|
THE INSEPARABLE
What had become of Jean Valjean?
Immediately after having laughed, at Cosette's graceful command,
when no one was paying any heed to him, Jean Valjean had risen
and had gained the antechamber unperceived.
This was the very room which, eight months before, he had
entered black with mud, with blood and powder, bringing back the
grandson to the grandfather. The old wainscoting was garlanded
with foliage and flowers; the musicians were seated on the sofa
on which they had laid Marius down.
Basque, in a black coat, knee-breeches, white stockings and
white gloves, was arranging roses round all of the dishes that
were to be served.
Jean Valjean pointed to his arm in its sling, charged Basque
to explain his absence, and went away.
The long windows of the dining-room opened on the street.
Jean Valjean stood for several minutes, erect and motionless in
the darkness, beneath those radiant windows.
He listened. The confused sounds of the banquet reached his
ear.
He heard the loud, commanding tones of the grandfather, the
violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts of laughter, and
through all that merry uproar, he distinguished Cosette's sweet
and joyous voice.
He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and returned to
the Rue de l'Homme Arme.
In order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint-Louis, the
Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and the Blancs-Manteaux; it was
a little longer, but it was the road through which, for the last
three months, he had become accustomed to pass every day on his
way from the Rue de l'Homme Arme to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire,
in order to avoid the obstructions and the mud in the Rue Vielle-du-Temple.
This road, through which Cosette had passed, excluded for
him all possibility of any other itinerary.
Jean Valjean entered his lodgings.
He lighted his candle and mounted the stairs.
The apartment was empty.
Even Toussaint was no longer there.
Jean Valjean's step made more noise than usual in the chambers.
All the cupboards stood open. He penetrated to Cosette's bedroom.
There were no sheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with
ticking, and without a case or lace, was laid on the blankets
folded up on the foot of the mattress, whose covering was visible,
and on which no one was ever to sleep again. All the little feminine
objects which Cosette was attached to had been carried away; nothing
remained except the heavy furniture and the four walls.
Toussaint's bed was despoiled in like manner. One bed only
was made up, and seemed to be waiting some one, and this was Jean
Valjean's bed.
Jean Valjean looked at the walls, closed some of the cupboard
doors, and went and came from one room to another.
Then he sought his own chamber once more, and set his candle
on a table.
He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used his
right hand as though it did not hurt him.
He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by chance?
was it intentionally? on the inseparable of which Cosette had
been jealous, on the little portmanteau which never left him.
On his arrival in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, on the 4th of June,
he had deposited it on a round table near the head of his bed.
He went to this table with a sort of vivacity, took a key from
his pocket, and opened the valise.
From it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten years
before, Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gown,
then the black fichu, then the stout, coarse child's shoes which
Cosette might almost have worn still, so tiny were her feet, then
the fustian bodice, which was very thick, then the knitted petticoat,
next the apron with pockets, then the woollen stockings. These
stockings, which still preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg,
were no longer than Jean Valjean's hand.
All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought those
garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the valise,
he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking.
He called up memories.
It was in winter, in a very cold month of December, she was
shivering, half-naked, in rags, her poor little feet were all
red in their wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon
those rags to clothe herself in these mourning habiliments.
The mother must have felt pleased in her grave, to see her
daughter wearing mourning for her, and, above all, to see that
she was properly clothed, and that she was warm. He thought of
that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed it together, Cosette
and he; he thought of what the weather had been, of the leafless
trees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunless sky; it
mattered not, it was charming.
He arranged the tiny garments on the bed, the fichu next to
the petticoat, the stockings beside the shoes, and he looked at
them, one after the other. She was no taller than that, she had
her big doll in her arms, she had put her louis d'or in the pocket
of that apron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand, she
had no one in the world but him.
Then his venerable, white head fell forward on the bed, that
stoical old heart broke, his face was engulfed, so to speak, in
Cosette's garments, and if any one had passed up the stairs at
that moment, he would have heard frightful sobs.
|
