
* Falling, being arrested. -
"Not too much so."
"More than I still."
"Well, what then?"
"You must try to find out where
this wedding party have gone."
"Where it is going?"
"Yes."
"I know that."
"Where is it going, then?"
"To the Cadran Bleu."
"In the first place, it is not
in that direction."
"Well! to the Rapee."
"Or somewhere else."
"It is free. Weddings are
free."
"That isn't all. I tell you
that you must try to let me know what that wedding party is, that this old
fellow belongs to, and where that wedding party lives."
"Not often! that will be funny.
It is convenient to find, a week afterwards, a wedding party which passed by in
Paris on Mardi Gras. A pin in a haystack! Is it possible!"
"No matter, you must try. Do
you understand, Azelma?"
The two files resumed their movement
in opposite directions on the two sides of the boulevard, and the carriage of
the masks lost sight of the bride's "roulotte."
When, at the completion of all the
ceremonies, after having pronounced before the mayor and the priest every possible
yes, after having signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy,
after having exchanged their rings, after having been on their knees elbow to
elbow, under the canopy of white moire in the smoke of the censer, hand in
hand, admired and envied by all, Marius in black, she in white, preceded by the
usher in colonel's epaulettes, striking the pavement with his halberd, between
two hedges of marvelling spectators, they arrived under the portal of the
church where the folding-doors were both open, ready to get into the carriage again,
and all was over, Cosette could not yet believe it. She looked at Marius, she
looked at the throng, she looked at the sky; it seemed as if she were afraid of
awaking. Her astonished and bewildered air rendered her unspeakably bewitching.
To return, they got into the same carriage, Marius by Cosette's side; M. Gillenormand
and Jean Valjean sat opposite. Aunt Gillenormand had drawn back one degree, and
was in the second carriage. "My children," said the grandfather,
"here you are Monsieur the Baron and Madame the Baroness, with thirty
thousand francs a year." And Cosette, leaning close up to Marius, caressed
his ear with this angelic whisper: "It is true, then. My name is Marius. I
am Madame You."
Such a day is an ineffable mixture
of dream and of certainty. You possess and you suppose. You still have some
time before you for imagination. It is an unspeakable emotion on that day to be
at noon and to think of midnight. The delight of these two hearts overflowed upon
the throng and gave joy to the passers-by.
People stopped in the Rue Saint
Antoine in front of Saint Paul's to see, through the carriage window, the
orange flowers trembling upon Cosette's head.
Then they returned to the Rue des
Filles du Calvaire, to their home. Marius, side by side with Cosette, ascended,
triumphant and radiant, that staircase up which he had been carried dying. The
poor gathered before the door, and, sharing their purses, they blessed them.
There were flowers everywhere. The house was not less perfumed than the church;
after incense, roses. They thought they heard voices singing in the infinite;
they had God in their hearts; destiny appeared to them like a ceiling of stars;
they saw above their heads a gleam of sunrise. Suddenly the clock struck.
Marius looked at Cosette's bewitching bare arm and the rosy things which he
dimly perceived through the lace of her corsage, and Cosette, seeing Marius
look, began to blush even to the tips of her ears.
A banquet had been prepared in the dining-room.
An illumination a giorno is the
necessary attendant of a great joy. Dusk and obscurity are not accepted by the
happy. They do not consent to be dark. Night, yes; darkness, no. If there is no
sun, one must be made.
The dining-room was a furnace of
cheerful things. In the centre above the white and glittering table, a Venetian
lustre with flat drops, with all sorts of coloured birds, blue, violet, red,
green, perched in the midst of the candles; about the lustre girandoles, upon the
wall reflectors with triple and quintuple branches; glasses, crystals,
glassware, vessels, porcelains, Faenza-ware, pottery, gold and silver ware, all
sparkled and rejoiced. The spaces between the candelabra were filled with
bouquets, so that, wherever there was not a light, there was a flower.
In the antechamber three violins and
a flute played some of Haydn's quartettes in softened strains.
Jean Valjean sat in a chair in the
parlour, behind the door, which shut back upon him in such a way as almost to
hide him. A few moments before they took their seats at the table, Cosette
came, as if from a sudden impulse, and made him a low courtesy, spreading out her
bridal dress with both hands, and, with a tenderly frolicsome look, she asked
him:
"Father, are you pleased?"
"Yes," said Jean Valjean,
"I am pleased."
"Well, then, laugh."
Jean Valjean began to laugh.
A few moments afterward, Basque
announced dinner.
The guests, preceded by M.
Gillenormand giving his arm to Cosette, entered the dining-room, and took their
places, according to the appointed order, about the table.
Two large arm-chairs were placed, on
the right and on the left of the bride, the first for M. Gillenormand, the
second for Jean Valjean. M. Gillenormand took his seat. The other arm-chair
remained empty.
All eyes sought "Monsieur
Fauchelevent."
He was not there.
M. Gillenormand called Basque.
"Do you know where Monsieur
Fauchelevent is?"
"Monsieur," answered
Basque. "Exactly. Monsieur Fauchelevent told me to say to monsieur that he
was suffering a little from his sore hand, and could not dine with Monsieur the
Baron and Madame the Baroness. That he begged they would excuse him, that he
would come tomorrow morning. He has just gone away."
This empty arm-chair chilled for a
moment the effusion of the nuptial repast. But, M. Fauchelevent absent, M.
Gillenormand was there, and the grandfather was brilliant enough for two. He
declared that M. Fauchelevent did well to go to bed early, if he was suffering,
but that it was only a "scratch." This declaration was enough. Besides,
what is one dark corner in such a deluge of joy? Cosette and Marius were in one
of those selfish and blessed moments when we have no faculty save for the
perception of happiness. And then, M. Gillenormand had an idea. "By Jove, this
armchair is empty. Come here, Marius. Your aunt, although she has a right to
you, will allow it. This arm-chair is for you. It is legal, and it is proper. 'Fortunatus
beside Fortunata.'" Applause from the whole table. Marius took Jean
Valjean's place at Cosette's side; and things arranged themselves in such a way
that Cosette, at first saddened by Jean Valjean's absence, was finally
satisfied with it. From the moment that Marius was the substitute, Cosette
would not have regretted God. She put her soft little foot encased in white
satin upon Marius' foot.
The arm-chair occupied, M.
Fauchelevent was effaced and nothing was missed. And, five minutes later, the
whole table was laughing from one end to the other with all the spirit of
forgetfulness.
What had become of Jean Valjean?
Immediately after having laughed,
upon Cosette's playful injunction, nobody observing him, Jean Valjean had left
his seat, got up, and, unperceived, had reached the antechamber. It was that
same room which eight months before he had entered, black with mire, blood, and
powder, bringing the grandson home to the grandfather. The old woodwork was
garlanded leaves and flowers; the musicians were seated on the couch upon which
they had placed Marius. Basque, in a black coat, short breeches, white
stockings, and white gloves, was arranging crowns of roses about each of the
dishes which was to be served up. Jean Valjean had shown him his arm in a
sling, charged him to explain his absence, and gone away.
The windows of the dining-room
looked upon the street. Jean Valjean stood for some minutes motionless in the
obscurity under those radiant windows. He listened. The confused sounds of the
banquet reached him. He heard the loud and authoritative words of the grandfather,
the violins, the clatter of the plates and glasses, the bursts of laughter, and
through all that gay uproar he distinguished Cosette's sweet joyous voice.
He left the Rue des Filles du
Calvaire and returned to the Rue de l'Homme Arme.
To return, he went by the Rue Saint
Louis, the Rue Culture Sainte Catherine, and the Blancs Manteaux; it was a
little longer, but it was the way by which, for three months, to avoid the
obstructions and the mud of the Rue Vieille du Temple, he had been accustomed to
come every day, from the Rue de l'Homme Arme to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire
with Cosette.
This way over which Cosette had
passed excluded for him every other road.
Jean Valjean returned home. He
lighted his candle and went upstairs. The apartment was empty. Toussaint
herself was no longer there. Jean Valjean's step made more noise than usual in
the rooms. All the closets were open. He went into Cosette's room. There were
no sheets on the bed. The pillow, without a pillow-case and without laces, was laid
upon the coverlets folded at the foot of the mattress of which the ticking was
to be seen and on which nobody should sleep henceforth. All the little feminine
objects to which Cosette clung had been carried away; there remained only the
heavy furniture and the four walls. Toussaint's bed was also stripped. A single
bed was made and seemed waiting for somebody, that was Jean Valjean's.
He took out slowly looked at the
walls, shut some closet doors, went and came from one room to the other.
Then he found himself again in his
own room, and he put his candle on the table.
He had released his arm from the
sling, and he helped himself with his right hand as if he did not suffer from
it.
He approached his bed, and his eye
fell, was it by chance? was it with intention? upon the inseparable, of which
Cosette had been jealous, upon the little trunk which never left him. On the
4th of June, on arriving in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, he had placed it upon a
candle-stand at the head of his bed. He went to this stand with a sort of
vivacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.
He took out slowly the garments in
which, ten years before, Cosette had left Montfermeil; first the little dress,
then the black scarf, then the great heavy child's shoes which Cosette could
have almost put on still, so small a foot she had, then the bodice of very
thick fustian, then the knit-skirt, then the apron with pockets, then the
woollen stockings. Those stockings, on which the shape of a little leg was
still gracefully marked, were hardly longer than Jean Valjean's hand. These
were all black. He had carried these garments for her to Montfermeil. As he
took them out of the valise, he laid them on the bed. He was thinking. He remembered.
It was in winter, a very cold December, she shivered half-naked in rags, her
little feet all red in her wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, he had taken her
away from those rags to clothe her in this mourning garb. The mother must have
been pleased in her tomb to see her daughter wear mourning for her, and
especially to see that she was clad, and that she was warm. He thought of that
forest of Montfermeil; they had crossed it together, Cosette and he; he thought
of the weather, of the trees without leaves, of the forest without birds, of
the sky without sun; it is all the same, it was charming. He arranged the
little things upon the bed, the scarf next the skirt, the stockings beside the
shoes, the bodice beside the dress, and he looked at them one after another.
She was no higher than that, she had her great doll in her arms, she had put
her louis d'or in the pocket of this apron, she laughed, they walked holding
each other by the hand; she had nobody but him in the world.
Then his venerable white head fell
upon the bed, this old stoical heart broke, his face was swallowed up, so to
speak, in Cosette's garments, and anybody who had passed along the staircase at
that moment, would have heard fearful sobs.
The formidable old struggle, several
phases of which we have already seen, recommenced.
He had reached the last crossing of
good and evil. He had that dark intersection before his eyes. This time again,
as it had already happened to him in other sorrowful crises, two roads opened before
him; the one tempting, the other terrible. Which should he take?
The one which terrified him was
advised by the mysterious indicating finger which we all perceive whenever we
fix our eyes upon the shadow.
Jean Valjean had, once again, the
choice between the terrible haven and the smiling ambush.
It is true, then? the soul may be
cured, but not the lot. Fearful thing! an incurable destiny!
The question which presented itself
was this:
In what manner should Jean Valjean
comport himself in regard to the happiness of Cosette and Marius? This
happiness, it was he who had willed it, it was he who had made it; he had
thrust it into his own heart, and at this hour, looking upon it, he might have
the same satisfaction that an armourer would have, who should recognise his own
mark upon a blade, on withdrawing it all reeking from his breast.
Cosette had Marius, Marius possessed
Cosette. They had everything, even riches. And it was his work.
But this happiness, now that it
existed, now that it was here, what was he to do with it, he, Jean Valjean?
Should he impose himself upon this happiness? Should he treat it as belonging
to him? Unquestionably, Cosette was another's; but should he, Jean Valjean, retain
all of Cosette that he could retain? Should he remain the kind of father,
scarcely seen, but respected, which he had been hitherto? Should he introduce
himself quietly into Cosette's house? Should he bring, without saying a word,
his past to this future? Should he present himself there as having a right, and
should he come and take his seat, veiled, at that luminous hearth? Should he take,
smiling upon them, the hands of those innocent beings into his two tragical
hands? Should he place upon the peaceful andirons of the Gillenormand parlour,
his feet which dragged after them the infamous shadow of the law? Should he
enter upon a participation of chances with Cosette and Marius? Should he
thicken the obscurity upon his head and the cloud upon theirs? Should he put in
his catastrophe as a companion for their two felicities? Should he continue to
keep silence? In a word, should he be, by the side of these two happy beings,
the ominous mute of destiny?
We must be accustomed to fatality
and its encounter, to dare to raise our eyes when certain questions appear to
us in their horrible nakedness. Good or evil are behind this severe
interrogation point. "What are you going to do?" demands the sphynx.
This familiarity with trial Jean
Valjean had. He looked fixedly upon the sphynx.
He examined the pitiless problem
under all its phases.
Cosette, that charming existence,
was the raft of this shipwreck. What was he to do? Cling on, or let go his
hold?
If he clung to it, he escaped
disaster, he rose again into the sunshine, he let the bitter water drip from
garments and his hair, he was saved, he lived.
If he loosed his hold?
Then, the abyss.
Thus bitterly he held counsel with
his thoughts, or, to speak more truthfully, he struggled; he rushed, furious,
within himself, sometimes against his will, sometimes against his conviction.
It was a good thing for Jean Valjean
that he had been able to weep. It gave him light, perhaps. For all that, the
beginning was wild. A tempest, more furious than that which had formerly driven
him towards Arras, broke loose within him. The past came back to him face to
face with the present; he compared and he sobbed. The sluice of tears once
opened, the despairing man writhed.
He felt that he was stopped.
At last Jean Valjean entered the
calmness of despair.
He weighed, he thought, he
considered the alternatives of the mysterious balance of light and shade.
To impose his galleys upon these two
dazzling children, or to consummate by himself his irremediable engulfment. On
the one side the sacrifice of Cosette, on the other of himself.
At what solution did he stop?
What determination did he take? What
was, within himself, his final answer to the incorruptible demand of fatality?
What door did he decide to open? Which side of his life did he resolve to close
and to condemn? Between all these unfathomable precipices which surrounded him,
what was his choice? What extremity did he accept? To which of these gulfs did
he bow his head?
His giddy reverie lasted all night.
He remained there until dawn, in the
same attitude, doubled over on the bed, prostrated under the enormity of fate,
crushed perhaps, alas! his fists clenched, his arms extended at a right angle,
like one taken from the cross and thrown down with his face to the ground. He remained
twelve hours, the twelve hours of a long winter night, chilled, without lifting
his head, and without uttering a word. He was as motionless as a corpse, while
his thought writhed upon the ground and flew away, now like the hydra, now like
the eagle. To see him thus without motion, one would have said he was dead;
suddenly he thrilled convulsively, and his mouth, fixed upon Cosette's
garments, kissed them; then one saw that he was alive.
