3.V.8.2. ANOTHER STEP BACKWARDS
ON the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.
Cosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished,
no longer exclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the
drawing-room, she avoided saying either "father" or "Monsieur
Jean." She allowed herself to be addressed as you. She
allowed herself to be called Madame. Only, her joy had
undergone a certain diminution. She would have been sad, if
sadness had been possible to her.
It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those
conversations in which the beloved man says what he pleases,
explains nothing, and satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity
of lovers does not extend very far beyond their own
love.
The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had
suppressed
the bottles, and Nicolette the spiders.
All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the
same hour. He came every day, because he had not the
strength to take Marius' words otherwise than literally.
Marius arranged matters so as to be absent at the hours when
Jean Valjean came. The house grew accustomed to the novel
ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped in this direction:
"Monsieur has always been like that," she repeated.
The grandfather issued this decree: — "He's an original."
And all was said. Moreover, at the age of ninety-six, no bond
is any longer possible, all is merely juxtaposition; a newcomer
is in the way. There is no longer any room; all habits
are acquired. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Father
Gillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved from
"that gentleman." He added: — "Nothing is more common
than those originals. They do all sorts of queer things.
They have no reason. The Marquis de Canaples was still
worse. He bought a palace that he might lodge in the
garret. These are fantastic appearances that people affect."
No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And
moreover, who could have guessed such a thing? There are
marshes of this description in India. The water seems
extraordinary, inexplicable, rippling though there is no wind,
and agitated where it should be calm. One gazes at the surface
of these causeless ebullitions; one does not perceive the
hydra which crawls on the bottom.
Many men have a secret monster in this same manner, a
dragon which gnaws them, a despair which inhabits their
night. Such a man resembles other men, he goes and comes.
No one knows that he bears within him a frightful parasitic
pain with a thousand teeth, which lives within the unhappy
man, and of which he is dying. No one knows that this man
is a gulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a
trouble of which the onlooker understands nothing appears
on his surface. A mysterious wrinkle is formed, then vanishes,
then re-appears; an air-bubble rises and bursts. It is
the breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other
people are taking their leave, keeping in the background when
other people are displaying themselves, preserving on all
occasions what may be designated as the wall-colored mantle,
seeking the solitary walk, preferring the deserted street,
avoiding any share in conversation, avoiding crowds and
festivals,
seeming at one's ease and living poorly, having one's key
in one's pocket, and one's candle at the porter's lodge, however
rich one may be, entering by the side door, ascending the
private staircase, — all these insignificant singularities,
fugitive
folds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable
foundation.
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually
took possession of Cosette: the relations which marriage
creates, visits, the care of the house, pleasures, great matters.
Cosette's pleasures were not costly, they consisted in one
thing: being with Marius. The great occupation of her life
was to go out with him, to remain with him. It was for
them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in
the face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding
themselves,
before the whole world, both of them completely
alone.
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on
with Nicolette, the soldering of two elderly maids being
impossible, and she went away. The grandfather was well;
Marius argued a case here and there; Aunt Gillenormand
peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her, beside the
new household. Jean Valjean came every day.
The address as thou disappeared, the
you, the "Madame,"
the "Monsieur Jean," rendered him another person to Cosette.
The care which he had himself taken to detach her from him
was succeeding. She became more and more gay and less
and less tender. Yet she still loved him sincerely, and he
felt it.
One day she said to him suddenly: "You used to be my
father, you are no longer my father, you were my uncle, you
are no longer my uncle, you were Monsieur Fauchelevent,
you are Jean. Who are you then? I don't like all this.
If I did not know how good you are, I should be afraid of
you."
He still lived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, because he
could not make up his mind to remove to a distance from the
quarter where Cosette dwelt.
At first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and
then went away.
Little by little he acquired the habit of making his
visits
less brief. One would have said that he was taking advantage
of the authorization of the days which were lengthening,
he arrived earlier and departed later.
One day Cosette chanced to say "father" to him. A flash
of
joy illuminated Jean Valjean's melancholy old countenance.
He caught her up: "Say Jean." — "Ah! truly," she replied
with a burst of laughter, "Monsieur Jean." — "That is right,"
said he. And he turned aside so that she might not see him
wipe his eyes.