Les Misérables, page 246
CHAPTER IV--CHANGE OF GATE
It seemed that this garden, created in olden days to conceal wantonmysteries, had been transformed and become fitted to shelter chastemysteries. There were no longer either arbors, or bowling greens, ortunnels, or grottos; there was a magnificent, dishevelled obscurityfalling like a veil over all. Paphos had been made over into Eden. It isimpossible to say what element of repentance had rendered this retreatwholesome. This flower-girl now offered her blossom to the soul. Thiscoquettish garden, formerly decidedly compromised, had returned tovirginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gardener, a goodman whothought that he was a continuation of Lamoignon, and another goodman whothought that he was a continuation of Lenôtre, had turned it about, cut,ruffled, decked, moulded it to gallantry; nature had taken possession ofit once more, had filled it with shade, and had arranged it for love.
There was, also, in this solitude, a heart which was quite ready. Lovehad only to show himself; he had here a temple composed of verdure,grass, moss, the sight of birds, tender shadows, agitated branches, anda soul made of sweetness, of faith, of candor, of hope, of aspiration,and of illusion.
Cosette had left the convent when she was still almost a child; she wasa little more than fourteen, and she was at the "ungrateful age"; wehave already said, that with the exception of her eyes, she was homelyrather than pretty; she had no ungraceful feature, but she was awkward,thin, timid and bold at once, a grown-up little girl, in short.
Her education was finished, that is to say, she has been taughtreligion, and even and above all, devotion; then "history," that is tosay the thing that bears that name in convents, geography, grammar,the participles, the kings of France, a little music, a little drawing,etc.; but in all other respects she was utterly ignorant, which is agreat charm and a great peril. The soul of a young girl should not beleft in the dark; later on, mirages that are too abrupt and too livelyare formed there, as in a dark chamber. She should be gently anddiscreetly enlightened, rather with the reflection of realities thanwith their harsh and direct light. A useful and graciously austerehalf-light which dissipates puerile fears and obviates falls. There isnothing but the maternal instinct, that admirable intuition composed ofthe memories of the virgin and the experience of the woman, which knowshow this half-light is to be created and of what it should consist.
Nothing supplies the place of this instinct. All the nuns in the worldare not worth as much as one mother in the formation of a young girl'ssoul.
Cosette had had no mother. She had only had many mothers, in the plural.
As for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all solicitude; buthe was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.
Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing awoman for life, what science is required to combat that vast ignorancewhich is called innocence!
Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The conventturns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. The heart, thusthrown back upon itself, works downward within itself, since it cannotoverflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions,suppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire foradventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the innerobscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passionsimmediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate permits them toenter. The convent is a compression which, in order to triumph over thehuman heart, should last during the whole life.
On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more sweet andmore dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the continuationof solitude with the beginning of liberty; a garden that was closed, buta nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous, and fragrant; the same dreamsas in the convent, but with glimpses of young men; a grating, but onethat opened on the street.
Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child. JeanValjean gave this neglected garden over to her. "Do what you like withit," he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned over all the clumpsand all the stones, she hunted for "beasts"; she played in it, whileawaiting the time when she would dream in it; she loved this gardenfor the insects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass, whileawaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she would seethrough the boughs above her head.
And then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, withall her soul, with an innocent filial passion which made the goodmana beloved and charming companion to her. It will be remembered that M.Madeleine had been in the habit of reading a great deal. Jean Valjeanhad continued this practice; he had come to converse well; he possessedthe secret riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which hasspontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough sharpness toseason his kindness; his mind was rough and his heart was soft. Duringtheir conversations in the Luxembourg, he gave her explanations ofeverything, drawing on what he had read, and also on what he hadsuffered. As she listened to him, Cosette's eyes wandered vaguely about.
This simple man sufficed for Cosette's thought, the same as the wildgarden sufficed for her eyes. When she had had a good chase after thebutterflies, she came panting up to him and said: "Ah! How I have run!"He kissed her brow.
Cosette adored the goodman. She was always at his heels. Where JeanValjean was, there happiness was. Jean Valjean lived neither in thepavilion nor the garden; she took greater pleasure in the paved backcourtyard, than in the enclosure filled with flowers, and in his littlelodge furnished with straw-seated chairs than in the great drawing-roomhung with tapestry, against which stood tufted easy-chairs. Jean Valjeansometimes said to her, smiling at his happiness in being importuned: "Dogo to your own quarters! Leave me alone a little!"
She gave him those charming and tender scoldings which are so gracefulwhen they come from a daughter to her father.
"Father, I am very cold in your rooms; why don't you have a carpet hereand a stove?"
"Dear child, there are so many people who are better than I and who havenot even a roof over their heads."
"Then why is there a fire in my rooms, and everything that is needed?"
"Because you are a woman and a child."
"Bah! must men be cold and feel uncomfortable?"
"Certain men."
"That is good, I shall come here so often that you will be obliged tohave a fire."
And again she said to him:--
"Father, why do you eat horrible bread like that?"
"Because, my daughter."
"Well, if you eat it, I will eat it too."
Then, in order to prevent Cosette eating black bread, Jean Valjean atewhite bread.
Cosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. She prayedmorning and evening for her mother whom she had never known. TheThénardiers had remained with her as two hideous figures in a dream. Sheremembered that she had gone "one day, at night," to fetch water in aforest. She thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed toher that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was Jean Valjeanwho had rescued her from it. Her childhood produced upon her the effectof a time when there had been nothing around her but millepeds, spiders,and serpents. When she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep,as she had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean's daughter,and that he was her father, she fancied that the soul of her mother hadpassed into that good man and had come to dwell near her.
When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white hair, anddropped a silent tear, saying to herself: "Perhaps this man is mymother."
Cosette, although this is a strange statement to make, in the profoundignorance of a girl brought up in a convent,--maternity being alsoabsolutely unintelligible to virginity,--had ended by fancying that shehad had as little mother as possible. She did not even know her mother'sname. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained silent. Ifshe repeated her question, he responded with a smile. Once she insisted;the smile ended in a tear.
This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness.
Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he should deliverthis name to the hazards of another memory than his own?
So long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had been willing to talkto her of her mother; when she became a young girl, it was impossiblefor him to do so. It seemed to him that he no longer dared. Was itbecause of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a certainreligious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette's thought; and ofplacing a third in their destiny. The more sacred this shade was to him,the more did it seem that it was to be feared. He thought of Fantine,and felt himself overwhelmed with silence.
Through the darkness, he vaguely perceived something which appearedto have its finger on its lips. Had all the modesty which had beenin Fantine, and which had violently quitted her during her lifetime,returned to rest upon her after her death, to watch in indignation overthe peace of that dead woman, and in its shyness, to keep her in hergrave? Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure? Wewho believe in death, are not among the number who will reject thismysterious explanation.
Hence the impossibility of uttering, even for Cosette, that name ofFantine.
One day Cosette said to him:--
"Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had two big wings.My mother must have been almost a saint during her life."
"Through martyrdom," replied Jean Valjean.
However, Jean Valjean was happy.
When Cosette went out with him, she leaned on his arm, proud and happy,in the plenitude of her heart. Jean Valjean felt his heart melt withinhim with delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive, sowholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled, inundatedwith angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically that this wouldlast all their lives; he told himself that he really had not sufferedsufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in thedepths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, he, awretch, by that innocent being.