What one? since Jean Valjean was
alone, and there was nobody there?
The One who is in the darkness.
The day after a wedding is solitary.
The privacy of the happy is respected. And thus their slumber is a little
belated. The tumult of visits and felicitations does not commence until later.
On the morning of the 17th of February, it was a little after noon, when
Basque, his napkin and duster under his arm, busy "doing his
antechamber," heard a light rap at the door. There was no ring, which is
considerate on such a day. Basque opened and saw M. Fauchelevent. He introduced
him into the parlour, still cumbered and topsy-turvy, and which had the
appearance of the battle-field of the evening's festivities.
"Faith, monsieur,"
observed Basque, "we are waking up late."
"Has your master risen?"
inquired Jean Valjean.
"How is monsieur's arm?"
answered Basque.
"Better. Has your master
risen?"
"Which? the old or the new
one?"
"Monsieur Pontmercy."
"Monsieur the Baron?" said
Basque, drawing himself up.
One is baron to his domestics above
all. Something of it is reflected upon them; they have what a philosopher would
call the spattering of the title, and it flatters them. Marius, to speak of it
in passing, a republican militant, and he had proved it, was now a baron in
spite of himself. A slight revolution had taken place in the family in regard
to this title. At present it was M. Gillenormand who clung to it and Marius who
made light of it. But Colonel Pontmercy had written: My son will bear my title.
Marius obeyed. And then Cosette, in whom the woman was beginning to dawn, was in
raptures at being a baroness.
"Monsieur the Baron?"
repeated Basque. "I will go and see. I will tell him that Monsieur
Fauchelevent is here."
"No. Do not tell him that it is
I. Tell him that somebody asks to speak with him in private, and do not give
him any name."
"Ah!" said Basque.
"I wish to give him a
surprise."
"Ah!" resumed Basque,
giving himself his second ah! as an explanation of the first.
And he went out.
Jean Valjean remained alone.
The parlour, as we have just said,
was all in disorder. It seemed that by lending the ear the vague rumour of the
wedding might still have been heard. There were all sorts of flowers, which had
fallen from garlands and head-dresses, upon the floor. The candles, burned to the
socket, added stalactites of wax to the pendents of the lustres. Not a piece of
furniture was in its place. In the corners, three or four arm-chairs drawn up
and forming a circle, had the appearance of continuing a conversation.
Altogether it was joyous. There is still a certain grace in a dead festival. It
has been happy. Upon those chairs in disarray, among those flowers which are
withering, under those extinguished lights, there have been thoughts or joy.
The sun succeeded to the chandelier, and entered cheerfully into the parlour.
A few minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean
was motionless in the spot where Basque had left him. He was very pale. His
eyes were hollow, and so sunken in their sockets from want of sleep that they
could hardly be seen. His black coat had the weary folds of a garment which has
passed the night. The elbows were whitened with that down which is left upon
cloth by the chafing of linen. Jean Valjean was looking at the window marked
out by the sun upon the floor at his feet.
There was a noise at the door, he
raised his eyes.
Marius entered, his head erect, his
mouth smiling, an indescribable light upon his face, his forehead radiant, his
eye triumphant. He also had not slept.
"It is you, father!"
exclaimed he on perceiving Jean Valjean; "that idiot of a Basque with his
mysterious air! But you come too early. It is only half an hour after noon yet.
Cosette is asleep."
That word: Father, said to M.
Fauchelevent by Marius, signified: Supreme felicity. There had always been, as
we know, barrier, coldness, and constraint between them; ice to break or to
melt. Marius had reached that degree of intoxication where the barrier was
falling, the ice was dissolving, and M. Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette,
a father.
He continued; words overflowed from
him, which is characteristic of these divine paroxysms of joy:
"How glad I am to see you! If
you knew how we missed you yesterday! Good morning, father. How is your hand?
Better, is it not?"
And, satisfied with the good answer
which he made to himself, he went on:
"We have both of us talked much
about you. Cosette loves you so much! You will not forget that your room is
here. We will have no more of the Rue de l'Homme Arme. We will have no more of
it at all. How could you go to live in a street like that, which is sickly,
which is scowling, which is ugly, which has a barrier at one end, where you are
cold, and where you cannot get in? you will come and install yourself here. And
that to-day. Or you will have a bone to pick with Cosette. She intends to lead
us all by the nose, I warn you. You have seen your room, it is close by ours,
it looks upon the gardens; the lock has been fixed, the bed is made, it is all
ready; you have nothing to do but to come. Cosette has put a great old easy
chair of Utrecht velvet beside your bed, to which she said: stretch out your arms
for him. Every spring, in the clump of acacias which is in front of your
windows, there comes a nightingale, you will have her in two months. You will
have her nest at your left and ours at your right. By night she will sing, and
by day Cosette will talk. Your room is full in the south. Cosette will arrange
your books there for you, your voyage of Captain Cook, and the other,
Vancouver's, all your things. There is, I believe, a little valise which you
treasure, I have selected a place of honour for it. You have conquered my grandfather,
you suit him. We will live together. Do you know whist? you will overjoy my
grandfather, if you know whist. You will take Cosette to walk on my court-days,
you will give her your arm, you know, as at the Luxembourg, formerly. We have
absolutely decided to be very happy. And you are part of our happiness, do you
understand, father? Come now, you breakfast with us to-day?"
"Monsieur," said Jean
Valjean, "I have one thing to tell you. I am an old convict."
The limit of perceptible acute
sounds may be passed quite as easily for the mind as for the ear. Those words:
I am an old convict, coming from M. Fauchelevent's mouth and entering Marius' ear,
went beyond the possible. Marius did not hear. It seemed to him that something
had just been said to him; but he knew not what. He stood aghast.
He then perceived that the man who
was talking to him was terrible. Excited as he was, he had not until this
moment noticed that frightful pallor.
Jean Valjean untied the black cravat
which sustained his right arm, took off the cloth wound about his head, laid
his thumb bare, and showed it to Marius.
"There is nothing the matter
with my hand," said he.
Marius looked at the thumb.
"There has never been anything
the matter with it," continued Jean Valjean.
There was, in fact, no trace of a
wound. Jean Valjean pursued:
"It was best that I should be
absent from your marriage. I absented myself as much as I could. I feigned this
wound so as not to commit a forgery, not to introduce a nullity into the
marriage acts, to be excused from signing."
Marius stammered out:
"What does this mean?"
"It means," answered Jean
Valjean, "that I have been in the galleys."
"You drive me mad!"
exclaimed Marius in dismay.
"Monsieur Pontmercy," said
Jean Valjean, "I was nineteen years in the galleys. For robbery. Then I
was sentenced for life. For robbery. For a second offence. At this hour I am in
breach of ban."
It was useless for Marius to recoil
before the reality, to refuse the fact, to resist the evidence; he was
compelled to yield. He began to comprehend, and as always happens in such a
case, he comprehended beyond the truth. He felt the shiver of a horrible interior
flash; an idea which made him shudder, crossed his mind. He caught a glimpse in
the future of a hideous destiny for himself.
"Tell all, tell all!"
cried he. "You are Cosette's father!"
And he took two steps backward with
an expression of unspeakable horror.
Jean Valjean raised his head with
such a majesty of attitude that he seemed to rise to the ceiling.
"It is necessary that you
believe me in this, monsieur; although the oath of such as I be not
received."
Here he made a pause; then, with a
sort of sovereign and sepulchral authority, he added, articulating slowly and
emphasising his syllables:
"-You will believe me. I, the
father of Cosette I before God, no. Monsieur Baron Pontmercy, I am a Peasant of
Faverolles. I earned my living by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent,
my name is Jean Valjean. I am nothing to Cosette. Compose yourself."
Marius faltered:
"Who proves it to me-"
"I. Since I say so."
Marius looked at this man. He was
mournful, yet self-possessed. No lie could come out of such a calmness. That
which is frozen is sincere. We feel the truth in that sepulchral coldness.
"I believe you," said
Marius.
Jean Valjean inclined his head as if
making oath; and continued:
"What am I to Cosette? a passer.
Ten years ago, I did not know that she existed. I love her, it is true. A child
whom one has seen when little, being himself already old, he loves. When a man
is old, he feels like a grandfather towards all little children. You can, it seems
to me, suppose that I have something which resembles a heart. She was an
orphan. Without father or mother. She had need of me. That is why I began to
love her. Children are so weak, that anybody, even a man like me, may be their
protector. I performed that duty with regard to Cosette. I do not think that
one could truly call so little a thing a good deed; but if it is a good deed,
well, set it down that I have done it. Record that mitigating circumstance.
Today Cosette leaves my life; our two roads separate. Henceforth I can do nothing
more for her. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her protector is changed. And Cosette
gains by the change. All is well. As for the six hundred thousand francs, you
have not spoken of them to me, but I anticipate your thought; that is a trust.
How did this trust come into my hands? What matters it? I make over the trust.
Nothing more can be asked of me. I complete the restitution by telling my real name.
This again concerns me. I desire, myself, that you should know who I am."
And Jean Valjean looked Marius in
the face.
All that Marius felt was tumultuous
and incoherent. Certain blasts of destiny make such waves in our soul.
We have all had such moments of
trouble, in which everything within us is dispersed; we say the first things
that come to mind, which are not always precisely those that we should say.
There are sudden revelations which we cannot bear, and which intoxicate like a noxious
wine. Marius was so stupefied at the new condition of affairs which opened
before him that he spoke to this man almost as though he were angry with him
for his avowal.
"But after all," exclaimed
he, "why do you tell me all this? What compels you to do so? You could
have kept the secret to yourself. You are neither denounced, nor pursued, nor
hunted. You have some reason for making, from mere wantonness, such a
revelation. Finish it. There is something else. In connection with what do you
make this avowal? From what motive?"
"From what motive?"
answered Jean Valjean, in a voice so low and so hollow that one would have said
it was to himself he was speaking rather than to Marius. "From what
motive, indeed, does this convict come and say: I am a convict? Well, yes! the
motive is strange. It is from honour. Yes, my misfortune is a cord which I have
here in my heart and which holds me fast. When one is old these cords are
strong. The whole life wastes away about them; they hold fast. If I had been able
to tear out this cord, to break it, to untie the knot, or to cut it, to go far
away, I had been saved, I had only to depart; there are diligences in the Rue
du Bouloy; you are happy, I go away. I have tried to break this cord, I have
pulled upon it, it held firmly, it did not snap, I was tearing my heart out
with it. Then I said I cannot live away from here. I must stay. Well, yes; but
you are right, I am a fool, why not just simply stay? You offer me a room in the
house, Madame Pontmercy loves me well, she says to that arm-chair: Stretch out
your arms for him, your grandfather asks nothing better than to have me, I suit
him, we shall all live together, eat in common, I will give my arm to Cosette-
to Madame Pontmercy, pardon me, it is from habit- we will have but one roof,
but one table, but one fire, the same chimney corner in winter, the same
promenade in summer, that is joy, that is happiness, that, it is everything. We
will live as one family, one family!"
At this word Jean Valjean grew wild.
He folded his arms, gazed at the floor at his feet as if he wished to hollow
out an abyss in it, and his voice suddenly became piercing.
"One family! no. I am of no
family. I am not of yours. I am not of the family of men. In houses where
people are at home I am an incumbrance. There are families, but they are not
for me. I am the unfortunate; I am outside. Had I a father and a mother? I
almost doubt it. The day that I married that child it was all over, I saw that she
was happy, and that she was with the man whom she loved, and that there was a
good old man here, a household of two angels, all joys in this house, and that
it was well, I said to myself: Enter thou not. I could have lied, it is true,
have deceived you all, have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent. As long as it was
for her, I could lie; but now it would be for myself, I must not do it. It was
enough to remain silent, it is true, and everything would continue. You ask me
what forces me to speak? a strange thing; my conscience. To remain silent was,
however, very easy. I have passed the night in trying to persuade myself to do
so; you are confessing me, and what I come to tell you is so strange that you
have a right to do so; well, yes, I have passed the night in giving myself
reasons, I have given myself very good reasons, I have done what I could, it
was of no use. But there are two things in which I did not succeed; neither in breaking
the cord which holds me by the heart fixed, riveted, and sealed here, nor in
silencing some one who speaks low to me when I am alone. That is why I have
come to confess all to you this morning. All, or almost all. It is useless to
tell what concerns only myself; I keep it for myself. The essential you know.
So I have taken my mystery, and brought it to you. And I have ripped open my secret
under your eyes. It was not an easy resolution to form. All night I have
struggled with myself. Ah! you think I have not said to myself that this is not
the Champmathieu affair, that in concealing my name I do no harm to anybody,
that the name of Fauchelevent was given to me by Fauchelevent himself in
gratitude for a service rendered, and I could very well keep it, and that I
should be happy in this room which you offer me, that I should interfere with
nothing, that I should be in my little corner, and that, while you would have Cosette,
I should have the idea of being in the same house with her. Each one would have
had his due share of happiness. To continue to be Monsieur Fauchelevent,
smoothed the way for everything. Yes, except for my soul. There was joy
everywhere about me, the depths of my soul were still black. It is not enough
to be happy, we must be satisfied with ourselves. Thus I should have remained
Monsieur Fauchelevent, thus I should have concealed my real face, thus, in presence
of your cheerfulness, I should have borne an enigma, thus, in the midst of your
broad day, I should have been darkness, thus, without openly crying beware, I
should have introduced the galleys at your hearth, I should have sat down at
your table with the thought that, if you knew who I was, you would drive me
away, I should have let myself be served by domestics who, if they had known,
would have said: How horrible! I should have touched you with my elbow which you
have a right to shrink from, I should have filched the grasp of your hand!
There would have been in your house a division of respect between venerable
white hairs and dishonoured white hairs; at your most intimate hours, when all
hearts would have thought themselves open to each other to the bottom, when we
should have been all four together, your grandfather, you two, and myself;
there would have been a stranger there! I should have been side by side with
you in your existence, having but one care, never to displace the covering of
my terrible pit. Thus I, a dead man, should have imposed myself upon you, who
are alive. Her I should have condemned to myself for ever. You, Cosette, and I,
we should have been three heads in the green cap! Do you not shudder? I am only
the most depressed of men, I should have been the most monstrous. And this
crime I should have committed every day! And this lie I should have acted every
day! And this face of night I should have worn every day! And of my disgrace, I
should have given to you your part every day! every day! to you, my loved ones,
you, my children, you, my innocents! To be quiet is nothing? to keep silence is
simple? No, it is not simple. There is a silence which lies. And my lie, and my
fraud, and my unworthiness, and my cowardice, and my treachery, and my crime, I
should have drunk drop by drop, I should have spit it out, then drunk again, I
should have finished at midnight and recommenced at noon, and my good-morning would
have lied, and my good-night would have lied, and I should have slept upon it,
and I should have eaten it with my bread, and I should have looked Cosette in
the face, and I should have answered the smile of the angel with the smile of
the damned, and I should have been a detestable impostor! What for? to be
happy. To be happy, I! Have I the right to be happy? I am outside of life,
monsieur."
