She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself.
That simple question, “And Cosette?” was put with so profound a faith,
with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of
doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:—
“I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen
you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all
night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of
celestial forms.”
He raised his glance to the crucifix.
“But,” she resumed, “tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place
her on my bed against the moment of my waking?”
He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to
recall.
Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his
appearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.
“Calm yourself, my child,” said the doctor; “your child is here.”
Fantine’s eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped
her hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to
prayer in the way of violence and tenderness.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “bring her to me!”
Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little
child who is carried.
“Not yet,” said the doctor, “not just now. You still have some fever.
The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be
cured first.”
She interrupted him impetuously:—
“But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that
doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!”
“You see,” said the doctor, “how excited you become. So long as you are
in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough
to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are
reasonable, I will bring her to you myself.”
The poor mother bowed her head.
“I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should
never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have
happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I
understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like,
but I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter.
I have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since
yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should
talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I
should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly
from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be
happy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled
at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I
have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that
there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave
as though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. When
it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, ‘She must have her
child.’”
M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned towards
him; she was making a visible effort to be calm and “very good,” as she
expressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in
order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty
about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she
could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.
“Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were
to go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the
journey well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten
me by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like
birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and
thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those
Thénardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew
how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during
all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh,
how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le
Maire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in
that diligence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant?
She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the
master; it could be so if you chose!”
He took her hand. “Cosette is beautiful,” he said, “Cosette is well.
You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too
much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the
clothes, and that makes you cough.”
In fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.
Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too
passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of
inspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent things.
“Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure
parties in summer. Are the Thénardiers prosperous? There are not many
travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a
cook-shop.”
M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with
anxiety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before
which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit,
retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them.
But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed:—
“I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!”
She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath,
and began to listen with rapture.
There was a child playing in the yard—the child of the portress or of
some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always
occurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious
stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child—a little girl—was going and
coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her
voice. Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was
this little girl whom Fantine heard singing.
“Oh!” she resumed, “it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice.”
The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine
listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M.
Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: “How wicked that doctor is not
to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that
he has.”
But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She
continued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow: “How
happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first
thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the
garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell.
She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then
she will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first
communion?”
She began to reckon on her fingers.
“One, two, three, four—she is seven years old. In five years she will
have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little
woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I
think of my daughter’s first communion!”
She began to laugh.
He had released Fantine’s hand. He listened to her words as one listens
to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind
absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased
speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine
had become terrible.
She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to
a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her
face, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she
seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something
alarming at the other extremity of the room.
“Good God!” he exclaimed; “what ails you, Fantine?”
She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which
she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the
other made him a sign to look behind him.
He turned, and beheld Javert.