3
THEY REMEMBER THE GARDEN IN THE RUE PLUMET
THAT WAS the last time. From that last gleam onward, there was complete extinction. No more familiarity, no more good-day with a kiss, never again that word so intensely sweet: Father! he was, upon his own demand and through his own complicity, driven in succession from every happiness; and he had this misery, that after having lost Cosette wholly in one day, he had been obliged afterwards to lose her again little by little.
The eye at last becomes accustomed to the light of a cellar. In short, to have a vision of Cosette every day sufficed him. His whole life was concentrated in that hour. He sat by her side, he looked at her in silence, or rather he talked to her of the years long gone, of her childhood, of the convent, of her friends of those days.
One afternoon—it was one of the early days of April, already warm, still fresh, the season of the great cheerfulness of the sunshine, the gardens which lay about Marius’ and Cosette’s windows felt the emotion of awakening, the hawthorn was beginning to peep, a jewelled array of gilliflowers displayed themselves upon the old walls, the rosy wolf-mouths gaped in the cracks of the stones, there was a charming beginning of daisies and buttercups in the grass, the white butterflies of the year made their first appearance, the wind, that minstrel of the eternal wedding, essayed in the trees the first notes of that grand auroral symphony which the old poets called the renouveau—Marius said to Cosette: “We have said that we would go to see our garden in the Rue Plumet again. Let us go. We must not be ungrateful.” And they flew away like two swallows towards the spring. This garden in the Rue Plumet had the effect of the dawn upon them. They had behind them in life already something which was like the spring time of their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being taken on a lease, still belonged to Cosette. They went to this garden and this house. In it they found themselves again; they forgot themselves. At night, at the usual hour, Jean Valjean came to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. “Madame has gone out with monsieur, and has not returned yet,” said Basque to him. He sat down in silence, and waited an hour. Cosette did not return. He bowed his head and went away.
Cosette was so intoxicated with her walk to “the garden,” and so happy over having “lived a whole day in her past,” that she did not speak of anything else the next day. It did not occur to her that she had not seen Jean Valjean.
“How did you go there?” Jean Valjean asked her.
“We walked.”
“And how did you return?”
“In a fiacre.”
For some time Jean Valjean had noticed the frugal life which the young couple led. He was annoyed at it. Marius’ economy was severe, and the word to Jean Valjean had its absolute sense. He ventured a question:
“Why have you no carriage of your own? A pretty brougham would cost you only five hundred francs a month. You are rich.”
“I don’t know,” answered Cosette.
“So with Toussaint,” continued Jean Valjean. “She has gone away. You have not replaced her. Why not?”
“Nicolette is enough.”
“But you must have a waiting maid.”
“Have not I Marius?”
“You ought to have a house of your own, servants of your own, a carriage, a box at the theatre. There is nothing too good for you. Why not have the advantages of being rich? Riches add to happiness.”
Cosette made no answer.
Jean Valjean’s visits did not grow shorter. Far from it. When the heart is slipping we do not stop on the descent.
When Jean Valjean desired to prolong his visit, and to make the hours pass unnoticed, he eulogised Marius; he thought him beautiful, noble, courageous, intellectual, eloquent, good. Cosette surpassed him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never silent. Marius, this word was inexhaustible; there were volumes in these six letters. In this way Jean Valjean succeeded in staying a long time. To see Cosette, to forget at her side, it was so sweet to him. It was the staunching of his wound. It happened several times that Basque came down twice to say: “Monsieur Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame the Baroness that dinner is served.”
On those days, Jean Valjean returned home very thoughtful.
Was there, then, some truth in that comparison of the chrysalis which had presented itself to Marius’ mind? Was Jean Valjean indeed a chrysalis who was obstinate, and who came to make visits to his butterfly?
One day he stayed longer than usual. The next day, he noticed that there was no fire in the fireplace. “What!” thought he. “No fire.” And he made the explanation to himself: “It is a matter of course. We are in April. The cold weather is over.”
“Goodness! how cold it is here!” exclaimed Cosette as she came in.
“Why no,” said Jean Valjean.
“So it is you who told Basque not to make a fire?”
“Yes. We are close upon May.”
“But we have fire until the month of June. In this cellar, it is needed the year round.”
“I thought that the fire was unnecessary.”
“That is just one of your ideas!” replied Cosette.
The next day there was a fire. But the two arm-chairs were placed at the other end of the room, near the door. “What does that mean?” thought Jean Valjean.
He went for the arm-chairs, and put them back in their usual place near the chimney.
This fire being kindled again encouraged him, however. He continued the conversation still longer than usual. As he was getting up to go away, Cosette said to him:
“My husband said a funny thing to me yesterday.”
“What was it?”
“He said: ‘Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand francs. Twenty-seven that you have, three that my grandfather allows me.’ I answered: ‘That makes thirty.’ ‘Would you have the courage to live on three thousand?’ I answered: ‘Yes, on nothing. Provided it be with you.’ And then I asked: ‘Why do you say this?’ He answered: ‘To know.’ ”
Jean Valjean did not say a word. Cosette probably expected some explanation from him; he listened to her in a mournful silence. He went back to the Rue de l‘Homme Armé; he was so deeply absorbed that he mistook the door, and instead of entering his own house, he entered the next one. Not until he had gone up almost to the second story did he perceive his mistake, and go down again.
His mind was racked with conjectures. It was evident that Marius had doubts in regard to the origin of these six hundred thousand francs, that he feared some impure source, who knows? that he had perhaps discovered that this money came from him, Jean Valjean, that he hesitated before this suspicious fortune, and disliked to take it as his own, preferring to remain poor, himself and Cosette, than to be rich with a doubtful wealth.
Besides, vaguely, Jean Valjean began to feel that the door was shown him.
The next day, he received, on entering the basement room, something like a shock. The arm-chairs had disappeared. There was not even a chair of any kind.
“Ah now,” exclaimed Cosette as she came in, “no chairs! Where are the arm-chairs, then?”
“They are gone,” answered Jean Valjean.
“That is a pretty business!”
Jean Valjean stammered:
“I told Basque to take them away.”
“And what for?”
“I shall stay only a few minutes to-day.”
“Staying a little while is no reason for standing while you do stay.”
“I believe that Basque needed some arm-chairs for the parlour.”
“What for?”
“You doubtless have company this evening.”
“We have nobody.”
Jean Valjean could not say a word more.
Cosette shrugged her shoulders.
“To have the chairs carried away! The other day you had the fire put out. How singular you are!”
“Good-bye,” murmured Jean Valjean.
He did not say: “Good-bye, Cosette.” But he had not the strength to say: “Good-bye, madame.”
He went away overwhelmed.
This time he had understood.
The next day he did not come. Cosette did not notice it until night.
“Why,” said she, “Monsieur Jean has not come to-day.”
She felt something like a slight oppression of the heart, but she hardly perceived it, being immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.
The next day he did not come.
Cosette paid no attention to it, passed the evening and slept as usual, and thought of it only on awaking. She was so happy! She sent Nicolette very quickly to Monsieur Jean’s to know if he were sick, and why he had not come the day before. Nicolette brought back Monsieur Jean’s answer. He was not sick. He was busy. He would come very soon. As soon as he could. However, he was going to make a little journey. Madame must remember that he was in the habit of making journeys from time to time. Let there be no anxiety. Let them not be troubled about him.
Nicolette, on entering Monsieur Jean’s house, had repeated to him the very words of her mistress. That madame sent to know “why Monsieur Jean had not come the day before.” “It is two days that I have not been there,” said Jean Valjean mildly.
But the remark escaped the notice of Nicolette, who reported nothing of it to Cosette.