Jean Valjean stopped. Marius
listened. Such a chain of ideas and of pangs cannot be interrupted. Jean
Valjean lowered his voice anew, but it was no longer a hollow voice, it was an
ominous voice.
"You ask why I speak? I am
neither informed against, nor pursued, nor hunted, say you. Yes! I am informed
against! yes! I am pursued! yes! I am hunted? By whom? by myself. It is I
myself who bar the way before myself, and I drag myself, and I urge myself, and
I check myself, and I exert myself, and when one holds himself he is well held."
He breathed with difficulty, and
forced out these final words:
"To live, once I stole a loaf
of bread; to-day, to live, I will not steal a name."
"My grandfather has
friends," said Marius. "I will procure your pardon."
"It is useless," answered
Jean Valjean. "They think me dead, that is enough. The dead are not
subjected to surveillance. They are supposed to moulder tranquilly. Death is
the same thing as pardon."
And, disengaging his hand, which
Marius held, he added with a sort of inexorable dignity:
"Besides, to do my duty, that
is the friend to which I have recourse; and I need pardon of but one, that is
my conscience."
Just then, at the other end of the
parlour, the door was softly opened a little way, and Cosette's head made its
appearance. They saw only her sweet face, her hair was in charming disorder,
her eyelids were still swollen with sleep. She made the movement of a bird passing
its head out of its nest, looked first at her husband, then at Jean Valjean,
and called to them with a laugh, you would have thought you saw a smile at the
bottom of a rose:
"I'll wager that you're talking
politics. How stupid that is, instead of being with me!"
Jean Valjean shuddered.
"Cosette," faltered
Marius- and he stopped. One would have said that they were two culprits.
Cosette, radiant, continued to look
at them both. The frolic of paradise was in her eyes.
"I catch you in the very
act," said Cosette. "I just heard my father Fauchelevent say, through
the door: 'Conscience- Do his duty.'- It is politics, that is. I will not have
it. You ought not to talk politics the very next day. It is not right."
"You are mistaken,
Cosette," answered Marius. "We were talking business. We are talking
of the best investment for your six hundred thousand francs-"
"It is not all that,"
interrupted Cosette. "I am coming. Do you want me here?"
And, passing resolutely through the
door, she came into the parlour. She was dressed in a full white morning gown,
with a thousand folds and with wide sleeves which, starting from the neck, fell
to her feet. There are in the golden skies of old Gothic pictures such charming
robes for angels to wear.
She viewed herself from head to foot
in a large glass, then exclaimed with an explosion of ineffable ecstasy:
"Once there was a king and a
queen. Oh! how happy I am!" So saying, she made a reverence to Marius and
to Jean Valjean. "There," said she, "I am going to install
myself by you in an armchair; we breakfast in half an hour, you shall say all
you wish to; I know very well that men must talk I shall be very good."
Marius took her arm, and said to her
lovingly:
"We are talking business."
"By the way," answered
Cosette, "I have opened my window, a flock of pierrots [sparrows or masks]
have just arrived in the garden. Birds, not masks. It is Ash Wednesday to-day;
but not for the birds."
"I tell you that we are talking
business; go, my darling Cosette, leave us a moment. We are talking figures. It
will tire you."
"You have put on a charming
cravat this morning, Marius. You are very coquettish, monseigneur. It will not
tire me."
"I assure you that it will tire
you."
"No. Because it is you. I shall
not understand you, but I will listen to you. When we hear voices that we love,
we need not understand the words they say. To be here together is all that I
want. I shall stay with you; pshaw!"
"You are my darling Cosette!
Impossible."
"Impossible!"
"Yes."
"Very well," replied
Cosette. "I would have told you the news. I would have told you that
grandfather is still asleep, that your aunt is at mass, that the chimney in my
father Fauchelevent's room smokes, that Nicolette has sent for the sweep, that
Toussaint and Nicolette have had a quarrel already, that Nicolette makes fun of
Toussaint's stuttering. Well, you shall know nothing. Ah! it is impossible! I
too, in my turn, you shall see, monsieur, I will say: it is impossible. Then
who will be caught? I pray you, my darling Marius, let me stay here with you
two."
"I swear to you that we must be
alone."
"Well, am I anybody?"
Jean Valjean did not utter a word.
Cosette turned towards him.
"In the first place, father, I
want you to come and kiss me. What are you doing there, saying nothing, instead
of taking my part? who gave me such a father as that? You see plainly that I am
very unfortunate in my domestic affairs. My husband beats me. Come, kiss me this
instant."
Jean Valjean approached.
Cosette turned towards Marius.
"You, sir, I make faces at
you."
Then she offered her forehead to
Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean took a step towards her.
Cosette drew back.
"Father, you are pale. Does
your arm hurt you?"
"It is well." said Jean
Valjean.
"Have you slept badly?"
"No."
"Are you sad?"
"No."
"Kiss me. If you are well, if
you sleep well, if you are happy, I will not scold you."
And again she offered him her
forehead.
Jean Valjean kissed that forehead,
upon which there was a celestial reflection.
"Smile."
Jean Valjean obeyed. It was the
smile of a spectre.
"Now defend me against my
husband."
"Cosette!-" said Marius.
"Get angry, father. Tell him
that I must stay. You can surely talk before me. So you think me very silly. It
is very astonishing then what you are saying! business, putting money in a
bank, that is a great affair. Men play the mysterious for nothing. I want to
stay. I am very pretty this morning. Look at me, Marius."
And with an adorable shrug of the
shoulders and an inexpressibly exquisite pout, she looked at Marius. It was
like a flash between these two beings. That somebody was there mattered little.
"I love you!" said Marius.
"I adore you!" said Cosette.
And they fell irresistibly into each
other's arms.
"Now," resumed Cosette,
readjusting a fold of her gown with a little triumphant pout, "I shall
stay."
"What, no," answered
Marius, in a tone of entreaty, "we have something to finish."
"No, still?"
Marius assumed a grave tone of
voice:
"I assure you, Cosette, that it
is impossible."
"Ah! you put on your man's
voice, monsieur. Very well, I'll go. You, father, you have not sustained me.
Monsieur my husband, monsieur my papa, you are tyrants. I am going to tell
grandfather of you. If you think that I shall come back and talk nonsense to
you, you are mistaken. I am proud. I wait for you now, you will see that it is you
who will get tired without me. I am going away, very well."
And she went out.
Two seconds later, the door opened
again, her fresh rosy face passed once more between the two folding doors, and
she cried to them:
"I am very angry."
The door closed again and the
darkness returned.
It was like a stray sunbeam which,
without suspecting it, should have suddenly traversed the night.
Marius made sure that the door was
well closed.
"Poor Cosette!" murmured
he, "when she knows-"
At these words, Jean Valjean
trembled in every limb. He fixed upon Marius a bewildered eye.
"Cosette! Oh, yes, it is true,
you will tell this to Cosette. That is right. Stop, I had not thought of that.
People have the strength for some things, but not for others. Monsieur, I
beseech you, I entreat you, Monsieur, give me your most sacred word, do not
tell her. Is it not enough that you know it yourself? I could have told it of myself
without being forced to it, I would have told it to the universe, to all the
world, that would be nothing to me. But she, she doesn't know what it is, it
would appal her. A convict, why! you would have to explain it to her, to tell
her: It is a man who has been to the galleys. She saw the Chain pass by one
day. Oh, my God!"
He sank into an arm-chair and hid
his face in both hands. He could not be heard, but by the shaking of his shoulders
it could be seen that he was weeping. Silent tears, terrible tears.
There is a stifling in the sob. A
sort of convulsion seized him, he bent over upon the back of the arm-chair as
if to breathe, letting his arms hang down and allowing Marius to see his face bathed
in tears, and Marius heard him murmur so low that his voice seemed to come from
a bottomless depth: "Oh! would that I could die!"
"Be calm," said Marius,
"I will keep your secret for myself alone."
And, less softened perhaps than he should
have been, but obliged for an hour past to familiarise himself with a fearful
surprise, seeing by degrees a convict superimposed before his eyes upon M.
Fauchelevent, possessed little by little of this dismal reality, and led by the
natural tendency of the position to determine the distance which had just been
put between this man and himself, Marius added:
"It is impossible that I should
not say a word to you of the trust which you have so faithfully and so honestly
restored. That is an act of probity. It is just that a recompense should be
given you. Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you. Do not be
afraid fix it very high."
"I thank you, monsieur,"
answered Jean Valjean gently.
He remained thoughtful a moment,
passing the end of his forefinger over his thumb-nail mechanically, then he
raised his voice:
"It is all nearly finished.
There is one thing left-"
"What?"
Jean Valjean had as it were a
supreme hesitation, and, voiceless, almost breathless, he faltered out rather
than said:
"Now that you know, do you
think, monsieur, you who are the master, that I ought not to see Cosette
again?"
"I think that would be
best," answered Marius coldly.
"I shall not see her
again," murmured Jean Valjean. And he walked towards the door.
He placed his hand upon the knob,
the latch yielded, the door started, Jean Valjean opened it wide enough to
enable him to pass out, stopped a second motionless, then shut the door, and
turned towards Marius.
He was no longer pale, he was livid.
There were no longer tears in his eyes, but a sort of tragical flame. His voice
had again become strangely calm.
"But, monsieur," said he,
"if you are willing, I will come and see her. I assure you that I desire
it very much. If I had not clung to seeing Cosette, I should not have made the
avowal which I have made, I should have gone away; but wishing to and to
continue to see her, I was compelled in honour to tell you all. You follow my
reasoning, do you not? that is a thing which explains itself. You see, for nine
years past, I have had her near me. We lived first in that ruin on the boulevard,
then in the convent, then near the Luxembourg. It was there that you saw her
for the first time. You remember her blue plush hat. We were afterwards in the
quartier of the Invalides where there was a grating and a garden. Rue Plumet. I
lived in a little back-yard where I heard her piano. That was my life. We never
left each other. That lasted nine years and some months. I was like her father,
and she was my child. I don't know whether you understand me, Monsieur
Pontmercy, but from the present time, to see her no more, to speak to her no
more, to have nothing more, that would be hard. If you do not think it wrong, I
will come from time to time to see Cosette. I should not come often. I would
not stay long. You might say I should be received in the little low room. On
the ground floor. I would willingly come in by the back-door, which is for the
servants, but that would excite wonder, perhaps. It is better, I suppose, that
I should enter by the usual door. Monsieur, indeed, I would really like to see
Cosette a little still. As rarely as you please. Put yourself in my place, it
is all that I have. And then, we must take care. If I should not come at all,
it would have a bad effect, it would be thought singular. For instance, what I
can do, is to come in the evening, at nightfall."
"You will come every
evening," said Marius, "and Cosette will expect you."
"You are kind, monsieur,"
said Jean Valjean.
Marius bowed to Jean Valjean, happiness
conducted despair to the door, and these two men separated.
Marius was completely unhinged.
The kind of repulsion which he had
always felt for the man with whom he saw Cosette was now explained. There was
something strangely enigmatic in this person, of which his instinct had warned
him. This enigma was the most hideous of disgraces, the galleys. This M. Fauchelevent
was the convict Jean Valjean.
The former repulsion of Marius
towards this man, towards this Fauchelevent become Jean Valjean, was now
mingled with horror.
In this horror, we must say, there
was some pity, and also a certain astonishment.
This robber, this twice-convicted
robber, had restored a trust. And what a trust? Six hundred thousand francs. He
was alone in the secret of the trust. He might have kept all, he had given up
all.
Moreover, he had revealed his
condition of his own accord. Nothing obliged him to do so. If it were known who
he was, it was through himself. There was more in that avowal than the
acceptance of humiliation, there was the acceptance of peril. To a condemned
man, a mask is not a mask, but a shelter. He had renounced that shelter. A
false name is security; he had thrown away this false name. He could, he, a
galley-slave, have hidden himself for ever in an honourable family; he had
resisted this temptation. And from what motive? from conscientious scruples. He
had explained it himself with the irresistible accent of reality. In short,
whatever this Jean Valjean might be, he had incontestably an awakened
conscience. There was in him some mysterious regeneration begun; and, according
to all appearance, for a long time already the scruple had been master of the
man. Such paroxysms of justice and goodness do not belong to vulgar natures. An
awakening of conscience is greatness of soul.
Jean Valjean was sincere. This
sincerity, visible, palpable, unquestionable, evident even by the grief which
it caused him, rendered investigation useless and gave authority to all that
this man said. Here, for Marius, a strange inversion of situations. What came from
M. Fauchelevent? distrust. What flowed from Jean Valjean? confidence.
In the mysterious account which
Marius thoughtfully drew up concerning this Jean Valjean, he verified the
credit, he verified the debit, he attempted to arrive at a balance. But it was
all as it were in a storm. Marius, endeavouring to get a clear idea of this
man, and pursuing, so to speak, Jean Valjean in the depths of his thought, lost
him and found him again in a fatal mist.
The trust honestly surrendered, the
probity of the avowal, that was good. It was like a break in the cloud, but the
cloud again became black.
Confused as Marius' recollections
were, some shadow of them returned to him.
What was the exact nature of that
affair in the Jondrette garret? Why, on the arrival of the police, did this
man, instead of making his complaint, make his escape? Here Marius found the
answer. Because this man was a fugitive from justice in breach of ban.
Another question: Why had this man
come into the barricade? For now Marius saw that reminiscence again distinctly,
reappearing in these emotions like sympathetic ink before the fire. This man
was in the barricade. He did not fight there. What did he come there for? Before
this question a spectre arose, and made response. Javert. Marius recalled
perfectly to mind at this hour the fatal sight of Jean Valjean dragging Javert
bound outside the barricade, and he again heard the frightful pistol-shot
behind the corner of the little Rue Mondetour. There was, probably, hatred
between the spy and this galley-slave. The one cramped the other. Jean Valjean
had gone to the barricade to avenge himself. He had arrived late. He knew
probably that Javert was a prisoner there. The Corsican vendetta penetrated into
certain lower depths and is their law; it is so natural that it does not
astonish souls half turned back towards the good; and these hearts are so
constituted that a criminal, in the path of repentance, may be scrupulous in
regard to robbery and not be so in regard to vengeance. Jean Valjean had killed
Javert. At least, that seemed evident.
