In the chest of drawers, there is a bank-bill for five hundred francs.
I have not touched it.
It is for the poor.
Cosette, dost thou see thy little gown yonder on the bed? dost thou recognize it?
That was ten years ago, however.
How time flies!
We have been very happy.
All is over.
Do not weep, my children, I am not going very far, I shall see you from there, you will only have to look at night, and you will see me smile.
Cosette, dost thou remember Montfermeil?
Thou wert in the forest, thou wert greatly terrified; dost thou remember how I took hold of the handle of the water-bucket?
That was the first time that I touched thy poor, little hand.
It was so cold!
Ah! your hands were red then, mademoiselle, they are very white now.
And the big doll! dost thou remember?
Thou didst call her Catherine.
Thou regrettedest not having taken her to the convent!
How thou didst make me laugh sometimes, my sweet angel!
When it had been raining, thou didst float bits of straw on the gutters, and watch them pass away.
One day I gave thee a willow battledore and a shuttlecock with yellow, blue and green feathers.
Thou hast forgotten it.
Thou wert roguish so young!
Thou didst play.
Thou didst put cherries in thy ears.
Those are things of the past.
The forests through which one has passed with one’s child, the trees under which one has strolled, the convents where one has concealed oneself, the games, the hearty laughs of childhood, are shadows.
I imagined that all that belonged to me.
In that lay my stupidity.
Those Thenardiers were wicked.
Thou must forgive them.
Cosette, the moment has come to tell thee the name of thy mother.
She was called Fantine.
Remember that name—Fantine.
Kneel whenever thou utterest it.
She suffered much.
She loved thee dearly.
She had as much unhappiness as thou hast had happiness.
That is the way God apportions things.
He is there on high, he sees us all, and he knows what he does in the midst of his great stars.
I am on the verge of departure, my children.
Love each other well and always.
There is nothing else but that in the world: love for each other.
You will think sometimes of the poor old man who died here.
Oh my Cosette, it is not my fault, indeed, that I have not seen thee all this time, it cut me to the heart; I went as far as the corner of the street, I must have produced a queer effect on the people who saw me pass, I was like a madman, I once went out without my hat.
I no longer see clearly, my children, I had still other things to say, but never mind.
Think a little of me.
Come still nearer.
I die happy.
Give me your dear and well-beloved heads, so that I may lay my hands upon them.”
Cosette and Marius fell on their knees, in despair, suffocating with tears, each beneath one of Jean Valjean’s hands.