The wedding night of Marius and Cosette finally arrived. It was February 16, 1833, and was a blessed night, for it seemed the heavens shined down on the couple. The night before, Valjean had officially delivered the entire 584,000 francs to Marius in the presence of the young man’s grandfather, and now it appeared everything was in place for the joyous event.
Cosette could not believe this day was real and was finally here. She wore a beautiful long gown of white taffeta, a veil of English lace, a necklace of fine pearls, and a tiara of orange flowers—and her sense of amazement only added to her striking beauty and radiance. Marius wore a new black tuxedo, and his long dark locks of hair were neatly groomed and nearly covered the last vestiges of the scrapes and cuts from the barricades.
As the wedding began, Marius’s grandfather said to Valjean, “Monsieur Fauchelevent, this is a happy day, and I vote for the end of afflictions and sorrows! I decree joy!” Then the ceremony began as the happy couple exchanged their vows, then their rings, and knelt before God hand in hand. The young man and wife were duly pronounced before the mayor and the priest, and then almost as quickly as it had started, it was over.
Marius and Cosette stood at the arched doors of the church, and neither could believe it was real. They climbed into the carriage for the ride home, with Monsieur Gillenormand and Valjean sitting opposite them. “My children,” Marius’s grandfather said, “from now on you are Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne!”
Cosette nestled as close as possible to Marius and angelically whispered in his ear, “I can’t believe it’s true! I now bear your name. I am Madame Marius Pontmercy!” Then as the beautiful folds of her wedding gown lay across Marius, she leaned toward him and added, “Soon we must visit our little garden on the rue Plumet.”
They returned home, and Marius, who seemed triumphant and radiant himself, strode up the stairs with Cosette at his arm. How different was this trip up those stairs than that of months before, when the young man had been delivered to his house wounded and unconscious!
Cosette had never treated Jean Valjean more tenderly than she did this day. After the wedding, he seated himself in the drawing room of the house, behind the door in such a way as to be nearly hidden from view. Yet Cosette came to him, pushed the door closed, and curtsied deeply, spreading out her bridal gown with both hands, and lovingly said, “Father, are you satisfied?”
“Yes, I’m quite content,” Valjean answered.
“Then be happy! Laugh!” she insisted.
Valjean smiled then laughed out of respect for Cosette’s graceful command. Yet shortly thereafter, when no one was watching, he slipped out of the house and returned to his home. He lit a candle and climbed the stairs to his apartment. As he walked inside, his footsteps seem to make more noise than usual. He entered Cosette’s bedroom and stared at the bed, which no longer had sheets on it. The pillowcase had been removed from the pillow as well and was sitting at the foot of the bed with the blankets that had been removed and folded. All of Cosette’s personal items had been carried away to her new home, and now nothing remained except the heavy furniture and four walls. Looking at the bed again, suddenly Valjean realized Cosette would never sleep there again.
He walked from room to room, finally stopping in his own bedroom. He set the candle on the table and looked toward his bed. His eyes came to rest on a small trunklike case near the head of the bed. He had set the case on the candle stand on June 4, the day they had arrived at their new home, but had not opened it. Yet now he quickly took a key from his pocket and opened it. Inside were Cosette’s clothes from ten years before, when they had walked hand in hand from the inn in Montfermeil.
Valjean took the clothes from the case piece by piece, carefully placing them on his bed. There was a small coat, a dress, a soft scarf, and an apron with little pockets. Next he picked up a tiny pair of shoes and woolen socks that were no bigger than his hand. They were the garments he had bought for the child, and they were all in black, so that she could honor the death of a mother she could no longer remember. The items took him back to that very cold time one December when Cosette was a shivering and half-dressed, poor child, whose little feet were chapped and red in their hard wooden shoes. Perhaps her mother had seen from above and was pleased to see her wearing mourning clothes in her honor, but above all, to see that she was finally properly clothed and warm.