Finally, a last question: but to
this no answer. This question Marius felt like a sting. How did it happen that Jean
Valjean's existence had touched Cosette's so long? What was this gloomy game of
providence which had placed this child in contact with this man? Are coupling
chains then forged on high also, and does it please God to pair the angel with
the demon? Can then a crime and an innocence be room-mates in the mysterious
galleys of misery? In this strait of the condemned, which is called human
destiny, can two foreheads pass close to one another, the one childlike, the
other terrible, the one all bathed in the divine whiteness of the dawn, the
other for ever pallid with the glare of an eternal lightning? Who could have determined
this inexplicable fellowship? In what manner, through what prodigy, could
community of life have been established between this celestial child and this
old wretch? Who had been able to bind the lamb to the wolf, and, a thing still
more incomprehensible, attach the wolf to the lamb? For the savage being adored
the frail being, for, during nine years, the angel had had the monster for a support.
Cosette's childhood and youth, her coming to the day, her maidenly growth
towards life and light, had been protected by this monstrous devotion. Here,
the questions exfoliated, so to speak, into innumerable enigmas, abyss opened
at the bottom of abysm, and Marius could no longer bend over Jean Valjean
without dizziness. What then was this man precipice?
The old Genesiac symbols are
eternal; in human society, such as it is and will be, until the day when a
greater light shall change it, there are always two men, one superior, the
other subterranean; he who follows good is Abel; he who follows evil is Cain.
What was this remorseful Cain? What was this bandit religiously absorbed in the
adoration of a virgin, watching over her, bringing her up, guarding her,
dignifying her, and enveloping her, himself impure, with purity? What was this
cloaca which had venerated this innocence to such an extent as to leave it
immaculate? What was this Jean Valjean watching over the education of Cosette?
What was this figure of darkness, whose only care was to preserve from all
shadow and from all cloud the rising of a star?
In this was the secret of Jean
Valjean; in this was also the secret of God.
Before this double secret, Marius
recoiled. The one in some sort reassured him in regard to the other. God was as
visible in this as Jean Valjean. God has his instruments. He uses what tool He
pleases. He is not responsible to man. Do we know the ways of God? Jean Valjean
had laboured upon Cosette. He had, to some extent, formed that soul. That was
incontestable. Well, what then? The workman was horrible; but the work
admirable. God performs His miracles as seems good to Himself. He had
constructed this enchanting Cosette, and he had employed Jean Valjean on the
work. It had pleased Him to choose this strange co-worker. What reckoning have
we to ask of Him? Is it the first time that the dunghill has aided the spring
to make the rose?
Marius made these answers to
himself, and declared that they were good. On all the points which we have just
indicated, he had not dared to press Jean Valjean, without avowing to himself
that he dared not. He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette. Cosette was
resplendently pure. That was enough for him. What explanation did he, need? Cosette
was a light. Does light need to be explained? He had all; what could he desire?
All, is not that enough. The personal affairs of Jean Valjean did not concern
him. In bending over the fatal shade of this man, he clung to this solemn
declaration of the miserable being: "I am nothing to Cosette. Ten years
ago, I did not know of her existence!"
Jean Valjean was a passer. He had
said so, himself. Well, he was passing away. Whatever he might be, his part was
finished. Henceforth Marius was to perform the functions of Providence for Cosette.
Cosette had come forth to find in the azure her mate, her lover, her husband,
her celestial male. In taking flight, Cosette, winged and transfigured, left
behind her on the ground, empty and hideous, her chrysalis, Jean Valjean.
This man was of the night, of the
living and terrible night. How should he dare to probe it to the bottom? It is
appalling to question the shadow: Who knows what answer it will make? The dawn might
be blackened by it for ever.
In this frame of mind it was a
bitter perplexity to Marius to think that this man should have henceforth any
contact whatever with Cosette. These fearful questions, before which he had
shrunk, and from which an implacable and definitive decision might have sprung,
he now reproached himself almost, for not having put. He thought himself too
good, too mild, let us say the word, too weak. This weakness had led him to an
imprudent concession. He had allowed himself to be moved. He had done wrong. He
should have merely and simply cast off Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean was the
Jonah, he should have done it, and relieved his house of this man. He was vexed
with himself; he was vexed with the abruptness of that whirl of emotions which
had deafened, blinded, and drawn him on. He was displeased with himself.
What should be done now? Jean
Valjean's visits were very repugnant to him. Of what use was this man in his
house? What should he do? Here he shook off his thoughts he was unwilling to
probe, he was unwilling to go deeper; he was unwilling to fathom himself. He
had promised, he had allowed himself to be led into a promise; Jean Valjean had
his promise; even to a convict, especially to a convict, a man should keep his
word. Still, his first duty was towards Cosette. In short, a repulsion, which
predominated over all else, possessed him.
Marius turned all this assemblage of
ideas over in his mind confusedly, passing from one to another, and excited by
all. Hence a deep commotion. It was not easy for him to hide this commotion
from Cosette, but love is a talent, and Marius succeeded.
Besides, he put without apparent
object, some questions to Cosette, who, as candid as a dove is white, suspected
nothing; he talked with her of her childhood and her youth, and he convinced himself
more and more that all a man can be that is good, paternal, venerable, this
convict had been to Cosette. All that Marius had dimly seen and conjectured was
real. This darkly mysterious nettle had loved and protected this lily.
The next day, at nightfall, Jean
Valjean knocked at the M. Gillenormand porte-cochere. Basque received him.
Basque happened to be in the court-yard very conveniently, and as if he had had
orders. It sometimes happens that one says to a servant: "You will be on
the watch for Monsieur So-and-so, when he comes."
Basque, without waiting for Jean
Valjean to come up to him, addressed him as follows:
"Monsieur the Baron told me to
ask monsieur whether he desires to go upstairs or to remain below?"
"To remain below,"
answered Jean Valjean.
Basque, who was moreover absolutely
respectful, opened the door of the basement room and said: "I will inform
madame."
The room which Jean Valjean entered
was an arched and damp basement, used as a cellar when necessary, looking upon
the street, paved with red tiles, and dimly lighted by a window with an iron
grating.
The room was not of those which are
harassed by the brush, the duster, and the broom. In it the dust was tranquil.
There the persecution of the spiders had not been organised. A fine web,
broadly spread out, very black, adorned with dead flies, ornamented one of the window-panes.
The room, small and low, was furnished with a pile of empty bottles heaped up
in one corner. The wall had been washed with a wash of yellow ochre, which was
scaling off in large flakes. At the end was a wooden mantel, painted black,
with a narrow shelf. A fire was kindled, which indicated that somebody had
anticipated Jean Valjean's answer: To remain below.
Two armchairs were placed at the
corners of the fireplace. Between the chairs was spread, in guise of a carpet,
an old bed-side rug, showing more warp than wool.
The room was lighted by the fire in
the fireplace and the twilight from the window.
Jean Valjean was fatigued. For some
days he had neither eaten nor slept. He let himself fall into one of the
arm-chairs.
Basque returned, set a lighted
candle upon the mantel, and retired. Jean Valjean, his head bent down and his
chin upon his breast, noticed neither Basque nor the candle.
Suddenly he started up. Cosette was
behind him.
He had not seen her come in, but he
had felt that she was coming.
He turned. He gazed at her. She was
adorably beautiful. But what he looked upon with that deep look, was not her
beauty but her soul.
"Ah, well!" exclaimed
Cosette, "father, I knew that you were singular, but I should never have
thought this. What an idea! Marius tells me that it is you who wish me to
receive you here."
"Yes, it is I."
"I expected the answer. Well, I
warn you that I am going to make a scene. Let us begin at the beginning.
Father, kiss me."
And she offered her cheek.
Jean Valjean remained motionless.
"You do not stir. I see it. You
act guilty. But it is all the same, I forgive you. Jesus Christ said: 'Offer
the other cheek.' Here it is."
And she offered the other cheek.
Jean Valjean did not move. It seemed
as if his feet were nailed to the floor.
"This is getting serious,"
said Cosette. "What have I done to you? I declare I am confounded. You owe
me amends. You will dine with us."
"I have dined."
"That is not true. I will have
Monsieur Gillenormand scold you. Grandfathers are made to scold fathers. Come.
Go up to the parlour with me. Immediately."
"Impossible."
Cosette here lost ground a little.
She ceased to order and passed to questions.
"But why not? and you choose
the ugliest room in the house to see me in. It is horrible here."
"You know, madame, I am
peculiar, I have my whims."
Cosette clapped her little hands
together.
"Madame! Still again! What does
this mean?"
Jean Valjean fixed upon her that
distressing smile to which he sometimes had recourse:
"You have wished to be madame.
You are so."
"Not to you, father."
"Don't call me father any
more."
"What."
"Call me Monsieur Jean. Jean,
if you will."
"You are no longer father? I am
no longer Cosette? Monsieur Jean? What does this mean? but these are
revolutions, these are! what then has happened? look me in the face now. And
you will not live with us! And you will not have my room! What have I done to
you? what have I done to you? Is there anything the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Well then?"
"All is as usual."
"Why do you change your
name?"
"You have certainly changed
yours."
He smiled again with that same smile
and added:
"Since you are Madame Pontmercy
I can surely be Monsieur Jean."
"I don't understand anything
about it. It is all nonsense; I shall ask my husband's permission for you to be
Monsieur Jean. I hope that he will not consent to it. You make me a great deal
of trouble. You may have whims, but you must not grieve your darling Cosette.
It is wrong. You have no right to be naughty, you are too good."
He made no answer.
She seized both his hands hastily
and, with an irresistible impulse, raising them towards her face, she pressed
them against her neck under her chin, which is a deep token of affection.
"Oh!" said she to him,
"be good!"
And she continued:
"This is what I call being
good: being nice, coming to stay here, there are birds here as well as in the
Rue Plumet, living with us, leaving that hole in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, not
giving us riddles to guess, being like other people, dining with us,
breakfasting with us, being my father."
He disengaged his hands.
"You have no more need of a
father, you have a husband."
Cosette could not contain herself.
"I no more need of a father! To
things like that which have no common sense, one really doesn't know what to
say!"
"If Toussaint was here,"
replied Jean Valjean, like one who is in search of authorities and who catches
at every straw, "she would be the first to acknowledge that it is true
that I always had my peculiar ways. There is nothing new in this. I have always
liked my dark corner."
"But it is cold here. We can't
see clearly. It is horrid, too, to want to be Monsieur Jean. I don't want you
to talk so to me."
"Just now, on my way
here," answered Jean Valjean, "I saw a piece of furniture in the Rue
Saint Louis. At a cabinet maker's. If I were a pretty woman, I should make
myself a present of that piece of furniture. A very fine toilet table; in the
present style, What you call rosewood, I think. It is inlaid. A pretty large
glass. There are drawers in it. It is handsome."
"Oh! the ugly bear!"
replied Cosette.
And with a bewitching sauciness,
pressing her teeth together and separating her lips, she blew upon Jean
Valjean. It was a Grace copying a kitten.
"I am furious," she said.
"Since yesterday, you all make me rage. Everybody spites me. I don't
understand. You don't defend me against Marius. Marius doesn't uphold me
against you, I am all alone. I arrange a room handsomely. If I could have put
the good God into it, I would have done it. You leave me my room upon my hands.
My tenant bankrupts me. I order Nicolette to have a nice little dinner. Nobody wants
your dinner, madame. And my father Fauchelevent, wishes me to call him Monsieur
Jean, and to receive him in a hideous, old, ugly, mouldy cellar, where the
walls have a beard, and where there are empty bottles for vases, and spiders'
webs for curtains. You are singular, I admit, that is your way, but a truce is
granted to people who get married. You should not have gone back to being
singular immediately. So you are going to be well satisfied with your horrid Rue
de l'Homme Arme. I was very forlorn there, myself! What have you against me?
You give me a great deal of trouble. Fie!"
And, growing suddenly serious, she
looked fixedly at Jean Valjean, and added:
"So you don't like it that I am
happy?"
Artlessness, unconsciously,
sometimes penetrates very deep. This question, simple to Cosette, was severe to
Jean Valjean. Cosette: wished to scratch; she tore.
Jean Valjean grew pale. For a moment
he did not answer, then, with an indescribable accent and talking to himself,
he murmured: "Her happiness was the aim of my life. Now, God may beckon me
away. Cosette, you are happy; my time is full."
"Ah, you have called me
Cosette!" exclaimed she.
And she sprang upon his neck.
Jean Valjean, in desperation,
clasped her to his breast wildly. It seemed to him almost as if he were taking
her back.
"Thank you, father!" said
Cosette to him.
The transport was becoming poignant
to Jean Valjean. He gently put away Cosette's arms, and took his hat.
"Well?" said Cosette.
Jean Valjean answered:
"I will leave you madame; they
are waiting for you."
And, from the door, he added:
"I called you Cosette. Tell
your husband that that shall not happen again. Pardon me."
Jean Valjean went out, leaving
Cosette astounded at that enigmatic farewell.
The following day, at the same hour,
Jean Valjean came.
Cosette put no questions to him, was
no longer astonished, no longer exclaimed that she was cold, no longer talked
of the parlour; she avoided saying either father or Monsieur Jean. She let him
speak as he would. She allowed herself to be called madame. Only she betrayed a
certain diminution of joy. She would have been sad, if sadness had been
possible for her.
It is probable that she had had one
of those conversations with Marius, in which the beloved man says what he
pleases, explains nothing, and satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of
lovers does not go very far beyond their love.
The basement room had made its
toilet a little. Basque had suppressed the bottles, and Nicolette the spiders.
Every succeeding morrow brought Jean
Valjean at the same hour. He came every day, not having the strength to take
Marius' words otherwise than to the letter. Marius made his arrangements, so as
to be absent at the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house became accustomed
to M. Fauchelevent's new mode of life. Toussaint added: "Monsieur always
was just so," she repeated. The grandfather issued this decree: "He
is an original!" and all was said. Besides, at ninety, no further tie is
possible; all is juxtaposition; a new-comer is an annoyance. There is no more
room; all the habits are formed. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Grandfather
Gillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved of "that
gentleman." He added: "Nothing is more common than these originals.
They do all sorts of odd things.
Several weeks passed thus. A new
life gradually took possession of Cosette; the relations which marriage
creates, the visits, the care of the house, the pleasures, those grand affairs.
Cosette's pleasures were not costly; they consisted in a single one: being with
Marius. Going out with him, staying at home with him, this was the great occupation
of her life. It was a joy to them for ever new, to go out arm in arm, in the
face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding, in sight of everybody, all
alone with each other. Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not agree with
Nicolette, the wedding of two old maids being impossible, and went away. The grandfather
was in good health; Marius argued a few cases now and then; Aunt Gillenormand
peacefully led by the side of the new household, that lateral life which was
enough for her. Jean Valjean came every day.
The disappearance of familiarity,
the madame, the Monsieur Jean, all this made him different to Cosette. The care
which he had taken to detach her from him, succeeded with her. She became more
and more cheerful, and less and less affectionate. However, she still loved him
very much, and he felt it. One day she suddenly said to him, "You were my
father, you are no longer my father, you were uncle, you are no longer my
uncle, you were Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then? I don't
like all that. If I did not know you were so good, I should be afraid of
you."
