Thus their life clouded over by degrees.
But one diversion, which had formerly been a happiness, remained to
them, which was to carry bread to those who were hungry, and clothing
to those who were cold. Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean on these
visits to the poor, on which they recovered some remnants of their
former free intercourse; and sometimes, when the day had been a good
one, and they had assisted many in distress, and cheered and warmed
many little children, Cosette was rather merry in the evening. It was
at this epoch that they paid their visit to the Jondrette den.
On the day following that visit, Jean Valjean made his appearance in
the pavilion in the morning, calm as was his wont, but with a large
wound on his left arm which was much inflamed, and very angry, which
resembled a burn, and which he explained in some way or other. This
wound resulted in his being detained in the house for a month with
fever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosette urged him, “Call the
dog-doctor,” said he.
Cosette dressed the wound morning and evening with so divine an air and
such angelic happiness at being of use to him, that Jean Valjean felt
all his former joy returning, his fears and anxieties dissipating, and
he gazed at Cosette, saying: “Oh! what a kindly wound! Oh! what a good
misfortune!”
Cosette on perceiving that her father was ill, had deserted the
pavilion and again taken a fancy to the little lodging and the back
courtyard. She passed nearly all her days beside Jean Valjean and read
to him the books which he desired. Generally they were books of travel.
Jean Valjean was undergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviving in
these ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, the prowling young stranger,
Cosette’s coldness,—all these clouds upon his soul were growing dim. He
had reached the point where he said to himself: “I imagined all that. I
am an old fool.”
His happiness was so great that the horrible discovery of the
Thénardiers made in the Jondrette hovel, unexpected as it was, had,
after a fashion, glided over him unnoticed. He had succeeded in making
his escape; all trace of him was lost—what more did he care for! he
only thought of those wretched beings to pity them. “Here they are in
prison, and henceforth they will be incapacitated for doing any harm,”
he thought, “but what a lamentable family in distress!”
As for the hideous vision of the Barrière du Maine, Cosette had not
referred to it again.
Sister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music in the convent;
Cosette had the voice of a linnet with a soul, and sometimes, in the
evening, in the wounded man’s humble abode, she warbled melancholy
songs which delighted Jean Valjean.
Spring came; the garden was so delightful at that season of the year,
that Jean Valjean said to Cosette:—
“You never go there; I want you to stroll in it.”
“As you like, father,” said Cosette.
And for the sake of obeying her father, she resumed her walks in the
garden, generally alone, for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who
was probably afraid of being seen through the fence, hardly ever went
there.
Jean Valjean’s wound had created a diversion.
When Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, that he was
convalescing, and that he appeared to be happy, she experienced a
contentment which she did not even perceive, so gently and naturally
had it come. Then, it was in the month of March, the days were growing
longer, the winter was departing, the winter always bears away with it
a portion of our sadness; then came April, that daybreak of summer,
fresh as dawn always is, gay like every childhood; a little inclined to
weep at times like the new-born being that it is. In that month, nature
has charming gleams which pass from the sky, from the trees, from the
meadows and the flowers into the heart of man.
Cosette was still too young to escape the penetrating influence of that
April joy which bore so strong a resemblance to herself. Insensibly,
and without her suspecting the fact, the blackness departed from her
spirit. In spring, sad souls grow light, as light falls into cellars at
midday. Cosette was no longer sad. However, though this was so, she did
not account for it to herself. In the morning, about ten o’clock, after
breakfast, when she had succeeded in enticing her father into the
garden for a quarter of an hour, and when she was pacing up and down in
the sunlight in front of the steps, supporting his left arm for him,
she did not perceive that she laughed every moment and that she was
happy.
Jean Valjean, intoxicated, beheld her growing fresh and rosy once more.
“Oh! What a good wound!” he repeated in a whisper.
And he felt grateful to the Thénardiers.
His wound once healed, he resumed his solitary twilight strolls.
It is a mistake to suppose that a person can stroll alone in that
fashion in the uninhabited regions of Paris without meeting with some
adventure.