It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How
all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false
object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty!
Let us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he to blame
Marius.
Marius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions
to M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to
Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed
himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done
wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself to
gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him,
as much as possible, from Cosette’s mind. He had, in a manner, always
placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that, in this
way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than
effacement, it was an eclipse.
Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he
had serious reasons which the reader has already seen, and others which
will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without
harshness, but without weakness.
Chance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he had
argued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had
acquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had not
been able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret which he
had promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean Valjean’s
perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had a grave duty
to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand francs to some
one whom he sought with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile, he
abstained from touching that money.
As for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets;
but it would be harsh to condemn her also.
There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism, which
caused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically, what Marius
wished. She was conscious of Marius’ will in the direction of “Monsieur
Jean,” she conformed to it. Her husband had not been obliged to say
anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear pressure of his
tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience in this instance
consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot. She was not obliged to
make any effort to accomplish this. Without her knowing why herself,
and without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had
become so wholly her husband’s that that which was shrouded in gloom in
Marius’ mind became overcast in hers.
Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this
forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial. She was rather
heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the
man whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband
still more dearly. This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of
her heart, which leaned to one side only.
It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed
her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: “He is absent, I think. Did not
he say that he was setting out on a journey?”—“That is true,” thought
Cosette. “He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion. But not for
so long.” Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the
Rue de l’Homme Armé whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean
Valjean caused the answer “no” to be given.
Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth,
Marius.
Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been
absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his
father’s grave.
Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed
it.
Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the
ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach
as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have
elsewhere said, “looks before her.” Nature divides living beings into
those who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are
departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving
towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old,
and involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first
insensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The
boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It
is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid
lights, love. Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of
each other, but there is no longer a close connection. Young people
feel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not
blame these poor children.