He still lived in the Rue de l'Homme
Arme, unable to resolve to move further from the quartier in which Cosette
dwelt.
At first he stayed with Cosette only
a few minutes, then went away.
Little by little he got into the
habit of making his visits longer. One would have said that he took advantage
of the example of the days which were growing longer: he came earlier and went
away later.
One day Cosette inadvertently said
to him: "Father." A flash of joy illuminated Jean Valjean's gloomy
old face. He replied to her: "Say Jean." "Ah! true," she
answered with a burst of laughter, "Monsieur Jean." "That is
right," said he, and he turned away that she might not see him wipe his
eyes.
That was the last time. From that
last gleam onward, there was complete extinction. No more familiarity, no more
good-day with a kiss, never again that word so intensely sweet: Father! he was,
upon his own demand and through his own complicity, driven in succession from
every happiness; and he had this misery, that after having lost Cosette wholly
in one day, he had been obliged afterwards to lose her again little by little.
The eye at last becomes accustomed
to the light of a cellar. In short, to have a vision of Cosette every day
sufficed him. His whole life was concentrated in that hour. He sat by her side,
he looked at her in silence, or rather he talked to her of the years long gone,
of her childhood, of the convent, of her friends of those days.
Jean Valjean's visits did not grow
shorter. Far from it. When the heart is slipping we do not stop on the descent.
When Jean Valjean desired to prolong
his visit, and to make the hours pass unnoticed, be eulogised Marius; he
thought him beautiful, noble, courageous, intellectual, eloquent, good. Cosette
surpassed him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never silent. Marius, this word
was inexhaustible; there were volumes in these six letters. In this way Jean
Valjean succeeded in staying a long time. To see Cosette, to forget at her
side, it was so sweet to him. It was the staunching of his wound. It happened
several times that Basque came down twice to say: "Monsieur Gillenormand
sends me to remind Madame the Baroness that dinner is served."
On those days, Jean Valjean returned
home very thoughtful. Was there, then, some truth in that comparison of the
chrysalis which had presented itself to Marius' mind? Was Jean Valjean indeed a
chrysalis who was obstinate, and who came to make visits to his butterfly.
One day he stayed longer than usual.
The next day, he noticed that there was no fire in the fireplace.
"What!" thought he. "No fire," And he made the explanation
to himself: "It is a matter of course. We are in April. The cold weather
is over."
"Goodness! how cold it is
here!" exclaimed Cosette as she came in.
"Why no," said Jean
Valjean.
"So it is you who told Basque
not to make a fire?"
"Yes. We are close upon
May."
"But we have fire until the
month of June. In this cellar, it is needed the year round."
"I thought that the fire was
unnecessary."
"That is just one of your
ideas!" replied Cosette.
The next day there was a fire. But
the two arm-chairs were placed at the other end of the room, near the door.
"What does that mean?" thought Jean Valjean.
He went for the arm-chairs, and put
them back in their usual place near the chimney.
This fire being kindled again
encouraged him, however. He continued the conversation still longer than usual.
As he was getting up to go away, Cosette said to him:
"My husband said a funny thing
to me yesterday."
"What was it?"
"He said: 'Cosette, we have an
income of thirty thousand francs. Twenty-seven that you have, three that my
grandfather allows me.' I answered: 'That makes thirty.' 'Would you have the
courage to live on three thousand?' I answered: 'Yes, on nothing. Provided it
be with you.' And then I asked: 'Why do you say this?' He answered: 'To know.'"
Jean Valjean did not say a word.
Cosette probably expected some explanation from him; he listened to her in a
mournful silence. He went back to the Rue de l'Homme Arme; he was so deeply
absorbed that he mistook the door, and instead of entering his own house, he
entered the next one. Not until he had gone up almost to the second story did
he perceive his mistake, and go down again. His mind was racked with
conjectures. It was evident that Marius had doubts in regard to the origin of
these six hundred thousand francs, that he feared some impure source, who
knows? that he had perhaps discovered that this money came from him, Jean
Valjean, that he hesitated before this suspicious fortune, and disliked to take
it as his own, preferring to remain poor, himself and Cosette, than to be rich
with a doubtful wealth.
Besides, vaguely, Jean Valjean began
to feel that the door was shown him.
The next day, he received, on
entering the basement room, something like a shock. The arm-chairs had
disappeared. There was not even a chair of any kind.
"Ah now," exclaimed
Cosette as she came in, "no chairs! Where are the arm-chairs, then?"
"They are gone," answered
Jean Valjean.
"That is a pretty
business!"
Jean Valjean stammered: "I told
Basque to take them away."
"And what for?"
"I shall stay only a few
minutes to-day."
"Staying a little while is no
reason for standing while you do stay."
"I believe that Basque needed
some arm-chairs for the parlour."
"What for?"
"You doubtless have company
this evening."
"We have nobody."
Jean Valjean could not say a word
more.
Cosette shrugged her shoulders.
"To have the chairs carried
away! The other day you had the fire put out. How singular you are!"
"Good-bye," murmured Jean
Valjean.
He did not say: "Good-bye,
Cosette." But he had not the strength to say "Good-bye, madame."
He went away overwhelmed.
This time he had understood.
The next day be did not come.
Cosette did not notice it until night.
"Why," said she,
"Monsieur Jean has not come to-day."
She felt something like a slight
oppression of the heart, but she hardly perceived it, being immediately
diverted by a kiss from Marius.
The next day he did not come.
Cosette paid no attention to it,
passed the evening and slept as usual, and thought of it only on waking. She
was so happy! She sent Nicolette very quickly to Monsieur Jean's to know if he
were sick, and why he had not come the day before. Nicolette brought back
Monsieur Jean's answer. He was not sick. He was busy. He would come very soon.
As soon as he could. However, he was going to make a little journey. Madame
must remember that he was in the habit of making journeys from time to time.
Let there be no anxiety. Let them not be troubled about him.
Nicolette, on entering Monsieur
Jean's house, had repeated to him the very words of her mistress. That madame
sent to know "why Monsieur Jean had not come the day before."
"It is two days that I have not been there," said Jean Valjean
mildly.
But the remark escaped the notice of
Nicolette, who reported nothing of it to Cosette.
It is a terrible thing to be happy!
How pleased we are with it! How all-sufficient we think it! How, being in
possession of the false aim of life, happiness, we forget the true aim, duty!
We must say, however, that it would
be unjust to blame Marius.
Marius as we have explained, before
his marriage, had put no questions to M. Fauchelevent, and, since, he had
feared to put any to Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he
had allowed himself to be led. He had reiterated to himself many times that he
had done wrong in making that concession to despair. He did nothing more than
gradually to banish Jean Valjean from his house, and to obliterate him as much
as possible from Cosette's mind. He had in some sort constantly placed himself
between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that in that way she would not notice
him, and would never think of him. It was more than obliteration, it was
eclipse.
Marius did what he deemed necessary
and just. He supposed he had, for discarding Jean Valjean, without harshness,
but without weakness, serious reasons, which we have already seen, and still others
which we shall see further on. Having chanced to meet, in a cause in which he
was engaged, an old clerk of the house of Lafitte, he had obtained, without
seeking it, some mysterious information which he could not, in truth, probe to
the bottom, from respect for the secret which he had promised to keep, and from
care for Jean Valjean's perilous situation. He believed, at that very time,
that he had a solemn duty to perform, the restitution of the six hundred
thousand francs to somebody whom he was seeking as cautiously as possible. In the
meantime, he abstained from using that money.
One day Jean Valjean went down
stairs, took three steps into the street, sat down upon a stone block, upon
that same block where Gavroche, on the night of the 5th of June, had found him
musing; he remained there a few minutes, then went upstairs again. This was the
last oscillation of the pendulum. The next day, he did not leave his room. The
day after he did not leave his bed.
His portress, who prepared his
frugal meal, some cabbage, a few potatoes with a little pork, looked into the
brown earthen plate, and exclaimed:
"Why, you didn't eat anything
yesterday, poor dear man!"
"Yes, I did," answered
Jean Valjean.
"The plate is full."
"Look at that water-pitcher.
That is empty."
"That shows that you have
drunk; it don't show that you have eaten."
"Well," said Jean Valjean,
"suppose I have only been hungry, for water?"
"That is called thirst, and,
when people don't eat at the same time, it is called fever."
"I will eat tomorrow."
"Or at Christmas. Why not eat
to-day? Do people say: I will eat tomorrow! To leave me my whole plateful
without touching it! My cole slaugh, which was so good!"
Jean Valjean took the old woman's
hand:
"I promise to eat it,"
said he to her in his benevolent voice.
"I am not satisfied with
you," answered the portress.
Jean Valjean scarcely ever saw any
other human being than this good woman. There are streets in Paris in which
nobody walks, and houses into which nobody comes. He was in one of those
streets, and in one of those houses.
While he still went out, he had
bought of a brazier for a few sous a little copper crucifix which he had hung
upon a nail before his bed. The cross is always good to look upon.
A week elapsed, and Jean Valjean had
not taken a step in his room. He was still in bed. The portress said to her husband:
"The goodman upstairs does not get up any more, he does not eat any more,
he won't last long. He has trouble, he has. Nobody can get it out of my head
that his daughter has made a bad match."
The porter replied, with the accent
of the marital sovereignty:
"If he is rich, let him have a
doctor. If he is not rich, let him not have any. If he doesn't have a doctor,
he will die."
"And if he does have one?"
"He will die," said the
porter.
The portress began to dig up with an
old knife some grass which was sprouting in what she called her pavement, and,
while she was pulling up the grass, she muttered:
"It is a pity. An old man who
is so nice! He is white as a chicken."
She saw a physician of the quartier
passing at the end of the street; she took it upon herself to beg him to go up.
"It is on the second
floor," said she to him. "You will have nothing to do but go in. As
the goodman does not stir from his bed now, the key is in the door all the
time."
The physician saw Jean Valjean, and
spoke with him.
When he came down, the portress
questioned him:
"Well, doctor?"
"Your sick man is very
sick."
"What is the matter with
him?"
"Everything and nothing. He is
a man who, to all appearance has lost some dear friend. People die of
that."
"What did he tell you?"
"He told me that he was
well."
"Will you come again,
doctor?"
"Yes," answered the
physician. "But another than I must come again."
One evening Jean Valjean had
difficulty in raising himself upon his elbow; he felt his wrist and found no
pulse; his breathing was short, and stopped at intervals; he realised that he
was weaker than he had been before. Then, undoubtedly under the pressure of
some supreme desire, he made an effort, sat up in bed, and dressed himself. He
put on his old working-man's garb. As he went out no longer, he had returned to
it, and he preferred it. He was obliged to stop several times while dressing;
the mere effort of putting on his waistcoat, made the sweat roll down his
forehead.
Since he had been alone, he had made
his bed in the ante-room, so as to occupy this desolate tenement as little as
possible.
He opened the valise and took out
Cosette's suit.
He spread it out upon his bed.
The bishop's candlesticks were in
their place, on the mantel. He took two wax tapers from a drawer, and put them
into the candlesticks. Then, although it was still broad daylight, it was in
summer, he lighted them. We sometimes see torches lighted thus in broad day, in
rooms where the dead lie.
Each step that he took in going from
one piece of furniture to another, exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit
down. It was not ordinary fatigue which spends the strength that it may be
renewed; it was the remnant of possible motion; it was exhausted life pressed out
drop by drop in overwhelming efforts, never to be made again.
One of the chairs upon which he
sank, was standing before that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for
Marius, in which he had read Cosette's note, reversed on the blotter. He saw
himself in this mirror, and did not recognise himself. He was eighty years old;
before Marius' marriage, one would hardly have thought him fifty; this year had
counted thirty. What was now upon his forehead was not the wrinkle of age, it
was the mysterious mark of death. You perceived on it the impress of the
relentless talon. His cheeks were sunken; the skin of his face was of that
colour which suggests the idea of earth already above it; the corners of his
mouth were depressed as in that mask which the ancients sculptured upon tombs,
he looked at the hollowness with a look of reproach; you would have said it was
one of those grand tragic beings who rise in judgment.
He was in that condition, the last
phase of dejection, in which sorrow no longer flows; it is, so to speak,
coagulated; the soul is covered as if with a clot of despair.
Night had come. With much labour he
drew a table and an old arm-chair near the fireplace, and put upon the table
pen, ink, and paper.
Then he fainted. When he regained
consciousness he was thirsty. Being unable to lift the water-pitcher, with
great effort he tipped it towards his mouth, and drank a swallow. Then he
turned to the bed, and, still sitting for he could stand but a moment, he
looked at the little black dress, and all those dear objects.
Such contemplations last for hours
which seem minutes. Suddenly he shivered, he felt that the chill was coming; he
leaned upon the table which was lighted by the bishop's candlesticks, and took
the pen.
As neither the pen nor the ink had
been used for a long time, the tip of the pen was bent back, the ink was dried,
he was obliged to get up and put a few drops of water into the ink, which he
could not do without stopping and sitting down two or three times, and he was compelled
to write with the back of the pen. He wiped his forehead from time to time.
His hand trembled. He slowly wrote
the few lines which follow:
"Cosette, I bless you. I am
going to make an explanation to you. Your husband was quite right in giving me
to understand that I ought to leave; still there is some mistake in what he
believed, but he was right. He is very good. Always love him well when I am
dead. Monsieur Pontmercy, always love my darling child. Cosette, this paper
will be found, this is what I want to tell you, you shall see the figures, if I
have the strength to recall them, listen well, this money is really your own.
This is the whole story: The white jet comes from Norway, the black jet comes
from England, the blackglass imitation comes from Germany. The jet is lighter,
more precious, more costly. We can make imitations in France as well as in
Germany It requires a little anvil two inches square, and a spiritlamp to
soften the wax. The wax was formerly made with resin and lamp-black, and cost
four francs a pound. I hit upon making it with gum lac and turpentine. This
costs only thirty sous, and it is much better. The buckles are made of violet
glass, which is fastened by means of this wax to a narrow rim of black iron.
The glass should be violet for iron trinkets, and the black for gold trinkets.
Spain purchases many of them. That is the country of jet-"
Here he stopped, the pen fell from
his fingers, he gave way to one of those despairing sobs which rose at times
from the depths of his being, the poor man clasped his head with both hands,
and reflected.
"Oh!" exclaimed he within
himself (pitiful cries, heard by God alone), "it is all over. I shall
never see her more. She is a smile which has passed over me. I am going to
enter into the night without even seeing her again. Oh! a minute, an instant,
to hear her voice, to touch her dress, to look at her, the angel! and then to
die! It is nothing to die, but it is dreadful to die without seeing her. She would
smile upon me, she would say a word to me. Would that harm anybody? No, it is
over, forever. Here I am, all alone. My God! my God! I shall never see her
again."
