 CHAPTER V. A NINTH Night behind which there is day, Jean Valjean turned around at the knock which he heard on his door. "'Come in,' he said feebly. The door opened. Cossette and Marius made their appearance. Cossette rushed into the room. Marius remained on the threshold, leaning against the jam of the door. "'Cossette,' said Jean Valjean. And he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling, haggard, livid, gloomy, and immense joy in his eyes. Cossette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean's breast. "'Father,' said she. Jean Valjean overcome, stammered. "'Cossette,' she, you, madame, it is thou—oh, my God!' And pressed close in Cossette's arms, he exclaimed, "'It is thou, thou art here. Thou dost pardon me then!' Marius, lowering his eyelids in order to keep his tears from flowing, took a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted to repress his sobs. "'My father!' "'And you also, you pardon me,' Jean Valjean said to him. Marius could find no words, and Jean Valjean added, "'Thanks.' Cossette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed. "'It embarrasses me,' she said, and seating herself on the old man's knees, she put aside his white locks with an adorable movement and kissed his brow. Jean Valjean bewildered, let her have her own way. Cossette, who only understood in a very confused manner, redoubled her caresses, as though she desired to pay Marius's debt. Jean Valjean stammered. "'How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again. Imagine! Monsieur Pomp Marcy at the very moment when you entered I was saying to myself, "'All is over. Here is her little gown. I am a miserable man. I shall never see Cossette again.' And I was saying that at the very moment when you were mounting the stairs. Was not I an idiot? Just see how idiotic one can be. One reckons without the good God. The good God says, "'You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid? No. No, things will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an angel. And the angel comes, and one sees one's Cossette again, and one sees one's little Cossette once more. Ah, I was very unhappy.' For a moment he could not speak. Then he went on. "'I really needed to see Cossette a little bit now and then. A heart needs a bone to gnaw, but I was perfectly conscious that I was in the way. I gave myself reasons. They do not want you keep in your own course. One has not the right to cling eternally. Ah, God be praised! I see her once more. Dost thou know, Cossette? Thy husband is very handsome. Ah, what a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I am fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not? And then thou should have some cashmere shawls. Let me call her thou, M. Paul Mercy. It will not be for long.' And Cossette began again. "'How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go? Why have you stayed away so long?' Formerly your journey's only lasted three or four days. I sent Nicolette. The answer always was he is absent. How long have you been back? Why did you not let us know? Do you know that you are very much changed?' Ah, what a naughty father! He has been ill, and we have not known it. Stay, Marius. Feel how cold his hand is.' "'So you are here, M. Paul Mercy. You pardon me,' repeated Jean Valjean. At that word was Jean Valjean had just uttered once more. All that was swelling Marius's heart, found bent. He burst forth. Cossette, do you hear? He has come to that. He asks my forgiveness. And do you know what he has done for me, Cossette? He has saved my life. He has done more. He has given you to me. And after having saved me, and after having given you to me, Cossette, what has he done with himself? He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And he says to me the ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty one, thanks. Cossette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be too little. That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that cesspool, all that he traversed for me, for thee, Cossette. He carried me away through all the deaths which he put aside before me, and accepted for himself. Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every sanctity he possesses. Cossette, that man is an angel. Hush, hush, says Jean Valjean in a low voice. Why tell all that? But you cried, Marius, with a wrath in which there was a veneration. Why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault too. You saved people's lives and you conceal it from them. You do more under the pretext of unmasking yourself to culminate yourself. It is frightful. I told the truth, replied Jean Valjean. No, reported Marius, the truth is the whole truth, and that you did not tell. You were Monsieur Amandolin. Why not have said so? You saved Javert. Why not have said so? I owed my life to you. Why not have said so? Because I thought, as you do, I thought that you were in the right. It was necessary that I should go away. If you had known about that affair of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you. I was therefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would have caused embarrassment in every way. It would have embarrassed what? Embarrassed whom, retorted Marius? Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off. Ah, good heavens! When I reflect that it was by an accident that I have learned all this, you form a part of ourselves. You are her father and mine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house. Do not imagine that you will be here tomorrow. Tomorrow, says Jean Valjean, I shall not be here, but I shall not be with you. What do you mean? replied Marius. Come now. We are not going to permit you any more journeys. You shall never leave us again. You belong to us. We shall not lose hold of you. This time it is for good, added Cossette. We have a carriage at the door. I shall run away with you, if necessary. I shall employ force. And she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms. Your chamber still stands ready in our house, she went on. If you only knew how pretty the garden is now, the azaleas are doing very well there. The walls are sanded with river sand, and there are tiny violet shells. You shall eat my strawberries. I water them myself. And no more Madame, no more Monsieur Jean. We are living under a republic. Everybody says thou, don't they, Marius? The program has changed. If only you knew, Father. I have had a sorrow. There was a robin red breast, which had made her nest in a hole in the wall. And a horrible cat ate her. My poor, pretty little robin red breast, which used to put her head out of her window and look at me. I cried over it. I should have liked to kill the cat, but now nobody cries anymore. Everybody laughs. Everybody is happy. You are going to come with us. How delighted Grandfather will be. You shall have your plot in the garden. You shall cultivate it. And we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as mine. And then I shall do everything that you wish, and then you will obey me prettily. Jean Baljean listened to her without hearing her. He heard the music of her voice rather than the sense of her words. One of those large tears which are the somber pearls of the soul welled up slowly in his eyes. He murmured, The proof that God is good is that she is here. Father, said Cossette. Jean Baljean continued, It is quite true that it would be charming for us to live together. Their trees are full of birds. I would walk with Cossette. It is sweet to be among living people who bid each other good day. Who call each other in the garden? People see each other from early morning. We should each cultivate our own little corner. She would make me eat her strawberries. 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 Baljean replaced it with a smile. Cossette took both the old man's hands and hers. My God, said she, Your hands are still colder than before. Are you ill? Do you suffer? I know, replied Jean Baljean. I am very well only. He paused. Only what? I am going to die presently. Cossette and Marius shuttered. To die, exclaimed Marius. Yes, but that is nothing, said Jean Baljean. He took breath, smiled, and resumed. Cossette, Thou art talking to me. Go on, so thy little robin red breast is dead. Speak, so that I may hear thy voice. Marius gazed at the old man in amazement. Cossette uttered a heart-rending cry. Father, my father, you will live. You are going to live. I insist upon your living. Do you hear? Jean Baljean raised his head toward her with adoration. Oh yes, forbid me to die. Who knows? Perhaps I shall obey. I was on the verge of dying when you came. That stopped me. It seemed to me that I was born again. You are full of strength and life, cried Marius. Do you imagine that a person can die like this? You have had sorrow. You shall have no more. It is I who ask your forgiveness and on my knees. You are going to live and to live with us and to live a long time. We take possession of you once more. There are two of us here who will henceforth have no other thought than your happiness. You see, resumed Cossette all bathed in tears that Marius says that you shall not die. Jean Baljean continued to smile. Even if you were to take possession of me, M. P. Morsi, would that make me other than I am? No. God has thought like you and myself, and he does not change his mind. It is useful for me to go. Death is a good arrangement. God knows better than we what we need. May you be happy. May M. P. Morsi have Cossette. May youth wed the morning. May there be around you, my children, lilacs and nightingales. May your life be a beautiful sunny lawn. May all the enchantments of heaven fill your souls. And now let me, who am good for nothing, die. It is certain that all this is right. Come, be reasonable. Nothing is possible now. I am fully conscious. That all is over, and then last night I drank that whole jug of water. How good the husband is, Cossette. Thou art much better off with him than with me. A noise became audible at the door. It was the doctor entering. Good day and farewell, doctor, said Jean Valjean, here are my poor children. Maurie has stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him only the single word, Monshir, but his manner of