by Victor Hugo
Thénardier was petrified. He thought this: “I am floored.”
Marius rose up, quivering, desperate, flashing.
He felt in his pocket, and walked, furious, towards Thénardier, 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, Thénardier, Jondrette, in that den on the Boulevard de l‘Hôpital. I know enough about you to send you to the galleys, and further even, if I wished. Here, there are a thousand francs, bandit that you are!”
And he threw a bill for a thousand francs to Thénardier.
“Ah! Jondrette, Thénardier, 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 Thénardier, pocketing the five hundred francs with the thousand francs.
“Yes, assassin! you saved the life of a colonel there—”
“Of a general,” said Thénardier, 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 to-morrow 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 Thénardier, bowing to the ground, “eternal gratitude.”
And Thénardier 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 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. Thénardier, the moral misery of Thénardier, 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 to make an evil result spring from it. With Marius’ money, Thénardier became a slaver.
As soon as Thénardier 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 amazed. He began to see in this Jean 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 Armé, Number 7.”
The fiacre started.
“Oh! what happiness!” said Cosette. “Rue de l‘Homme Armé! 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 horrible 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 to him.
Meanwhile the fiacre rolled on.
5
NIGHT BEHIND WHICH IS DAWN
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! Do you know, Cosette, that your husband is very handsome? Ah, you have a pretty embroidered collar, yes, yes. I like that pattern. Your husband chose it, did he not? And then, Cosette, you must have cashmeres. 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
d 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 to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” 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 in her 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. If you knew, father, I have had some trouble, there was a red-breast which had made her nest in a hole in the wall, a horrid cat ate her up for me. My poor pretty little red-breast who put her head out at her window and looked at me! I cried over it. I would have killed the cat! But now, nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs, everybody is happy. You are coming with us. How glad grandfather will be! You shall 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 again, your little red-breast is dead then, 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 his 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 morn ing, 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.”
Marius approached the physician. He addressed this single word to him: “Monsieur?” but in the manner of pronouncing it, there was a 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 at his trousers.
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 half-faint, 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.”