At this moment there was a rap at
his door.
That very day, or rather that very
evening, just as Marius had left the table and retired into his office, having
a bundle of papers to study over, Basque had handed him a letter, saying:
"the person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber."
Cosette had taken grandfather's arm,
and was walking in the garden.
A letter, as well as a man, may have
a forbidding appearance. Coarse paper, clumsy fold, the mere sight of certain
missives displeases. The letter which Basque brought was of this kind.
Marius took it. It smelt of tobacco.
Nothing awakens a reminiscence like an odour. Marius recognised this tobacco.
He looked at the address: To Monsieur, Monsieur the Baron Pommerci. In his
hotel. The recognition of the tobacco made him recognise the handwriting. We
might say that astonishment has its flashes. Marius was, as it were,
illuminated by one of those flashes.
The scent, the mysterious
aid-memory, revived a whole world within him. Here was the very paper, the
manner of folding, the paleness of the ink; here was, indeed, the well-known
handwriting; above all, here was the tobacco. The Jondrette garret appeared
before him.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one
of the two traces which he had sought so long, the one which he had again recently
made so many efforts to gain, and which he believed forever lost, came of
itself to him.
He broke the seal eagerly, and
read:- -
"Monsieur Baron,- If the
Supreme Being had given me the talents for it, I could have been Baron Thenard,
member of the Institute (Academy of Ciences), but I am not so. I merely bear
the same name that he does, happy if this remembrance commends me to the excellence
of your bounties. The benefit with which you honour me will be reciprocal. I am
in possession of a secret conserning an individual. This individual conserns
you. I hold the secret at your disposition, desiring to have the honour of
being yuseful to you. I will give you the simple means of drivving from your
honourable family this individual who has no right in it, Madame the Baroness
being of high birth. The sanctuary of virtue could not coabit longer with crime
without abdicating.
"I attend in the
entichamber the orders of Monsieur the Baron.-
With
respect." -
The letter was signed
"THENARD."
This signature was not a false one.
It was only a little abridged.
Besides the rigmarole and the
orthography completed the revelation. The certificate of origin was perfect.
There was no doubt possible.
The emotion of Marius was deep.
After the feeling of surprise, he had a feeling of happiness. Let him now find
the other man whom he sought, the man who had saved him, Marius, and he would
have nothing more to wish.
He opened one of his secretary
drawers, took out some bank-notes, put them in his pockets, closed the
secretary, and rang. Basque appeared.
"Show him in," said
Marius.
Basque announced:
"Monsieur Thenard."
A man entered.
A new surprise for Marius. The man
who came in was perfectly unknown to him.
This man, old withal, had a large
nose, his chin in his cravat, green spectacles, with double shade of green silk
over his eyes, his hair polished and smoothed down, his forehead close to the
eyebrows, like the wigs of English coachmen in high life. His hair was grey. He
was dressed in black from head to foot, in a well worn but tidy black; a bunch
of trinkets, hanging from his fob, suggested a watch. He held an old hat in his
hand. He walked with a stoop, and the crook of his back increased the lowliness
of his bow.
Marius' disappointment, on seeing
another man enter than the one he was expecting, turned into dislike towards
the new comer. He examined him from head to foot, while the personage bowed
without measure, and asked him in a sharp tone:
"What do you want?"
The man answered with an amiable
grin of which the caressing smile of a crocodile would give some idea:
"It seems to me impossible that
I have not already had the honour of seeing Monsieur the Baron in society. I
really think that I met him privately some years ago, at Madame the Princess
Bagration's and in the salons of his lordship the Viscount Dambray, peer of
France."
It is always good tactics in
rascality to pretend to recognise one whom you do not know.
Marius listened attentively to the
voice of this man. He watched for the tone and gesture eagerly, but his
disappointment increased; it was a whining pronunciation, entirely different
from the sharp and dry sound of voice which he expected. He was completely
bewildered.
"I don't know," said he,
"either Madame Bagration or M. Dambray. I have never in my life set foot
in the house of either the one or the other."
The answer was testy. The person,
gracious notwithstanding, persisted:
"Then it must be at
Chateaubriand's that I have seen monsieur? I know Chateaubriand well. He is
very affable. He says to me sometimes: 'Thenard, my friend, won't you drink a
glass of wine with me?'"
Marius' brow grew more and more
severe:
"I have never had the honour of
being received at Monsieur de Chateaubriand's. Come to the point. What is it you
wish?"
The man, in view of the harsher
voice, made a lower bow.
"Monsieur Baron, deign to
listen to me. There is in America, in a region which is near Panama, a village
called La Joya.
I would like
to go and establish myself at La
Joya. There are three of us. I have
my spouse and my young lady; a girl
who is very beautiful. The voyage is long and dear. I must have a little
money."
"How does that concern
me?" inquired Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out
of his cravat, a movement characteristic of the vulture, and replied, with
redoubled smiles:
"Then Monsieur the Baron has
not read my letter?"
That was not far from true. The fact
is, that the contents of the epistle had glanced off from Marius. He had seen
the handwriting rather than read the letter. He scarcely remembered it. Within
a moment a new clue had been given him. He had noticed this remark: My spouse
and my young lady. He fixed a searching eye upon the stranger. An examining
judge could not have done better. He seemed to be lying in ambush for him. He
answered:
"Explain."
The stranger thrust his hands into
his fobs, raised his head without straightening his backbone, but scrutinising
Marius in his turn with the green gaze of his spectacles.
"Certainly, Monsieur the Baron.
I will explain. I have a secret to sell you."
"A secret?"
"A secret."
"Which concerns me?"
"Somewhat."
"What is this secret?"
Marius examined the man more and
more closely, while listening to him.
"I commence gratis," said
the stranger. "You will see that I am interesting."
"Go on."
"Monsieur Baron, you have in
your house a robber and an assassin."
Marius shuddered.
"In my house? no," said
he.
The stranger, imperturbable, brushed
his hat with his sleeve, and continued:
"Assassin and robber. Observe,
Monsieur Baron, that I do not speak here of acts, old, by-gone, and withered,
which may be cancelled by prescription in the eye of the law, and by repentance
in the eye of God. I speak of recent acts, present acts, acts yet unknown to
justice at this hour. I will proceed. This man has glided into your confidence,
and almost into your family, under a false name. I am going to tell you his
true name. And to tell it to you for nothing."
"I am listening."
"His name is Jean
Valjean."
"I know it."
"I am going to tell you, also
for nothing, who he is."
"Say on."
"He is an old convict."
"I know it."
"You know it since I have had
the honour of telling you."
"No. I knew it before."
Marius' cool tone, that double
reply, I know it, his laconic method of speech, embarrassing to conversation,
excited some suppressed anger in the stranger. He shot furtively at Marius a furious
look, which was immediately extinguished. Quick as it was, this look was one of
those which are recognised after they have once been seen; it did not escape
Marius. Certain flames can only come from certain souls; the eye, that window
of the thought, blazes with it; spectacles hide nothing; you might as well put
a glass over hell.
The stranger resumed with a smile:
"I do not permit myself to
contradict Monsieur the Baron. At all events, you must see that I am informed.
Now, what I have to acquaint you with, is known to myself alone. It concerns
the fortune of Madame the Baroness. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for
sale. I offer it to you first. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs."
"I know the secret as well as
the others," said Marius.
The person felt the necessity of
lowering his price a little.
"Monsieur Baron, say ten
thousand francs, and I will go on."
"I repeat, that you have nothing
to acquaint me with. I know what you wish to tell me."
There was a new flash in the man's
eye. He exclaimed:
"Still I must dine to-day. It
is an extraordinary secret, I tell you. Monsieur the Baron, I am going to
speak. I will speak. Give me twenty francs."
Marius looked at him steadily:
"I know your extraordinary secret; just as I knew Jean Valjean's name:
just as I know your name."
"My name?"
"That is not difficult,
Monsieur Baron. I have had the honour of writing it to you and telling it to you.
Thenard."
"Dier."
"Eh?"
"Thenardier."
"Who is that?"
In danger the porcupine bristles,
the beetle feigns death, the Old Guard forms a square; this man began to laugh.
Then, with a fillip, he brushed a
speck of dust from his coatsleeve.
Marius continued:
"You are also the working-man
Jondrette, the comedian Fabantou, the poet Genflot, the Spaniard Don Alvares,
and the woman Balizard."
"The woman what?"
"And you have kept a chop-house
at Montfermeil."
"A chop-house! never."
"And I tell you that you are
Thenardier."
"I deny it."
"And that you are a scoundrel.
Here."
And Marius, taking a bank-note from
his pocket, threw it in his face.
"Thanks! pardon! five hundred
francs! Monsieur Baron!"
And the man, bewildered, bowing,
catching the note, examined it.
"Five hundred francs!" he
repeated in astonishment. And he stammered out in an undertone: "A serious
fafiot!"
Then bluntly:
"Well, so be it,"
exclaimed he. "Let us make ourselves comfortable."
And, with the agility of a monkey,
throwing his hair off backwards, pulling off his spectacles, taking out his
nose and pocketing the two quill tubes which have just spoken, and which have already
seen elsewhere another page this book, took off his countenance one takes off
his hat.
His eye kindled; his forehead,
uneven, ravined, humped in spots, hideously wrinkled the top, emerged; his nose
became as sharp as a beak; the fierce and cunning profile of the man prey
appeared again.
"Monsieur the Baron
infallible," said clear voice from which all nasality has disappeared,
"I am Thenardier."
And he straightened his bent back.
Thenardier, for it was indeed he,
was strangely surprised; he would have been disconcerted if he could have been.
He had come to bring astonishment, and he himself received it. This humiliation
had been compensated by five hundred francs, and, all things considered, he
accepted it; but he was none the less astounded.
He saw this Baron Pontmercy for the
first time, and, in spite of his disguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognised him,
and recognised him thoroughly. And not only was this baron fully informed, in
regard to Thenardier, but he seemed fully informed in regard to Jean Valjean. Who
was this almost beardless young man, so icy and so generous, who knew people's
names, who knew all their names, and who opened his purse to them, who abused
rogues like a judge and who paid them like a dupe?
Thenardier, it will be remembered,
although he had been a neighbour of Marius, had never seen him, which is
frequent in Paris; he had once heard some talk of his daughters about a very
poor young man named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him, without
knowing him, the letter which we have seen. No connection was possible in his
mind between that Marius and M. the Baron Pontmercy.
Through his daughter Azelma,
however, whom he had put upon the track of the couple married on the 16th of
February, and through his own researches, he had succeeded in finding out many
things, and, from the depth of his darkness, he had been able to seize more
than one mysterious clue. He had, by dint of industry, discovered, or, at least,
by dint of induction, guessed who the man was whom he had met on a certain day
in the Grand Sewer. From the man, he had easily arrived at the name. He knew
that Madame the Baroness Pontmercy was Cosette. But, in that respect, he
intended to be prudent. Who was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He
suspected indeed some illegitimacy. Fantine's story had always seemed to him
ambiguous; but why speak of it? to get paid for his silence? He had, or thought
he had, something better to sell than that. And to all appearances, to come and
make, without any proof, this revelation to Baron Pontmercy: Your wife is a
bastard, would only have attracted the husband's boot towards the revelator's
back.
Marius remained absorbed in thought.
At last, then, he had caught Thenardier; this man, whom he had so much desired
to find again, was before him: so he would be able to do honour to Colonel
Pontmercy's injunction. He was humiliated that that hero should owe anything to
this bandit, and that the bill of exchange drawn by his father from the depth
of the grave upon him, Marius, should have been protested until this day. It
appeared to him, also, in the complex position of his mind with regard to
Thenardier, that here was an opportunity to avenge the colonel for the
misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal. However that might be, he was
pleased. He was about to deliver the colonel's shade at last from his unworthy
creditor, and it seemed to him that he was about to release his father's memory
from imprisonment for debt.
Besides this duty, he had another,
to clear up, if he could, the source of Cosette's fortune. The opportunity
seemed to present itself. Thenardier knew something, perhaps. It might be
useful to probe this man to the bottom. He began with that.
Thenardier had slipped the
"serious fafiot" into his fob, and was looking at Marius with an
almost affectionate humility.
Marius interrupted the silence.
"Thenardier, I have told you
your name. Now your secret, what you came to make known to me, do you want me
to tell you that? I too have my means of information. You shall see that I know
more about it than you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin and a
robber. A robber, because he robbed a rich manufacturer, M. Madeleine, whose
ruin he caused. An assassin, because he assassinated the police-officer,
Javert."
"I don't understand Monsieur
Baron," said Thenardier.
"I will make myself understood.
Listen. There was, in an arrondissement of the Pas-de-Calais, about 1822, a man
who had had some old difficulty with justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine,
had reformed and re-established himself. He had become in the full force of the
term an upright man. By means of a manufacture, that of black glass trinkets,
he had made the fortune of an entire city. As for his own fortune, he had made
it also, but secondarily, and, in some sort, incidentally. He was the
foster-father of the poor. He founded hospitals, opened schools, visited the
sick, endowed daughters, supported widows, adopted orphans; he was, as it were,
the guardian of the country. He had refused the Cross, he had been appointed
mayor. A liberated convict knew the secret of a penalty once incurred by this
man; he informed against him and had him arrested, and took advantage of the
arrest to come to Paris and draw from the banker, Laffitte- I have the fact
from the cashier himself- by means of a false signature, a sum of more than a
million which belonged to M. Madeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine is
Jean Valjean. As to the other act, you have just as little to tell me. Jean Valjean
killed the officer Javert; he killed him with a pistol. I, who am now speaking
to you, I was present."
Thenardier cast sovereign glance of
a beaten man, who lays hold on victory again, and who has just recovered in one
minute all the ground which he had lost. But the smile returned immediately:
the inferior before the superior can only have a skulking triumph, and
Thenardier merely said to Marius:
"Monsieur Baron, we are on the
wrong track."
And he emphasised this phrase by
giving his bunch of trinkets an expressive twirl.
"What!" replied Marius,
"do you deny that? These are facts."
"They are chimeras. The
confidence with which Monsieur the Baron honours me makes it makes it my duty
to tell him so. Before all things, truth and justice. I do not like to see
people accused unjustly. Monsieur Baron, Jean Valjean never robbed Monsieur Madeleine,
and Jean Valjean never killed Javert."
"You speak strongly! how is
that?"
"For two reasons."
"What are they? tell me."
"The first is this: he did not
rob Monsieur Madeleine, since Jean Valjean himself who was Monsieur
Madeleine."
"What is that you are telling
me?"
"And the second is this: he did
not assassinate Javert, since Javert himself killed Javert."
"What do you mean?"
"That Javert committed
suicide."
"Prove it! prove it!"
cried Marius, beside himself.
