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THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS AN ENGINE OF WAR
One day, Cosette chanced to look at herself in her mirror,
and she said to herself:
"Really!"
It seemed to her almost that she was pretty.
This threw her in a singularly troubled state of mind.
Up to that moment she had never thought of her face. She saw
herself in her mirror, but she did not look at herself. And then,
she had so often been told that she was homely; Jean Valjean alone
said gently:
"No indeed! no indeed!" At all events, Cosette had
always thought herself homely, and had grown up in that belief
with the easy resignation of childhood. And here, all at once,
was her mirror saying to her, as Jean Valjean had said:
"No indeed!"
That night, she did not sleep.
"What if I were pretty!" she thought.
"How odd it would be if I were pretty!" And she
recalled those of her companions whose beauty had produced a sensation
in the convent, and she said to herself:
"What!
Am I to be like Mademoiselle So-and-So?"
The next morning she looked at herself again, not by accident
this time, and she was assailed with doubts:
"Where did I get such an idea?" said she; "no,
I am ugly."
She had not slept well, that was all, her eyes were sunken
and she was pale.
She had not felt very joyous on the preceding evening in the
belief that she was beautiful, but it made her very sad not to
be able to believe in it any longer. She did not look at herself
again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to dress her hair
with her back turned to the mirror.
In the evening, after dinner, she generally embroidered in
wool or did some convent needlework in the drawing-room, and Jean
Valjean read beside her.
Once she raised her eyes from her work, and was rendered quite
uneasy by the manner in which her father was gazing at her.
On another occasion, she was passing along the street, and
it seemed to her that some one behind her, whom she did not see,
said:
"A pretty woman! but badly dressed." "Bah!"
she thought, "he does not mean me.
I am well dressed and ugly."
She was then wearing a plush hat and her merino gown.
At last, one day when she was in the garden, she heard poor
old Toussaint saying:
"Do you notice how pretty Cosette is growing, sir?"
Cosette did not hear her father's reply, but Toussaint's words
caused a sort of commotion within her.
She fled from the garden, ran up to her room, flew to the
looking-glass,--it was three months since she had looked at herself,--and
gave vent to a cry. She had just dazzled herself.
She was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agreeing
with Toussaint and her mirror.
Her figure was formed, her skin had grown white, her hair
was lustrous, an unaccustomed splendor had been lighted in her
blue eyes.
The consciousness of her beauty burst upon her in an instant,
like the sudden advent of daylight; other people noticed it also,
Toussaint had said so, it was evidently she of whom the passer-by
had spoken, there could no longer be any doubt of that; she descended
to the garden again, thinking herself a queen, imagining that
she heard the birds singing, though it was winter, seeing the
sky gilded, the sun among the trees, flowers in the thickets,
distracted, wild, in inexpressible delight.
Jean Valjean, on his side, experienced a deep and undefinable
oppression at heart.
In fact, he had, for some time past, been contemplating with
terror that beauty which seemed to grow more radiant every day
on Cosette's sweet face.
The dawn that was smiling for all was gloomy for him.
Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before
she became aware of it herself.
But, from the very first day, that unexpected light which
was rising slowly and enveloping the whole of the young girl's
person, wounded Jean Valjean's sombre eye. He felt that it was
a change in a happy life, a life so happy that he did not dare
to move for fear of disarranging something. This man, who had
passed through all manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding
from the bruises of fate, who had been almost wicked and who had
become almost a saint, who, after having dragged the chain of
the galleys, was now dragging the invisible but heavy chain of
indefinite misery, this man whom the law had not released from
its grasp and who could be seized at any moment and brought back
from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad daylight of public
opprobrium, this man accepted all, excused all, pardoned all,
and merely asked of Providence, of man, of the law, of society,
of nature, of the world, one thing, that Cosette might love him!
That Cosette might continue to love him!
That God would not prevent the heart of the child from coming
to him, and from remaining with him! Beloved by Cosette, he felt
that he was healed, rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recompensed,
crowned.
Beloved by Cosette, it was well with him!
He asked nothing more!
Had any one said to him:
"Do you want anything better?" he would have answered:
"No." God might have said to him:
"Do you desire heaven?" and he would have replied:
"I should lose by it."
Everything which could affect this situation, if only on the
surface, made him shudder like the beginning of something new.
He had never known very distinctly himself what the beauty
of a woman means; but he understood instinctively, that it was
something terrible.
He gazed with terror on this beauty, which was blossoming
out ever more triumphant and superb beside him, beneath his very
eyes, on the innocent and formidable brow of that child, from
the depths of her homeliness, of his old age, of his misery, of
his reprobation.
He said to himself:
"How beautiful she is!
What is to become of me?"
There, moreover, lay the difference between his tenderness
and the tenderness of a mother.
What he beheld with anguish, a mother would have gazed upon
with joy.
The first symptoms were not long in making their appearance.
On the very morrow of the day on which she had said to herself:
"Decidedly I am beautiful!"
Cosette began to pay attention to her toilet.
She recalled the remark of that passer-by: "Pretty, but
badly dressed," the breath of an oracle which had passed
beside her and had vanished, after depositing in her heart one
of the two germs which are destined, later on, to fill the whole
life of woman, coquetry.
Love is the other.
With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul expanded
within her. She conceived a horror for her merinos, and shame
for her plush hat. Her father had never refused her anything.
She at once acquired the whole science of the bonnet, the
gown, the mantle, the boot, the cuff, the stuff which is in fashion,
the color which is becoming, that science which makes of the Parisian
woman something so charming, so deep, and so dangerous.
The words heady woman were invented for the Parisienne.
In less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaid of the
Rue de Babylone, was not only one of the prettiest, but one of
the "best dressed" women in Paris, which means a great
deal more.
She would have liked to encounter her "passer-by,"
to see what he would say, and to "teach him a lesson!"
The truth is, that she was ravishing in every respect, and
that she distinguished the difference between a bonnet from Gerard
and one from Herbaut in the most marvellous way.
Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety.
He who felt that he could never do anything but crawl, walk
at the most, beheld wings sprouting on Cosette.
Moreover, from the mere inspection of Cosette's toilet, a
woman would have recognized the fact that she had no mother. Certain
little proprieties, certain special conventionalities, were not
observed by Cosette.
A mother, for instance, would have told her that a young girl
does not dress in damask.
The first day that Cosette went out in her black damask gown
and mantle, and her white crape bonnet, she took Jean Valjean's
arm, gay, radiant, rosy, proud, dazzling.
"Father," she said, "how do you like me in
this guise?"
Jean Valjean replied in a voice which resembled the bitter
voice of an envious man:
"Charming!"
He was the same as usual during their walk.
On their return home, he asked Cosette:--
"Won't you put on that other gown and bonnet again,--you
know the ones I mean?"
This took place in Cosette's chamber.
Cosette turned towards the wardrobe where her cast-off schoolgirl's
clothes were hanging.
"That disguise!" said she.
"Father, what do you want me to do with it? Oh no, the
idea!
I shall never put on those horrors again. With that machine
on my head, I have the air of Madame Mad-dog."
Jean Valjean heaved a deep sigh.
From that moment forth, he noticed that Cosette, who had always
heretofore asked to remain at home, saying:
"Father, I enjoy myself more here with you," now
was always asking to go out.
In fact, what is the use of having a handsome face and a delicious
costume if one does not display them?
He also noticed that Cosette had no longer the same taste
for the back garden.
Now she preferred the garden, and did not dislike to promenade
back and forth in front of the railed fence. Jean Valjean, who
was shy, never set foot in the garden. He kept to his back yard,
like a dog.
Cosette, in gaining the knowledge that she was beautiful,
lost the grace of ignoring it.
An exquisite grace, for beauty enhanced by ingenuousness is
ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a dazzling and innocent
creature who walks along, holding in her hand the key to paradise
without being conscious of it.
But what she had lost in ingenuous grace, she gained in pensive
and serious charm. Her whole person, permeated with the joy of
youth, of innocence, and of beauty, breathed forth a splendid
melancholy.
It was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse of six months,
saw her once more at the Luxembourg.
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