To call it a knoll would be an overstatement. It really wasn't any larger than a small patch, an unassuming bump in the otherwise flat surroundings. Despite its small size, however, it would often appear the brightest green even in the greyest and gloomiest Parisian weather. No fences or stones stood at attention around the perimeter. Not a single blossom or bloom ever pushed its way out of the ground. The only blight upon the soft earth was that of a man, hunched over and kneeling.
From her place at the breakfast room's window, Cosette looked at her husband's small form amidst the dull and dead gardens, as all of the other plants had died during autumn. Every single morning, Marius Pontmercy would visit the one place he could, in his eyes, get away from the normal daily routine, the one that often became too much to bear. And while he felt alone, outside with no one else around, Marius knew that Cosette would always be watching him, offering her support from a distance until he went back inside of their home.
After he had recovered enough to leave his bed and walk around after that fateful day in June, Marius had realized that he did not know where his friends had been buried. In vain, he had asked everyone he knew, from the flower-vendor who sometimes walked near the Corinthe to Madame Hucheloup to Louison. And yet, nobody had an answer for the man with stooped shoulders, with a slight limp in his left leg. He would have to bear his scars alone.
Eventually, after searching what seemed to be all of Paris, Marius gave up looking for his friends' burial site – Cosette had hinted at a mass grave – and had instead formed a burial mound within his own garden. A simple mound of earth whose meaning was known only to a few – a placard wouldn't be necessary if there was only one survivor to remember its purpose. After he had suggested the idea, Marius tried to ignore the pity in Cosette's eyes. What would she know about the burden that he bore?
Cosette, however, knew how her husband felt. While he often let out silent sobs in the early hours of the morning, when he thought that Cosette must be asleep, Marius would fail to notice the tears tracking down his wife's face, for Cosette also bore the weight of a survivor. From what she had heard, Cosette knew that she had had a fortunate life, with her father, Toussaint, and eventually Marius, in comparison to those she spent her childhood with. Oh, how long ago she had wished for a blue bonnet like Eponine's – but look at how Fortune had decided to guide the young girls. Cosette knew that she was lucky, to have a love who survived the fighting. Since the first war of Mankind, Cosette knew, there were always women – wives, mothers, daughters – who forever waited for someone who would never enter their homes ever again. And yet, Cosette was one of the lucky. It was so very hard for her to comprehend, that she had had the fortune, for which she constantly thanked God, for having gone to school at the Convent and then for meeting a man as wonderful as Marius Pontmercy.
But Cosette still felt as if she was hiding a great secret. Every time when Marius would take her into his arms, every time he would whisper "Cosette" into her ear, his voice full of love, Cosette would feel her heart break ever so slightly. While Marius bore the guilt of having survived, Cosette bore the guilt of hiding her past from the person she was supposed to trust most, her own husband. Euphrasie Fauchelevent seemed so distant, and the Lark even more so, but those names were Cosette's. How could Marius ever hope to understand the life that Cosette had lived before her Papa had come to rescue her from the Thénardiers?
These were the weights that the two Pontmercies were forced to carry, day in and day out. In the mornings, Marius would visit the small memorial that he had formed in his friends' memories. Sometimes, when he would sit by the grass, ruminating on why exactly it was he who survived and not one of the more involved members of that failed rebellion, Marius would feel as if he were not truly alone, that there were more people around him than just his grandfather, his wife, and her father. Sometimes, it would be sounds of the street, which Marius would occasionally mistake for the call of Courfeyrac and Bahorel. Sometimes, it would be the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees, sounding far too alike to crisp pamphlets being waved around in the square. And sometimes, it would be a feeling, just a simple twinge that Marius would feel right as his throat would constrict and the tears would try to flow freely, a feeling of warmth and lightness. Most often, this would happen on days when the sun wouldn't shine as brightly as it would in July, but to Marius, it felt as if summer had come already, for his shoulders lost their tenseness and his tears dissipated. It was in those moments where Marius could feel his friends surrounding him, reminding him that despite their physical absence, Les Amis de l'ABC still remained in memory, in the ideas that they shared. And that gave Marius comfort.
As Cosette would watch her husband from the window, through heavy curtains that kept out the chill, she could see those moments where he looked as he had before the barricade, when he was a young man who believed in a greater good. In those moments, Marius was once more the man who had been captivated with her while they saw one another in the Tuileries. He was once more the man who thought that she had been named Ursula. He was once more the man who had written of his love for her, even when a move to Calais was on the horizon.
Marius would still be wracked with sobs around the anniversary of the barricade, and it was then that it would grow increasingly difficult for Cosette to stand by and just watch from the window, but the two of them were on their way to healing. It would be less often that Marius would visit the young flower-seller by the Corinthe to purchase a white tulip to place onto his memorial. More often than not, now, the grass would solely be green without any other flora marring it. Marius would eventually grow to stop visiting the gardens every morning and soon his bedroom would no longer be a place for silent tears in the loneliest hours of the morning.
His physical scars long turned white and thin and barely noticeable, Marius could feel his emotional scars begin to heal over the more the days passed. Cosette, too, upon spending more time with her husband, felt her sorrows and her fears lessen. Both of the Pontmercies still had their troubles, but as the irises that mysteriously bloomed one spring day on the burial mound showed, there was hope for tomorrow and the next day.
Note: according to a quick internet search, white tulips mean forgiveness, while irises are both a symbol of France and a flower that means hope. Please forgive any errors and let me know if there are any unclear parts of this story. I'm writing this quite early in the morning and normally am asleep long before that.