At least two hours before sunrise the following morning, Monsieur Thénardier was in the tavern with pen in hand, working by candlelight. He was busily preparing a bill for the traveler who had arrived the previous evening. It was for charges over and above the forty sous the man already had paid and included an additional charge for the man’s room—since the innkeeper had “miraculously discovered at the last minute” he did have a room available after all and did not have to put the man in the stable. His wife watched carefully as he wrote, while a faint sound could be heard in the house—the sound of the fragile Lark sweeping the stairs.
After at least a quarter of an hour—and several erasures—Thénardier produced the following masterpiece:
Bill for the Gentleman in Room 1
| Supper | 3 francs |
| Room | 10 francs |
| Candles | 5 francs |
| Fire for heat | 4 francs |
| Service | 1 franc |
| Total | 23 francs |
“Twenty-three francs!” Madame Thénardier exclaimed upon seeing the total. Her voice was filled with glee but also a touch of hesitation, for she continued, “He won’t pay that.”
Her husband only laughed coldly and said, “He will pay. And when he comes in here, I want you to hand the bill to him.” He then left the room, just as the traveler entered by another door.
Thénardier instantly turned and stood motionless in the doorway, visible only to his wife. The traveler had his bag, a bundle, and his walking stick with him.
“Up so early?” questioned Madame Thénardier. “Is the gentleman leaving us already?”
“Yes, madam, I am going.”
“You have no business here in Montfermeil, sir?”
“No, I’m only passing through. What do I owe you, madam?” he asked. At this, she handed him the bill her husband had written. The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it, but as though his thoughts were elsewhere, resumed, “Madam, is business good here in Montfermeil?”
“Monsieur, times are very hard! And to make matters worse, we have so few rich in this village. All the people are poor, you see. If it were not for a few rich and generous travelers like you, monsieur, we would not get by. We have so many expenses. And that child is costing us a fortune.”
“What child?” the traveler asked.
“You know—that little one—Cosette, or the Lark, as she is known around here.”
“Oh!” the man responded. “What if someone were to rid you of her?”
“Rid me of Cosette?” Madame Thénardier asked eagerly, as though she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Yes,” the man said, calmly.
Suddenly her red, angry face seemed to brighten, but with a hideous smile. Then, with her voice dripping with sarcasm, she said, “Take her, my dear sir! Lead her away—keep her—give her food, sweets, and drink—do whatever you please, with the blessings of the good holy Virgin and all of the saints of paradise upon you!”
“Good. I will take her then,” the traveler agreed.
“Are you really serious? You really will take her away?” the woman questioned.
“Yes.”
“Immediately?” the woman asked, still unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Yes, immediately. Call the child,” the man instructed.
At this Madame Thénardier screamed, “Cosette!”
Returning to the matter of his bill, not having noticed the total at first glance, the man asked again, “How much do I owe you?” Then as his eyes suddenly saw the amount, he exclaimed in surprise, “Twenty-three francs!”
“Good gracious, yes, it’s twenty-three francs,” she responded, as though it were nothing.
Without arguing, the stranger calmly laid five five-franc coins on the table, while saying, “Go and get the child.”
At that moment, Monsieur Thénardier, who had overheard their entire conversation from his position in the doorway, walked toward the traveler and said, “As to the child—I need to discuss the matter with the gentleman. Leave us alone, wife.”
Madame Thénardier was amazed by what she knew was coming—a brilliant display of her husband’s best talent. She was aware that a great actor had just walked onto his very own stage. She did not utter one more word but turned obediently and left the room.
As soon as they were alone, the innkeeper offered his guest a chair. Monsieur Thénardier remained standing, however, while his face took on an expression of caring and kindness. “Sir, what I wish to say to you is that I simply adore that child!”
The stranger glared at the innkeeper, and with a look of disbelief, asked, “What child?” But as he did so, he set a 100-sou coin on the table.
Yet Thénardier continued as though he hadn’t heard the man, “How strange it is that one so easily grows attached to a child. What’s that money for? Pick up your 100-sou piece. I adore the child.”
Once again the stranger demanded, “What child?”
