On the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.
Cosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished, no longer
exclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the drawing-room, she
avoided saying either “father” or “Monsieur Jean.” She allowed herself
to be addressed as _you_. She allowed herself to be called Madame.
Only, her joy had undergone a certain diminution. She would have been
sad, if sadness had been possible to her.
It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations
in which the beloved man says what he pleases, explains nothing, and
satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does not extend
very far beyond their own love.
The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed the
bottles, and Nicolette the spiders.
All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour. He
came every day, because he had not the strength to take Marius’ words
otherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to be absent at
the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew accustomed to the
novel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped in this direction:
“Monsieur has always been like that,” she repeated. The grandfather
issued this decree:—“He’s an original.” And all was said. Moreover, at
the age of ninety-six, no bond is any longer possible, all is merely
juxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way. There is no longer any room;
all habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Father
Gillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved from “that
gentleman.” He added:—“Nothing is more common than those originals.
They do all sorts of queer things. They have no reason. The Marquis de
Canaples was still worse. He bought a palace that he might lodge in the
garret. These are fantastic appearances that people affect.”
No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover, who
could have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this description
in India. The water seems extraordinary, inexplicable, rippling though
there is no wind, and agitated where it should be calm. One gazes at
the surface of these causeless ebullitions; one does not perceive the
hydra which crawls on the bottom.
Many men have a secret monster in this same manner, a dragon which
gnaws them, a despair which inhabits their night. Such a man resembles
other men, he goes and comes. No one knows that he bears within him a
frightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth, which lives within the
unhappy man, and of which he is dying. No one knows that this man is a
gulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a trouble of which
the onlooker understands nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious
wrinkle is formed, then vanishes, then reappears; an air-bubble rises
and bursts. It is the breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people are
taking their leave, keeping in the background when other people are
displaying themselves, preserving on all occasions what may be
designated as the wall-colored mantle, seeking the solitary walk,
preferring the deserted street, avoiding any share in conversation,
avoiding crowds and festivals, seeming at one’s ease and living poorly,
having one’s key in one’s pocket, and one’s candle at the porter’s
lodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door, ascending
the private staircase,—all these insignificant singularities, fugitive
folds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable foundation.
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession
of Cosette: the relations which marriage creates, visits, the care of
the house, pleasures, great matters. Cosette’s pleasures were not
costly, they consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great
occupation of her life was to go out with him, to remain with him. It
was for them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in the
face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves, before
the whole world, both of them completely alone.
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette,
the soldering of two elderly maids being impossible, and she went away.
The grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there; Aunt
Gillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her,
beside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.
The address as _thou_ disappeared, the _you_, the “Madame,” the
“Monsieur Jean,” rendered him another person to Cosette. The care which
he had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding. She became
more and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she still loved him
sincerely, and he felt it.
One day she said to him suddenly: “You used to be my father, you are no
longer my father, you were my uncle, you are no longer my uncle, you
were Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then? I don’t
like all this. If I did not know how good you are, I should be afraid
of you.”
He still lived in the Rue de l’Homme Armé, because he could not make up
his mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt.
At first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and then went
away.
Little by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief.
One would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization
of the days which were lengthening, he arrived earlier and departed
later.
One day Cosette chanced to say “father” to him. A flash of joy
illuminated Jean Valjean’s melancholy old countenance. He caught her
up: “Say Jean.”—“Ah! truly,” she replied with a burst of laughter,
“Monsieur Jean.”—“That is right,” said he. And he turned aside so that
she might not see him wipe his eyes.