Later that year, on a beautiful sunny day in early April, Marius said to Cosette, “Let’s visit our garden on the rue Plumet as we’ve discussed since our wedding day.” So they flitted away like two lovebirds in the spring. They visited the garden and the house and lost themselves in their happy thoughts of the past.
That evening, at the usual time, Valjean came for his visit with Cosette. Basque told him, however, “Madame went out with Monsieur to visit the garden on the rue Plumet and has not yet returned.” Valjean sat down in the basement to wait, but after he had waited a full hour, Cosette still had not returned. With a sense of sadness, he decided to leave and returned to his home. Yet Cosette was so thrilled with the stroll through “their garden” and so happy with having lived an entire day in their past that she talked of nothing else and totally forgot she had not met with Valjean.
The next day, Valjean questioned her, thinking her trip to the garden should not have taken so long. He asked, “How did you travel there?”
“On foot,” she said.
“And how did you return?”
“We hired a carriage. Why do you ask?” Cosette responded.
For some time, Valjean had noticed the young couple was living a very frugal life—far below what he knew they were able to afford. This troubled him and prompted him to ask, “Why don’t you have a carriage of your own? With the money I have given you and Marius, you are rich.”
Cosette replied as though she had never given it a thought, and said casually, “I don’t know.”
Several weeks later, upon entering the basement room, Valjean noticed the fire had not been lit before his arrival, as was the custom. When Cosette entered the room, she declared how cold it was and summoned Basque, who lit the fire for her. Valjean did not give it a second thought, but the very next day the two armchairs were at the far end of the room near the door instead of near the fireplace. He moved the chairs to their customary place near the fire, wondered briefly about the change, but then quickly got lost in conversation with Cosette. Yet just as he was preparing to leave, she said something that piqued his curiosity.
“Marius asked something strange yesterday,” Cosette said with a questioning look on her face.
“What was it?” Valjean asked.
“He asked me,” Cosette said innocently, “if I would be willing for us to live only on the small income he receives from his grandfather. And, of course, I told Marius I would be willing to live on nothing at all, as long as it was with him. But then I asked him, ‘Why do you ask me that?’ and he replied, ‘I was just wondering.’ ”
Valjean did not know how to respond, but it was obvious to him Marius had his doubts as to the origin of the 600,000 francs. Perhaps he was thinking it had been gained illegally. Then suddenly Valjean’s thoughts went back to the incidents of the fire not being lit and the chairs being moved. He began to surmise that he was being shown the door, and in a not so subtle way.
When he came for his visit the very next day, he was shocked to see the chairs had been removed altogether. As Cosette walked into the room, she exclaimed, “Where are the chairs? This is ridiculous!”
Hoping to protect her from the truth, he stammered, “I told Basque we wouldn’t be needing the chairs and asked him to remove them. I can stay for only a few minutes tonight.” That night he left utterly overwhelmed, having fully understood Marius’s “message.”
Valjean did not visit the next evening, and when Cosette mentioned that “Monsieur Jean” had not visited, Marius diverted her thoughts with a kiss. Cosette felt only the slightest twinge in her heart from the absence of Valjean, for she and Marius were so happy.
Marius had done only what he considered to be necessary and just. He believed he had valid reasons for getting rid of Jean Valjean and felt he had done so without being harsh or without showing weakness. He also believed that at some point he had a solemn duty that honesty would compel him to perform—to return the 600,000 francs to their rightful owner. By simple coincidence, he had gleaned some mysterious information he believed cast additional doubt on Valjean regarding the money. Marius once had argued a case for a former cashier at the Bank of Laffitte who had mentioned a manufacturer in the countryside who had gone out of business, putting hundreds of employees out of work. Marius’s client explained that the manufacturer had been robbed of some 600,000 francs on deposit with the bank. The thief was suspected to be Jean Valjean. Therefore, in the meantime, and especially in light of this news, Marius refrained from using the money.
Still, he kept his suspicions and concerns about Valjean from Cosette as much as possible. Nevertheless, she was conscious of Marius’s feelings toward “Monsieur Jean,” and she conformed to Marius’s tacit yet clear intentions regarding him. There was a powerful magnetism between the young couple, which instinctively and almost mechanically caused her to do as her husband desired. She was still attached sincerely to the man whom she had called her father for so long, but it is fair to say she was preoccupied with Marius and her new life and that she loved her husband more dearly than Valjean. Her soul had become completely one with her husband’s, and the fact that his mind was shrouded in gloom cast a shadow over her thinking as well. Gradually, Marius won Cosette away from Jean Valjean, but she allowed it to happen.
Valjean descended his staircase, took a few steps along the street, and then leaned against the stone wall around the house. It was the same place where he had met Gavroche on June 5 the previous year. He remained there for only a few moments and then went upstairs again. This was to be the last swing of the pendulum, for on the following day he did not leave his apartment, and the day after that he did not leave his bed.
The housekeeper who prepared a small meal of cabbage or potatoes with bacon each day for Valjean brought him his next meal, only to discover he had not eaten yesterday’s portion. She exclaimed, “My dear man, you didn’t eat your meal!”
“I certainly did,” Valjean responded.
“But the plate is still full!” she argued.
He pointed to the water jug, and said, “That’s empty.”
“Well, that proves you’ve drunk some water, but it doesn’t prove you’ve eaten,” she retorted. Then she added, “Sir, you must have a fever.”
Yet Valjean dismissed her concerns and responded simply, “I’ll eat tomorrow.”
Later he left his apartment and, with a few sous, bought a copper crucifix he hung on the wall across from his bed. It’s always good to look toward the cross, he thought.
Shortly thereafter Valjean found it difficult even to lift himself from his bed onto his elbow, and when he felt his wrist, his heartbeat was so faint he could not find a pulse. And his breathing was so short and halting at times that he finally had to admit to himself that he was weaker than he had ever been in his life. Then out of a sense of sheer determination, he dressed himself in his old workingman’s clothes. Since he never went out anymore, he preferred these old clothes because they were more comfortable. However, just putting his arms through the sleeves caused perspiration to trickle down his forehead.
Next he took Cosette’s small outfit from its case and spread it out on his bed once again. Then he took the bishop’s candlesticks, placed two wax candles in them, and set them on the mantel. And although it was summer and still broad daylight, he lit them—something done at that time only in a room where a body was lying in state. Exhausted, he fell into a chair he had placed in front of his mirror. It was the same mirror that had proved so fatal to him—yet so providential for Marius—for it was one Valjean had used to read Cosette’s reverse writing in her blotting book.
Glancing in the mirror, he was shocked at what he saw and did not recognize himself. Now in his midsixties, he looked like he was eighty years old. Before Cosette’s marriage, however, few people would have taken him to be even fifty years of age. The past year had counted for thirty, and now as he gazed in the mirror, what he saw on his face no longer was the wrinkled brow brought about by aging, but the mysterious mark of death.
Valjean sat there for hours but finally managed to drag a table and old chair to the fireplace. He collapsed into the chair again, slept in a cold faint for a few minutes, and then took a pen, some ink, and a piece of paper from the drawer of the table. His hand trembled as he began to write the following words:
Monsieur Pontmercy,
Love my darling child well.
Cosette,
I bless you. There is something I wish to explain to you. Your husband was right in making me understand that I should go away, although there was some error in what he believed. Still, he is a wonderful man. Love him well even after I am dead. I know this letter will be found after I am gone, but this is what I wish for you to know. You will see the numbers, if I have the strength to recall them. Please believe me—the money really is yours. Here is the whole matter….
Valjean paused and exclaimed to himself with sorrowful sobs heard by God alone, “My life is over. I will never see her again. Cosette is a beautiful smile who passed across my life, but now I am about to plunge into the night without ever seeing her again. If only I could have one minute, one instant to hear her voice, or one glimpse of her. She is such an angel! It is nothing to die. What is so frightful is to die without seeing her again!”
At that very moment, there was a knock on the door.