The innkeeper retorted, “Our little Cosette, of course! You’re not intending to take her away from us, are you? Let me tell you frankly—I cannot consent to that. I will miss the child too much, for she became as one of ours when she was just a tiny thing. Now it is true that she costs us a lot of money and that she has her faults. It is true that we are not rich and that I have had to pay more than 400 francs to buy medicine for just one of her illnesses. But I had to do something, for heaven’s sake! The poor child doesn’t have a mother or a father. I have raised her!”
The traveler kept his eyes fixed intently on Thénardier as the innkeeper continued. “Pardon me, sir, but I cannot just give away my child to someone passing by. Wouldn’t you agree? Nevertheless, although you don’t appear to be rich, you do seem to be a very good man—and if your desire were for her happiness, perhaps I would consider letting her go. But I must find that out, for it would be at great sacrifice to me. Of course, if I were to let her go, I would like to know what becomes of her and would like to visit her from time to time. I would need to know that her foster father is taking good care of her.”
Then, finally coming to the end of his act, the innkeeper, said, “At the very least, I guess I should ask to see your papers. Your passport, please?”
The stranger, with his eyes seemingly penetrating to the very depths of the innkeeper’s conscience, replied in a somber and firm voice, “Monsieur Thénardier, no one needs a passport to travel less than fifteen miles from Paris. If I decide to take Cosette, I will take her, and that will be the end of the matter. But you will not know my name, my address, or where she is. It will be my intention for her never to lay eyes on you again as long as she lives. I am breaking the chain that binds her foot to you. Does that suit you? Yes or no?”
Realizing the traveler had not been taken in by his act, the innkeeper cut to the heart of his true concern and insisted, “It will cost you 1,500 francs!”
The stranger pulled his old leather pouch from his coat, counted out the money, and laid it on the table. Then placing his fist on top of the bills, he demanded, “Go get Cosette.”
Madame Thénardier, who had been listening to the conversation through the partially opened door, walked back into the room. Then she called, “Cosette, come immediately!”
An instant later, Cosette appeared. The traveler took his bundle and untied it. Inside was a complete outfit—all in black—consisting of a coat, dress, apron, scarf, woolen socks, and shoes. It all seemed to be the perfect size for a girl her age.
Then the traveler said to Cosette, “My child, take these. Go quickly and dress yourself.”
The first rays of dawn were appearing when some of the inhabitants of Montfermeil beheld a poorly clothed man walking along the road to Paris. He was holding the hand of a little girl who appeared to be in mourning, for she was dressed all in black. The small child’s eyes, however, gazed at the sky, and were open wide, as if in wonder. And she felt as though she were walking beside the goodness of God Himself in human form.
Of course, these two were Jean Valjean and Cosette. They traveled many miles that day—the day he rescued Cosette from the claws of the Thénardiers—some in carriages and some on foot, until they reached Paris. The day was filled with many new and strange emotions for the child, and although she was very tired, Cosette never complained. Jean Valjean realized her weariness as she began to drag more and more on his hand as they walked. Therefore, he put her on his back, after which she placed her head on his shoulder and promptly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep—the first she had known in years.
Along a deeply rutted dirt road near the outskirts of Paris sat a very humble looking building. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a thatched house, but in reality it had as much space as some cathedrals. It was quite hidden from the road by the surrounding trees, which revealed only one door and window. To the postman it was known as Number 50-52, but the neighborhood knew it as the Gorbeau House.
Jean Valjean, still carrying the sleeping Cosette, stopped in front of the house. As though they were wild birds, he had chosen this deserted place to construct their nest. Fumbling through his pocket, he finally withdrew a key and unlocked the door. Then quickly entering, he climbed the staircase with the child.
At the top of the stairs, he took another key from his pocket and opened another door. As the door swung open, it revealed a somewhat spacious attic room, furnished with a mattress on the floor, a table with several chairs, and a stove in the corner with a fire already burning. Since it was evening, the room was dark except for the dim light shining through the window from the street lantern outside. Across the room was a dressing area with a cot where Valjean laid Cosette without waking her.