He thought of that forest near Montfermeil where he had first seen Cosette as she had carried that heavy bucket of water. He thought of the cold weather, the leafless trees, and the darkened sky, but he remembered it all as wonderful. He arranged her tiny garments on the bed in an effort to remember just how small she had been. And he thought of how she laughed, how they had walked hand in hand, and how she had no one in the world besides him. As these memories came flooding back, his head of solid white fell forward onto the bed, and his once stoic heart broke in two.
If anyone had happened to walk past Valjean’s apartment that night, they would have heard the sorrowful sobs of an old man muffled by a young child’s clothes.
Jacob struggled with the angel of God only one night. Yet Valjean’s long and difficult struggle of conscience, one that had begun so many years ago, began once again in earnest, entering a new phase deeply within his soul. For years his conscience would bodily seize him in the darkness, and he would struggle in desperation. That irrepressible spark of truth, lit so long ago by the bishop, brightly shone into his entire being to the point that oftentimes he would wish for blindness and beg for mercy. His conscience had worked within him to break, tear, and dislocate him, and would ultimately stand over him with a sense of shining truth and tranquillity, saying to him, “Now go in peace!” Finally, he would rise, broken yet bold, vanquished yet victorious, seeking to do what was right and good—and in peace at last.
This particular night, Valjean felt as though he were passing through his final conflict, as a heartrending question presented itself to him. He saw his options as choosing either a stormy port or a friendly ambush—neither of which was pleasant. His struggle was this: How was he to relate to Cosette and Marius now that she was married? She was everything to him, and in the past he had been everything to her. But now she had Marius.
Valjean himself had willed her happiness and had actually brought it about by saving Marius and bringing the two young people back together. Yet now he was unsure of his place and how to behave in light of their marriage. He desired her happiness above all else, and he was happy to have provided for it, but his emotions were mixed. It was the sort of satisfaction a manufacturer of knives would experience upon recognizing his company’s mark on a blade as it was pulled from his own chest in the heat of battle.
Should he simply hold on to whatever he could of Cosette? Or should he be a father who was seldom seen but respected, as he had been thus far? And what of his past? Should he bring it to their future? For Valjean, Cosette was the life-saving raft of his shipwreck. What was he to do? Should he cling to the raft—or let go?
He remained on his bed, struggling with these thoughts until daylight. Stretched out, with his fists clenched, he looked like a crucified man who had been unnailed from his cross and flung face down to the earth. For twelve long hours on that long winter night he did not lift his head even one time or utter a single word. All the while his thoughts ranged from the depths of the sea to the soaring heights of eagles’ wings. He was as motionless as a corpse, and if anyone had seen him they would have thought him dead. Then suddenly, after the long night had ended, he shuddered convulsively and kissed the small garments Cosette had once worn. And, if someone had been watching at that point, they would have seen that he was indeed alive. But who could see, since Valjean was alone?
Only the One who sees all things—even through the shadows of the darkest night!
That morning, February 17, Basque heard a soft knock on the door. It was Jean Valjean, who was escorted into the drawing room still in disarray as a result of the wedding festivities the night before. His clothes were wrinkled, his skin appeared quite pale, and his eyes were so hollow and sunken they nearly disappeared into their sockets, thanks to his night of sleeplessness.
He inquired of Basque, “Has Monsieur Marius risen this morning?”
“I will go and see,” the servant answered. “I will tell him Monsieur Fauchelevent is here to see him.”
“No, please don’t. Tell him someone wishes to speak privately to him, but don’t mention my name. I would like to surprise him,” Valjean explained.
Nearing the end
Marius soon entered the room, his face lit with a radiant smile and bright eyes—although he had not slept either. Seeing it was Valjean, he exclaimed, “Oh, it’s you, Father! That silly Basque was so mysterious as to who was here! But you’ve come too early. Cosette is still asleep.”
Hearing Marius refer to him as “Father” spoke volumes to Valjean regarding Marius’s happiness and showed that the icy wall between the two of them was finally beginning to melt. Valjean knew that someday it would either need to be melted or broken all at once, and apparently that point was beginning to come for Marius. He had already begun to see Monsieur Fauchelevent as Cosette did—as their father.
