Often Jean Valjean and Cosette spent their days taking bread to those who were hungry and clothes to those who were cold. Assisting many little children in distress, especially in light of her own distressing childhood, helped keep Cosette in a rather happy mood. It was during this very pleasant time in their lives, a time of helping others, that they had been deceptively lured to the Jondrettes’—or the Thénardiers’—room.
The evening of that terrible event, Valjean had returned home emotionally calm, which was his nature, but with a large, inflamed wound on his left arm that looked very much like a burn. He gave Cosette some vague explanation in an effort to keep her from knowing the family she had visited earlier that day was actually the very family who had mistreated her for so many years when she was only a child. Valjean wanted to protect her from the potential of reopening a wound of her own. Yet his wound became infected, causing him to be confined to bed with a fever for a full month. Often Cosette urged him to summon a doctor, but he refused.
She dressed his wound each morning and evening with such an angelic sweetness that another kind of healing was engendered as well. After his recent encounter with Javert and his horrific treatment at the hands of the Thénardiers, old fears and anxieties had returned. But as Cosette took care of him, those old emotions began to dissipate. He would gaze at her and think to himself, “What a blessing this wound has become! What a wonderful misfortune!”
While Valjean was confined to bed, Cosette spent her days with him and read aloud any book he desired. He felt he was undergoing a new birth, for his happiness was being revived under rays of light that seemed indescribable. The troubling events of the recent past, not only the one with Javert and the Thénardiers, but also the one concerning the young spy who had been following him from Luxembourg Park, were clouds upon his soul. Now they were becoming increasingly dim with each passing day. In fact, he came to the point where he thought, I must have imagined all this. I am becoming such an old fool!
His happiness was so complete that the unexpected discovery of the Thénardiers, as horrible as it was, by now had glided past him. After all, he had made his escape and all trace of him had been lost by Javert, so what more did he care? Now he thought of the wretched Thénardier family only with a sense of pity because of their miserable poverty and the fact they were in prison, yet he was glad they would no longer be able to do harm to anyone.
Taking care of her father had gotten Cosette out of the habit of spending time in her garden. Yet spring was here, and now that Valjean was well, he encouraged her to spend time in it again. So she resumed her walks in the garden, but primarily out of a sense of obedience. Usually she walked alone, for Valjean had a fear of being recognized through the gate and seldom went there.
In the garden, there was a stone bench situated between the gate and a beautiful elm tree, which kept the bench shaded much of the day. The branches overhung the wall and kept the bench shielded from view by passersby. Still, it was close enough to the gate for someone to reach it simply by extending an arm through the gate.
One evening during April, Cosette had gone out to stroll through her garden shortly after sundown. She sat on the bench for a while and then stood to walk around for a few moments. Yet when she returned, a large stone was sitting on the bench in the very place where she had just been sitting. Realizing someone must have reached through the gate to place it there, she became alarmed and rushed inside. Locking the door behind her, she ran to her room, pulled her shutters closed, and bolted them as well.
When she awoke the next morning, she wondered if what she had experienced was simply a nightmare she had dreamed the previous night. She thought, I’m being silly, and surely I was just dreaming. Yet, just to make sure, she dressed and hurried to the garden. Suddenly she broke into a cold sweat, for the stone indeed was there, and in the light of day Cosette was able to see what appeared to be a white envelope sitting beneath the stone. Lifting the heavy stone, she grabbed the envelope and pulled several pages of paper from it. Each page was numbered and had several lines written on it with what she thought was rather pretty handwriting. The note was not signed by anyone and was not addressed to anyone, although she assumed it was for her since it was left on her bench. The same beautiful handwriting comprised the entire note, but it was obvious to Cosette, because of the varying thickness of the black ink, that it had been written over some period of time—probably a period of days, if not weeks.
Cosette’s hands began to tremble as she wondered who would have left this for her, and how this person, whomever it may be, would even have known she lived here. Yet she was intrigued with what the words might say, so she began to read. This is what she read:
Love is the language of God and the angels who live among the stars of the universe.
God created everything, yet His creation hides Him. Without love people appear dark, but love renders them transparent.
Certain thoughts become prayers, and there are moments when, regardless of the position of the body, the soul is on its knees.
People who love, though separate from one another, possess a reality of their own. Although they may not see or write the one they love, they discover a mysterious way to communicate. They send each other the song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children, the light of the sun, the sighing of the breeze, the light of the stars—all of creation itself—and why not? All the works of God’s creation are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently powerful to fill all of nature with its message. Oh, Spring! You are the letter I send to her!
The future belongs to our hearts more than it belongs to our minds. Love is the only thing that can fill eternity, for to fill that which is infinite requires that which is inexhaustible.
On the day a woman emits light as she passes you, you become lost in love. Only one thing remains for you—to think of her so intently she is compelled to think of you.
What love commences can only be completed by God Himself, who evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love!
If you are a stone, be strong; if you are a plant, be sensitive; but if you are a man, be love.
Nothing will satisfy but love. If we have happiness, we desire paradise; if we possess paradise, we demand heaven.
I saw in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old and his coat was threadbare. Water ran through the soles of his shoes—but through his soul passed the light of the stars.