After lighting a candle, he sat at the table and gazed at the sweet child’s face with a feeling of profound joy, kindness, and tenderness that was inexpressible. Cosette slept with a look of tranquil confidence characteristic only of those who are extremely strong or extremely weak. The little girl had fallen asleep without knowing who carried her or where she was going.
Valjean knelt by the child’s bed and gently kissed her hand. It had been nine months since he had kissed the hand of the small girl’s mother—who also had fallen “asleep.” As he did so, mixed emotions of sadness and happiness filled his mind, while thoughts of heaven once again filled his heart.
Cosette continued to sleep as the sun was rising. A faint ray of light from the December sun penetrated the attic window, casting long threads of light onto the ceiling. Suddenly a heavily laden cart passing along the road shook the entire building like a clap of thunder. The shaking of Cosette’s small bed startled her, and she cried out abruptly, “Yes, madam! Here I am!” Then she sprang out of bed with her eyes still half shut and, reaching toward the wall, asked, “Where’s my broom?”
Before Valjean could speak, however, she opened her eyes and beheld his smiling face. Then she uttered with an air of joy and surprise, “It’s true! This is not a dream! Good morning, monsieur.” Then she added, as if from habit, “Must I sweep?”
He answered with only one word, “Play!” So Cosette spent her first day of freedom with this kind man yet didn’t bother attempting to understand what had happened to her. She simply played and seemed inexpressibly happy.
At dawn the following day, Valjean sat motionless by Cosette’s bed again, waiting for her to awaken. As he gazed at her, he felt as though something new had entered his soul. He had never loved anyone, and for twenty-five years he had been alone in the world. He had never been a father, a husband, or even a friend.
In prison Valjean had kept to himself, and his heart had been full of darkness and anger. His sister and her children now had become only faint memories. After being released from prison, he had made every effort to find them but, having been unsuccessful, had nearly forgotten them altogether. All the tender emotions of his youth had long since fallen into an abyss, but when he looked at Cosette, he felt his heart stir.
New emotions of love and affection awoke within his heart and rushed headlong toward that little child. Just watching her sleep, he trembled with pure joy. Here was a poor old man with a perfectly new heart filled with sweet love for Cosette.
Valjean was now fifty-five years old, and Cosette was eight. Yet it seemed that all the love that might have been possible through his many years was now focused into one indescribable light. It was only the second pure vision he had ever experienced. Just as the grace the bishop had shown him had caused the dawn of virtue in his life, Cosette had caused the dawn of love.
Over her short life, Cosette also had become another person. She was so little when her mother had left her that she no longer remembered her. Like all children, she had tried to love but had not succeeded, for her attempts had always been rejected. The Thénardiers and their children had spurned her love, and even the dog she loved had died. At eight years of age, her heart was already cold, yet it was not her fault. She had the capacity for love but had never really been given the opportunity for it. Yet now that it was presenting itself, she felt this new emotion just as Valjean did. Cosette loved this kind man from the very first day. And she did not see him as old or poor, but thought of him as handsome, just as she thought of their room as lovely.
The first story of their building was unoccupied except for one room inhabited by an old woman who did the housekeeping for Valjean. He had rented his room on Christmas Eve from this woman, representing himself as a gentleman coming there to live with his little daughter. He had paid her six months’ rent in advance.
For many weeks, Valjean and Cosette lived a happy life in their modest room. She was filled with laughter, talking, and singing from dawn until dusk. He began teaching her to read and to spell. A thoughtful, angelic smile would cross his face as he taught her, for doing so dispelled his remembrance of why he had learned to read in prison—simply to accomplish more evil.
Teaching Cosette to read and allowing her to play became nearly all of Valjean’s life. Yet sometimes he would tell her about her mother, and he taught her to pray. She called him “Father” and did not know any other name for him.
He passed the hours watching her play with her doll and listening to her childish chatter. Life seemed good to him, and he no longer questioned the motives of people but saw them as good and just. He saw no reason why he would not live to be a very old man now that this child loved him. Valjean saw a complete future stretching out before him, illuminated by Cosette as a warm and precious light.
He protected her and she strengthened him. Thanks to him, she could walk through life—thanks to her, he could continue to walk in virtue.