Thenardier resumed, scanning his
phrase in the fashion of an ancient Alexandrine:
"The-police-of-ficer-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-under-a-boat-by-the-
Pont-au-Change."
"But prove it now!"
Thenardier took from his pocket a
large envelope of grey paper, which seemed to contain folded sheets of different
sizes.
"I have my documents,"
said he, with calmness.
And he added:
"Monsieur Baron, in you
interest, I wished to find out Jean Valjean to the bottom. I say that Jean
Valjean and Madeleine are the same man; and I say that Javert had no other assassin
than Javert; and when I speak I have the proofs. Not manuscript proofs; writing
is suspicious; writing is complaisant, but proofs in print."
While speaking, Thenardier took out
of the envelope two newspapers, yellow, faded, and strongly saturated with
tobacco. One of these two newspapers, broken at all the folds, and falling in
square pieces, seemed much older than the other.
"Two facts, two proofs,"
said Thenardier. And unfolding the two papers, he handed them to Marius.
With these two newspapers the reader
is acquainted. One, the oldest, a copy of the "Drapeau Blanc," of the
25th of July, 1823, the text of which can be found on page 304 of this book,
established the identity of M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean. The other, a
"Moniteur" of the 15th of June, 1832, verified the suicide of Javert,
adding that it appeared from a verbal report made by Javert to the prefect prisoner
in the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had owed his life to the
magnanimity of an insurgent who, though he had him at the muzzle of his pistol,
instead of blowing out his brains, had fired into the air.
Marius read. There was evidence,
certain date, unquestionable proof; these two newspapers had not been printed
expressly to support Thenardier's words. The note published in the
"Moniteur" was an official communication from the prefecture of
police. Marius could not doubt. The information derived from the cashier was
false, and he himself was mistaken. Jean Valjean, suddenly growing grand, arose
from the cloud. Marius could not restrain a cry of joy:
"Well, then, this unhappy man
is a wonderful man! all that fortune is really his own! he is Madeleine, the
providence of a whole region! He is Jean Valjean, the saviour of Javert! he is
a hero! he is a saint!"
"He is not a saint, and he is
not a hero," said Thenardier. "He is an assassin and a robber."
And he added with the tone of a man
who begins to feel some authority in himself: "Let us be calm."
Robber, assassin; these words, which
Marius supposed were gone, yet which came back, fell upon him like a shower of
ice.
"Again," said he.
"Still," said Thenardier.
"Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine, but he is a robber. He did not kill
Javert, but he is a murderer."
"Will you speak," resumed
Marius, "of that petty theft of forty years ago, expiated, as appears from
your newspapers themselves, by a whole life of repentance, abnegation, and
virtue?"
"I said assassination and
robbery, Monsieur Baron. And I repeat that I speak of recent facts. What I have
to reveal to you is absolutely unknown. It belongs to the unpublished. And
perhaps you will find in it the source of the fortune adroitly presented by
Jean Valjean to Madame the Baroness. I say adroitly, for, by a donation of this
kind, to glide into an honourable house, the comforts of which he will share,
and, by the same stroke, to conceal his crime, to enjoy his robbery, to bury
his name, and to create himself a family, that would not be very
unskilful."
"I might interrupt you
here," observed Marius; "but continue."
"Monsieur Baron, I will tell
you all, leaving the recompense to your generosity. This secret is worth a pile
of gold. You will say to me: why have you not gone to Jean Valjean? For a very
simple reason: I know that he has dispossessed himself, and dispossessed in
your favour, and I think the contrivance ingenious; but he has not a sou left,
he would show me his empty hands, and, since I need some money for my voyage to
La Joya, I prefer you, who have all, to him who has nothing. I am somewhat
fatigued; allow me to take a chair."
Marius sat down, and made sign to
him to sit down.
Thenardier installed himself in a
cappadine chair, took up the two newspapers, thrust them back into the
envelope, and muttered, striking the "Drapeau Blanc" with his nail:
"It cost me some hard work to get this one." This done, he crossed
his legs and lay back in his chair, an attitude characteristic of people who
are sure of what they are saying, then entered into the subject seriously, and
emphasising his words:
"Monsieur Baron, on the 6th of
June, 1832, about a year ago, the day of the emeute, a man was in the Grand
Sewer of Paris, near where the sewer empties into the Seine, between the Pont
des Invalides and the Pont d'Iena."
Marius suddenly drew his chair near
Thenardier's. Thenardier noticed this movement, and continued with the
deliberation of a speaker who holds his interlocutor fast, and who feels the
palpitation of his adversary beneath his words:
"This man, compelled to conceal
himself, for reasons foreign to politics, however, had taken the sewer for his
dwelling, and had a key to it. It was, I repeat it, the 6th of June; it might
have been eight o'clock in the evening. The man heard a noise in the sewer.
Very much surprised, he hid himself, and watched. It was a sound of steps,
somebody was walking in the darkness; somebody was coming in his direction.
Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer beside him. The grating of
the outlet of the sewer was not far off. A little light which came from it
enabled him to recognise the newcomer, and to see that this man was carrying
something on his back. He walked bent over. The man who was walking bent over
was an old convict, and what he was carrying upon his shoulders was a corpse. Assassination
in flagrante delicto, if ever there was such a thing. As for the robbery, it
follows of course; nobody kills a man for nothing. This convict was going to
throw his corpse into the river. It is a noteworthy fact, that before reaching
the grating of the outlet, this convict, who came from a distance in the sewer,
had been compelled to pass through a horrible quagmire in which it would seem
that he might have left the corpse; but, the sewer-men working upon the
quagmire might, the very next day, have found the assassinated man, and that was
not the assassin's game. He preferred to go through the quagmire with his load,
and his efforts must have been terrible; it is impossible to put one's life in
greater peril; I do not understand how he came out of it alive."
Marius' chair drew still nearer.
Thenardier took advantage of it to draw a long breath. He continued:
"Monsieur Baron, a sewer is not
the Champ de Mars. One lacks everything there, even room. When two men are in a
sewer, they must meet each other. That is what happened. The resident and the traveler
were compelled to say good-day to each other, to their mutual regret. The traveler
said to the resident: 'You see what I have on my back, I must get out, you have
the key, give it to me.' This convict was a man of terrible strength. There was
no refusing him. Still he who had the key parleyed, merely to gain time. He
examined the dead man, but he could see nothing, except that he was young, well
dressed, apparently a rich man, and all disfigured with blood. While he was
talking, he found means to cut and tear off from behind, without the assassin
perceiving it, a piece of the assassinated man's coat. A piece of evidence, you
understand; means of getting trace of the affair, and proving the crime upon
the criminal. He put this piece of evidence in his pocket. After which he
opened the grating, let the man out with his incumbrance on his back, shut the grating
again and escaped, little caring to be mixed up with the remainder of the
adventure, and especially desiring not to be present when the assassin should
throw the assassinated man into the river. You understand now. He who was
carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; he who had the key is now speaking to
you, and the piece of the coat-"
Thenardier finished the phrase by
drawing from his pocket and holding up, on a level with his eyes, between his
thumbs and his forefingers, a strip of ragged black cloth, covered with dark
stains.
Marius had risen, pale, hardly
breathing, his eye fixed upon the wrap of black cloth, and, without uttering a
word, without losing sight of this rag, he retreated to the wall, and, with his
right hand stretched behind him, groped about for a key which was in the lock
of a closet near the chimney. He found this key, opened the closet, and thrust
his arm into it without looking, and without removing his startled eyes from
the fragment that Thenardier held up.
Meanwhile Thenardier continued:
"Monsieur Baron, I have the
strongest reasons to believe that the assassinated young man was an opulent
stranger drawn into a snare by Jean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous
sum."
"The young man was myself, and
there is the coat!" cried Marius, and he threw an old black coat covered
with blood upon the carpet.
Then, snatching the fragment from
Thenardier's hands, he bent down over the coat, and applied the piece to the
cut skirt. The edged fitted exactly, and the strip completed the coat.
Thenardier was petrified. He thought
this: "I am floored."
Marius rose up, quivering,
desperate, flashing.
He felt in his pocket, and walked,
furious, towards Thenardier offering him and almost pushing into his face his
fist full of five hundred and a thousand franc notes.
"You are a wretch! you are a
liar, a slanderer, a scoundrel. You came to accuse this man, you have justified
him; you wanted to destroy him, you have succeeded only in glorifying him. And
it is you who are a robber! and it is you who are an assassin! I saw you
Thenardier, Jondrette, in that den on the Boulevard de l'Hopital. I know enough
about you to send you to the galleys, and further even, if I wished. Here,
there are a thousand francs, braggart that you are!"
And he threw a bill for a thousand
francs to Thenardier.
"Ah! Jondrette Thenardier, vile
knave! let this be a lesson to you, pedlar of secrets, trader in mysteries,
fumbler in the dark, wretch! Take these five hundred francs, and leave this
place! Waterloo protects you."
"Waterloo!" muttered
Thenardier, pocketing the five hundred francs with the thousand francs.
"Yes, assassin! you saved the
life of a colonel there-"
"Of a general," said
Thenardier, raising his head.
"Of a colonel!" replied
Marius with a burst of passion. "I would not give a farthing for a
general. And you came here to act out your infamy! I tell you that you have
committed every crime. Go! out of my sight! Be happy only, that is all that I
desire. Ah! monster! there are three thousand francs more. Take them. You will
start tomorrow for America, with your daughter, for your wife is dead,
abominable liar. I will see to your departure, bandit, and I will count out to you
then twenty thousand francs. Go and get hung elsewhere!"
"Monsieur Baron," answered
Thenardier, bowing to the ground, "eternal gratitude."
And Thenardier went out,
comprehending nothing, astounded and transported with this sweet crushing under
sacks of gold and with this thunderbolt bursting upon his head in bank-notes.
Thunderstruck he was, but happy
also; and he would have been have been very sorry to have had a lightning rod
against that thunderbolt.
Let us finish with this man at once.
Two days after the events which we are now relating, he left, through Marius'
care, for America, under a false name, with his daughter Azelma, provided with
a draft upon New York for twenty thousand francs. Thenardier, the moral misery
of Thenardier, the brokendown bourgeois, was irremediable; he was in America
what he had been in Europe. The touch of a wicked man is often enough to
corrupt a good deed and make an evil result spring from it. With Marius' money,
Thenardier became a slaver.
As soon as Thenardier was out of
doors, Marius ran to the garden where Cosette was still walking:
"Cosette! Cosette!" cried
he. "Come! come quick! Let us go. Basque, a fiacre! Cosette, come. Oh! my
God! It was he who saved my life! Let us not lose a minute! Put on your
shawl."
Cosette thought him mad, and obeyed.
He did not breathe, he put his hand
upon his heart to repress its beating. He walked to and fro with rapid strides,
he embraced Cosette: "Oh! Cosette! I am an unhappy man!" said he.
Marius was in amaze. He began to see
in this and Valjean a strangely lofty and saddened form. An unparalleled virtue
appeared before him, supreme and mild, humble in its immensity. The convict was
transfigured into Christ. Marius was bewildered by this marvel. He did not know
exactly what he saw, but it was grand.
In a moment, a fiacre was at the
door.
Marius helped Cosette in and sprang
in himself.
"Driver," said he,
"Rue de l'Homme Arme, Number 7."
The fiacre started.
"Oh! what happiness!" said
Cosette. "Rue de l'Homme Arme! I dared not speak to you of it again. We
are going to see Monsieur Jean."
"Your father! Cosette, your
father more than ever. Cosette, I see it. You told me that you never received
the letter which I sent you by Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands.
Cosette, he went to the barricade to save me. As it is a necessity for him to
be an angel, on the way, he saved others; he saved Javert. He snatched me out
of that gulf to give me to you. He carried me on his back in that frightful sewer.
Oh! I am an unnatural ingrate. Cosette, after having been your providence, he
was mine. Only think that there was a terrible quagmire, enough to drown him a
hundred times, to drown him in the mire, Cosette! he carried me through that. I
had fainted; I saw nothing, I heard nothing, I could know nothing of my own
fate. We are going to bring him back, take him with us, whether he will or no,
he shall never leave us again. If he is only at home! If we only find him! I
will pass the rest of my life in venerating him. Yes, that must be it, do you
see, Cosette? Gavroche must have handed my letter to him. It is all explained.
You understand."
Cosette did not understand a word.
"You are right," said she
him.
Meanwhile the fiacre rolled on.
At the knock which he heard at his
door, Jean Valjean turned his head.
"Come in," said he feebly.
The door opened. Cosette and Marius
appeared.
Cosette rushed into the room.
Marius remained upon the threshold,
leaning against the casing of the door.
"Cosette!" said Jean
Valjean, and he rose in his chair, his arms stretched out and trembling,
haggard, livid, terrible, with immense joy in his eyes.
Cosette stifled with emotion, fell
upon Jean Valjean's breast.
"Father!" said she.
Jean Valjean, beside himself,
stammered:
"Cosette! she? you, madame? it
is you, Cosette? Oh, my God!"
And, clasped in Cosette's arms, he
exclaimed:
"It is you, Cosette? you are
here? You forgive me then!"
Marius, dropping his eyelids that
the tears might not fall, stepped forward and murmured between his lips which
were contracted convulsively to check the sobs:
"Father!"
"And you too, you forgive
me!" said Jean Valjean.
Marius could not utter a word, and
Jean Valjean added: "Thanks."
Cosette took off her shawl and threw
her hat upon the bed.
"They are in my way," said
she.
And, seating herself upon the old
man's knees, she stroked away his white hair with an adorable grace, and kissed
his forehead.
Jean Valjean, bewildered, offered no
resistance.
Cosette, who had but a very confused
understanding of all this, redoubled her caresses, as if she would pay Marius'
debt.
Jean Valjean faltered:
"How foolish we are! I thought
I should never see her again. Only think, Monsieur Pontmercy, that at the
moment you came in, I was saying to myself: It is over. There is her little
dress, I am a miserable man, I shall never see Cosette again, I was saying that
at the very moment you were coming up the stairs. Was I not silly? I was as
silly as that! But we reckon without God. God said: You think that you are
going to be abandoned, dolt? No. No, it shall not come to pass like that. Come,
here is a poor goodman who has need of an angel. And the angel comes; and I see
my Cosette again! and I see my darling Cosette again! Oh! I was very
miserable!"
For a moment he could not speak,
then he continued:
"I really needed to see Cosette
a little while from time to time. A heart does want a bone to gnaw. Still I
felt plainly that I was in the way. I gave myself reasons: they have no need of
you, stay in your corner, you have no right to continue for ever. Oh! bless
God, I see her again! Monsieur Pontmercy, let me call her Cosette. It will not
be
very long."
And Cosette continued again:
"How naughty to have left us in
this way! Where have you been? why were you away so long? Your journeys did not
use to last more than three or four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always
was: He is absent. How long since you returned? Why did not you let us know? Do
you know that you are very much changed. Oh! the naughty father! he has been
sick, and we did not know it! Here, Marius, feel his hand, how cold it
is!"
