________________________________________________
_ Cosette continued to hold her tongue in the convent.
It was quite natural that Cosette should think herself Jean Valjean's
daughter. Moreover, as she knew nothing, she could say nothing,
and then, she would not have said anything in any case. As we have
just observed, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness.
Cosette had suffered so much, that she feared everything,
even to speak or to breathe. A single word had so often brought
down an avalanche upon her. She had hardly begun to regain her
confidence since she had been with Jean Valjean. She speedily
became accustomed to the convent. Only she regretted Catherine,
but she dared not say so. Once, however, she did say to Jean Valjean:
"Father, if I had known, I would have brought her away with me."
Cosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholar in the convent,
to don the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean succeeded
in getting them to restore to him the garments which she laid aside.
This was the same mourning suit which he had made her put on when she
had quitted the Thenardiers' inn. It was not very threadbare even now.
Jean Valjean locked up these garments, plus the stockings and the shoes,
with a quantity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents
abound, in a little valise which he found means of procuring.
He set this valise on a chair near his bed, and he always carried
the key about his person. "Father," Cosette asked him one day,
"what is there in that box which smells so good?"
Father Fauchelevent received other recompense for his good action,
in addition to the glory which we just mentioned, and of which he
knew nothing; in the first place it made him happy; next, he had
much less work, since it was shared. Lastly, as he was very fond
of snuff, he found the presence of M. Madeleine an advantage,
in that he used three times as much as he had done previously,
and that in an infinitely more luxurious manner, seeing that
M. Madeleine paid for it.
The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean
the other Fauvent.
If these holy women had possessed anything of Javert's glance,
they would eventually have noticed that when there was any errand
to be done outside in the behalf of the garden, it was always the
elder Fauchelevent, the old, the infirm, the lame man, who went,
and never the other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed
on God know not how to spy, or whether they were, by preference,
occupied in keeping watch on each other, they paid no heed to this.
Moreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that he kept close and did
not stir out. Javert watched the quarter for more than a month.
This convent was for Jean Valjean like an island surrounded
by gulfs. Henceforth, those four walls constituted his world.
He saw enough of the sky there to enable him to preserve his serenity,
and Cosette enough to remain happy.
A very sweet life began for him.
He inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden, in company
with Fauchelevent. This hovel, built of old rubbish, which was still
in existence in 1845, was composed, as the reader already knows,
of three chambers, all of which were utterly bare and had nothing
beyond the walls. The principal one had been given up, by force,
for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vain, to M. Madeleine,
by Father Fauchelevent. The walls of this chamber had for ornament,
in addition to the two nails whereon to hang the knee-cap and
the basket, a Royalist bank-note of '93, applied to the wall over
the chimney-piece, and of which the following is an exact facsimile:--
{GRAPHIC HERE}
This specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall
by the preceding gardener, an old Chouan, who had died in the convent,
and whose place Fauchelevent had taken.
Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made himself very useful.
He had formerly been a pruner of trees, and he gladly found himself
a gardener once more. It will be remembered that he knew all sorts
of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to advantage.
Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungrafted, and wild.
He budded them and made them produce excellent fruit.
Cosette had permission to pass an hour with him every day.
As the sisters were melancholy and he was kind, the child made
comparisons and adored him. At the appointed hour she flew to the hut.
When she entered the lowly cabin, she filled it with paradise.
Jean Valjean blossomed out and felt his happiness increase
with the happiness which he afforded Cosette. The joy which we
inspire has this charming property, that, far from growing meagre,
like all reflections, it returns to us more radiant than ever.
At recreation hours, Jean Valjean watched her running and playing
in the distance, and he distinguished her laugh from that of
the rest.
For Cosette laughed now.
Cosette's face had even undergone a change, to a certain extent.
The gloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine;
it banishes winter from the human countenance.
Recreation over, when Cosette went into the house again,
Jean Valjean gazed at the windows of her class-room,
and at night he rose to look at the windows of her dormitory.
God has his own ways, moreover; the convent contributed, like Cosette,
to uphold and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean. It is
certain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the
devil exists there. Jean Valjean had been, unconsciously, perhaps,
tolerably near that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his
lot in the convent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared
himself only to the Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy
and had remained humble; but for some time past he had been comparing
himself to men in general, and pride was beginning to spring up.
Who knows? He might have ended by returning very gradually to hatred.
The convent stopped him on that downward path.
This was the second place of captivity which he had seen.
In his youth, in what had been for him the beginning of his life,
and later on, quite recently again, he had beheld another,--
a frightful place, a terrible place, whose severities had always
appeared to him the iniquity of justice, and the crime of the law.
Now, after the galleys, he saw the cloister; and when he meditated
how he had formed a part of the galleys, and that he now, so to speak,
was a spectator of the cloister, he confronted the two in his own
mind with anxiety.
Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoe, and slowly
descended the endless spirals of revery.
He recalled his former companions: how wretched they were;
they rose at dawn, and toiled until night; hardly were they permitted
to sleep; they lay on camp beds, where nothing was tolerated but
mattresses two inches thick, in rooms which were heated only in the
very harshest months of the year; they were clothed in frightful
red blouses; they were allowed, as a great favor, linen trousers
in the hottest weather, and a woollen carter's blouse on their
backs when it was very cold; they drank no wine, and ate no meat,
except when they went on "fatigue duty." They lived nameless,
designated only by numbers, and converted, after a manner,
into ciphers themselves, with downcast eyes, with lowered voices,
with shorn heads, beneath the cudgel and in disgrace.
Then his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his eyes.
These beings also lived with shorn heads, with downcast eyes,
with lowered voices, not in disgrace, but amid the scoffs of the world,
not with their backs bruised with the cudgel, but with their shoulders
lacerated with their discipline. Their names, also, had vanished from
among men; they no longer existed except under austere appellations.
They never ate meat and they never drank wine; they often remained
until evening without food; they were attired, not in a red blouse,
but in a black shroud, of woollen, which was heavy in summer and thin
in winter, without the power to add or subtract anything from it;
without having even, according to the season, the resource of the
linen garment or the woollen cloak; and for six months in the year
they wore serge chemises which gave them fever. They dwelt, not in
rooms warmed only during rigorous cold, but in cells where no fire
was ever lighted; they slept, not on mattresses two inches thick,
but on straw. And finally, they were not even allowed their sleep;
every night, after a day of toil, they were obliged, in the weariness
of their first slumber, at the moment when they were falling sound
asleep and beginning to get warm, to rouse themselves, to rise and
to go and pray in an ice-cold and gloomy chapel, with their knees
on the stones.
On certain days each of these beings in turn had to remain for twelve
successive hours in a kneeling posture, or prostrate, with face
upon the pavement, and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.
The others were men; these were women.
What had those men done? They had stolen, violated,
pillaged, murdered, assassinated. They were bandits,
counterfeiters, poisoners, incendiaries, murderers,
parricides. What had these women done? They had done nothing whatever.
On the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, deceit, violence,
sensuality, homicide, all sorts of sacrilege, every variety
of crime; on the other, one thing only, innocence.
Perfect innocence, almost caught up into heaven in a mysterious
assumption, attached to the earth by virtue, already possessing
something of heaven through holiness.
On the one hand, confidences over crimes, which are exchanged
in whispers; on the other, the confession of faults made aloud.
And what crimes! And what faults!
On the one hand, miasms; on the other, an ineffable perfume.
On the one hand, a moral pest, guarded from sight, penned up under the
range of cannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims;
on the other, the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth.
There, darkness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams
of light, and of gleams full of radiance.
Two strongholds of slavery; but in the first, deliverance possible,
a legal limit always in sight, and then, escape. In the second,
perpetuity; the sole hope, at the distant extremity of the future,
that faint light of liberty which men call death.
In the first, men are bound only with chains; in the other,
chained by faith.
What flowed from the first? An immense curse, the gnashing of teeth,
hatred, desperate viciousness, a cry of rage against human society,
a sarcasm against heaven.
What results flowed from the second? Blessings and love.
And in these two places, so similar yet so unlike, these two species of
beings who were so very unlike, were undergoing the same work, expiation.
Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former;
that personal expiation, the expiation for one's self. But he
did not understand that of these last, that of creatures without
reproach and without stain, and he trembled as he asked himself:
The expiation of what? What expiation?
A voice within his conscience replied: "The most divine
of human generosities, the expiation for others."
Here all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator;
we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view, and we translate
his impressions.
Before his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation,
the highest possible pitch of virtue; the innocence which
pardons men their faults, and which expiates in their stead;
servitude submitted to, torture accepted, punishment claimed
by souls which have not sinned, for the sake of sparing it
to souls which have fallen; the love of humanity swallowed up
in the love of God, but even there preserving its distinct and
mediatorial character; sweet and feeble beings possessing the misery
of those who are punished and the smile of those who are recompensed.
And he remembered that he had dared to murmur!
Often, in the middle of the night, he rose to listen to the grateful
song of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities,
and the blood ran cold in his veins at the thought that those who were
justly chastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy,
and that he, wretch that he was, had shaken his fist at God.
There was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply,
like a warning whisper from Providence itself: the scaling of that wall,
the passing of those barriers, the adventure accepted even at the risk
of death, the painful and difficult ascent, all those efforts even,
which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation,
he had made in order to gain entrance into this one. Was this
a symbol of his destiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore
a melancholy resemblance to that other one whence he had fled,
and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar.
Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars--to guard whom? Angels.
These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld
once more around lambs.
This was a place of expiation, and not of punishment; and yet,
it was still more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than
the other.
These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts.
A cold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth,
traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still
harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.
Why?
When he thought on these things, all that was within him was lost
in amazement before this mystery of sublimity.
In these meditations, his pride vanished. He scrutinized his own
heart in all manner of ways; he felt his pettiness, and many a time
he wept. All that had entered into his life for the last six
months had led him back towards the Bishop's holy injunctions;
Cosette through love, the convent through humility.
Sometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at an hour when the garden
was deserted, he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk
which skirted the chapel, in front of the window through which he had
gazed on the night of his arrival, and turned towards the spot where,
as he knew, the sister was making reparation, prostrated in prayer.
Thus he prayed as he knelt before the sister.
It seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God.
Everything that surrounded him, that peaceful garden, those fragrant
flowers, those children who uttered joyous cries, those grave
and simple women, that silent cloister, slowly permeated him,
and little by little, his soul became compounded of silence
like the cloister, of perfume like the flowers, of simplicity
like the women, of joy like the children. And then he reflected
that these had been two houses of God which had received him
in succession at two critical moments in his life: the first,
when all doors were closed and when human society rejected him;
the second, at a moment when human society had again set out in
pursuit of him, and when the galleys were again yawning; and that,
had it not been for the first, he should have relapsed into crime,
and had it not been for the second, into torment.
His whole heart melted in gratitude, and he loved more and more.
Many years passed in this manner; Cosette was growing up.
[The end of Volume II. "Cosette"] _
Read next: VOLUME III: BOOK FIRST - PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM: CHAPTER I. Parvulus
Read previous: VOLUME II - COSETTE: BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM: CHAPTER VIII. A Successful Interrogatory
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