True love ranges from despair to enchantment over a handkerchief lost and then found. Eternity is required to fulfill its devotion and its hopes, for they are comprised of both
what is infinitely large and infinitely small.
God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love one another but to grant them eternity together.
There is a being who has gone away and has carried the heavens with her.
Does she still go to Luxembourg Park? No. Does she still attend Mass at Saint Jacques? No, she no longer goes there. Does she still live in the same house? No, she has moved away. Where has she gone? She did not say. What a miserable thing not to know the address of one’s soul!
Yet those who suffer because of love, love all the more.
What a great thing to be loved! But what afar greater thing it is to love, for without someone who loves, the sun would become extinct.
As she pondered the words, the mind that had crafted them gradually unfolded before her, and the mysterious lines brightly shone in her eyes and filled her heart with a strange radiance. Suddenly it was as if a fist had opened and flung a handful of rays of light toward her. In these few lines, she felt a passionate, generous, and honest nature, yet one that had experienced an immense sorrow and despair. She felt a suffering heart—one that had one toe in the grave but one finger in heaven—had composed the words. The lines to her were the drops of someone’s soul, falling one by one onto paper.
Who could have penned them? Cosette did not hesitate even one moment—for it could only be one person. “He” had written them! And it was his arm that had reached through the gate to leave it! He had found her again! And although she had tried to force herself to forget him, she had always loved him—always adored him! Day had dawned once more in her spirit!
She clutched the letter to her heart, ran to the house, and locked herself in her room. She read the words over and over again until she knew them by heart. And once she had thoroughly mastered them, she kissed the note and dreamed of it at night. Cosette was deeply in love, and it seemed to her the gates of Eden had opened once again.
That first evening after she had found the note, Cosette dressed herself in one of her most beautiful dresses—one that by the slope of the neckline revealed the very top of her throat. As young girls would say, it was “a trifle indecent,” but actually it was not indecent at all—it simply was prettier than usual. She combed her hair in a very becoming style and lightly touched her neck with just a hint of perfume.
She did all this without really knowing why, for she had not planned to go out, and she was not expecting a visitor. Nevertheless, at dusk she went down to the garden and began to stroll through the trees, occasionally pushing the branches aside, because some of them hung very low to the ground. Finally, she sat down on her bench.
The stone was still there. Cosette gently laid her soft hand on the hard rock as though she wished to caress it and thank it. Then suddenly she had that indescribable feeling people often experience when someone is nearby, even when they cannot see the person. She stood to her feet and turned around.
It was “He”! He was standing inside the open gate just behind the bench. Cosette did not make a sound and felt ready to faint. She backed slowly away from him and would have fallen had she not bumped against the old elm and begun to lean upon it. He had not moved, but then suddenly she heard his voice—the voice she had never actually heard. It was barely a whisper that rose above the rustle of the leaves and said, “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I had to come. Please don’t be afraid. My heart is full, and I knew I could not go on living as I was. Have you read what I left for you on the bench? Do you recognize me at all? I know it’s been a long time since you first saw me at Luxembourg Park—nearly a year has passed. You see, you are an angel to me! Please allow me to come here, or I believe I will die. If you only knew how I adore you! I hardly know myself what I am saying, so please forgive me if I seem to be too forward. Have I displeased you?”
All Cosette could manage to say was, “Oh, my dear!” as she sank down, feeling as though she were on the verge of death. He reached out as she fell, took her in his arms, and then pressed her to himself without knowing what he was doing. As he held her, he was beside himself with love.
After a few moments, she took his hand and laid it near her heart. He felt the envelope she had placed there, and after a time, he was finally able to stammer the question on his heart, “You love me?”
She replied in a voice that was nothing more than a breathless whisper. “Shhh! You know I do!” Then she hid her blushing face by pressing it against his chest.
As the stars were beginning to shine, Marius and Cosette found themselves sitting by each other on the bench. Neither could have explained how it happened that their lips met, any more than they could have explained how it is that birds sing, that snow melts, that a rosebud unfolds, or that the dawn grows bright behind the dark trees on the shivering crest of the hills.
It was just a kiss. Yet it startled both of them as they gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes while remaining speechless. They did not feel the cool of the night, the cold bench, or the damp grass. They simply looked at each other while their full hearts attempted to sort their thoughts. Then, without realizing it, they were holding hands.
Little by little they began to talk, until finally their words naturally seemed to overflow to one another. This pure man and woman told each other everything—their dreams, their fears, their weaknesses, how each had adored the other from afar, how they had longed for one another, and their despair when they had been unable to see each other again. She did not ask how he had found her, and she did not care, for it seemed so natural that he was there.
At last, when they had finished telling one another everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked, “What is your name?”
“My name is Marius,” he said. “And yours?”
“My name is Cosette.”
It was May 1832, and from the moment that sacred kiss had engaged two souls, Marius came to the garden every evening. They both felt they were overflowing with the happiness of heaven, that they were living among angels more than mankind; and they had a pure and glowing radiance that shone for each other amid the shadows of the night. They touched each other, they gazed into each other’s eyes, they held hands and pressed themselves closely to one another, but there was a line they did not cross. In fact, their first kiss had also been their last. Marius would go no further than to touch Cosette’s hand or a lock of her hair with his lips.
