Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER IV—CHANGE OF GATE
1870 words | Chapter 315
It seemed that this garden, created in olden days to conceal wanton
mysteries, had been transformed and become fitted to shelter chaste
mysteries. There were no longer either arbors, or bowling greens, or
tunnels, or grottos; there was a magnificent, dishevelled obscurity
falling like a veil over all. Paphos had been made over into Eden. It
is impossible to say what element of repentance had rendered this
retreat wholesome. This flower-girl now offered her blossom to the
soul. This coquettish garden, formerly decidedly compromised, had
returned to virginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gardener, a
goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lamoignon, and
another goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lenôtre, had
turned it about, cut, ruffled, decked, moulded it to gallantry; nature
had taken possession of it 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. Love
had only to show himself; he had here a temple composed of verdure,
grass, moss, the sight of birds, tender shadows, agitated branches, and
a 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 was
a little more than fourteen, and she was at the “ungrateful age”; we
have already said, that with the exception of her eyes, she was homely
rather 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 taught
religion, and even and above all, devotion; then “history,” that is to
say 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 a
great charm and a great peril. The soul of a young girl should not be
left in the dark; later on, mirages that are too abrupt and too lively
are formed there, as in a dark chamber. She should be gently and
discreetly enlightened, rather with the reflection of realities than
with their harsh and direct light. A useful and graciously austere
half-light which dissipates puerile fears and obviates falls. There is
nothing but the maternal instinct, that admirable intuition composed of
the memories of the virgin and the experience of the woman, which knows
how 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 world
are not worth as much as one mother in the formation of a young girl’s
soul.
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;
but he was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.
Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing a
woman for life, what science is required to combat that vast ignorance
which is called innocence!
Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The
convent turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. The heart,
thus thrown back upon itself, works downward within itself, since it
cannot overflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions,
suppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire for
adventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the inner
obscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passions
immediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate permits them to
enter. The convent is a compression which, in order to triumph over the
human heart, should last during the whole life.
On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more sweet
and more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the
continuation of solitude with the beginning of liberty; a garden that
was closed, but a nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous, and
fragrant; the same dreams as in the convent, but with glimpses of young
men; a grating, but one that opened on the street.
Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child. Jean
Valjean gave this neglected garden over to her. “Do what you like with
it,” he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned over all the
clumps and all the stones, she hunted for “beasts”; she played in it,
while awaiting the time when she would dream in it; she loved this
garden for the insects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass,
while awaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she
would see through the boughs above her head.
And then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with all
her soul, with an innocent filial passion which made the goodman a
beloved and charming companion to her. It will be remembered that M.
Madeleine had been in the habit of reading a great deal. Jean Valjean
had continued this practice; he had come to converse well; he possessed
the secret riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which has
spontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough sharpness to
season his kindness; his mind was rough and his heart was soft. During
their conversations in the Luxembourg, he gave her explanations of
everything, drawing on what he had read, and also on what he had
suffered. As she listened to him, Cosette’s eyes wandered vaguely
about.
This simple man sufficed for Cosette’s thought, the same as the wild
garden sufficed for her eyes. When she had had a good chase after the
butterflies, 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 Jean
Valjean was, there happiness was. Jean Valjean lived neither in the
pavilion nor the garden; she took greater pleasure in the paved back
courtyard, than in the enclosure filled with flowers, and in his little
lodge furnished with straw-seated chairs than in the great drawing-room
hung with tapestry, against which stood tufted easy-chairs. Jean
Valjean sometimes said to her, smiling at his happiness in being
importuned: “Do go to your own quarters! Leave me alone a little!”
She gave him those charming and tender scoldings which are so graceful
when they come from a daughter to her father.
“Father, I am very cold in your rooms; why don’t you have a carpet here
and a stove?”
“Dear child, there are so many people who are better than I and who
have not 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 to
have 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 ate
white bread.
Cosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. She prayed
morning and evening for her mother whom she had never known. The
Thénardiers had remained with her as two hideous figures in a dream.
She remembered that she had gone “one day, at night,” to fetch water in
a forest. She thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed
to her that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was Jean
Valjean who had rescued her from it. Her childhood produced upon her
the effect of 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 had passed into that good man and had come to
dwell near her.
When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white hair, and
dropped a silent tear, saying to herself: “Perhaps this man is my
mother.”
Cosette, although this is a strange statement to make, in the profound
ignorance of a girl brought up in a convent,—maternity being also
absolutely unintelligible to virginity,—had ended by fancying that she
had had as little mother as possible. She did not even know her
mother’s name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained
silent. If she 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 deliver
this name to the hazards of another memory than his own?
So long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had been willing to
talk to her of her mother; when she became a young girl, it was
impossible for him to do so. It seemed to him that he no longer dared.
Was it because of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a certain
religious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette’s thought; and of
placing 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 appeared to
have its finger on its lips. Had all the modesty which had been in
Fantine, and which had violently quitted her during her lifetime,
returned to rest upon her after her death, to watch in indignation over
the peace of that dead woman, and in its shyness, to keep her in her
grave? Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure? We
who believe in death, are not among the number who will reject this
mysterious explanation.
Hence the impossibility of uttering, even for Cosette, that name of
Fantine.
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 within
him with delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive, so
wholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled, inundated
with angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically that this would
last all their lives; he told himself that he really had not suffered
sufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the
depths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, he, a
wretch, by that innocent being.
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