Her obedience in this instance consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot.
She was not obliged to make any effort to accomplish this.
Without her knowing why herself, and without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had become so wholly her husband’s that that which was shrouded in gloom in Marius’ mind became overcast in hers.
Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial.
She was rather heedless than forgetful.
At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the man whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband still more dearly.
This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of her heart, which leaned to one side only.
It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed her surprise.
Then Marius calmed her: “He is absent, I think. Did not he say that he was setting out on a journey?”—“That is true,” thought Cosette. “He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion.
But not for so long.”
Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the Rue de l’Homme Arme whether M. Jean had returned from his journey.
Jean Valjean caused the answer “no” to be given.
Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth, Marius.
Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been absent.
They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his father’s grave.
Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean.
Cosette allowed it.
Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach as it is supposed.
It is the ingratitude of nature.
Nature, as we have elsewhere said, “looks before her.”
Nature divides living beings into those who are arriving and those who are departing.
Those who are departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving towards the light.
Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old, and involuntary on the part of the young.
This breach, at first insensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches.
The boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it.
It is no fault of theirs.
Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid lights, love. Old age goes towards the end.
They do not lose sight of each other, but there is no longer a close connection.
Young people feel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb.
Let us not blame these poor children.
CHAPTER II—LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL
One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the 6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went upstairs again.
This was the last oscillation of the pendulum.
On the following day he did not leave his apartment.
On the day after that, he did not leave his bed.
His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and exclaimed:
“But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!”
“Certainly I did,” replied Jean Valjean.
“The plate is quite full.”
“Look at the water jug.
It is empty.”
“That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have eaten.”
“Well,” said Jean Valjean, “what if I felt hungry only for water?”
“That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it is called fever.”
“I will eat to-morrow.”
“Or at Trinity day.
Why not to-day?
Is it the thing to say:
‘I will eat to-morrow’?
The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it!