"So you are here, Monsieur
Pontmercy, you forgive me!" repeated Jean Valjean.
At these words, which Jean Valjean
now said for the second time, all that was swelling in Marius heart found an
outlet, he broke forth:
"Cosette, do you hear? that is
the way with him! he begs my pardon, and do you know what he has done for me,
Cosette? he has saved my life. He has done more. He has given you to me. And,
after having saved me, and after having given you to me, Cosette, what did he
do with himself? he sacrificed himself. There is the man. And, to me the
ungrateful, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty, he says:
Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be too
little. That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that cloaca, he went through
everything for me, for you, Cosette! He bore me through death in every form
which he put aside from me, and which he accepted for himself. All courage, all
virtue, all heroism, all sanctity, he has it all, Cosette, that man is an angel!"
"Hush! hush!" said Jean
Valjean in a whisper. "Why tell all that?"
"But you!" exclaimed
Marius, with a passion in which veneration was mingled, "why have not you
told it? It is your fault, too. You save people's lives, and you hide it from
them! You do more, under pretence of unmasking yourself, you calumniate,
yourself. It is frightful."
"I told the truth,"
answered Jean Valjean.
"No," replied Marius,
"the truth is the whole truth; and you did not tell it. You were Monsieur
Madeleine, why not have said so? You had saved Javert, why not have said so? I
owe my life to you! why not have said so?"
"Because I thought as you did.
I felt that you were right. It was necessary that I should go away. If you had
known that affair of the sewer, you would have made me stay with you. I should
then have had to keep silent. If I had spoken, it would have embarrassed
all."
"Embarrassed what? embarrassed
whom?" replied Marius. "Do you suppose you are going to stay here? We
are going to carry you back. Oh! my God! when I think it was by accident that I
learned it all! We are going to carry you back. You are a part of us. You are
her father and mine. You shall not spend another day in this horrid house. Do
not imagine that you will be here tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," said Jean
Valjean, "I shall not be here, but I shall not be at your house."
"What do you mean?"
replied Marius. "Ah now, we shall allow no more journeys. You shall never
leave us again. You belong to us. We will not let you go."
"This time, it is for
good," added Cosette. "We have a carriage below. I am going to carry
you off. If necessary, I shall use force."
And laughing, she made as if she
would lift the old man arms.
"Your room is still in our
house," she continued. "If you knew how pretty the garden is now. The
azalias are growing finely. The paths are sanded with river sand: there are
some little violet shells. You shall eat some of my strawberries. I water them
myself. And no more madame, and no more Monsieur Jean, we are a republic, are
we not, Marius? The programme is changed. You are coming with us. How glad grandfather
will be! I have your bed in the garden, you shall tend it, and we will see if
your strawberries are as fine as mine. And then, I will do what ever you wish,
and then, you will obey me."
Jean Valjean listened to her without
hearing her. He heard the music of her voice rather than the meaning of her
words; one of those big tears which are the gloomy pearls of the soul, gathered
slowly in his eye. He murmured:
"The proof that God is good is
that she is here."
"Father!" cried Cosette.
Jean Valjean continued:
"It is very true that it would
be charming to live together. They have their trees full of birds. I would walk
with Cosette. To be with people who live, who bid each other good morning, who
call each other into the garden, would be sweet. We would see each other as
soon as it was morning. We would each cultivate our little corner. She would
have me eat her strawberries. I would have her pick my roses. It would be
charming. Only-"
He paused and said mildly:
"It is a pity."
The tear did not fall, it went back,
and Jean Valjean replaced it with a smile.
Cosette took both the old man's
hands in her own.
"My God!" said she,
"your hands are colder yet. Are you sick? Are you suffering?"
"No," answered Jean
Valjean. "I am very well. Only-"
He stopped.
"Only what?"
"I shall die in a few
minutes."
Cosette and Marius shuddered.
"Die!" exclaimed Marius.
"Yes, but that is
nothing," said Jean Valjean.
He breathed, smiled, and continued.
"Cosette, you are speaking to
me, go on, speak, let me hear your
voice!"
Marius, petrified, gazed upon the
old man.
Cosette uttered a piercing cry:
"Father! my father! you shall
live. You are going to live. I will have you live, do you hear?"
Jean Valjean raised head towards her
with adoration.
"Oh, yes, forbid me to die. Who
knows? I shall obey perhaps. I was just dying when you came. That stopped me,
it seemed to me that I was born again."
"You are full of strength and
life," exclaimed Marius. "Do you think people die like that? You have
had trouble, you shall have no more. I ask your pardon now, and that on my knees!
You shall live, and live with us, and live long. We will take you back. Both of
us here will have but one thought henceforth, your happiness!"
"You see," added Cosette
in tears, "that Marius says you will not die."
Jean Valjean continued to smile.
"If you should take me back,
Monsieur Pontmercy, would that make me different from what I am? No; God
thought as you and I did, and he has not changed his mind; it is best that I
should go away. Death is a good arrangement. God knows better than we do what
we need. That you are happy, that Monsieur Pontmercy has Cosette, that youth espouses
morning, that there are about you, my children, lilacs and nightingales, that
your life is a beautiful lawn in the sunshine, that all the enchantments of
heaven fill your souls, and now, that I who am good for nothing, that I die;
surely all this is well. Look you, be reasonable, there is nothing else
possible now, I am sure that it is all over. An hour ago I had a fainting fit.
And then, last night, I drank that pitcher full of water. How good your husband
is, Cosette! You are much better off than with me."
There was a noise at the door. It
was the physician coming in.
"Good day and good-by,
doctor," said Jean Valjean. "Here are my poor children."
There Marius approached the
physician. He addressed this single word to him: "Monsieur?" but the
manner pronouncing it, there was complete question.
The physician answered the question
by an expressive glance.
"Because things are
unpleasant," said Jean Valjean, "that is no reason for being unjust
towards God."
There was a silence. All hearts were
oppressed.
Jean Valjean turned towards Cosette.
He began to gaze at her as if he would take a look which should endure through
eternity. At the depth of shadow to which he had already descended, ecstasy was
still possible to him while beholding Cosette. The reflection of that sweet
countenance illumined his pale face. The sepulchre may have its enchantments.
The physician felt his pulse.
"Ah! it was you he
needed!" murmured he, looking at Cosette and Marius.
And, bending towards Marius' ear he
added very low: "Too late."
Jean Valjean, almost without ceasing
to gaze upon Cosette, turned upon Marius and the physician a look of serenity.
They heard these almost inarticulate words come from his lips:
"It is nothing to die; it is
frightful not to live."
Suddenly he arose. These returns of
strength are sometimes a sign of the death-struggle. He walked with a firm step
to the wall, put aside Marius and the physician, who offered to assist him,
took down from the wall the little copper crucifix which hung there, came back,
and sat down with all the freedom of motion of perfect health, and said in a
loud voice, laying the crucifix on the table:
"Behold the great martyr."
Then his breast sank in, his head
wavered, as if the dizziness of the tomb seized him, and his hands resting upon
his knees, began to clutch as his pantaloons.
Cosette supported his shoulders, and
sobbed, and attempted to speak to him, but could not. There could be distinguished,
among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies tears, sentences
like this: "Father! do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you
again only to lose you?"
The agony of death may be said to
meander. It goes, comes, advances towards the grave, and returns towards life.
There is some groping in the act of dying.
Jean Valjean, after this
semi-syncope, gathered strength, shook his forehead as if to throw off the
darkness, and became almost completely lucid once more. He took a fold of
Cosette's sleeve, and kissed it.
"He is reviving! doctor, he is
reviving!" cried Marius.
"You are both kind," said
Jean Valjean. "I will tell you what has given me pain. What has given me
pain, Monsieur Pontmercy, was that you have been unwilling to touch that money.
That money really belongs to your wife. I will explain it to you, my children,
on that account I am glad to see you. The black jet comes from England, the
white jet comes from Norway. All this is in the paper you see there, which you will
read. For bracelets, I invented the substitution of clasps made by bending the
metal, for clasps made by soldering the metal. They are handsomer, better, and
cheaper. You understand how much money can be made. So Cosette's fortune is
really her own. I give you these particulars so that your minds may be at
rest."
The portress had come up, and was
looking through the half-open door. The physician motioned her away, but he
could not prevent that good, zealous woman from crying to the dying man before
she went:
"Do you want a priest?"
"I have one," answered
Jean Valjean.
And, with his finger, he seemed to
designate a point above his head, where, you would have said, he saw some one.
It is probable that the Bishop was
indeed a witness of this death-agony.
Cosette slipped a pillow under his
back gently.
Jean Valjean resumed: "Monsieur
Pontmercy, have no fear, I conjure you. The six hundred thousand francs are
really Cosette's. I shall have lost my life if you do not enjoy it! We
succeeded very well in making glasswork. We rivalled what is called Berlin
jewellery. Indeed, the German black glass cannot be compared with it. A gross,
which contains twelve hundred grains very well cut, costs only three francs."
When a being who is dear to us is
about to die, we look at him with a look which clings to him, and which would
hold him back. Both, dumb with anguish, knowing not what to say to and
trembling they stood before him, Marius holding Cosette's hand.
From moment to moment, Jean Valjean
grew weaker. He was sinking; he was approaching the dark horizon. His breath
come intermittent; it was interrupted by a slight rattle. He had difficulty in
moving his wrist, his feet had lost all motion, and at the same time that the distress
of the limbs and the exhaustion of the body increased, all the majesty of the
soul rose and displayed itself upon his forehead. The light of the unknown
world was already visible in his eye.
His face grew pale, and at the same
time smiled. Life was no longer present, there was something else. His breath
died away, his look grew grand. It was a corpse on which you felt wings.
He motioned to Cosette to approach,
then to Marius; it was evidently the last minute of the last hour, and he began
to speak to them in a voice so faint it seemed to come from afar, and you would
have said that there was already a wall between them and him.
"Come closer, come closer, both
of you. I love you dearly. Oh! it is good to die so! You too, you love me, my
Cosette. I knew very well that you still had some affection for your old
goodman. How kind you are to put this cushion under my back! You will weep for
me a little, will you not? Not too much. I do not wish any deep grief. You must
amuse yourselves a great deal my children. I forgot to tell you that on buckles
without tongues still more is made than on anything else. A gross, twelve
dozen, costs ten francs, and sells for sixty. That is really a good business.
So you need not be astonished at the six hundred thousand francs, Monsieur
Pontmercy. It is honest money. You can be rich without concern. You must have a
carriage, from time to time a box at the theatres, beautiful ball dresses, my
Cosette, and then give good dinners to your friends, be very happy. I was
writing just now to Cosette. She will find my letter. To her I bequeath the two
candlesticks which are on the mantel. They are silver; but to me they are gold,
they are diamond; they change the candles which are put into them, into
consecrated tapers. I do not know whether he who gave them to me is satisfied
with me in heaven. I have done what I could. My children, you will not forget
that I am a poor man, you will have me buried in the most convenient piece of
ground under a stone to mark the spot. That is my wish. No name on the stone.
If Cosette will come for a little while sometimes, it will give me a pleasure.
You too, Monsieur Pontmercy. I must confess to you that I have not always loved
you; I ask your pardon. Now, she and you are but one to me. I am very grateful
to you. I feel that you make Cosette happy. If you knew, Monsieur Pontmercy, her
beautiful rosy cheeks were my joy; when I saw her a little pale, I was sad.
There is a five hundred franc bill in the bureau. I have not touched it. It is
for the poor. Cosette, do you see your little dress, there on the bed? do you
recognise it? Yet it was only ten years ago. How time passes! We have been very
happy. It is over. My children, do not weep, I am not going very far, I shall
see you from there. You will only have to look when it is night, you will see
me smile. Cosette, do you remember Montfermeil? You were in the wood, you were
very much frightened; do you remember when I took the handle of the
water-bucket? That time I touched your poor little hand. It was so cold! Ay!
you had red hands in those days, mademoiselle, your hands are very white now.
And the great doll! do you remember? you called her Catharine. You regretted
that you did not carry her to the convent. How you made me laugh sometimes, my
sweet angel! You have forgotten it. You were so cunning when you were little!
You played. You put cherries in your ears. Those are things of the past. The forests
through which we have passed with our child, the trees under which we have
walked, the convents in which we have hidden, the games, the free laughter of
childhood, all is in shadow. I imagined that all that belonged to me. There was
my folly. Those Thenardiers were wicked. We must forgive them. Cosette, the
time has come to tell of your mother. Her name was Fantine. Remember that name:
Fantine. Fall on your knees whenever you pronounce it. She suffered much. And loved
you much. Her measure of unhappiness was as full as yours of happiness. Such
are the distributions of God. He is on high, he sees us all, and he knows what
he does in the midst of his great stars. So I am going away, my children. Love
each other dearly always. There is scarcely anything else in the world but
that: to love one another. You will think sometimes of the poor old man who
died here. O my Cosette! it is not my fault, indeed, if I have not seen you all
this time, it broke my, heart.
My children, I do not see very clearly
now, I had some more things to say, but it makes no difference. Think of me a
little. You are blessed creatures. I do not know what is the matter with me, I
see a light. Come nearer. I die happy. Let me put my hands upon your dear
beloved heads."
Cosette and Marius fell on their
knees, overwhelmed, choked with tears, each grasping one of Jean Valjean's
hands. Those august hands moved no more.
He had fallen backwards, the light
from the candlesticks fell upon him; his white face looked up towards heaven,
he let Cosette and Marius cover his hands with kisses; he was dead.
The night was starless and very
dark. Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with
outstretched wings, awaiting the soul.
There is, in the cemetery of Pere
Lachaise, in the neighbourhood of the Potters' field, far from the elegant
quartier of that city of sepulchres, far from all those fantastic tombs which
display in presence of eternity the hideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner,
beside an old wall, beneath great yew on which the bindweed climbs, among the
dog-grass and the mosses, a stone. This stone is exempt no more than the rest
from the leprosy of time, from the mould, the lichen, and the droppings of the
birds. The air turns it black, the water green. It is near no path, the people
do not like to go in that direction because the grass is high, and they would
wet their feet. When there is a little sunshine, the lizards come out. There
is, all about, a rustling of wild oats. In the spring, the linnets sing in the
tree.
This stone is entirely blank. The
only thought in cutting it was of the essentials of the grave, and there was no
other care than to make this stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a
man.
No name can be read there.
Only many years ago, a hand wrote
upon it in pencil these four lines which have become gradually illegible under
the rain and the dust, and which are probably effaced:
He sleeps. Although
his fate was very strange,
He lived. He died
when he had no longer his angel.
The thing came to pass simply, of itself,
As the night comes when the day is gone.
THE END