To Marius, his time with Cosette each evening was enough, and he did not picture a future life beyond just sitting elbow to elbow on their bench. He would be content to sit there night after night gazing at Cosette through the scattered starlight shining through the trees. Yet certain shadows of complications were fast approaching that would soon cloud their skies.
One night at their normal rendezvous time, Marius arrived to find Cosette quite sad. She related to him, “My father told me this morning to get my things ready to move. He said he has business affairs to handle, and that we may go to England. Then he instructed me to be ready to travel a week from now.”
Marius shuddered from head to toe and stammered, “But this is outrageous!” Then in a weak voice, he asked, “When will you return?”
“He did not say,” she answered. Marius was distraught, but when he looked at Cosette again, she smiled at him and added, “How silly we are being! I have an idea! If my father and I leave, why don’t you just follow us?”
Yet reality had already set in for Marius, for he said, “Are you crazy? I would need money to go to England, and I have none. In fact, I owe my friend Courfeyrac more than ten Louis, and all my clothes are worn out. My coat has buttons missing, my only shirt is ragged, and my boots let water in when it rains. You’ve only seen me at night and given me your love. But if you were to see me during the day, even you would think I was a beggar and would offer me some money yourself. Go to England? Impossible! I can’t even afford a passport, much less the fare.”
Then Marius leaned against a tree and stared at the dark sky, looking like a statue of despair. After what seemed like hours, a faint noise behind him broke him from his dismal thoughts, and he realized Cosette was sobbing. He fell to his knees, took her hand, and while kissing it, said, “Cosette, I have never given my word to anyone. But I give you my most sacred word of honor, that if you go away, I will die.”
Finally, with a sudden sense of hopefulness in his voice, Marius added, “But now that I think of it, you should at least have my address, just in case something changes. Something might happen. You never know.” He pulled a penknife from his pocket, as he said, “I live with the friend I mentioned—Courfeyrac—at this address.” Then he scratched “16 rue de la Verrerie” on the plaster of the garden wall with the blade of his knife.
Later that same week, Jean Valjean was walking down the street and passed by a man he was certain was Thénardier. Yet, since Valjean was accustomed to wearing a disguise when he went out during the day, Thénardier did not recognize him. Several of the men who had conspired with Thénardier to hold Valjean captive were with him, and Valjean surmised these criminals must have escaped from prison already and were on the prowl in the neighborhood.
Making matters worse for Valjean, political unrest was increasingly breaking the tranquillity of Paris. For the last few months, throughout the spring of 1832, the people had suffered through a cholera epidemic that had cast a sense of gloom over the entire city, and now the scene was set for insurrection. Then, during the very month Valjean was considering his journey to England, the month of June, the spark was lit. General Lamarque, who had been a stabilizing force somewhere between the left and the extreme left of the political spectrum, had died suddenly. He had served as a beloved leader of the people under Napoléon and was a calming force during the Restoration.
Now the city’s primary symbol of stability was dead. For anyone wishing to conceal his identity, such as Valjean, this was a potential problem. The police were becoming more and more uneasy and were suspicious of nearly everyone. This had led Valjean to consider leaving Paris, and possibly France altogether, by going to England. He had told Cosette of his plans and hoped to leave before the end of the week.
Adding to Valjean’s concern was something that had happened the very next morning. He had awakened before Cosette and went for a stroll through the garden alone. There were a number of things rushing through his mind as he took a seat on her bench to ponder them. He was concerned about Thénardier, Javert and the police, his trip to England, and the difficulty of obtaining a legal passport as an ex-convict. As he sat on the bench, he saw something that greatly increased his alarm. He saw an address—16 rue de la Verrerie—that appeared to have been scratched into the garden wall, probably with a nail. Closely examining the wall, he noticed the thin grooves of the letters seemed freshly cut, and that the leaves below had a fine dusting of white plaster powder on them. From the looks of it, the address probably had been carved into the wall the previous night.
What did this mean? Was it a signal for someone else? Or was it a warning to him in particular? Whatever the case, it was quite evident the security of the garden had been violated and that some stranger had made his way into it. His mind began racing as he considered the various possibilities of what this could mean, and none of them were good. He made a determination not to share what he had found written on the wall with Cosette for fear of alarming her.
Suddenly, while totally absorbed in these thoughts, Valjean saw a dark shadow fall across his feet. Immediately a folded piece of paper landed on his knees, as though someone had leaned over the wall and dropped it over his head. He quickly grabbed the paper, unfolded it, and read the following words written in capital letters: MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE.
Valjean sprang to his feet, peered over the wall, and caught a quick glimpse of someone jumping over the retaining wall of the nearby bridge. The person seemed larger than a child yet smaller than a man, and was dressed in a gray shirt and what appeared to be dust-colored, cotton-velvet trousers. Then Valjean went inside, wondering what all this meant and just who would have sent him this message and why.
In spite of not having answers to his questions, one thing was certain—his decision to leave this place had been confirmed.