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Updated: May 22, 2025
Dost thou like that name Euphrasie?" "Yes. But Cosette is not ugly." "Do you like it better than Euphrasie?" "Why, yes." "Then I like it better too. Truly, it is pretty, Cosette. Call me Cosette." And the smile that she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy of a grove situated in heaven. On another occasion she gazed intently at him and exclaimed:
And it actually was an edifice, a house, which bore a number on the street! It was not a dream! He had to touch the stones to convince himself that such was the fact. Cold, anxiety, uneasiness, the emotions of the night, had given him a genuine fever, and all these ideas were clashing together in his brain. He stepped up to Cosette. She was asleep.
Make a noise, you people behind the scenes. Come, a little uproar, the deuce! so that the children can chatter at their ease." And, approaching Marius and Cosette, he said to them in a very low voice: "Call each other thou. Don't stand on ceremony." Aunt Gillenormand looked on in amazement at this irruption of light in her elderly household.
Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean on these visits to the poor, on which they recovered some remnants of their former free intercourse; and sometimes, when the day had been a good one, and they had assisted many in distress, and cheered and warmed many little children, Cosette was rather merry in the evening. It was at this epoch that they paid their visit to the Jondrette den.
"As you like, father," said Cosette. And for the sake of obeying her father, she resumed her walks in the garden, generally alone, for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who was probably afraid of being seen through the fence, hardly ever went there. Jean Valjean's wound had created a diversion.
It wasn't worth while to invest imaginatively a man with evil projects simply because he was physically ugly. Some day she wanted to be loved as Marius loved Cosette; but there was another character which bit far more deeply into her mind. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision Sidney Carton.
Jean Valjean had made up his mind to quit Paris, and even France, and go over to England. He had warned Cosette. He wished to set out before the end of the week. He had seated himself on the slope in the Champ-de-Mars, turning over all sorts of thoughts in his mind, Thenardier, the police, the journey, and the difficulty of procuring a passport. He was troubled from all these points of view.
What was this ruffian religiously absorbed in the adoration of a virgin, watching over her, rearing her, guarding her, dignifying her, and enveloping her, impure as he was himself, with purity? What was that cess-pool which had venerated that innocence to such a point as not to leave upon it a single spot? What was this Jean Valjean educating Cosette?
I would make her gather my roses. That would be charming. Only . . ." He paused and said gently: "It is a pity." The tear did not fall, it retreated, and Jean Valjean replaced it with a smile. Cosette took both the old man's hands in hers. "My God!" said she, "your hands are still colder than before. Are you ill? Do you suffer?" "I? No," replied Jean Valjean. "I am very well. Only . . ."
This song was an old cradle romance with which she had, in former days, lulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her child. She sang it in so sad a voice, and to so sweet an air, that it was enough to make any one, even a nun, weep.
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