pronouncing it contained a complete question. The doctor replied to the question by an expressive glance. Because things are not agreeable, said Jean Valjean, that is no reason for being unjust toward God. A silence ensued. All breasts were oppressed. Jean Valjean turned to Cossette. He began to gaze at her as though he wished to retain her features for eternity. In the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended, ecstasy was still possible to him when gazing at Cossette. The reflection of that sweet face lighted up his pale visage. The doctor felt of his pulse. Ah, it was you that he wanted, he murmured, looking at Cossette and Marius. And bending down to Marius' ear he added in a very low voice, too late. Jean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenely, almost without ceasing to gaze at Cossette. These barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth. It is nothing to die. It is dreadful not to live. All at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength are sometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked, with a firm step to the wall, rusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried to help him, detached from the wall a little copper crucifix which was suspended there, and returned to his seat with all the freedom of movement of perfect health, and said in a loud voice as he laid the crucifix on the table. Behold the great martyr. Then his chest sank in, his head wavered, as though the intoxication of the tomb were seizing hold upon him. His hands, which rested on his knees, began to press their nails into the stuff of his trousers. Cossette supported his shoulders and sobbed, and tried to speak to him but could not. Among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies tears, they distinguished words like the following. Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you only to lose you again? It might be said the agony writhes. It goes, comes, advances toward the sepulchre, and returns toward life. There is groping in the action of dying. Jean Valjean, rallied after his semi-swoon, shook his brow as though to make the shadows fall away from it, and became almost perfectly lucid once more. He took a fold of Cossette's sleeve and kissed it. He is coming back, doctor. He's coming back, cried Marius. You are good. Both of you, says Jean Valjean. I am going to tell you what has caused me pain. What has pained me, Monsure-Paul-Mercy, is that you have not been willing to touch that money. That money really belongs to your wife. I will explain to you, my children, and for that reason also I am glad to see you. Black jet comes from England. White jet comes from Norway. All this is in this paper, which you will read. For bracelets I invented a way of substituting for slides of soldered sheet iron, slides of iron laid together. It is prettier, better, and less costly. You will understand how much money can be made in that way, so Cossette's fortune is really hers. I give you these details in order that your mind may be set at rest. The portis had come upstairs and was gazing in at the half-open door. The doctor dismissed her. But he could not prevent this zealous woman from exclaiming to the dying man before she disappeared. Would you like a priest? I have had one, replied Jean Valjean, and with his finger he seemed to indicate a point above his head where one would have said that he saw someone. It is probable, in fact, that the bishop was present at his death agony. Cossette gently slipped a pillow under his loins. Jean Valjean resumed. Have no fear, Monsure-Paul-Mercy. I adjure you. The 600,000 francs really belong to Cossette. My life will have been wasted if you do not enjoy them. We managed to do very well with those glass goods. We rivaled what is called Berlin Jewelry. However, we could not equal the black glass of England. A gross which contains 1,200 very well-cut grains only costs three francs. When a being who is dear to us is on the point of death, we gaze upon him with a look which clings convulsively to him and which would feign hold him back. Cossette gave her hand to Marius and both mute with anguish, not knowing what to say to the dying man stood trembling and despairing before him. Jean Valjean sank moment by moment. He was failing. He was drawing near to the gloomy horizon. His breath had become intermittent. A little rattling interrupted it. He found some difficulty in moving his forearm. His feet had lost all movement and in proportion, as the wretchedness of lemon feebleness of body increased, all the majesty of his soul was displayed and spread over his brow. The light of the unknown world was already visible in his eyes. His face paled and smiled. Life was no longer there. It was something else. His breath sank. His glance grew grander. He was a corpse on which the wings could be felt. He made a sign to Cossette to draw near, then to Marius. The last minute of the last hour had evidently arrived. He began to speak to them in a voice so feeble that it seemed to come from a distance, and one would have said that a wall now rose between them and him. Draw near, draw