Marius continued, “Cosette and I have been talking about you. She loves you so dearly! And we would like you to know you are welcome to live here. We would love to offer you the room that opens onto the garden. The room is ready. All you have to do is move in. Cosette and I are resolved to be happy, and you are a part of our happiness, Father.”
“But, sir,” Valjean began, “I have something I feel compelled to tell you. I am an ex-convict.”
The term ex-convict entered Marius’s ears but seemed to overshoot its mark. It was as though something had been said to him, yet he had no idea what it was. He stood with his mouth gaping but finally managed to stammer, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” continued Valjean, “I have been in prison. I was sentenced to nineteen years at hard labor for theft. I was a peasant in Faverolles and earned my living by pruning trees. And at this present time I am in violation of my parole. My name is not Fauchelevent, but is Jean Valjean. Yet you may reassure yourself with the fact that I am not related to Cosette.”
“I can’t believe this!” Marius interrupted, in obvious distress.
Valjean resumed, “I’m sure you must be asking, what am I, then, to Cosette? I’m simply a passerby. Ten years ago, I didn’t even know she existed. She was an orphan who needed my help, and as soon as I met her, I loved her. I immediately became her protector and have fulfilled that duty to this day. But now she passes from my life. Our roads part, and from now on I can do nothing for her. She is Madame Pontmercy, and she is better off with that name.” Pausing for a moment, he looked Marius in the eyes and said, “You have not asked about the money, but I’m anticipating your thoughts. How did the 600,000 francs come into my hands? It doesn’t really matter. It was a trust, and I’ve handed that trust over to you. Nothing more can be demanded of me. I have completed my restitution by telling you my real name. Actually, my name is only my concern, yet I have a reason for telling you who I am.”
“But why have you told me all this?” Marius exclaimed. “You could have kept your secret to yourself.”
“My motive may seem strange,” replied Valjean in such a low tone it seemed he was speaking to himself rather than Marius. “It is out of honesty and honor. It is this thread that runs through my heart and holds my life together. Many times I have tried to break the thread, but the older I have become, the stronger it has grown. And I have tried to pull it out, but it pulls out my heart as well. If only I could have broken that thread, I would have been safe and could live here with you. But then I could no longer live with myself.
“We could never live as one family, for I belong to no family. I don’t belong to yours, and, in fact, I don’t belong to any family. It is not meant to be, and the day I gave Cosette in marriage, it all came to an end for me. Now I see her happiness, married to a man she loves, and I have said to myself, ‘Do not enter!’ You ask what has forced me to speak—it is a very strange thing—my conscience. If I had continued to be Monsieur Fauchelevent, everything would be fine—except for my soul. You saw joy on the surface, but the bottom of my soul remained dark. It is not enough to be happy—a man must be content in his being.
“Monsieur Pontmercy, please understand I did not do this out of common sense, but out of honesty. It is only through degrading myself in your eyes that I could elevate myself in my own. You saw me as an honest man, but I was not. And if you now despise me for my past, at least I am honest. Yes, now I am an honest man!” Then he drew a deep and painful breath, and added, with a sense of finality, “In days gone by I stole a loaf of bread in order to live. Today—in order to live—I will not steal a name.”
Both men appeared to be plunged beneath a raging gulf of thoughts, but after a time of silence, Marius said, “My grandfather has prominent friends. We will get you a pardon.”
“That would be useless,” objected Valjean, “for I am thought to be dead. But that’s all right, for the dead are not subjected to surveillance—they are supposed to rot in peace. Death is equal to a pardon.”
Then Marius made sure the door was closed and said softly, “Poor Cosette. When she finds out …”
Hearing Cosette’s name, Valjean began to tremble but kept his eyes fixed on Marius while saying, “Cosette! Yes, you would want to tell Cosette. I hadn’t thought of that. I felt an obligation to tell you because she is now in your care, but I only had enough strength to think of that. But, sir, I plead with you—give me your sacred word of honor you will not tell her. Isn’t it enough that you know? It would trouble her greatly.” He dropped into an armchair and covered his face with his hands. His obvious grief was not audible, but from the shaking of his shoulders, it was evident he was weeping. Finally, after a bit of hesitation, he stammered out the words, “One last thing. You are the master of this house. Now that you know the truth, do you think it would be better if I did not see Cosette anymore?”
“I think it would be better,” Marius replied coldly.
“Then I will not see her,” Valjean muttered as he walked toward the door. He opened the door, stood motionless for a moment, and closed the door once again. Then with a hint of desperation in his voice, as though he could not bear the thought, he said, “Sir, I ask that you reconsider. If you will allow it, I will come and visit her. I was like a father to her and she was my child. You may not be able to understand, Monsieur Pontmercy, but I could not bear to go away, never to see her again. I would have nothing. If you don’t mind, I will visit from time to time, but I will not come often and I will not stay long. And you may give the order that I am to be received in the little room on the basement floor.”
In a softened tone, and with a sense of understanding, Marius said, “You may come every evening, and Cosette will be waiting for you.”
“You are very kind, sir,” Valjean said.
Then a man of happiness escorted a man of despair to the door.
This surprising encounter with Valjean greatly upset Marius, and the feeling of uneasiness he had always felt around the old man began to make sense to him. Valjean had always been an enigma to Marius, and now he realized his own instincts had been attempting to warn him. The puzzle finally had been solved—Monsieur Fauchelevent was the convict Jean Valjean—the most shocking kind of disgrace!
A secret such as this, especially when revealed amid a time of such great happiness, was akin to suddenly discovering a scorpion in a nest of turtledoves. It led Marius into the shadows of his memory to examine past events, troubling as they were. He thought of the events in the Jondrettes’ room. He had always wondered why the man he then called Monsieur Leblanc had fled upon the arrival of the police instead of registering a complaint. Finally, he had his answer—the man was a fugitive from justice, having violated his parole.
In light of these recent revelations, Marius also realized that the Fauchelevent of the barricade must be Valjean, which was something he had previously dismissed because of his delirious condition after the battle. But now he knew Fauchelevent had not “just happened” to come to the barricade, and as he thought of it again, suddenly a vision of someone sprang into his mind—Javert. The sight of Valjean dragging Javert from the barricade flashed through his mind, and he could still hear that lone, frightful gunshot ringing in his ears. It was now obvious to Marius that Valjean had gone to the barricade to seek revenge.
The more Marius thought about what he had just heard, the more repulsive Valjean became to him. He saw Valjean as a man of reproach, and the word convict resounded in his ears and stunned him as though he had heard the trumpet of Judgment Day. In his dismay, he made the decision to turn his mind from thoughts of Valjean. Yet how was he to do that? He was angry with himself for having allowed his swirling emotions to blind him to the point of allowing Valjean to visit Cosette, for he suspected those visits would ultimately become deeply repugnant to him.
The following evening around sunset, Valjean knocked at the carriage gate of the Gillenormand house. Basque met him there and addressed him, saying, “Monsieur le Baron has instructed to inquire whether monsieur desires to go to the drawing room upstairs or to the basement below.”
“The basement will be fine,” replied Valjean. Thus, Basque took him to a damp, poorly lit room downstairs. A fire was already burning in the small fireplace, which said to Valjean his decision to choose that room had been anticipated. Two armchairs had been placed on each end of the hearth and an old, worn-out rug was lying between them. The rug had once been made of wool, but now it was so worn that there was more of the foundation of the rug showing than wool. And the only light in the room came from the fire itself.
Valjean looked haggard and tired, for now he had gone several days without food or sleep. He nearly fell into one of the chairs, and his head immediately began to nod in a somewhat agitated sleep. Therefore, he did not notice that Basque lit a candle, set it on the mantel, and then walked from the room. Suddenly he was startled to look up and see Cosette standing beside him. He gazed at her and saw she was incredibly lovely. Yet what he saw with his penetrating gaze was her soul, not her physical beauty.
“Father!” exclaimed Cosette, “I knew you were strange, but I would never have expected this. Marius said you wanted to see me here in the basement.”
“Yes, that was my wish.”
“I expected you to say that,” Cosette said, as she reached to embrace Valjean, who was now standing before her. Yet it seemed his feet were nailed to the floor and he did not return her embrace. At this, she leaned her face toward him, expecting a kiss, but still he did not move. Reacting to his apparent coldness, she endeavored to lighten his mood by saying, “Jesus said to turn the other cheek,” so she turned the other side of her face to him. Still there was no response. Finally, in exasperation she demanded, “What have I done to you? Your behavior is disturbing me! You will dine with us, and we will discuss it.”
“I have dined,” Valjean responded.
“That’s not true. It’s too early for you to have eaten already,” she said. Then, attempting to lift his spirits once again, she teased, “I will get Monsieur Gillenormand to scold you for that. Grandfathers were made to reprimand fathers. Come with me to the drawing room upstairs, immediately!”
“That’s impossible,” he said coldly.
At this point, Cosette became quite serious and asked, “But why? And why do you insist on seeing me here? This is the most unsightly room in the house. It’s horrible here!”
“You know, madame, I have my peculiarities,” he answered, avoiding the issue.
Cosette slapped her hands together in frustration and demanded, “ ‘Madame’? Why are you suddenly addressing me as ‘madame’? What do you mean by all this?”
Valjean smiled a heartrending smile and said, “You wished to be married, so now you are madame.”
“Yes, but not to you, Father,” she insisted.
Then, only making matters worse, he said, “Do not call me ‘Father.’ ”
“What!” Cosette said in total disbelief.
“Call me Monsieur Jean or simply Jean, if you like.”
Now in desperation, Cosette sought for answers by asking, “So you no longer are my father? I’m no longer Cosette? And who is Monsieur Jean? And why won’t you live with us? Look me in the eyes and tell me what is going on here. Have I done something to you?”
“No, nothing,” was his only answer.
“Then why have you changed your name?”
Valjean smiled sadly and said, “You’ve changed your name. If you can be Madame Pontmercy, why can’t I be Monsieur Jean?”
Cosette exclaimed, “Don’t be silly! This is idiotic! I don’t understand any of this, and you’re being no help whatsoever. All this seems so wicked—and from someone who is so good!” Valjean did not reply. Then, taking his hands, she held them to her face tenderly and said softly, “Please be good!” Not waiting for a response, she added, “And this is what I call being good: moving from that hole of a room on the rue de l’Homme Armé and living with us. Not giving me such riddles to figure out. Eating with us. And being my father!”
Pulling his hands away, he answered, “You no longer need a father. You have a husband.”
Finally, Cosette became angry and shouted, “I no longer need a father? How does someone respond to something so ridiculous? None of this makes any sense whatsoever!”
At the same time the following day, Valjean arrived for another visit with Cosette. Yet this time she attempted to make the best of a perplexing situation and assured herself the full truth would ultimately be revealed. She avoided questioning Valjean but also avoided calling him either “Father” or “Monsieur Jean.” Her joy had been diminished somewhat, but it was impossible for her to be sad in light of the great happiness she enjoyed with Marius. And her curiosity did not outweigh her feelings of love.
Many weeks passed in this manner, and Valjean took Marius’s words literally, coming to see Cosette each and every day. Yet at the hour Valjean was scheduled to arrive, Marius did his best to arrange his matters so he was absent. And as the days went by, other concerns and pleasures began to occupy Cosette’s mind. She thought less and less about the questions that had once swirled around Valjean, and her greatest pleasure was simply spending time with Marius. The way Valjean and Cosette addressed one another worked to somewhat detach them from each other. She became happier and happier and less and less tender with him, yet in spite of this, she still loved him dearly, and he knew it.
However, one day she suddenly said to him, “You used to be my father, and now you’re not. Then you were my uncle, and now you’re not. You were Monsieur Fauchelevent, and now you’re Jean. I’m tired of all this, and if I didn’t know how good you are, I would be afraid of you. Who are you—really?” He did not reply.
Yet one day she slipped and called him “Father.” A distinct and radiant flash of joy brightened Jean Valjean’s sad and wrinkled countenance. She laughed, as he corrected her lightly, saying, “Call me Jean.”
Then he turned aside so she would not see him wipe the tears from his eyes.