I thought it would be interesting to write Valjean and Cosette's relationship as seen by their maid, Toussaint. This story is tagged mostly to The Brick; I did take a few liberties with Toussaint, since Hugo never tells us much about her, anyway. As ever, I hope you'll enjoy it! :)
For my own reference: 79th fanfiction, 15th story for Les Miserables.
Toussaint couldn't remember exactly when she realized what a blessing it was that Monsieur Fauchelevent hired her. She knew that it wasn't at the first glance. Oh, certainly, Monsieur seemed pleasant enough at first - well-dressed, soft-spoken, and polite - but Toussaint had learned the hard way that first impressions could be bitterly deceiving. She had worked as a maid for almost her whole life - since she was only twelve-years-old - and over the years, she'd worked for many different men. Some who seemed kind at first were later revealed to be tyrannical and demanding, impossible to please - like old, bombastic Monsieur Brager, whose first language seemed to be shouting.
Corporal punishment was the cultural norm, and many men believed in using it not only on their children, but on their wives, too. Cold, cruel Monsieur Thierry had believed that women and children were naturally inclined to sin, and that it was his Christian duty to discipline them. As a hired servant, Toussaint had at least some rights, but legally, wives and children were the property of their husbands and fathers. Toussaint had seen and overheard some things that made her blood run cold.
She had worked for some wealthy, snobby men who felt it was beneath them to discipline their children themselves, and so they had the servants do it. Of course men were sterner by nature than women, and so the task usually fell to the butler of the household. But more than once, Toussaint had been compelled to discipline children, too, and even with everything else than she'd been through as a maid, there was nothing she hated more than taking a cane to a child.
She'd hated it and never wanted to do it again, so when Monsieur Fauchelevent first told her that he had a daughter, Toussaint decided to find out right away if he would expect her to punish the girl. "Am I t-t-to d-discipline her?" she'd asked him, with a bluntness quite unlike her.
Monsieur had looked puzzled for a moment, then shocked and horrified as he understood her meaning. "No, no, of course not," he'd stammered, and Toussaint felt relieved. "No, I don't - I would never - never in a thousand years - no, no, certainly not."
Of course, she later realized that if she hadn't asked the question, the answer would've been obvious when she first saw Monsieur with his daughter. He was so sweet to her, so tender. Anyone could tell that he would never raise a hand to her, or allow anyone else to.
Toussaint had worked in all the different positions over the years - maid, cook, governess, washer-woman. In Monsieur Fauchelevent's home, she was the only servant, and so she did all the housekeeping, cooking, and cleaning. But she didn't mind this, for the household was small, the pay was good, and Monsieur and his daughter were kind, which made all the difference. They lived such quiet, simple lives, too. They never threw elaborate parties - not like Madame Gustaf, who used to invite half the people in Paris to a soiree and leave Toussaint to plan everything. They never even entertained any guests. In fact, they kept to themselves so much that Toussaint sometimes wondered if Monsieur was hiding something. But the thought was fleeting, and she kept it to herself, of course. Gossiping about your employer was one of the surest ways for a maid to lose her job.
Toussaint had served in some genteel households where the children were spoiled to death and rude beyond belief to the servants, but Monsieur Fauchelevent's daughter wasn't like that at all. Once, for Madame Doillon, Toussaint had worked as lady's-maid, a woman who helped her mistress with dressing and bathing. It was one of the most coveted, prestigious positions for a servant, and when Monsieur Fauchelevent initially hired her, Toussaint wondered if she was to work as a lady's-maid for his daughter. But there was no discreet way to ask the question, and soon enough, she realized that this was not the case. The young lady - Cosette was her name, although of course Toussaint never called her anything but Mademoiselle - was incredibly shy. Perhaps she could've used a lady's-maid, since she had no mother, but she seemed too modest to want one. Toussaint drew her baths for her, but that was all.
Once, not long after she was first hired, Toussaint woke up in the night to the sound of crying. It was Mademoiselle, and she lit a candle, alarmed, and started toward the girl's room, but Monsieur beat her there. He went into Mademoiselle's room and shut the door, and as she waited in the hall outside, Toussaint could hear him talking to her softly. Her sobs died down, and after some time, Monsieur emerged from her room again.
"Is M-M-M-Mademoiselle ill, sir?" Toussaint asked him. "Sh-shall I go for a d-doctor?"
But Monsieur shook his head. "No, no, she's fine. She only had a bad dream. You can go back to bed."
Toussaint did, but it surprised her that Mademoiselle had suffered a bad dream. It must have been an awful one to make her cry so hard... but what could that girl have possibly seen of hardships to give her bad dreams? She was so young and so cheerful, with her comfortable life and a father who adored her, and yet tonight, she had wept as though someone had hurt her. As Toussaint fell asleep, she wondered again if perhaps Monsieur was hiding something.
Winter came, and Toussaint made the beds with extra blankets and heavy duvets. Her old bones sometimes ached in the chilly air, and she asked Monsieur for permission to retire earlier in the evenings; when he said yes, she was so thankful that he seemed embarrassed. Even at Christmastime, Monsieur and Mademoiselle never went out to any fetes or soirees. Toussaint could tell that Monsieur wasn't the social type, but she thought that Mademoiselle was lonely. One morning, while she was reading the society columns and her father was out of earshot, she said wistfully to Toussaint, "So many people having parties. I do wish I could go to one, just once, but Papa says I'm too young for such things." Toussaint wasn't surprised by that. It was obvious that Monsieur still thought of his daughter as a child. He still kissed her goodnight every night, as though she were a little girl and not a nearly grown woman. Mademoiselle, for her part, still called him Papa, even though most young ladies used Father by her age.
Monsieur never read the society columns, but Toussaint noticed that he did read the police reports. She saw him doing it often, but if Mademoiselle ever came near him while he was at it, he quickly flipped to the weather reports.
On Christmas, he gave Toussaint a bonus with her wages, and Mademoiselle surprised her by giving her a shawl that she'd crocheted herself. On New Year's Eve, Mademoiselle said that she wanted to stay up until midnight, and she nearly did, but she fell asleep on the window seat in the parlor late that evening. Monsieur just smiled, picked her up as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her upstairs to her bed. Toussaint watched, a bit astonished that a man his age could still be so strong.
They were all happy when spring came. Mademoiselle grew flowers in the front garden, and soon the air was heady with the smell of lilacs, roses, and daisies. Every morning, Mademoiselle went outside, picked a fresh flower, and tucked it in her father's coat lapel for that day. It warmed Toussaint's old heart to see a father and daughter who were so fond of each other.
Toussaint was surprised when one night she woke up from sleep to relief herself, and as she was going down the hall, she found Mademoiselle creeping up the stairs, holding a candle. She gasped and jumped a mile when she saw Toussaint's silhouette, then relaxed as she came closer and saw who it was.
"Oh, Toussaint, it's only you," she said, with a slight edge to her casual tone. "I thought - I mean, I was just - I - " she stammered, then smiled and started over. "I only had a bad dream, you see, and I didn't want to wake my father, so I just thought I would crochet, until I was tired again, but I couldn't find my crochet hook anywhere. I thought I'd left it in the parlor, but, um, I just looked, and it wasn't there. But no matter, I'll find it tomorrow, and I'm tired now, so I should go back to bed. Goodnight."
Mademoiselle flitted nervously down the hall to her room, and Toussaint watched her go, a bit puzzled. Mademoiselle had crochet hooks of every size in her room. Why would she need to go down to the parlor to look for one? And perhaps Toussaint had only imagined it, but she thought that a fresh, grassy smell clung to Mademoiselle's dressing-gown, as if she had just come in from outdoors.
The next morning, when Mademoiselle came down to breakfast, Toussaint thought that she looked tired... but perhaps she only imagined that too, for the girl kissed her father's cheek and said, "Good morning, Papa," as sweetly as always. Toussaint decided to put their odd encounter on the stairs out of her mind... and she did, until one night a week later, when the spring breezes were so cool and refreshing that she fell asleep with her window open.
When she stirred in bed at a late hour, half-awake, she thought at first that she'd only imagined hearing Mademoiselle's voice from the garden outside. But then she awoke fully, and Mademoiselle's voice was still there - very soft, but most certainly there, drifting in through Toussaint's open window. There was a pause, then a high-pitched giggle, and then - Toussaint could scarcely believe her ears - came a deep, unfamiliar male voice, answering Mademoiselle.
Had Toussaint not already been lying in bed, she might've fainted dead away from shock. Mademoiselle was in the front garden, in the middle of the night, alone and unsupervised with some young man! This was quite scandalous behavior, especially from Mademoiselle, who'd always seemed so modest. She actually pinched her arm to make sure that she wasn't dreaming.
Too shocked to do anything else, Toussaint went perfectly still and strained to listen to their conversation. She couldn't make out all the words, but she did hear that the boy addressed Mademoiselle with tu, instead of vous, and she gasped aloud when he called her by her first name, Cosette, instead of Mademoiselle. The impropriety! How long had this been going on? It was really too astonishing for words.
Eventually, Mademoiselle and the young man bid each other adieu, and then, very stealthily, very softly - Toussaint had to strain to hear it - she heard Mademoiselle slip in through the front door and creep upstairs to her room. Tomorrow morning, no doubt, she would kiss her father's cheek like always, just as if she hadn't done anything terribly deceitful during the night.
Toussaint lay awake in her bed for a long time, wondering what to do. It seemed wrong not to tell Monsieur about this. He was the girl's father, after all; he deserved to know. Yet what good would come out of telling him? Wouldn't Mademoiselle simply deny it all? Perhaps she would even accuse Toussaint of lying - and there was certainly no chance of Monsieur ever taking Toussaint's word above his daughter's. She had never seen a father who doted on his child so much. No, he would never believe that she was having a nightly rendez-vous with some strange boy. Toussaint could scarcely believe it herself, and she'd seen the evidence. No one would ever suspect that Mademoiselle, who crocheted and read aloud to her father from the Bible and was every bit an obedient Christian daughter by day, could possibly be meeting with a young man in the garden by night. Toussaint didn't see how it could end well if she told Monsieur. It might even end with her being discharged.
But if she didn't tell Monsieur... certainly things could end badly that way, too. Toussaint could remember being Mademoiselle's age - the young restlessness, the lovesick wistfulness, the light-headed daydreams. She was an old woman now, but she could still remember those feelings. Monsieur, of course, had no idea of what it was like to be a young lady, and Toussaint suspected that was one reason why he was so clueless to his daughter's actions. Shouldn't she tell him? After all, what if Mademoiselle did something foolish with this boy?
She tossed and turned in her bed, and then, finally, she came to a decision. She decided to say nothing to Monsieur - not now, and perhaps not ever. This was a very good job, and Toussaint didn't want to risk losing it. But she did all the washing for the household - all the clothing, and all the linens. She would say nothing, but she would watch and make sure that she still found bloodstains on Mademoiselle's undergarments or bedsheets once a month.
Toussaint was so old now that she didn't have the curse upon her anymore - which was, thank the Lord, the only good thing about getting old - but of course she still remembered how it worked. And since she did all the laundry and made the beds, she knew just when Mademoiselle was due to start bleeding. If she ever stopped bleeding, Toussaint would know, and then, she decided, she would tell Monsieur.
FIN
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