near both of you. I love you dearly. Oh, how good it is to die like this. And thou lovest me also, my Cossette. I knew well that thou still felt friendly toward thy poor old man. How kind it was of thee to place that pillow under my loins. Thou wilt weep for me a little, wilt thou not? Not too much. I do not wish thee to have any real griefs. You must enjoy yourselves a great deal, my children. I forgot to tell you that the Prophet was greater still on the buckles, without tongues than on all the rest. A gross of a dozen dozens cost ten francs and sold for sixty. It really was a good business. So there is no occasion for surprise at the six hundred thousand francs, M. M. Marcy. It is honest money. You may be rich with a tranquil mind. Thou must have a carriage, a box at the theaters now and then. And handsome bald dress is my Cossette. And then thou must give good dinners to thy friends and be very happy. I was writing to Cossette a while ago. She will find my letter. I bequeath to her the two candlesticks which stand on the chimney-piece. They are of silver, but to me they are gold. They are diamonds. They change candles which are placed in them into wax tapers. I do not know whether the person who gave them to me is pleased with me yonder on high. I have done what I could. My children, you will not forget that I am a poor man. He will have me buried in the first plot of earth that you find under a stone to mark the spot. This is my wish, no name on this stone. If Cossette cares to come for a little while now and then, it will give me pleasure. And you too, M. Palmersie, I must admit that I have not always loved you. I ask your pardon for that. Now she in you form but one for me. I feel very grateful to you. I am sure that you may Cossette happy. If only you knew, M. Palmersie, her pretty rosy cheeks were my delight. When I saw her in the least pale I was sad. In the chest of drawers there is a bank bill for five hundred francs. I have not touched it. It is for the poor, Cossette. 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, Cossette. Dost thou remember, maframu? Thou were in the forest. Thou were 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, M. Wozell. They are very white now. And the big doll, Dost thou remember? Thou dost call her Catherine. Thou regrettest not having taken her to the convent. How thou dost make me laugh, sometimes, my sweet angel, when it had been raining thou dost float bits of straw on the gutters, and watch them pass away. One day I gave thee a willow bottle door and a shuttle cock with yellow, blue, and green feathers. Thou hast forgotten it. Thou were at Ruggish so young. Thou dost play. Thou dost put cherries in thy ears. Those are things of the past. The forest, through which one has passed with one's child. The trees, under which one has strolled. The convent, 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 tenardaires were wicked. Thou must forgive them. Cosette, at the moment, has come to tell thee the name of thy mother. She was called Fontaine. Remember that name Fontaine. 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 the 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, those august hands no longer moved. He had fallen backwards. The light of the candles illuminated him. His white face looking up to heaven, he allowed Cosette and Marius to cover his hands with kisses. He was dead. The night was starless and extremely dark, no doubt in the gloom. Some immense angel stood erect with wings outspread, waiting that soul. Chapter 6 THE GRASS COVERS AND THE RAIN IT FACES In the cemetery of Pare la Che, in the vicinity of the common grave, far from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres, far from all the tombs of fancy which display in the presence of eternity all the hideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner beside an old wall, beneath a great yew tree over which climbs the wild convolvis, amid dandelions and mosses, there lies a stone. That stone is no more exempt than others from the leprosy of time, of dampness, of volitions, and from the defilement of the birds. The water turns it green, the air blackens it. It is not near any path and people are not fond of walking in that direction, because the grass is high and their feet are immediately wet. When there is a little sunshine the lizards come thither. All around there is a quivering of weeds. In the spring linets wereble in the trees. This stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought was the requirements of the tomb, and no other care was taken then to make the stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man. No name is to be read there. Only many years ago a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines, which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust, and which are today, probably effaced. He sleeps, although his fate was very strange he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply of itself as the night comes when day is gone. End of Les Miserables, Volume 5 of 5 by Victor Hugo, translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood