We shall be this evening in the Rue de l’Homme Arme, No. 7.
In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE.
June 4th.”
Jean Valjean halted, perfectly haggard.
Cosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the sideboard in front of the mirror, and, utterly absorbed in her agony of grief, had forgotten it and left it there, without even observing that she had left it wide open, and open at precisely the page on which she had laid to dry the four lines which she had penned, and which she had given in charge of the young workman in the Rue Plumet.
The writing had been printed off on the blotter.
The mirror reflected the writing.
The result was, what is called in geometry, the symmetrical image; so that the writing, reversed on the blotter, was righted in the mirror and presented its natural appearance; and Jean Valjean had beneath his eyes the letter written by Cosette to Marius on the preceding evening.
It was simple and withering.
Jean Valjean stepped up to the mirror.
He read the four lines again, but he did not believe them.
They produced on him the effect of appearing in a flash of lightning.
It was a hallucination, it was impossible.
It was not so.
Little by little, his perceptions became more precise; he looked at Cosette’s blotting-book, and the consciousness of the reality returned to him.
He caught up the blotter and said: “It comes from there.”
He feverishly examined the four lines imprinted on the blotter, the reversal of the letters converted into an odd scrawl, and he saw no sense in it.
Then he said to himself:
“But this signifies nothing; there is nothing written here.” And he drew a long breath with inexpressible relief.
Who has not experienced those foolish joys in horrible instants?
The soul does not surrender to despair until it has exhausted all illusions.
He held the blotter in his hand and contemplated it in stupid delight, almost ready to laugh at the hallucination of which he had been the dupe.
All at once his eyes fell upon the mirror again, and again he beheld the vision.
There were the four lines outlined with inexorable clearness.
This time it was no mirage.
The recurrence of a vision is a reality; it was palpable, it was the writing restored in the mirror.
He understood.
Jean Valjean tottered, dropped the blotter, and fell into the old armchair beside the buffet, with drooping head, and glassy eyes, in utter bewilderment.
He told himself that it was plain, that the light of the world had been eclipsed forever, and that Cosette had written that to some one.
Then he heard his soul, which had become terrible once more, give vent to a dull roar in the gloom.
Try then the effect of taking from the lion the dog which he has in his cage!
Strange and sad to say, at that very moment, Marius had not yet received Cosette’s letter; chance had treacherously carried it to Jean Valjean before delivering it to Marius.
Up to that day, Jean Valjean had not been vanquished by trial.
He had been subjected to fearful proofs; no violence of bad fortune had been spared him; the ferocity of fate, armed with all vindictiveness and all social scorn, had taken him for her prey and had raged against him.
He had accepted every extremity when it had been necessary; he had sacrificed his inviolability as a reformed man, had yielded up his liberty, risked his head, lost everything, suffered everything, and he had remained disinterested and stoical to such a point that he might have been thought to be absent from himself like a martyr.
His conscience inured to every assault of destiny, might have appeared to be forever impregnable.
Well, any one who had beheld his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede that it weakened at that moment.
It was because, of all the tortures which he had undergone in the course of this long inquisition to which destiny had doomed him, this was the most terrible.
Never had such pincers seized him hitherto.
He felt the mysterious stirring of all his latent sensibilities.
He felt the plucking at the strange chord.
Alas! the supreme trial, let us say rather, the only trial, is the loss of the beloved being.
Poor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette otherwise than as a father; but we have already remarked, above, that into this paternity the widowhood of his life had introduced all the shades of love; he loved Cosette as his daughter, and he loved her as his mother, and he loved her as his sister; and, as he had never had either a woman to love or a wife, as nature is a creditor who accepts no protest, that sentiment also, the most impossible to lose, was mingled with the rest, vague, ignorant, pure with the purity of blindness, unconscious, celestial, angelic, divine; less like a sentiment than like an instinct, less like an instinct than like an imperceptible and invisible but real attraction; and love, properly speaking, was, in his immense tenderness for Cosette, like the thread of gold in the mountain, concealed and virgin.
Let the reader recall the situation of heart which we have already indicated.
No marriage was possible between them; not even that of souls; and yet, it is certain that their destinies were wedded.
With the exception of Cosette, that is to say, with the exception of a childhood, Jean Valjean had never, in the whole of his long life, known anything of that which may be loved.
The passions and loves which succeed each other had not produced in him those successive green growths, tender green or dark green, which can be seen in foliage which passes through the winter and in men who pass fifty.
In short, and we have insisted on it more than once, all this interior fusion, all this whole, of which the sum total was a lofty virtue, ended in rendering Jean Valjean a father to Cosette.
A strange father, forged from the grandfather, the son, the brother, and the husband, that existed in Jean Valjean; a father in whom there was included even a mother; a father who loved Cosette and adored her, and who held that child as his light, his home, his family, his country, his paradise.
Thus when he saw that the end had absolutely come, that she was escaping from him, that she was slipping from his hands, that she was gliding from him, like a cloud, like water, when he had before his eyes this crushing proof: “another is the goal of her heart, another is the wish of her life; there is a dearest one, I am no longer anything but her father, I no longer exist”; when he could no longer doubt, when he said to himself: