Valjean and Cosette

by SunnyBunny99

UPDATED & COMPLETE. A series of sweet and memorable moments spanning Cosette and Valjean's lives together. Please R&R!

Valjean & Cosette

(Author's Foreword: Hello, dear readers! Welcome to my world; I hope you enjoy these snippets I dreamed up. I took most of my inspiration from the ever-amazing Ramin Karimloo, who wrapped up his Broadway run as Jean Valjean just last year. I loved Vlogger 24601, and you'll find that several of these stories contain heavy hints of his shenanigans. Of course, I physically imagine my Jean Valjean to look like him, and my Cosette as the lovely Samantha Hill. Fantine…I don't really care; you can take whatever liberties you like to put a face on her. )

Anywhoodle, please read, review and favorite if you enjoyed my insanity! Thanks so much!

Ever yours,

SunnyBunny99

(P.S. I own nothing.)

Christmas

On the morning of Christmas Day, Jean Valjean perceived two things: the persistent nudging of a tiny finger, and the breathless whimper of a small voice brimming with withheld excitement.

"Papa! Papa, wake up! It's Christmas."

Jean Valjean grunted hazily, shifting beneath the covers and feeling his adopted daughter's feather-light body perched on his left hip. The poking finger did not abate, so he shoved back the blankets in a rather unceremonious fashion and twisted his head on the pillow to stare at her with puffy, half-lidded eyes. "What's that you're going on about, Cosette?"

Upon seeing her father's face, even as sleepy and disgruntled as it was at six in the morning, little Cosette smiled. ToValjean, it resembled the sun rolling out from behind a cloud. Although he was far too austere a man to admit it, he found small children quite delightful. And then, adding to that natural wonder the fact that this particular smiling little one was his own, that grin was the only thing Jean Valjean needed to get him up in the morning.

"Oh, Papa," she giggled, "surely you haven't forgotten!"

Furrowing his thick dark brows, Valjean frowned at her. "What is it that I am not to have forgotten?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Cosette threw back her golden head and laughed. "It's Christmas Day!" she trilled happily, kneading the thick quilt coverlet in her fists just as a kitten kneads cloth in its claws.

"Is it so?" Her father sat up in the bed, his deep brown eyes brightening. "Tell me, child; has Father Christmas been good to you this year and brought lots of presents?"

Cosette blinked owlishly at him. "I have not seen yet, Papa."

"Well then, go and check!" he ordered laughingly, gently nudging her off of the bed even as she scooted over the edge and pattered out of the bedroom and down the corridor. He sat for a long moment, eyes bright, still as a living statue and listening intently. Then he heard it, the all-too-familiar sound which met his ears each year without fail—Cosette's joyful squeal as she beheld the seemingly enormous pile of gifts beneath the tree. Jean Valjean smiled to himself, but quickly replaced it with a blank, slightly curious expression as his daughter rushed back into the room.

"Oh yes, Papa! He has been good again this year!"

"Of course he has; you have been a very good girl," he said with a small smile. "Now, run along and wait for me. I will be out in a moment."

The girl scampered out and slowly Jean Valjean rose. He shut the door and changed from his nightclothes into his usual day attire—dark trousers with a loose, crisp white shirt and silk waistcoat. Moving to the bathroom, he filled the washbasin and then set about scrubbing his face and hands. Gazing into the mirror, he found that both were beginning to reveal signs of age. The former, of course, was more easily examined than the other, with a light sprinkling of pale hairs about his temples and in his whiskers; he grimaced at the ever-deepening lines fringing the corners of his eyes.

Now he turned his attention to his hands. They were big and broad, with rather short, thick fingers crested by nails which were a bit ragged at the edges, due to the secret nibblings he gave them in the privacy of his office. Upon flipping his hands over, he saw that the follicles on their backs were dark and wiry, and Jean Valjean idly wondered why women took to men with such verve, what with mature males being such hair-covered beasts as they were. He turned his hands over once more to stare at his palms, their wide expanse heavily ridged with calluses and punctuated by scars. His younger years had ensured that those layers of nerveless dead flesh stay there, rubbed into existence by the rough wood of ship's oars and chains even as the brand on his chest had been seared there by Javert's white-hot iron.

Jean Valjean shuddered upon recollection of the taboo name and his hand instinctively crept to his chest, where the criminal's brand lingered just beneath his collarbone. A small voice muffled by the wood of his bedroom door made him flinch: "Papa? Are you there?"

"Yes, Cosette!" Jean Valjean called loudly, buttoning up his shirt over the mark. "I'll be right out." He skimmed an ivory comb through his shag of graying hair and self-consciously caressed the stubble on his cheeks, but he ended up momentarily putting aside that particular bother. Cosette was already waiting patiently outside for him; making her stand for another fifteen minutes while he shaved would be nothing but rude.

He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, nearly stumbling over Cosette. She clapped her hands and bounced up and down as he emerged and then bolted off into the living-room, far too impatient to stroll along with her father's more languid pace. The crows' feet at the corners of his eyes deepened to see her quivering with spasms of adrenaline-laced anticipation, knelt beneath the massive pine tree they had so carefully chosen together.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to open your presents now, won't you?" he grunted airily, sitting down on the floor beside her. She nodded eagerly and he nodded toward the heap of gifts. "Well, go ahead then."

The first one was a beautiful porcelain doll, much like the one other she had gotten when Jean Valjean had rescued her from the Thernardiers. Not minding that she had another one sitting on her bed, she gasped in joyous rapture and clutched it close. Present after present was torn open, each one's unveiling received with the unspoiled delight of a young spirit. The doll, a teddy bear with a muslin bow around its neck, a set of picture books and a couple of dresses were soon added to Cosette's collection of playthings and garments.

At last, having finally emptied her stocking hanging over the hearth and contentedly gnawing on a piece of chocolate, the girl wiped her mouth and looked wonderingly up at her adopted father. "Papa, why is it that Father Christmas does not visit grownups?" she queried solemnly.

Jean Valjean froze. Having never been put on the spot between the delicate balance of reality and a child's innocent beliefs, the grizzled ex-thief was stumped. Chewing his lower lip, he adopted an expression of thoughtful intensity. "I…I suppose that grownups have done more naughty deeds in their lifetime, whereas a young person has had less time to do wrong. The older a person gets and the more wrongdoings they commit, the less Father Christmas rewards them."

Cosette mulled this over with quietness rather unlike her usual self. "That makes very good sense," she concluded. "Thank you, Papa. I shall try to be good through my entire life, so Father Christmas always gives me the same number of presents."

She beamed up at Jean Valjean and he smiled back, a little guiltily. "Your plan is an excellent one, my darling girl. I trust that you shall never cease to be good." Leaning over, he cupped his daughter's tiny face in his large, rough hands and kissed her very softly on the forehead.

Garden

(Author's Note: The first shadows from Vlogger 24601, starring Robyn the Plant. Ramin loves his plant, and coincidentally so does JVJ in the book. So….)

The spring breeze felt like heaven personified. Jean Valjean straightened up and dusted the dirt from his hands, gazing around at the French countryside in contented wonder. The cloudless sky was pale azure, the lush green grass thick and springy beneath his boots. May had indeed countered April's heavy rains with its flowers, turning his once-pitiful start of a garden into a jungle of vibrant rainbow hues. Smiling with self-satisfaction, Jean Valjean bent down to take a closer look at his azaleas and gave an indignant yelp as someone slapped him hard on the rear end.

To his horror, he turned and saw his twelve-year-old daughter standing there, giggling madly. "Cosette!" he exclaimed in mortification. "It is not at all proper for a young lady to…" here he faltered and stammered in an attempt to find a word, "…to…strike someone—much less a man thirty years your elder—in such a manner!"

"Sorry, Papa," she sniggered, but he could tell she was not repentant in the slightest.

Face still flushed, her adopted father shook his head. "Mon Dieu, child; what have you learned these past five years, hmm? Am I not to maintain a respectable air as mayor of town?"

"Of course you are, but is there no time for leisure and fun?" Cosette countered. "You are on leave from your mayoral duties for the week; there's no one around for miles!" She brushed her hair from her face and stared at him with a smug, slit-eyed expression which bespoke pure mischief. "Come along and play with me awhile!"

Unhappily Jean Valjean looked back at his flower patch. "Cosette, can't you see that I'm busy tending my garden?" He shook his head slightly and knelt in the midst of the blooms. "I will play with you later, I promise, but for now I must do this."

He could not see his daughter's face, but it was easy to tell by the thick silence which followed that she was not pleased. "Very well, Papa," she said quietly. She came over to his side and, to his surprise, knelt beside him. "I will help you with your garden, then."

"Why thank you," Valjean stammered, quite taken aback by her sudden willingness to aid him in a chore which most children would find boring and arduous.

The girl did not reply, but instead cast her eyes around the plot of vegetation. "You have a lot of flowers," she said. "Do you know what they are?"

The older man smiled—the subject which she now breached was a particular favorite of his. "Not all of them are flowers—I have fruits and vegetables as well, but of course I can tell you what these are." He took a deep breath and launched into a well-versed speech concerning her area of inquiry. "These, over here on the left side, are my domestic flowers. I grow azaleas, poppies, roses, and those big tall ones with the yellow petals and black seeds in the middle are sunflowers. On the right side are herbs of the medicinal sort—milkweed, nettle plant, aloe, marsh mallow, burdock root, and marigold."

Here he stopped, realizing that he should not spill so much information onto her at once; a simple conversation could easily turn into a one-sided lecture. But when he looked over, Cosette was peering interestedly at the herbaceous mass. "You are very wise in this, Papa," she murmured. Jean Valjean caught an undertone of reverence in these words, and, having always been a modest man, he simply ducked his head.

"I have been studying fauna for many years," he replied evenly.

Cosette gave a tiny nod. "Does it require much work?"

"At times, I fear so," her father rumbled, getting to his feet and brushing mulch from his trousers. "Watering and weeding—one must always weed with the utmost caution; many varieties of nettle can appear deceptively similar to an unwanted weed."

"May I help you weed?" Cosette asked, tipping her head to the side.

This request elicited an amused chuckle. "My darling, you may help me weed whenever you like. But I must warn you that it is not an easy or tidy task." He blinked down at her, pulling his mouth into a one-sided frown of sorts. "That dress is far too good for you to be wearing while helping me out here. Go get changed into a spare one." Cosette obediently dashed off at top speed towards the cottage. Jean Valjean sighed and moved carefully into the garden, looking all around him to ensure that none of his precious plants were trodden upon. He was crouched next to the rosebushes when Cosette reappeared clad in a slightly smaller, more faded dress, bright-eyed and panting happily.

"Hello, Papa! May I help you now?"

"Of course," he laughed, beckoning her to his side. "Look at these roses…aren't they beautiful?" He gently brushed a finger over one, savoring the damp velvety softness of its delicately curled petals. "These are a hearty specimen and therefore in popular demand…they usually bloom from mid-spring to fall."

Cosette leaned forward, burying her nose in the conical folds that the petals created. "And they smell nice, too," she chirruped upon sitting back.

"They do indeed," Jean Valjean agreed, inclining his head to take a slightly more graceful whiff of the rose's delicate scent. "Now, about that weeding…" He explained to her the process of determining a weed from a plant and showed her the way to properly uproot, grasping firmly by the base and pulling hard. A few times they were too tough for her to pull herself and so he aided her, wrapping the stem round his hand and easily yanking it clear of the earth with a practiced tug.

Around midday they paused in their toil. Valjean rolled up his shirtsleeves a bit more and wiped the dampness from his brow before turning his eyes toward Cosette. His daughter was standing beside him with dirt-caked hands on hips, streaks of soil marking her face where she had rubbed off sweat. Her hair was now a tangled golden mess, and the man was reminded of the frosty night that he had rescued her from the swindling Thernardiers. She had been this filthy when they had first met in the forest by the well.

"You have done a fine job," said Jean Valjean.

"Thank you," the girl responded. "I have always been taught a good work ethic."

Her guardian made no response to this. "You must be hungry," said he. "Go inside and eat some lunch."

Cosette turned to go and he faced his broad back to her, already mulling over the predicament of his azaleas. But it was a moment later that he felt yet another punishing smack to his posterior and, simultaneously, a cascade of water thrown over his head. He was not at all a type of man to be easily confounded, but now he sputtered like an angry, broken steam locomotive. Cosette simply stood before him laughing, holding the empty watering can, the contents of which Jean Valjean had intended to use for his garden.

In a matter of moments the old convict had regained his wits about him. Cosette realized this and, seeing the buildup of rage darkening her adopted father's well-tanned face, promptly dropped the can and took off running across the lawn.

This, of course, was a terrible mistake.

In all his fifty years, Jean Valjean had spent a good twenty of them running—literally and figuratively. Now, spurred by the heat of indignity, he thundered after the fleeing Cosette, gaining ground easily with powerful galloping strides. Within five seconds he was breathing down her neck. Ten seconds after the whole ordeal had taken place Cosette found herself wrapped in the iron-tight vice grip of a soaked and infuriated giant. Scooping the yowling, pleading girl up, Jean Valjean tucked her securely under one arm and set off towards the house to prepare their lunch.

Supper

Rain drummed steadily against the windowpanes of the cozy flat. Cosette flounced round the dining room table, setting down plates and silverware with a flourish. The candlelight wavered on her face, highlighting her delicate, youthful features in its warm, flickering glow. The girl hummed softly to herself as she studied the intricately painted details of one of the china plates.

Suddenly the front door flew open with a juddering bang. Cosette leapt and loosed a startled screech as she beheld a terrible figure in the doorway. Its sloped shoulders were so broad they seemed to blot out the stormy night beyond, and a shaggy mane of coarse hair fell around its shadowed face. The beast opened wide its mouth, displaying gleaming white teeth. Cosette, stricken breathless with fear, fell back against the table.

"Cosette? Why do you stare at me so? Am I not the one you were expecting?" The voice which issued from the maw of the "beast," even low and gravelly as it was, brought a rush of sweet relief so intense that the young woman nearly collapsed in its arms.

"Oh, Papa!" she whimpered, "Don't frighten me so!"

Jean Valjean, although slightly befuddled by this display, laid a large, calloused hand upon his adopted daughter's golden head and stroked it with measured fondness. "I apologize if I frightened you," said he in a quiet tone. "I certainly had no ill intent."

"Of course you didn't." Cosette pulled back and gazed steadily at him. "After all, you are the goodman Father Madeline."

Jean Valjean chuckled and blushed humbly. He was not a sort to take praise lightly, so the loads of it which Cosette heaped upon him were received with much hemming and hawing. "Are you cold?" Cosette queried, her eyes drifting toward the water-spattered windows.

"Quite…that rain bites an old body to the bone," Valjean replied, removing his hat and hanging it on the pegs by the door. Cosette set to work unfastening the buttons of his damp woolen pea coat and finally its wearer shouldered it off and hung it up as well. His daughter said nothing else but turned away and moved to the fireplace, where she bent and began to prod at the dull crimson embers with a poker.

"I had a fire going earlier…drat, it's gone out."

Valjean gently relieved her of the poker. "Don't fret over it, my dear. Go finish what you were doing before—I'll watch after the fire." Cosette went away to the kitchen and the old man sat before the hearth, methodically stirring the ash and blowing on the coals. Within a few minutes he had revived the fire, and its crackling light filled the little flat with heat. Jean Valjean sat back, staring pleasantly into the flames.

A frustrated sigh emanated from the kitchen and Cosette returned. "Blast it all, I simply cannot think of what to make for supper!" she exclaimed.

"Firstly, it is not at all proper for a young lady to give such harsh exclamations," Jean Valjean corrected mildly, his eyes never leaving the fire's hypnotic wavering. "Secondly…allow me to help you." Slowly he got up and, ignoring the young woman's faltering arguments, made his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was a plain affair, with a well-stocked larder and shelves lined with various goods. An assortment of dried herbs and fruits hung on lengths of twine from the rafters of the ceiling. The trapdoor to the cellar was next to the larder, its rusted iron loop strikingly visible against the highly-waxed golden-brown floorboards, but it had no use to them right now. Cosette knew that the only things kept in the cellar were kegs of her father's fine wines, which he himself only tapped once in a blue moon. Had he enjoyed hosting parties there was no doubt that the cellar would have been frequented quite a bit, but Monsieur le Mayor was likely the quietest and most introverted soul in the whole town.

Cosette watched as he paced the room, musing softly to himself. "Hmm...it's cold outside, so something savory...a stew, perhaps...yes, I believe that would quite do the trick." With a snap of his fingers he spun back towards her. "Cosette, darling, fetch a clutch of russet potatoes, a bunch of carrots, celery and a side of beef, would you?" Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his thoughts as she scampered around the room, collecting the items he requested. "Thyme, black pepper, a dash of sea salt and sage would garnish it quite nicely...a clove or two of garlic..." He rubbed his hands together in obvious delight, his eyes having taken up the old glint of inspiration that Cosette hadn't seen in ages.

She brought him his things and tried to take over, saying, "Papa, go rest. You've been working hard all day; besides, it's a woman's job to prepare food."

Her father whirled around so fast that it startled her. But what startled her even more was the look of indignity he bore as he gazed down at her. "For seventeen years, excepting those when you were too young, you have always made supper for me. Now, I shall return the favor in kind." His umber eyes narrowed slightly. "You go sit." The hardness of his rumbling voice brooked no argument.

Slightly shaken, Cosette did as asked and retreated to the living-room, where she sat in his favorite armchair. The overstuffed cushion was worn down by the repetitive comings and goings of its usual occupant, and the young woman fancied that if she pressed her nose to the wings of the chair she could even faintly smell his earthy cologne. After some time she grew bored of staring at the flames in the hearth, so she rose and fetched a favorite novel of hers—the Hound of the Baskervilles.

She was soon absorbed so deeply in the world of the English detective that she failed to notice the progress her father was making in the kitchen—his wavering shadow bobbed hither and thither on the walls, and eventually thick curls of silvery steam began to waft out, preceded by a quite glorious smell. But after a while, Cosette tipped her head to the side and furrowed her brow, hearing something that she had not been privy to for a good long time.

Rising to her feet, she marked her place in the book and stole quietly across the room to hover on the threshold of the kitchen. Valjean stood before a steaming pot with his back to her, his shoulders working methodically as he sliced vegetables. But what had caught his daughter's attention was the fact that he was humming. It brought a smile to her face to see him in such contentment. He had a fine voice, too, she noted; powerful and raw, sweeping down into the rich bass notes and then promptly soaring back up to spiral into a smooth, pure falsetto.

Cosette stood there for the longest time without his noticing until he dipped a spoon in to the pot and tasted it gingerly, then nodded to himself and ladled it into two bowls. Turning around, he gave a visible start to see Cosette peeking at him. "Oh! Cosette…how long have you been there?"

"Long enough," she responded. "You have a wonderful singing voice, you know."

Valjean blushed, ducked his head and gave it a little shake. "Ah, it's nothing. But enough of that now….dinner is ready." He held the bowl of stew out to her; she took it and together they moved to the dining-room. He said the grace and they began to eat; Cosette took the first bite and gasped loudly.

The older man looked up sharply, eyes wide. "What? Was it too hot?"

Cosette laughed. "No, Papa! I was going to say…it's wonderful! I don't think I've ever tasted anything this good!"

"Oh." He looked relieved. "Well…I don't have much experience in the culinary arts, so I'm just very glad that you didn't gag and fall out of your chair."

Giggling, Cosette fished a piece of beef out of her bowl and threw it at him.

Dancing

Jean Valjean folded his newspaper, took his pipe out of his mouth and extinguished it. Glancing up at the grandfather clock, he could see that he had lost track of time—it was a quarter to twelve; he usually retired at half-past eleven. Grunting in dissatisfaction, he heaved himself out of his armchair and shuffled towards the stairs.

"One, two, three, one…one, two, three…ugh!"

Valjean stopped, curious as to what could be the cause of Cosette's irritation. Turning, he traced his steps back to the living-room, where she had just entered and was spinning slowly in circles with her arms extended in front of her. Catching sight of him, his daughter sucked in a startled breath and dropped her hands down to her sides, a blush staining brightly on her fair cheeks. "Papa!"

"Cosette," Valjean replied. "May I inquire as to what you are attempting?"

The intensity of the blush grew; the young woman absentmindedly brushed a cheek with her fingertips. "Oh, nothing really…just…a little something I've been thinking about, you know…" She gnawed on her lip and fidgeted, not meeting his eyes.

"Dancing," he said quietly. Cosette nodded meekly, and he cleared his throat. "Well, any modern lady in France knows how to dance. So," he continued, rolling up his sleeves and stepping forward, "I see no reason why I should not teach you."

"Wh-what? You mean, right now?"

"Of course! No one learns to dance by practicing alone; come here and take my hands." Looking slightly startled, Cosette obeyed, her delicate hands engulfed by his rough ones. "Alright. Now, for proper ballroom dancing, this is how you stand. With your right hand, you hold your partner's at shoulder level, like so…" here he demonstrated, "…and the lady places her left on the gentleman's shoulder while he keeps his on either the small of her back, or her hip." Gently he pressed his palm to Cosette's lower back. "Relax a bit, darling, you're stiff as a ramrod. No man wants to dance with a board of wood."

Smiling a bit at his humor, Cosette loosened up and Valjean nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, when dancing, the gentleman always leads. If he steps forward, the lady steps back, as is vice versa; to the side, she follows. Try it now with me."

He stepped off and Cosette carefully followed his lead, and he was greatly surprised at how adept she was. She was light and graceful, truly the lark and rose he found her as. He slowed their easy waltzing even further and said, "Now, let me spin you."

He spun her once, and she whirled back into him with a delighted smile on her face. "Oh, oh, do it again!" So he obeyed, stepping back and twirling her 'round and 'round and 'round until she was a blur of muted color and bright laughter. She then let go of his hand and spun on her own, arms outstretched and skirt flying, face tilted back with eyes alight in joy. She spun in a circle around him as he stood and watched her, then, thoroughly dizzy, stumbled and collapsed in a rumpled heap in his armchair. "Whew!" she puffed, giggling between heavy breaths, "that's quite a lot of fun!"

"I find it even more entertaining to watch you," said Valjean, smiling warmly down at her. "You are excellent—I can teach you no more than you already know."

Once having regained her breath, Cosette stood up and went over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and gazing up at him with adoring eyes. "That was lovely, Papa," she said. "Thank you for dancing with me."

"I shall dance with you whenever you like, dearest," he replied, bending down to brush her forehead with his lips.

"Only whenever?" Cosette looked disappointed—whether at the comment or the chaste kiss, he could not tell. "What about whenever and a little more often than that?"

Chuckling, Valjean poked her nose playfully. "Your wish is my command."

"How long should we dance for, then? I mean, when we do."

"Darling, I would gladly dance with you for forever and a day," said Jean Valjean, nuzzling his face into her silken gold hair, and as he felt her arms cinch tighter around him, he knew that it could not be truer.

Storm

For the seventh time in his life, Jean Valjean was running.

He didn't know where he was, nor did he care. All he knew—he was being chased, and he must get away.

The streets were dark, the rain pouring from the inky skies above and spattering on the eerily-gleaming cobblestones as Valjean sloshed heedlessly through. The cries of his pursuers rang out behind him; faint, but wavering in volume, sometimes seemingly just around a corner, making him gasp and skid and stumble; other times, farther away so that he sped up even more to put more distance between them.

Overhead, lightning slashed at the angry clouds, backlighting their roiling grey masses in blinding flashes like camera stills of Mother Nature's wrath. The rain continued to come down unabated—the fugitive could feel his woolen socks soaked through already.

Valjean whipped around a corner, felt his legs fly out from under him as he slipped in a puddle and hurtled to the ground. Gritting his teeth fiercely against the pain of his jarred bones and scraped skin, he quickly rolled over onto his belly and crawled back up to his feet to resume his flight, now at a swift limp. Once or twice he nearly stopped, but instantly beat the thought far, far from his mutinous mind; no, he had to keep going, he couldn't allow himself to be caught, there was no room for weakness now…if he were caught, they would kill him…images of various tortures seared before his bloodshot eyes, chilling his pounding blood and spurring him into a full-out sprint again.

His hair was soaked with rain, the moisture dripping from the snowy shag and streaming in hot rivulets down his face. The rolling snarl of thunder drowned out his labored gasps for air as he ran on, adrenaline burning through his body—

"Gotcha!"

The dark figure leapt out from behind a corner, and with a strangled yell Valjean collided with him. No, no, no…he couldn't; this couldn't be happening, not again, not after all he'd done…been through, they'd kill him, they'd kill everyone, they'd flay him with the cat until his skin was in ribbons, crank him in the rack 'til his joints popped—

"No!" he gasped wildly, shoving up at the shadowy form. "I can't go back, I can't, I won't—!"

"Papa, what are you doing? Stop!" His attacker grabbed his wrists with surprisingly small, cool hands; he wrenched away. "Papa, wake up! You're having a nightmare!"

"A night—! Nightmare…?" the old man sputtered, blinking hard and feeling his eyes burn as sweat dripped into them. He reached up and swiped the back of his hand across his brow, then ran his palm down his face and looked up.

He was in his darkened bedroom. The small window next to his bedside was open, the sheer lace curtains rippling in the rainy wind of the storm outside. Valjean's tired eyes slid from the window to the foot of his bed, where his daughter crouched. "Cosette," he mumbled, still a bit disoriented.

"Papa," she whispered in reply, stretching out a delicate hand to gently brush aside his wet bangs. "Are you alright? You were having a nightmare." She gazed intently at him, her smooth forehead creased with concern.

Her father's dark brown irises were still clouded as he blinked slowly. "Everyone has bad dreams, dearest one," he murmured, his voice rusty with sleep. "No need to fret over me."

"Oh, but I do! You know that," Cosette protested. "You act so indifferent when I show how I care for you, but then you seem so lonely otherwise."

"Your boy Marius—is he indifferent? No, of course he is not," Valjean remarked bitterly. "He is a young stag, full of enigma and vim; not at all like an old man whose best times are spent poring over a garden, whose bones ache with the spring rains."

Catching the gall in his tone, Cosette sighed deeply. "But that same old man whose bones ache with the rains is also the only one who truly takes the time to note the beauty and peace of nature—he taught his young daughter to appreciate every flowering bud, every green blade of grass—" her eyes drifted to the open window—"every raging storm." She rose and extended a hand toward him. "Come, Papa, take a turn with me."

"Outside?" Valjean stammered incredulously.

"Yes, outside," the young woman responded with a patient little smile. "Come on, it will do you a world of good."

Valjean obediently threw aside his covers to take Cosette's hand and let her lead him outdoors, into the garden. The rosebushes were a shapeless mass against the bruised gray-green-blue night sky, the precipitation slapping hard against the leaves of his carefully-trimmed bushes. Valjean tipped back his head and parted his lips, sighing blissfully as the cool rain hit his face to wash away the film of clammy sweat and, with it, the lingering phantoms of his nightmares.

Looking on beside him, his daughter smiled. "See, I told you."

"I never said I didn't think it would," her father said cheekily, rubbing his bare feet in the cold, sopping grass. "Sometimes, a storm is just what you need to rid yourself of the ones deep inside you."

"You are one of the wisest men I know," Cosette told him.

"I've tried to be the only man you know, but that it seems that Monsieur Pontmercy foiled my plans on that case," Valjean snipped, giving her hand a light squeeze to let her know he was teasing.

Cosette laughed and suddenly whirled to face him, putting her hand on his shoulder and taking his other. "Dance with me, Papa."

Silently Valjean laced the fingers of his right hand with hers, placing his left on the small of her back. The rolling thunder and pattering rain served as their orchestra as he began to lead her in a slow waltz, the throbbing timpani of the thunderclaps reverberating through their very beings as, above them, the sky opened its heavy gray eyes and wept.

Snow Day

(Author's Note: Canada Canada Hockey Ice Moose Maple Syrup Beer and Ramin Karimloo.)

"He should be here by now," Cosette frowned unhappily, straining to peer out the frosted window.

"I do hope he's been run over by a carriage," Jean Valjean grumbled under his breath, glaring at his newspaper from where he sat at the dining room table.

"Pardon?" Cosette turned to look at him, arching a brow.

"I said I do hope he comes over in a carriage," Valjean said coolly, still not looking up. Cosette sighed in frustration and resumed her studious watching, scooting up to perch on the windowsill. "So, tell me…what are you and Monsieur Pontmercy planning to do this fine afternoon?" her father asked casually.

"Oh, you know, just a little game of spin-the-bottle," she replied in an equally nonchalant tone. "Perhaps a wrestling match, too."

Valjean looked thoroughly nonplussed, but said nothing; a half-second later he flinched as Cosette gave an earsplitting squeal. "He's here! Oh, he's here, he's here!" Leaping up, she raced to the front door and flung it open. "Marius! There you are!"

The tall and gangly young man crossed over the threshold, stomping snow from his boots and shaking it from his dark, fluffy hair. He grinned happily at Cosette, turning his eyes into squinting half-moons, and then looked over at Valjean, still seated stolidly in his armchair. "Hello, Cosette…good afternoon, Monsieur le Mayor." Reaching up, he removed his top hat with a flourish and bowed slightly at the waist.

The white-haired man gave him a scathingly dismissive once-over, frost practically spitting from his usually warm brown eyes. "And to you as well, Monsieur Pontmercy," he said quietly and coldly. Oh, how he hated that boy—just looking at him threatened to turn his stomach; the doting way Cosette beamed up at him like he was some sort of prize racehorse, that giant, idiotic grin which never left his face, the fact that he even owned a top hat, which was a somewhat honored mark of lofty social status. Only older men should be allowed to wear top hats, Valjean thought grumpily.

"Papa, Marius and I are going ice-skating," Cosette crowed, already bustling back into the room with a set of skates dangling from each hand. "Down at the pond—you do know where that is, don't you?"

"I'm not that old and daft, child," her father snapped, throwing her a biting glance over the top of his newspaper. "Not yet, anyhow." He immediately regretted his sharp words as he saw Cosette's expression of hurt. Biting his lip and silently scolding himself, he lowered the paper and sighed. "I mean…yes. Yes, I know where the pond is. You two go enjoy yourselves…and be careful," he added, glancing a tad darkly over at Marius.

"Of course, Monsieur," Marius nodded politely, tipping his hat once more and tugging on his scarf. "Come on, Cosette—let's go." Taking his set of skates from her, he went out and she followed closely. Valjean watched them like a hawk through the lace curtains, and even through the closed window he heard her bell-like laughter ringing out in the cold, thin air.

As he settled back, he told himself that he would leave them be. Let them have some fun—after all, he quite possibly kept the tightest reins on his daughter of any father in all of Paris. Cosette needed to get out, go and take a turn…

…with a boy…

….unprotected…

…unsupervised…

Valjean's left eye twitched and he leapt up, spilling his newspaper into the smoldering ashes of the fire as he did so. As it caught and burned into a withered black crisp he threw on his thick woolen coat, looped his mayoral scarf snugly round his neck and pulled on his top hat—his well-earned top hat. A pair of gloves and knee-high boots finished his winter attire and he ran to his bedroom, rooted around in his closet, and emerged triumphant with his own pair of ice skates. Breathless, he practically bolted out the door, flying like a runaway locomotive as he hurtled after Marius and Cosette.

He found them already out on the frozen pond, laughing as they tottered and wobbled unsteadily around over the snow-dusted surface. They looked up as he approached; Cosette's face fell and a spark of reproach flashed in her eyes. "Oh look, my father's come to join the game," she muttered to Marius. "Here to chaperone, are you?" she called out to Valjean.

"If I must," replied Valjean airily, clearing out a snow-free patch to sit down in to tie his laces.

"Be careful, Papa," she said, smiling sadistically. "Old bones break more easily, especially the tailbone—we wouldn't want you getting hurt while creaking around on the ice."

"Creaking around?" Stung, Jean Valjean got to his feet, windmilling his arms slightly for balance on the slender skate blades. "Oh, child, you really don't know me, do you?" He took a few unsteady steps down to the water's edge and stared unblinkingly out at the young couple in the middle of the pond. "Others may, as you say, "creak around," but certainly not me!" His eyes flicked over to meet Cosette's and darkened as his thick brows crouched. She felt a chill as a thin, knowing smile touched her father's lips and he stepped out onto the ice. "Let me show you how skating is done, eh?"

In all her years, Cosette had never seen anyone—much less her seemingly-mild-mannered father—move so fast. As soon as his skates touched the ice he found his balance and seemed to be filled with a sort of empowerment, lunging forward so suddenly that both Marius and Cosette gave a startled cry and staggered back with the fear that he would ram right into them. Cosette fell heavily on her rear and sprawled there, watching in wonder as Jean Valjean leapt lightly over her and glided away in a smooth, effortless curve with his hands clasped behind his back.

Marius, also confounded, scooted over to her. "Did you know he could skate like that?"

"No," she whispered back, her eyes glued to her father as he flew over the ice, skates flashing almost as dazzlingly as his teeth in the sunlight as he gave them a big and very smug smile upon whizzing by.

"Ah, children, children!" he tut-tutted, making a beautifully tight twirling about-face and drifting over to a neat stop in front of them. "It is now that you must learn a crucial life lesson…never underestimate a French Canadian's skating abilities."

"P-Papa, I never…I never knew you could skate like that," Cosette stammered, pushing back her windblown hair. "Or, at least, I don't remember it."

"You were little then, and just learning," Jean Valjean reminded her. "I had to hold your hand to keep you up; there was no time for me to do fancy maneuvers like this. Ah—but now, you are independent and a quite adept skater, I might add," he said. He extended his gloved hands toward her. "Would you care for a turn about the lake, my dear?"

Giggling breathlessly, his daughter took his hands and allowed him to pull her up with startling ease. "I would indeed like that very much, Papa."

Marius could only watch helplessly as the two skated away together, their paces in perfect tandem and their blades leaving parallel lines behind them. Valjean released Cosette's hands and surged ahead of her, his long, powerful strides churning up the sparse snow before he suddenly whipped around and began to skate backwards. He first pulled a menagerie of silly faces at Cosette, who gasped in playful indignation and giggled at his antics, and then went on one leg and began to spin so fast that he became a multicolored blur.

Cosette slid to a stop beside Marius and clapped enthusiastically as Valjean stopped his spinning, making a show of exaggerated stumbling and staggering across the ice. "Well done, Papa!" she exclaimed, going over and clasping his gloved hands in her mittened ones.

"Well done indeed, sir," Marius agreed, joining her. "I couldn't touch your level of expertise even if I tried."

"It's all in the Canadian blood," the older man said dismissively, brushing snow off of his coat sleeve. "But no, I don't think you could be as good as me if you tried either."

"Papa!" Cosette exclaimed in mortification, jabbing him in the ribs with an elbow.

"What?" Jean Valjean exclaimed innocently. "I was simply agreeing with our dear Marius."

Unruffled, Marius laughed lightly, shaking snowflakes from his hair. "Truer words were never spoken, monsieur. Say, the cold's leaking through a bit—do you think we could head back to the house?"

"Oh, and have hot chocolate!" Cosette exclaimed, clapping her hands to her cold-flushed cheeks. "Please, Papa, can we have hot chocolate?" she pleaded, turning to him and yanking on his arm like a small child. "Please please please please please?"

"Darling, you've said the magic word six times already!" Jean Valjean laughed, shaking her off. "And I never said you couldn't in the first place."

"And," Cosette added, "you know that you couldn't deny me anything even if you tried."

"To quote Marius…" Jean Valjean said, "truer words were never spoken."

Slumber Parties and Scares

(Author's Note: This, of course, is another inspiration from Vlogger 24601, where Ramin runs around the Imperial Theatre scaring the bajoobles of out everybody with his Cedric mask.)

"Cosette, your new dress is so pretty!" Marie exclaimed as she, Cosette, Antoinette, and Helena sat in the town square. The muggy August afternoon had forced them to give up on even their parasols and seek shelter in the shadow of a streetside café. After all, modern fashion had its drawbacks—one looked slimmer in three layers and a corset more because of the weight lost in sweat rather than the corset itself.

Cosette blushed, but it was lost in the redness of the encroaching sunburns already showing on her cheeks and neck. Soft, pale skin was considered the best for a woman of any good social standing as it displayed the lack of any manual toil out of doors; her father was constantly scolding her on coming home with burnt skin from hour-long walks in the sun with her friends. She bit her lip as she foresaw the obvious lecture that would be waiting for her once she got home. It wouldn't be anywhere near harsh—her father raised his voice only once in a blue moon, and even less often than that was it directed at her—but nonetheless it gave her a thorough guilt trip every time.

"You know, I saw this absolutely ravishing lavender gown on sale down the street a few days ago—" Helena began, but was quickly cut off by Antoinette's frantic hiss:

"Look—it's Cosette's father!"

All four heads swiveled; three of them gasped and ducked down. "He's coming this way—quick, look elegant!" Helena ordered in a voice laden with breathless euphoria.

Cosette nearly laughed aloud, watching her three friends smooth their dresses, adjust their bonnets, arrange their hair and pinch their cheeks. "Really, it's just my father! I don't understand why you all are so…so…utterly smitten with him!" She glanced over at him as he strolled around the curve of the fountain and headed for them. "He's in his mid-fifties; really, lay off!"

"I don't care about his age—just look at him and you'll understand," Marie gushed quietly, eyeing him over the back of her wrought-iron chair.

Cosette looked well and hard, and still she found it ridiculous how they pined. True, her father was relatively tall and admittedly well built, but his hair was as white as fresh snow and the bags under his brown eyes, warm and striking in the bright sunlight though they were, weren't getting any smaller. He may have been a looker in his prime, with those big, fuzzy dark eyebrows and deep dimples, but his daughter hadn't a clue why or how her friends swooned over him so.

Valjean came to a halt by Cosette's chair. "Ladies," he murmured politely, touching the brim of his top hat, "I do hope you will forgive me, but I must fetch Cosette away from you now."

"A pity, to be sure," Marie said, batting her eyelashes furiously. "But we will see her again sometime soon, will we not?"

"Perhaps—it is no matter to me where Cosette goes; she is her own woman now," he replied evenly. Then, he turned to his daughter. "Come now, let's go." The young woman arose and slipped her arm through his, and together they marched off. As soon as the three other girls were out of sight she felt a shudder run through her father's body.

"Papa, I know as well as you that you almost never go out in public in the middle of the day," Cosette said searchingly. "Is there something the matter to merit this behavior?"

"Not at all," Valjean replied. "I simply…wanted to see you again."

"Well then, I am here with you now."

"That you are, my dear, and I am grateful."

That night over their typically quiet dinner, Cosette posed the question to him whether she could have her friends over to spend the night. "For the New Year celebration," she justified quickly. "Just one night, Papa, please! I nearly never get to spend time with them."

Jean Valjean chewed thoughtfully, staring at his plate. Finally he swallowed, dabbed his mouth with the napkin, and said, "I suppose that much is true. Yes, you may invite them over for New Year's Eve."

Cosette thanked him profusely and pecked him quickly on the cheek before dashing upstairs to her room to make and mail the invites. Still seated at the now-vacant table, her father sighed and reached over to pull her only quarter-empty plate over and scrape the contents onto his own to continue eating.

The day of the party came, and all three girls arrived four hours before the scheduled time. Jean Valjean graciously let them pile their petticoats into his arms and hung them up while they giggled and pranced all about him. "Monsieur Jean, you're so very strong!" Antoinette chimed admiringly. "Where on earth did you get such arms?"

"Hard work," Valjean responded in a clipped monotone, not shedding any further light on what sort of hard work he had been involved in. He bristled every time one of the girls called him by his first name—he thought it quite rude to address a friend's parent in such a casual way.

Cosette could see her father becoming more agitated, and quickly intervened to get the simpering, chattering girls away from him. "I have a collection of wonderful perfumes you all would love—come along to my room!"

"Oh yes!" Marie, Antoinette and Helena all squealed at once, and practically trampled poor Cosette in a mad rush to her bedroom. Cosette staggered and exchanged a woeful look with Jean Valjean; he smirked as she finally began to grasp the concept of why he disliked these kinds of people so much. With a small sigh she turned and followed her friends upstairs; the sounds of feminine giggles, gasps and chatter ensued for several hours until darkness fell.

As he sat before the fire that evening, nibbling absentmindedly on the stem of his pipe, Jean Valjean was suddenly hit with one very glorious and incredibly wicked idea. A winter storm had blown in from the North, and the whole flat was being battered with howling wind and sleeting rain. Flashes of lightning illuminated the dim rooms on occasion. Those conditions, combined with the swallowing darkness outside, gave for a quite spooky feel.

It was then that Jean Valjean remembered the visit he had paid to the local theatre shop in town not too long ago—they supplied the traveling fairs and stage companies with supplies as they came in. While arranging an order for several tins of paint to be shipped in, he had wandered about the store. In a corner he had laid eyes on one particularly…interesting mask and immediately been burdened with a horde of mischievous thoughts. Simply for the fun of it, if nothing else, he had gone with the spur of the moment and bought the ridiculous thing.

Now, however, that mask didn't seem too ridiculous.

Snickering to himself like a naughty child, the esteemed mayor of the town got up and stole to his bedroom to rummage around in his closet until he found it. It was a very new type of mask, made of pure rubber instead of crude Paper-Mache, and colored and sculpted to look exactly like a human face…except for the fact that this face had two black gaping holes for eyes and no hair. His giggles getting louder by the second as he thought about what he was about to do, Jean Valjean pulled the mask over his head and adjusted his cravat 'round the neck so that it looked seamless.

Thunder rumbled ominously outside as he tiptoed out of his room and mounted the staircase; the girls were obviously still wide awake, judging by the sounds of mirth drifting out of Cosette's brightly-lit bedroom. Only the man of the house knew about it, but there was a master switch panel cleverly hidden behind the wallpaper at the base of the stairs—it controlled all the lights in the house. This he now opened up and clicked off the switch for the upper bedroom; to his delight, he heard gasps as the power went off. Quietly he closed the panel and ever so stealthily began to climb the stairs.

After living in this house for so long, he knew well which stairs in particular were creaky and which were not. The fifth step tended to be quite loud, and it was this step which a grinning Valjean put his foot on and let his weight shift onto. The expected creak rang out, and it was met with another couplet of gasps from Cosette's room. Moving to the other side of the hall and avoiding the other creaky stairs, Valjean skipped nimbly up and finally slid to a halt right outside his daughter's room.

It was dark in her room, of course, and the girls were huddled together like frightened sheep as lightning lanced, rain pounded and thunder roared outside the window; the setting was ideal. Jean Valjean lifted his foot and brought it down with a bang on the floor, making the girls jump and yelp again. "What was that?" Marie practically cried, trembling.

Cosette, being the bravest of the group, got to her feet. "I'll take a look," she declared stoically. "My father might know."

Oh boy, does he, Jean Valjean thought with a sadistic grin.

Cosette took four steps to the threshold of the bedroom, and that was when Valjean sprang his plan. A huge bolt of lightning ripped across the night sky just as he leapt out, illuminating the grotesque corpse-like face of the mask in blinding white light.

"RRRAAAAAAHHHH!" he bellowed, raising his fists menacingly.

All four girls screamed so loudly he thought his ears might start bleeding; Helena promptly keeled over in a dead faint while the other two scrambled backwards and cowered against the far wall. Cosette stumbled back a few steps, pale as a sheet, and stared at him with her mouth slightly open. Her blue eyes, round as saucers, mirrored her terror. She was paralyzed with fear as he loomed above her, growling like a lion.

Then, suddenly, their presumed to-be murderer stopped, clapped a hand to his chest and started laughing. The girls simply stared as he continued to laugh, eventually so hard that he had to sit down; sobbing with tears of mirth, he pulled the mask from his face and doubled over again, pounding a fist on the floor in sheer joy. "AHAHAHAHA!" he wheezed. "HAHAHAHA…ha-ha….ha-ha-ha! Well….! Oh, goodness!" he sniffed, wiping his eyes and still grinning ear-to-ear. "Oh, good Lord, girls….oh, that was beautiful! Hahaha!"

"P-P-Papa?" Cosette stammered incredulously.

"Yes!" the old man hooted. "You…ha-ha…you surely didn't think I'd let some crazy, ugly old loon come into my house and give you such a fright, did you? Of course not…that is, unless that crazy, ugly old loon was me! HAHAHAHA!"

"Monsieur Jean, you….you're insufferable!" Antoinette exclaimed shakily. "I mean, really, poor Helena has fainted from shock!"

Still sniggering, Jean Valjean got up, swinging the mask in his hand. "Terribly sorry about that," he said, although the really wasn't sorry in the least. "I'll go fetch some smelling salts."

"I'll go with you," offered Cosette. She hurried after him, and as they descended the stairs she hissed in his ear, "What was that for?"

"For fun, what else?" responded her father lightly. "Oh Lord, did you see the looks on their faces?"

Cosette was silent for a moment and he thought she might start chiding him, but instead a little smile played 'round her lips. "Yes," she admitted. "Yes, I suppose that was quite genius of you, really." She nudged him in the side with an elbow and leaned in to whisper, "I think Marie might have wet herself!"

Jean Valjean snorted, and then fell into a fit of giggles again.

Cosette continued, "But one thing is for certain—they won't be coming back here again!"

It was then that the old convict decided that he should be mischievous much more often.

No Smoking

"Ahh, finally," Jean Valjean sighed as he settled back into his comfy armchair with his evening newspaper in hand. A nasty winter storm was raging outside, but in the cozy little flat he shared with Cosette, he presumed that nothing could be better. He shifted, grunting slightly as his body adjusted itself according to his position. Simply moving was becoming increasingly difficult this time of year, as the winter wind bit clean through all his layers and frosted up his bones and joints during his daily treks through town to his office and back again. His growing age was also a factor, but he tried to push those nagging thoughts away as often as he could.

Clearing his mind of shallow, momentary worries, Valjean propped the paper on his knee and reached for his tobacco pouch where it always sat on the small table next to his chair. But his fingers found nothing. His beetle brows furrowed and knit in mild aggravation—here he was, bone-tired and frozen to the core, having at last sat down after a hard day's work and wanting nothing more than a bit of well-deserved relaxation, and to what result? His tobacco pouch was gone! "Bloody thing…" he growled angrily, slapping his paper aside and heaving himself up.

"Papa—you're home! And late, too! I was worried about you!" Cosette turned the corner and came scampering in, bouncing up and twining her arms about his neck to embrace him. He held her tight, and for a moment he found that all his negative emotions melted away, as they always tended to do when she was in his arms. "You're cold," she noted as she pulled away, running her hand down his cheek.

"Yes, well, it is winter, dearest," he returned lightly, smiling softly down at her. "Say, I meant to ask—do you happen to have any idea where my tobacco pouch is? It's the damnedest thing, because I never put it anywhere else besides the table next to my chair!"

"Language, Papa!" Cosette scolded mildly, although in truth she was quite taken aback. Never before had she heard him curse.

The old man shook his head regretfully. "Ah, forgive me for using such foul language; it's all from—" Here he stopped and stammered, having skidded to a verbal halt. What he had been about to say was that it was the fault of his twenty years in the galleys, but at the last moment he had remembered himself. "—from…bad habits."

Cosette studied him. "I see. But never mind that now. I should say that yes, I do know where your tobacco pouch is. I took it."

"Took it?" repeated Jean Valjean disbelievingly. "Whatever for?"

"I…I heard somewhere that smoking…is bad for you."

"What?" Her father nearly laughed aloud at the statement. "Bad for you? How absurd! Everyone in his right mind knows that's complete rubbish. Now, don't be gullible; run and fetch it and bring it here, and all will be forgiven."

But, to his astonishment, his daughter stayed resolutely put. "Papa, I really don't think that it's a good idea."

A quiver went through the old convict upon hearing her refusal, and he felt that dangerously volatile age-old temper simmering up and threatening to breach his usual placid air. His grip flexed and tightened on the armrests of his chair as he furiously beat back the little demon on his shoulder shrieking at him to raise his voice. "How is that?" he asked Cosette with admirable calmness, although his voice trembled just a note.

"Forgive me, but I trust my sources." Cosette seemed unusually firm about this, and she made no move to explain herself, so Valjean persisted.

"And…who, exactly, is this…trusted source?"

"The local physician, of course."

"He's a loony old coot!" Valjean burst out incredulously. "He's so ancient that even the mice turn down his shoes for the nibbling! I'll bet that he still adheres to the medieval practice of bleeding! No one takes him seriously, you know that; yet you're still going to trust his batty suspicions over the common sense and evidence passed down through the ages?" He shook his head, and his teeth itched for the stem of his pipe to gnaw on. "Cosette, I truly don't know what to think. Just…" he heaved a weary sigh, "just please fetch my pouch and pipe and let an old man have a few hours of rest."

Cosette bit her lip, looking torn. "Very well," she murmured a tad sadly, turning away. Her father watched her go, getting the feeling that she wanted to refuse him but knew better than to push his mood farther than she dared. His little "anger flashes," as he called them, were very few and far between, but when they hit severely, it could be quite hellish for all parties involved.

That thought triggered a flashback of the last fit he had had. It had been a while ago, in his mayoral office, when a case came before him of two men—both soaking drunkards—with each accusing the other of sleeping with his wife. The mayor's longsuffering attitude had held out well until one of them staggered, retched ale-reeking vomit onto the beautiful Persian rug and toppled face-first onto his desk. The demon had promptly revealed itself; that particular incident had ended with both men having to be carried out on stretchers because of extensive physical injuries along with a smashed lamp and a broken bookcase in Valjean's office. Word on the street told that they were kept in hospital for a good month after that day. The old convict glanced down at the knotty knuckles of his right hand, still feeling the muted pain and searing satisfaction as he drove them into the nose of that reeling idiot. Ruminating on it now, he minded that he was actually quite lucky that neither of them had the brains nor money to hire a lawyer and sue for assault.

"Your things, Papa."

The old man started slightly as a dainty pair of hands gently placed his pipe and tobacco pouch in his lap. "Oh—thank you," he murmured. It was only a matter of moments for him to go through his nightly ritual of stuffing the pipe with tobacco, striking the match, lighting it and gripping the stem between his teeth as he snapped the newspaper up and began to read. His lips formed a snug seal around the pipe as he inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation of the heavy smoke flowing smoothly into his mouth, where it billowed and roiled for a few long moments before he breathed it out. Even Cosette, in all her moral disapproval, stopped her knitting across the room to watch the long grey tendrils snake out and waft into nothingness over her father's head.

At long last, her eyes still fixed on the smoke, she said, "I think that if I allow you to smoke, you should allow me to drink."

Jean Valjean nearly choked. Yanking out the pipe and half sputtering, half coughing, he furiously waved the dense haze away from his face before twisting to stare incredulously at his innocent daughter. "What?"

"You heard me," Cosette said in a low but firm tone, tipping her chin up ever so slightly to meet his eyes squarely. "If tobacco is bad, and we certainly know that drinking is harmful, what should stop me from following your example but in a different way?"

He scowled. "That's much different. Besides, it's not proper for young ladies to consume alcohol."

"All the fashionable ladies at the tables in the street cafes have a glass of wine," she challenged. "Besides, I am a woman by law now, not a girl."

Jean Valjean knew Cosette, and he also knew by the tone of her voice that he wasn't about to win this argument with words. So he silently extinguished his pipe and rose, dusting the ash from his palms. "You're right," he told her. "I need to relax and allow you to discover your freedoms." When she looked taken aback at his calm agreement, he added, "In fact, I have a perfect solution right now…" Beckoning her to follow, Valjean headed into the kitchen and grabbed a wineglass before opening the cellar door and ushering her down.

At the base of the steps, Cosette gazed 'round wonderingly at the numerous shelves of liquor kegs in his store. Her father sidled up beside her. "Well, this is your chance," he said. "Take your pick."

Cosette's eyes flitted about and she bit her lip. "I…I don't know drink," she admitted bashfully. "Will you choose for me?"

"Are you sure?" he tested, and she nodded. "Very well." Thoughtfully running his tongue over his lower lip, Jean Valjean paced the lineup of shelves. At last he found a barrel he thought was suitable; glancing back at Cosette, he tapped the bung and filled half the glass. With a small, encouraging smile he walked back over and extended the drink to her. "My lady."

"What is it?" she asked, eyeing the dark liquid and delicately sniffing.

"Taste and see," he responded evenly.

Still hesitant, Cosette lifted the glass to her lips and tipped it back. The first sip had not passed her tongue before she pulled a face and spat it out, coughing uncontrollably. "Good God!" she gasped. "What is that?! It burns like fire! Oh, that's foul!" Gagging, she clawed at her tongue in an effort to rid herself of the taste.

"Grog," Valjean replied, allowing a smile to curve his lips. "The best sailor's brew on the seven seas."

"How wretched!" his daughter exclaimed in disgust, thrusting the glass toward him. "Ugh…how can you keep such stuff?"

"It's a refined taste," Jean Valjean smirked, taking the drink. "Only those with the strongest gut enjoy it; they say it's made with seawater and Satan's blood."

"Well, it certainly tastes like it," Cosette shuddered. "Keep your nasty drinks, Papa…I don't want them."

"All things in their own good time, darling," Jean Valjean admonished as he stepped back over to the keg of grog. He filled the wineglass to the brim and promptly threw the whole thing back, draining it in several huge gulps. With a satisfied gasp he dragged his forearm across his mouth, wiping the thick foam from his whiskers. "Whew…good stuff."

"Your opinion of good and mine are very different," Cosette said, wrinkling her nose.

His only reply was a roguish wink as he leaned down to refill the glass.

Fight Club

(Author's Note: All Raminians know how much he loves UFC. So…I took a little liberty with this ficlet and imagined Jean Valjean beating the pulp outta errboddy. I must admit, I was quite entertaining to write.)

It could be truthfully said that Jean Valjean tended to shy away from violence. Having seen his share in the galleys of Toulon, he much preferred to keep the peace. If a fight broke out among his factory workers, he was one of the first to rush down and pull them apart. Aside from his occasional little anger fits, which nine out of ten times he quickly managed to calm himself down in, everyone said he was probably the most docile man they had ever met.

But he was still a man, and in each and every creature of the male sex therein lies a certain primal instinct, a craving, for dominance and assertion of control; like a lackey of a wolf pack challenging the alpha for leadership. The potency of this trait varies from man to man, but it is still there no matter how tame he might seem. It is built into their mechanics and cannot be helped.

Had you stopped Valjean in the street and asked whether he was apt to fighting, he certainly would have laughed and denied it. Then he would have continued on his way with a slow and methodical pace which was his trademark in his daily walks. But, deep inside, the truth was that not every bit of the fierce young spirit of his prime was used up. He simply kept it tucked away, far back, with a thick blanket thrown over it to hide the fire inside. He thought that there was no place in society for old gentlemen to go carousing about like they were in their twenties again, and he strictly adhered to this idea.

That is, until one snowy evening.

Having stretched his tired muscles out, Jean Valjean bid Cosette goodbye and went out for his usual nightly stroll. His wooden cane tapped loudly against the snow-dusted cobblestones; the streets themselves were all but empty due to the frigid temperatures and the approaching holiday. But up ahead there was a scuffle and a young man came dashing around a corner, nearly knocking Valjean over. "Whoa! Sorry, monsieur…" he began, and then, in the darkness, his eyes fell upon and recognized Valjean's mayoral scarf. He gasped. "Monsieur le Mayor! I'm so sorry—I mean…my apologies, monsieur."

"Calm yourself, dear boy," replied the old man genially. "I'm not going to collar you for bumping into me." Then his dark brows lowered and knit together as he peered more intently at the young man's face. "Why, you're bleeding from the nose!"

"What? Oh, oh yes. This…it's nothing, really," the other replied hastily, swiping away the dark fluid seeping from his nostrils. "Just a little knockabout, that's all."

Valjean's eyes narrowed slightly as he began to suspect what had happened. "Have you been fighting?"

"N-n…" the young man was about to lie, then he thought better of the obviousness of the truth. "Yes, monsieur," he admitted abashedly, shuffling his feet and staring at the ground like a guilty child.

"In a club? A fight club?" The young man nodded and the mayor sighed. "Well, sadly, it's not illegal, so there's nothing to order a stop to. But it's not the best for your physical health, as you've clearly seen." He motioned to the young man's bloodied nose and chuckled dryly, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Go home now, son, and get yourself cleaned up. Your mother's most likely worried sick, and the sight of that nose isn't going to cheer her up any more."

"Yes, monsieur." The fighter nodded acknowledgement and trotted off.

Valjean watched him go, then, suddenly and impulsively, called out, "Wait, boy...Did you win?"

The young man stopped and turned, startled, then broke out in a huge grin and nodded before continuing on his way. He vanished into the deepening shadows as Valjean turned back to his walking. After about ten minutes he rounded a corner to see a slightly lopsided building, its windows lit up with warm golden light and rousing fiddle music gushing from its half-open front door. The rough shouts and jeers of men inside could be heard halfway down the street. He looked up; the sign hanging above identified it as The Haymaker: Fight Club and Tavern.

Just hearing all that noise stirred something in the aged mayor's soul and those old masculine urges began to kick once more, the testosterone heightening his senses and filling him with newfound energy. After a half-moment of hesitation Valjean ducked inside the building, already taking off his top hat, shucking off his coat and unwinding the scarf from around his neck to hang them on the rack beside the door.

Inside The Haymaker, it was horribly hot with the room crammed full of sweaty bodies, and the stench of body odor and liquor permeated everything. Earlier that day Valjean would have found it utterly repulsive and never would have even dared to go in, but now that the chemicals were pumping through his system, he found that he had no qualms about it. He approached the bar, looking over at the action going on a few feet away.

The fight ring was a crude canvas-covered wooden platform with frayed ropes. The round tables were clustered around it, the men drinking, yelling, jeering and laughing while they watched the fighters go at it. There were two men up there now, hammering away at each other, the sweat glistening on their bodies and spraying every time a fist made contact. Valjean politely declined the offer of a drink, but leaned on the bar counter and waited until one of the men finally hauled off and floored the other. Some of the onlookers cheered, jumping up, clapping and pounding the tables with their pints and bottles while others groaned, having lost money on betting. Cash clattered as it was exchanged, and the referee jumped up into the ring and hoisted the winner's arm high.

"And we have our winner!" he bellowed over the din. "Who has the spirit to stand up and challenge him?"

Over by the bar, Valjean's very being ached to leap up and shout affirmation, but still he patiently waited while another man—a boy, more like, even younger than the fighter he had met on the street—took the challenge. It was almost embarrassingly simple work for the winner to send him to the mat, only six blows in about fifteen seconds. As the youngster's limp form was being dragged off, once more the referee issued the challenge: "Which bold soul will fight our winner?"

Slowly Jean Valjean rose, cleared his throat cordially, and called out, "I will."

The tavern suddenly went as close to completely silent as it had likely ever been. Every head turned, and even those in the most inebriated states of drunkenness fixed their glassy, bloodshot eyes on him. Then came the incredulous hisses and loud whispers: "What? He's an old man! He can't beat him!" "Heh, I'll like to watch this!" "How plastered is that old geezer?" "The champ'll beat him to a pulp!"

Even the referee couldn't take him seriously. He coughed into his hand to stifle a laugh and then beckoned Valjean forward. "Ah…very well, then, we have a challenger!" He watched as the other moved through the hooting throng and mounted the steps up to the ring with smooth and graceful stride. "What's your name, monsieur?"

The old man regarded him with unerringly cool brown eyes. "Monsieur Fauchelevant if you'd like to be casual…Monsieur le Mayor if we're talking proper titles. But names don't matter in this instance—it's down to how fast one's fists can fly." He swiftly unbuttoned his black silk waistcoat and shoved it into the arms of the startled referee. "Hold this, will you." Stepping into the ring, Valjean rolled his shoulders and gazed steadily at the fighter across from him.

The champion, a six-foot-two bullnecked man with several scars and a few fresh bruises, threw back his head and howled with laughter, slapping a hand against one thick thigh. "Ref, I thought I asked to fight a real man, not my grandpa!" he yelled. The crowd roared with laughter. Then he looked back to Valjean. "C'mon, Gramps; surrender while you still can…and don't pull anything on the way out!"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll stay and try my hand," the older man responded with perfect calm as he rolled up his sleeves. He brushed his hands against his trousers and flexed them, reassured by the ropy muscles beneath the tawny skin of his forearms. After running his fingers through his bone-white hair, he rolled his shoulders again and tipped his chin at the referee. "All ready, monsieur."

"Toes on the line, gentlemen!" the ref bellowed. Valjean and the champ came together and toed the white chalk line; Valjean stared intensely at his opponent's collarbone. "Ready…set…fight!"

The gong sounded and Valjean instantly ducked low as the champ's right fist came whooshing over his scalp. He had carefully watched this man in the last two rounds, and it was his starting move every time. "A cliché move, monsieur," he said, and plowed his left into the younger fighter's ribcage. In the half-moment that he was distracted by the pain, Valjean sent his right in for a jaw-rattler. The champ staggered back slightly, taken aback by the sudden onslaught, which opened up his solar plexus for a hearty pounding. One! Two! One! Two! Jean Valjean went at it with such gusto as never before seen by the stunned audience, and they grew even more incredulous when the champ crumpled against the ropes. The referee leapt in and counted…"One…two…three…"

Wheezing angrily, the beefy fighter slowly staggered upright again and Valjean skipped nimbly back, even being so graceful as to allow him to land a halfhearted swipe against his shoulder. But remembering how they all had laughed at him filled him with rage; he set a firm hand on the breathless champ's sweaty shoulder, took a step back, and broke his jaw with the most ferocious uppercut he could muster. This time his enemy's eyes rolled up into his head and he did not rise from the collapse. He was hauled away as the referee came forward and brandished Valjean's arm high. "Our winner!" The stunned audience erupted, and the old underdog's heart swelled with fierce joy. When the ref turned to ask if he would keep fighting, his answer was swift and sure: "Of course."

One by one the hopefuls entered the ring with him, and each in their turn Jean Valjean sent them sprawling back from whence they came. To him they were as wheat to the scythe; none could withstand the whirling fury of his fists. He was as fierce as a lion and as fast as a fly; his blows landed like boulders. Sweat poured down his face and soaked through his flimsy cotton shirt; he ignored it and kept on fighting.

At last, there was time of respite as the midnight hour struck. Every man had had his fill of violence for the evening; the referee called end and the janitors came to mop the blood from the floor. Valjean descended from the ring and mingled with the audience, basking in the praise, back-clapping and politely refusing all the offers of free drinks.

Suddenly, a small and familiar voice broke through the haze of masculine chaos: "Papa?!"

Valjean's heart plummeted in his breast as he turned to face Cosette. She stood in the crowd, standing out in the midst of all the sweaty, bawling, drunken men like a rose in a dung heap. The expression on her fair face was one of complete shock and a note of disgust. "What…what are you doing here?" she asked, her wide blue eyes searching his. "I was worried when you didn't come back from your walk…I thought you might have been robbed and killed!" Her voice rang with accusation, anger and fear.

Suddenly, the vainglorious glow melted away from Valjean's surroundings and he realized fully where he was—in a stinking, dilapidated bar, surrounded by whores, thieves, fighters and drunkards. And he had allowed his immaculate poise, peacefulness and grace to fall in exchange for the indulgence of pride and violence, abandoning his innocent and bewildered young daughter at home. The sweat turned cold on his brow, and he found himself struggling for words and breath. "Cosette…I…I don't…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pushed his way over to her and swallowed hard as he saw the emotion swirling in her eyes.

"Let's go home." Cosette turned away quickly, whether because of her disappointment in him or the fact that he stank of sweat he did not know. Lamely he followed her out, quietly collecting his things at the door and bracing himself for the bitterly cold winds of the Parisian streets. The gas-lights made pools of garish yellow lights on the ground, and their footsteps sounded like gunshots in the thick nighttime silence as they headed back to their flat.

Cosette unlocked the front door and disappeared inside; her father followed at a much slower pace and carefully arranged his hat, coat and scarf on their hooks. When he went by the living-room, he saw Cosette standing in the middle of it with her hands wrapped around her arms as if she were cold. Her beautiful face was a most frightful thing to behold as she glared at him, incensed. "Well? What have you to say for yourself?" she demanded.

Jean Valjean trembled like a leaf beneath his daughter's accusing gaze and his eyes swam with tears; quickly he wiped them away and blinked at her. "Nothing, dear one," he whispered hoarsely. "I have acted in a most shameful manner tonight." He looked away, the lump in his throat thickening. "There is no excuse found to pardon what I have done. I have neglected both my Lord and my daughter, the two most precious things I have in this life; I can only ask forgiveness from both." His body shook again as the sobs came and he muffled them in his sleeve. "P-please…I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Papa…" Cosette's eyes softened and shone with tears in their turn as she moved to his side and leaned into his firm, sweat-soaked body. "I forgive you, it's alright now." Upon noticing it, she suddenly reached out and caught hold of his hand. "Your hands—they're all covered in blood…!"

Her father pulled away, self-consciously rubbing the crimson-flecked skin. He knew that it was both his and that of the nine men he had fought that evening. His torn, bruised knuckles hurt like the blazes, but he wasn't about to let on to that in front of Cosette. "Shameful," he muttered again. Then he sighed heavily. "Dearest, the night grows deep, and it is well past both our bedtimes, no thanks to me. Let's turn in now, shall we?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to look at your hands first?" Cosette pressed, her tone tender with concern.

"Quite sure," Valjean replied quickly, shoving the objects of conversation into his pockets and out of sight. "Don't worry about me. Go to sleep now and get your well-earned rest."

The young woman hesitated briefly, but nodded. "As you wish, Papa. Sleep well."

"Dance on the clouds tonight, my dear…the angels all want a waltz with you," Jean Valjean smiled softly.

"The only angel I dance with is you, Papa," Cosette laughed gently. "And you box away all my nightmares."

"For you, Cosette, I would fight the Devil himself," her father promised solemnly.

"And I suppose you think the Devil's name is Marius Pontmercy, do you?"

"Oh, away with you, little scoundrel!" Valjean exclaimed as Cosette giggled madly and rushed up the stairs. Shaking his head and chuckling softly to himself, the old man turned away to ease his battered body into his own bed and drift into a dreamland where he knocked hundreds of towheaded young suitors senseless and piled them at the feet of his adoring daughter.

No Pets Allowed

When Cosette burst into the house, Jean Valjean knew it meant nothing good. She never moved quickly anymore unless it was urgent—she dismissed running around as a childish thing. But now in she came, hair disheveled, face flushed, breath short. "Papa—look what I found!"

"What is it?" Valjean came over to take a look and was immediately filled with dread. There, cradled lovingly in her arms, was a tiny kitten. It was stained black with soot and dirt, but on its head there were wiped-away patches where Cosette had stroked it, and beneath he could see stripes of gray. "Oh…" he began, but Cosette cut him off.

"I found him lying in a gutter, all cold and hungry and helpless—we can't let him go! Please, Papa, please let me keep him!" she pleaded, clutching the minuscule creature close. "He'll die out there by himself!"

"I don't know…I hear cats can be difficult…" Valjean said uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. "If not box-trained they…use the toilet in the house, and climb everywhere and knock things over."

"Would you rather he die?" his daughter protested.

"Of course not! I'm simply listing reasons for not having the utmost desire to keep a cat."

"Paaapaaa," drawled Cosette pleadingly, drawing out the syllables. "Pleeeeeaaaase."

Her father leaned in and looked deep into her eyes. "Nooooooo."

The girl sighed despairingly and ran her hand over the little animal again; it mewled and stirred. "What should I do with him?" she asked.

"I don't know, give it some chicken or something and put it back outside," Jean Valjean shrugged. "It probably belongs to some little girl out there, who's fretting over her lost kitty."

Cosette frowned mightily and sighed again. "Alright," she said finally. She left the room and Valjean heard the back door open—she was letting it out in the back gardens. Very distantly he heard her say something like "love you" before she closed the door again. Chuckling, he shook his head—women and their animals.

The rest of the day passed without incident, but the next morning he was sipping his coffee and perusing Le Époque when he heard a soft skittering in the kitchen. "Cosette?" he called. "Are you there?" There was no response, so he got up and was headed for the kitchen when he heard a mighty crash. His fears doubled, he ran in to see…

"You!" he said dumbly. The kitten stared back at him, its gray-striped fur bristling from the sound of the plate that had shattered on the floor. Valjean's eyes narrowed. "You little…!" Lunging, he made to grab it, but it bolted out of reach. "Come here!" Desperately he went for it again, but it evaded his hands every time. A tiny hiss met his ears as they squared off, the kitten crouched on the counter and Jean Valjean standing splay-legged in the middle of the kitchen. "Yes, I know you don't like me, petite chat," he sighed, "but I cannot have you here! You'll ruin all my good furniture and dishware!"

"Not if I'm keeping an eye on him," crooned Cosette, sweeping in and scooping the cat up. Valjean watched in befuddlement as the little feline suddenly began to purr, nuzzling against her fingers as she petted it. "Please, Papa, he likes it here!" she said. "Let me keep him—just a little while!"

"Wait," he said suddenly, the pieces beginning to fall into place. "You did this, didn't you? You didn't put him outside; you hid him!" He glared accusingly at his daughter. She said nothing to either affirm or deny it. "I'll take that as a yes. Well, I'll have no more of it. You're going to put that mangy little beast outside our gate, and this time I'm going to watch you."

With Cosette sniffling sadly, he marched her and the cat outdoors and stood by while she unlatched the wrought-iron gate and set it out on the cobblestone street. "Goodbye, Tim," she said sorrowfully.

"Tim?" Valjean asked incredulously.

"Tiny Tim—from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol," Cosette explained. "I thought it suited him quite well."

Her adopted father sighed in aggravation. "I think the name Dish-Breaking Fleabag would suit him more aptly, but I shan't argue," he said jokingly. Cosette scowled at him as she walked past him back to the house.

Later that night, he was woken. A tiny, soft paw nudged at his mouth; grunting sleepily, Jean Valjean reached up to swat it away but came to fully when his palm landed on a warm, furry body. He opened his eyes and gazed directly into a pair of glowing round green ones hovering over his face. "Hello, Tim," he growled.

"Meow," replied the kitten. It stretched out a paw again to bat at the man's upper lip—Valjean's mustache whiskers, which trembled every time he exhaled. Ugh. Valjean closed his eyes again, more resigned to his fate than angry. He felt the kitten move up, going from playing with his goatee to his bangs; the shaggy white hair flopped around and Valjean winced as he felt it snag and pull in the cat's tiny claws.

"Gerroff," he muttered at last, lifting the little animal off of his face and onto his chest. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?"

"Mow," said Tim again, rubbing against his hand. The old convict opened his eyes again and looked down, startled by the sensation. The kitten continued to nuzzle him and purr; the vibration on Valjean's chest elicited a rusty chuckle.

"Alright, alright, you have me," he grumbled with a little smirk, reaching up to tickle the cat behind his pointed ears. The purring grew in intensity and Jean Valjean added his other hand under Tim's chin. He scratched the kitten until he fell asleep, and in the morning he woke with a noseful of downy fur—in the night Tim had crawled up onto his face and fallen asleep there. Smothered, Valjean reached up and delicately lifted the little body from his face; the cat woke, opened his bright green eyes and meowed at him. "Yes, good morning to you as well."

Tim sat patiently on the sink and watched Jean Valjean ready himself for the day; after shaving, he turned to the little feline. "Well? How does it look?"

"Meow."

"What, I missed a spot?" The mayor ran his fingers over his cheeks, jaw and neck; to his surprise, he felt a rough patch just above his Adam's apple. "Hmm—so I did! Thank you for letting me know." He neatly shaved the stubble away, washed the razor and returned it to its kit, then picked Tim up and carried him out into the living room. "Oh Cosette…" he called.

"Good morning, Papa," Cosette greeted him, and her eyes flew wide as she spotted the animal nestled in his arms. "He got in again? This isn't my doing, I promise; you saw me take him outside!" she defended quickly.

"I know," her father replied genially. "It would seem he's just determined to keep us." He looked down at Tim, who returned the stare and blinked owlishly.

"What are you going to do?" Cosette asked.

Jean Valjean sighed. "Let our landlord know that we have a new pet, I suppose."

With a gasp followed by a shriek of happiness, Cosette flew to him and flung her arms 'round his neck, then rubbed Tim behind his ears. "Thank you, Papa," she giggled. "I won't forget this, I promise."

"And you won't forget the hefty bill you'll be paying if he takes his claws to my armchair," her father said darkly. "Or my nice cashmere coat." Cosette stuck her tongue out at him, pulled the kitten from his grasp and flounced upstairs. "I won't have him shedding all over everything, and it's your responsibility to make sure he doesn't get mange, fleas or ticks!" he called loudly after her.

"Stop worrying, Papa, or you'll give yourself a stress-induced heart attack!" she said cheekily.

Valjean watched her go, then sighed despairingly. "Women and their animals," he grumbled.

A Day at the Opera

(Author's Note: I'M SO SORRY. SIX DEGREES OF SEPERATION. I HAD TO INSERT SOMETHING TO DO WITH POTO SOMEWHERE IN HERE. I JUST HAD TO. I STILL OWN NOTHING.)

"Happy birthday, dearest," smiled Jean Valjean.

His newly nineteen-year-old daughter blinked sleepily at him. "Is that…for me?"

Setting down the tray of food on her lap, her adopted father smiled. "Who else deserves breakfast in bed?" With a small scoffing laugh she picked up a slice of toast and took a dainty bite while he continued, "And I thought that on this very special occasion, the birthday girl may want to do something special…" Cosette stopped mid-chew to stare at him with huge eyes; he gave a dramatic pause and produced from his vest pocket two tickets. "…so I have, by request, purchased two box seats for tonight's production of Il Muto at the Opera Populaire."

"Oh, Papa, how wonderful!" Cosette squealed joyfully, clapping her hands. "Thank you so much!"

"Anything for my little girl," smiled Valjean, warmed by her enthusiasm.

She took the tickets and caressed them lovingly. "I bet it's going to be a wonderful show."

"The Populaire puts on some very lavish productions," he agreed, "and the ratings have only climbed since they hired their new prima donna. Although, rumor has it that she's been downgraded to a silent role for this particular show whilst they give the old prima another shot at the limelight."

"Who, La Carlotta?" Cosette exclaimed, looking up with an expression of disdain. "I've heard she's an old crow. All anybody talks about anymore is Christine Daae."

"Is that the new girl? Hmm….reminds me of a Swedish violinist I once saw perform in the streets of Italy," Jean Valjean mused. "Anyhow, we must get ready. The ride into the city will undoubtedly be slow due to traffic for the Populaire, so we should leave early."

"Yes, Papa. Thank you for the tickets," Cosette smiled. He rose from the bedside, winked and ducked out.

True to Valjean's word, the streets were packed with carriages, horses and pedestrians that evening. The coachman carefully wove them through the noisy mass and then dropped them off at the curbside. Winter had formally ended but Mother Nature still clung stubbornly to Paris, sending fat, fluffy snowflakes dancing on the brisk breezes that whistled through the narrow alleys. Both father and daughter sighed with relief upon shouldering in through the elegant glass doors and feeling the toasty air wash over their numb, rosy cheeks.

Now comfortable, Cosette was able to take a look around and fully appreciate the splendor of the Opera Populaire. "It's so…so…" she shook her head, amazed. "Gorgeous."

"Words truly cannot describe it," Jean Valjean agreed, tightening his silk cravat around his throat and smoothing his hair back before offering his arm to her. "Shall we proceed to the auditorium, mademoiselle?"

"Yes indeed, monsieur," Cosette blushed, twining her arm around his. Together they walked up the Grand Staircase and the ushers nodded respectfully as they passed by. They climbed another set of stairs to the box seats, and Valjean watched in amusement as Cosette was once more rendered breathless by the grand, sparkling chandelier suspended from the elegantly-painted domed ceiling just across from them. "I could get used to this, you know," she murmured, craning over the edge of the box to peer down at the rustling crowd in the floor-level seats below.

"Perhaps Monsieur Marius is made of money, but I fear I am not," Valjean said dryly. He shifted his gaze to the golden balcony wrapping around the proscenium, and was duly startled to see a large black form moving along it. Almost as soon as he spotted it, it dropped from sight and he was left blinking in bewilderment. "What was that?"

"Hmm?" Cosette looked up from her opera glasses.

"Nothing." Jean Valjean cleared his throat—Lord knows what she would think if he mentioned seeing a person swathed in a black cloak skulking about 'round the chandelier. He checked their tickets again; they were seated in Box 6. "If only I had known, I would've moved us up a box," he grumbled. "This view is partially obscured by that post…the fellow in Box 5 there has got himself quite the perfect panorama of the whole theatre."

"Don't complain, Papa," Cosette chirped. "We're here, and it's going to be a lovely time!"

Her father sighed, feeling guilty for being so fussy. "Right you are, my darling. Forgive me." Cosette silently patted his hand as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra began to warm up; the swell of that single note sent chills up the old convict's spine.

Once in-tune, the conductor—a wiry, gray-haired and mustached man as seen through the opera glasses—raised his arms. There was a moment of silence as the musicians inhaled, and then they plunged into the lively opening notes of Il Muto. The curtain swept aside, revealing a scene in a lavish bedroom with several men dressed as confidantes bustling about. At center stage stood a stocky woman in a massive (albeit slightly gaudy) Elizabethan-era dress; the towering white wig on her head wobbled precariously as she opened her mouth and began to sing.

Jean Valjean winced—this prima donna was clearly outdated. By his side, Cosette bit her lip and shot him a sideways look. Onstage, the "Countess" and her foppish confidantes chuckled about her affair and how her husband would never find out. From a changing booth set on stage right out flounced a maid, curly hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with a floppy bonnet covering it.

"Serafimo, away with this pretense!" the Countess ordered, and the so-called "maid" promptly whipped off her long skirt to reveal that she wore breeches beneath. Obviously, this was her lover disguising himself as a maid in order to be with her while her husband the Count was away. The audience laughed as she continued, "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!"

They pretended to kiss behind a conveniently-positioned hand fan a few moments before the chandelier lights gave a disconcerting flicker. Suddenly, a thunderous voice rang out the likes of which Jean Valjean had never heard in his life:

"DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?!"

The entire room jumped as one, and in a hot sweat of fright both Valjean and Cosette whipped 'round to stare into the box to their right. It was occupied by a young man, obviously well-off, with tousled blond hair, a wispy mustache, wide blue eyes and an extremely frightened look on his face. He seemed every bit as bewildered as the rest of the audience at this disembodied voice's anger.

Below, the mutterings and stirrings continued as the "maid"—clearly the newer prima donna whose part had been upstaged—began to visibly tremble and wring the bonnet in her hands. Then she spoke, and her frightened voice carried through the massive theatre as clear as day: "Oh God, it's him, I know it…!"

"Your part is silent, little toad!" spat the older singer furiously, turning on her.

"A TOAD, MADAME?!" roared the ghostly voice again, and several audience members gasped aloud. Then, it continued in a much softer and more menacing tone: "Perhaps it is you who are the toad, hmm?" This rhetorical question ended with an unsettlingly ominous chuckle, and then silence reigned in the theatre.

There was a long and awkward pause as everyone attempted to collect their bearings; La Carlotta gave an uneasy smile as Christine Daae continued to gaze nervously 'round the room, as if expecting to see someone leap out at her. The maestro cleared his throat to address the orchestra: "Err…at the top, then, I suppose…"

They began again with the Countess pretending to rip away the skirt that already wasn't there. "Serafimo, away with this pretense; you cannot speak, but kiss me in my—HHHAAAUUUCK!" At this, everyone looked horrified, La Carlotta especially. For from her throat, instead of the words, had come a massive croak, quite like that of a bullfrog…just as the bodiless spectre had predicted.

Chills again raced up Valjean's body as from the rafters floated another eerie little chuckle. Then he realized it—whoever this haunt was, he was watching this fool of a performance! Bravely Carlotta tried again: "Poor fool, he makes me laugh, hahahaha….ha ha—HHHAAAUUUCCK!"

The laughing grew louder and more unhinged with every attempt she gave at singing. Finally, as it grew into an overpowering crescendo and Carlotta burst into tears, the voice crowed: "Behold, she sings to bring down the chandelier!"

Both Valjean and Cosette gasped as the massive chandelier began to shake and sway back and forth; glass tinkled as the lights flickered dangerously. Onstage, a couple of stagehands ran on and rushed the weeping diva away. Pale, Cosette grabbed her father's arm as the chandelier gave a particularly violent swing. "Good Lord," Valjean hissed in shock, certain that he was about to watch it drop onto the audience below.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The frantic bellow came from onstage—a manager had burst out from the curtain and was waving his arms. In the moment that it took for their eyes to flit from him and back to the chandelier, it went completely still once more. "Please, remain in your seats…I apologize for the…err, inconvenience. The performance will continue in fifteen minutes' time, and the part of the Countess will be played by Mademoiselle Christine Daae!" With head tilted up and eyes fixed on the ceiling, he seemed to be making this announcement to the chandelier—or perhaps to the angry ghost. Satisfied that he had said the right thing, the manager cleared his throat. "Meanwhile, we would like to entertain you with the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera!"

Down in the pit, the maestro seemed baffled by this sudden change of plans; the manager's eyes bulged. "The ballet, if you please, Monsieur Reyer—the b-ba-ballet! Yes, that ballet!" Sputtering and flushed with embarrassment, he whirled and collided with a ballerina who had come onstage as he announced the act. The audience roared with laughter. Valjean felt pity for the man as he dashed from sight.

The ballet began as a complete mess. Dancers bumped into each other while trying to figure out positions and the conductor frantically flipped through pages of the libretto to find the music. At last there was some semblance of control; Reyer found his page, caught the eyes of the ballerinas and lifted his baton. Though still uneasy, Jean Valjean forced himself to settle and watch the ballet. He exchanged a glance with Cosette, and found that she looked every bit as tense as he felt.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, leaning over.

She swallowed, and he could see sweat on her brow. "I…I think so. What was that?"

"I don't know," he said, allowing the anxiety to creep into his words. "Strange, whatever it was."

"Do you think—"

Her words were cut off. Onstage, there was a loud bang and something dropped from the flies. Dancers screamed and scattered; his heart in his throat, Valjean put his opera glasses to his eyes and felt his gut twist in horror—the fallen object was the corpse of a man. Instantly Valjean was on his feet and swept Cosette up with him; without a word they started running, dodging past yelling people and not stopping until they galloped down the stairs and burst out into the frigid night. Snow swirled 'round them as they faced each other, the words tumbling out in a confused flood—"What just happened? Something dropped—"

"It was a man—a man," Jean Valjean gasped. "Someone killed him, something awful….!" He paused as the crowd began to flood out the front doors, women crying and screaming hysterically as men waved for cabs and gathered in tight clusters to mutter worriedly amongst themselves.

He caught snippets of conversations flurrying around them: "Murder…" "…Opera Ghost!" Feeling sweat slick his skin and turn to icy film at the touch of the harsh wind, the mayor swallowed hard and turned to Cosette again. "Let's get out of here." She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, and he hailed their coach.

As Valjean went to duck into the cab, the driver caught his arm. "Monsieur…what happened in there?"

"Something terrible," Valjean told him, then cast a fleeting glance at the grand Opera House. Inside, the lights still blazed with a buttery luminescence, the beams streaming out through the beautiful stained windows and lowlighting the soaring statues of Apollo and his angels affixed to the roof. As he looked, he spotted a flicker of movement in the curve of Apollo's torso—someone was up there, climbing the statue! Moving with surprising speed, the dark form reached the top and then stood upright on Apollo's shoulder; Valjean caught a glimpse of a snapping cloak unfurling in the wind. "What the…?" Instinctively he reached into his pocket and drew out his opera glasses to take a closer look.

The figure was, of course, a man—tall, broad-shouldered and imposing. But what bewildered Jean Valjean was the glint as he moved his head around, surveying the people below; with a start Valjean saw he wore a stark-white porcelain mask over his whole face. At the exact moment the realization hit, that mask turned to stare directly down at him. The clarity of the opera glasses caught a glint of light from within the yawning black pits of the oval-shaped eyeholes—a yellow gleam that burned with hatred. For a heartbeat they both stood in their respective places, gazes locked, until those frightening eyes narrowed behind the mask. The motion sent a jolt of unexplainable fear through the old convict; swiftly he shoved the opera glasses back into his pocket and practically dove into the cab, panting and sweating.

"What on Earth was that, Papa?" Cosette asked. He had no idea whether she meant the horrible ordeal inside the theatre or the hair-raising occurrence of the moment just past, but nevertheless he slammed the door shut, leaned back against the seat and shook his head.

"I don't know, Cosette," he replied hoarsely. "I don't know."

Wedding

Cosette sat at the table, gazing hollowly at her reflection in the brass-gilded oval mirror before her. The silence was near overpowering, the only noise being the breathless sputter of the candles which softened the shadows pressing in around her. She scraped her teeth over her lower lip, brow furrowing slightly as her small, pale hands twitched restlessly in her lap. He should be here by now…

The door opened behind her and eagerly she twisted round with a brilliant smile, only to have it swiftly melt away as one of her ladies-in-waiting stuck her head in. "Miss, your father's here to see you."

So he did come! Joy thrilled in the young woman's heart, but she simply swallowed, composed herself, and nodded briskly. "Send him in, please."

It was an agonizing five seconds before the door edged aside again and a large, familiar form moved into her line of vision. "Papa!" Cosette leapt up and promptly flew into his arms with an unrestrained cry of happiness at his presence.

Jean Valjean was as solid as ever beneath his coat, and wrapping her arms about him was not unlike embracing a stone pillar. But even though his dainty daughter could not have hurt him if she tried her hardest, he still staggered back under her euphoric assault with an overly dramatic, "Ooof!"

Cosette laughed lightly and pulled back, watching him with newly brightened eyes. "So you came!"

"What? Why yes, of course I came to your wedding—I'm not quite that daft," Valjean said with a soft chuckle. "Where did you think I'd be, sitting at home reading the paper while you got married?"

"Of course not, it's just…" she pursed her lips, scrutinizing him. "It's just that you can be a bit…antisocial at times. I wasn't quite sure if you'd come by before the ceremony or not."

Valjean's brown eyes darkened a shade. "Don't be foolish, Cosette," he said in a tone as close to sharp as he dared. "You know that I wouldn't miss a day like this for the world. After all, you are my little girl…" He looked down then, and his dark eyes widened a moment before he stepped back and pulled his hands from hers as if stung.

"What is it?" Cosette asked worriedly, watching his face. He had gone pale, and his shoulders were drawn as if he were tense.

"Y-your dress…" he stammered softly, still staring at it.

She looked down at the long white gown, its snug satin bodice threaded through with tiny pearls, the lace trembling on the sleeves. "Oh, yes, I forgot you hadn't seen it…do you like it?"

Her father's Adam's apple bobbed and he wiped his palms against his trousers, never taking his eyes off it. "It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen," he told her huskily. It was then that she noticed his eyes glimmering in the candelight.

"Papa..." Slowly Cosette reached out, gently dabbing away the dampness brimming on his lashes with a feather-light touch. "Please don't cry…you know it pains me so." She paused, searching his face. "Why are you sad at such a time as this?"

Jean Valjean's usual rich chuckle was now rusty. "Oh, dearest one, it is a fearsome thing to look back over our years together, spent so easily, basking in the summer sun with no cares to bite at the heart…" He blinked rapidly and went on. "I remember the first time I saw you, in the wood by the well, so tiny and chilled to the bone…the top of your head barely came up past my knee, do you remember…?" He stopped and shuddered, once more tearing up. "And now I enter the threshold of this room to see you standing there, tall and beautiful and as radiant as that sun which we both once warmed ourselves under when you were naught but a child… on the verge of your wedding night."

The back of his hand flew up to cover his mouth, to stifle the wracking sobs and soak up the hot tears which poured from his closed eyes and leaked down the deep lines of his craggy, weathered, noble face, to hide the fact that he wanted to simply fall to his knees and scream in terror and despair. Again he was being abandoned; this time not physically to the galleys, to the cat-of-nine-tails or the rack or starvation, but now to something so much worse that he did not think he could bear it: loneliness. He had spent five years by himself after breaking parole, working long hours every day in an office to kick and claw his way back up the rungs of the social ladder, to become the esteemed mayor of a town. But even though on the outside he smiled at people during his daily walks, he had still gone back home and secretly cried himself to sleep nearly every night for lack of a warm body in the bed beside him.

In the finding of Cosette had come light, companionship, and for ten short years, happiness. But now it was going to be all over. To his horror the thought only increased his sorrow and therefore the intensity of his weeping, and he found himself light-headed and swaying on his feet. "C-Cosette," he snuffled, swiping his sleeve across his running nose in a quite ungentlemanly fashion. "Forgive me, darling, it's just all so—"

"Shh…Papa," Cosette repeated softly, pressing a finger to his lips to silence him. Having muted his emotional babbling she brushed her knuckles against the side of his mouth and then down his clean-shaven jaw, opening up her hand to press her palm against his cheek. Jean Valjean's thick, dark brows knit together; with eyes blissfully closed, he softly pressed against her adoring touch. "Oh, how I'm going to miss you," his daughter whispered, her own voice growing thick with tears. She wrapped her arms around him again, clawing at the thick fabric of his overcoat and burying her face into the wool to greedily inhale the heavy, familiar scent of him—leather and ink and tobacco smoke and rain.

There the two of them stayed for a long, long while. Even in his old age Valjean's arms were large and strong, enveloping Cosette in a silent assurance her that he would always hold her fast. Occasionally she would feel him tremble, and these tremors she stilled by pressing closer to him. She stroked his hair; the unusually flat, neat state of the soft but usually messy dove-white mane belied his attempts to tame it with an ivory-toothed comb and water earlier in the day.

They did not hear the door open, and both jumped and pulled away as the maid peeked round the corner again. "Miss, Monsieur…it's nearly time for you two to come down."

Valjean looked down at his daughter; she returned the gaze with expectant blue eyes. "This is it, then," he murmured. He quickly removed his overcoat and hung it on the peg by the door. Seeing what he wore beneath, Cosette could not repress a gasp. "What? Never seen your old man all gussied up before, hmm?" Jean Valjean teased. He struck a playful pose, the crisp lines of his immaculate black suit crinkling smoothly as he moved. "You should've seen me getting ready this afternoon; it took ten minutes just to remember how to put this wretched cummerbund on." Then he straightened and cleared his throat as he heard the strains of organ music wafting through the walls. "You had better go find Monsieur Pontmercy—the senior, I mean, not your groom."

"What do you mean? I only need you to walk me down the aisle, don't I?"

He ducked his head, his cheeks burning. "My hand," he muttered, extending it so she could see the bandage-wrapped extremity. "It's hurt—I cannot have you leaning on my arm. Marius's father will take you down the aisle in my stead."

Dismay and hurt washed over the young bride's face, but she nodded, more at the floor than at her father. "Very well, Papa," she said quietly. "I shall go with Monsieur Pontmercy. But there is nothing that can stop you from giving me my father-daughter dance tonight, do you hear?"

The old man smiled, his dimples flashing. "Of course, Cosette. And I shall be right behind you down the aisle."

"Behind is not the same as beside," his daughter murmured, going up on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek. "But I will have to content myself for now." Turning with a swish of creamy satin she exited, leaving an invisible trail of sweet, flowery perfume in her wake. Jean Valjean followed more slowly, his mood descending into a resentful stupor as he watched the elder Pontmercy man extend his arm to Cosette, beaming down at her as if she were his own child. But even so, he dutifully positioned himself a few feet behind them, reduced to having to stare over Cosette's veiled head.

The music soared in the familiar strains of the wedding march and the double doors before them swung open. Hanging on the arm of her soon-to-be father-in-law, Cosette glided out as the audience rose to their feet, each one of them straining to catch a glimpse. From where he paced behind her, Valjean could almost feel her smiling. He looked up to the front of the hall; Marius stood square-shouldered and beaming in boyishly giddy delight as he beheld his bride in her dress for the first time, and the old convict's heart twinged painfully with the thought that he never had gotten to see a woman in a white dress walk down an aisle toward him.

But that was for another time of lamenting. Cosette and Marius's father halted at the foot of the dais where the priest stood, and the giving of the bride proceeded. "Who gives this woman?"

"Her father," Monsieur Pontmercy replied, not batting an eye. Behind him, Valjean's lips were a tight, pale line and his eyes were cold and hollow; oh yes, he could write, and very well, too, but it was his blemished history which could not afford to be revealed if he signed the legal documents. Therefore, it made it impossible for him to be included in any of the proceedings. He had to suffer through this abject humiliation. Once the words were spoken and the blessing given, Monsieur Pontmercy sat down and Jean Valjean followed him.

The ceremony continued. Handkerchiefs were produced for the more emotional ladies at the vows and ring exchange, but never once did Jean Valjean's stoic expression falter in the least. Even Monsieur Pontmercy senior ducked his head and brushed his eyes once or twice, much to the inward disdain of the stone-faced man next to him. There would be no weakness shown on his account—not now.

After all the quiet weeping and sniffles, the fateful moment finally came. "I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest declared. Then, looking to Marius, "Monsieur, you may now kiss your bride." Smiling shyly, the young baron bent and did as he was bade, capturing Cosette's lips with his own in their first—or so Valjean desperately hoped—inexpert kiss. Giggling softly at each other as smitten couples are wont to do, they broke apart; Jean Valjean could not repress a secret wash of despair to see the flush of bright pink that had appeared on his daughter's upturned cheeks.

The priest introduced them then as Mr. and Mrs. Marius Pontmercy, the audience burst into cheers and applause, and dismissed to the Pontmercy mansion for the reception. Cosette was snagged by several well-wishers on her way out and Valjean tried to push his way over to her, but they were swept up and out the door and into their carriage before he could. Motivated only by his desire to fulfill his promise to Cosette that he would be present for the after party, the old convict swung up into the saddle of his horse and galloped after the carriage.

The entire Pontmercy mansion was ablaze with light, and the teeming crowd had already caught the newlyweds again. Alternately grunting with effort and snarling with irritation as he tried in vain to get through to his daughter, Valjean let himself be carried by the flow of movement into the foyer. Marius's father called everyone into the dining room for the meal and within a startlingly short time the mass had completely evaporated, leaving him alone. As he stood and heard Cosette's merry, twinkling laughter soar above everyone else's from the room adjacent, it was then that Jean Valjean felt truly alone for the first time in eighteen years.

It was then that he realized that Cosette had a new guardian now—Marius. He had replaced him, and there was no need for a father at all anymore. Her precious Marius was hers at long last; she did not miss the old convict who had raised her. But why should she? If she knew his history she would certainly distance herself even more, in shame and reproach—if he were to enter that dining hall with the other two hundred guests and even one of them were to recognize him as an escaped criminal, the alarm would be raised and questions would have to be answered.

Fear gripped Valjean's heart as he thought of being collared in front of his own daughter at her wedding reception. Shaking his head, he backed away, turned, and practically ran out of the Pontmercy house. She does not miss me, he kept mouthing as he fled down the darkened streets. She has Marius. He is enough.

In his flat at the Rue Scribe, Valjean could not bring himself to settle as he had for the past twenty years. The little place was unnaturally quiet without Cosette's bright laughter and pattering feet; he tried to sit and read, but the words seemed empty. When he lit a pipe, the familiar taste of tobacco was bitter and choking. He extinguished it, threw the burnt wad of leaves in the fireplace and went upstairs.

Cosette's bedroom was dark, empty and silent. Most of her furnishings had been moved to her new home, but a few remnants of her tenure remained. The bed, stripped of its sheets, seemed so small and narrow, the room so bare and cold; how could she ever have wanted to live here? He had not provided her with all he could have afforded—he had been a greedy miser instead, squirreling all his money away instead of lavishing it upon the daughter he cherished most. She had been forced to live like a pauper instead of the princess she was.

His stomach suddenly roiling, the ex-convict retreated to his own room and dropped to one knee in front of a large chest at the foot of his bed. He had never allowed Cosette to see its contents; he himself rarely ever cast an eye at it all these years. Reaching under his cravat, he found the little brass key 'round his neck, snapped it off and unlocked the chest. Seeing what the box held, Valjean was struck breathless anew; reverently he reached in, drew out the carefully-folded clothes and laid them out on the bed: the dirty petticoat, the worn gingham dress, the yellowed stockings, and the two tiny, worn-out shoes.

With trembling hands he bunched the dress in his fist and brought it to his nose. Upon closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he flashed back to that moment…

The little girl's eyes were huge and pale blue in the moonlight; as he dismounted the horse she scrambled away from him and pressed her tiny body against a tree; her gingham dress fluttered in the cold night breeze. "It's alright," he assured her as he came closer. "I'm not going to hurt you…your mother sent me for you." Slowly he knelt in the snow and extended a hand, watching as she edged out of the shadows. The pail she was carrying knocked against thin, stocking-clad legs. She was so very, very small and frail…

Tears burned Jean Valjean's eyes and he choked on the lump swelling in his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, he buried his whole face in the patterned cloth and greedily gasped lungfuls of the dirt-scented memories. Oh, how she had trusted him so, loved and adored this bitter, hardened old criminal! She had taken a sledgehammer to the walls around his heart and brought the sunlight streaming into the darkness there—

And just as suddenly as she had come into his life, she was gone from it.

Jean Valjean loosed a feral scream from the depths of his aching soul and threw the rumpled dress onto the mattress, careening backwards until he felt his shoulders hit the wall and then sliding down to wrap his arms 'round his knees and sit there, rocking back and forth and muffling his sobs in his trousers. She's gone, his inner demons howled. She's gone, she's gone, she's—

"Papa?"

With a sharp intake of breath Valjean instinctively looked up. And there she was—his daughter, his little girl, his Cosette, his Cosette, looking ever resplendent in her wedding gown as she stood in his doorway. "Why are you crying?" she asked frantically, rushing to him and kneeling to take his face in her hands. Her beautiful face was a swimming blur as her father's eyes filmed over with hot tears again. "Papa, please, answer me! What's wrong? What's going on? Why weren't you at the party?"

"You shouldn't be here," Valjean croaked, curling his fingers around her hand and pulling it away. He shook his head, strands of white hair falling in his eyes, damp with sweat. "Go back. Marius…"

"Marius can wait," Cosette insisted firmly. "He will wait. I left because you weren't at the dinner table, and someone said they saw you leave." Her own eyes filled with tears. "Why would you leave me, Papa?"

"I…I love you too much," he gasped. "I can't…I couldn't bear to think…to see…" He faded off, turning his head away and swiping furiously at the moisture dribbling down his cheeks. He sniffed hard. "You don't need me now," he said at last. "You have Marius. Go back to him; it's your wedding night, for Heaven's sake." A rusty laugh forced its way from his lips. "Enjoy yourself."

"What? Is that the reason you left…because you think I don't need you?" She searched her father's face and a crease of concern formed between her fair brows. "Papa, just because I'm married now doesn't mean I'm rejecting you! That's nonsense! You have been everything to me since I was a child…what more could a girl ask for than a father like you?"

Her words, combined with the gentle stroking of her slim fingers across his cheek and jaw, broke Jean Valjean. He began sobbing afresh, his entire being burning with humiliation. "Oh, you good, good child," he whimpered, "forgive me. Please…"

"Shhh," Cosette breathed, stilling him as effortlessly as she always could, with a single finger to his lips. Tipping forward, she rested her forehead against his and gazed lovingly into his bleary, bloodshot eyes. "It's alright, Papa. There's nothing to be sorry for. I love you."

Valjean smiled, his first true smile in a long time, with tears leaking down his face and dripping from his chin. "I love you too, Cosette. I love you more than anything in this world." Reaching up, he wrapped a lock of shining golden hair 'round his finger and let go, watching it spring back.

Cosette gently cupped Jean Valjean's face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips. It was a chaste motion of fondness from daughter to father, but nonetheless he smiled again, this time even wider, the tears drying now and joy sparkling in his dark eyes. "Marius won't be pleased to find out that he has to share," he said in a low voice.

"Well then, he'll just have to get over it!" exclaimed Cosette, laughing lightly. She got up, brushing dust from her dress. "Come, Papa. Stand tall like the proud man you are." She watched as he did so, then stepped close and took his hands. "Remember that dance you owe me?"

Her father sighed, but it was blissful. "How could I forget? Come here, love." He drew her to him, twining the fingers of his right hand with hers and setting his left palm at the small of her back. She gripped his shoulder as he led her in small circles, swaying gently to music only they could hear as they gazed quietly into each other's eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?"

"For saving my life," he replied truthfully. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

Cosette laughed, her delight tickling Jean Valjean's ears. "Dearest Papa," she whispered. "You must stop that—you're making me wish I wasn't married now so I could continue staying with you!"

"The selfish man in me would love that," he rumbled. Stepping away a moment, he spun her with a flourish; her dress flared with a muted whoosh, stirring the dust on the floorboards into a hazy cloud around them. The moonlight streaming in through the window caught the particles and they glowed as they settled on Valjean's snowy hair. Cosette brushed them off and patted his clean-shaven cheek fondly before flashing a sad smile.

"I must go now. Marius is patient, but even he has his limits."

Her father nodded silently and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Go begin your new life." He watched as she backed from the room, already feeling chilled at the absence of her warmth. He stood as unmoving as a statue in midwinter until he heard the front door close, then allowed himself one more brief, billowy sigh. But as he silently trudged back downstairs and prepared to retire to bed, he found himself in a quiet and content state. That night he drifted off to a silent and dreamless slumber with the assurance that Cosette loved him; that was all he ever needed.

Goodbyes

Jean Valjean was dying, and he knew it.

He knew it from the moment he woke that morning; the ache in his bones was more painful than ever, his muscles significantly weaker as he stumbled to the washroom. The face staring back at him in the mirror was grizzled and tired, the dark clouds in his eyes seeping down to linger in the bags under them. He didn't even bother to brush his hair or shave before slowly dressing into much plainer attire than usual; shoes, a shirt, trousers and suspenders were all he needed. The Lord wouldn't be looking at his clothes when He judged him.

Breakfast was sparse—a single egg on a dry slice of black bread—and his coffee did nothing to shake the weariness clinging to him like a lifeblood-sucking tick. With a sigh he set down the mug and let his hands fall to his lap, gazing distantly out the window to the garden beyond. It had grown over with weeds and vines since Cosette was gone, and recently he had been far too tired to go out and tend it himself. "Today is the day," he mused aloud.

Peacefully resigned to his fate, Jean Valjean arose and moved to the front door to collect his coat, scarf and top hat. For good measure he also grabbed the silver-topped walking cane; his left leg was going gimp in the chilly mornings. Outside, he closed the door of his flat behind him and locked it before approaching the cab driver loitering next to his chaise on the curb and handing him the key. "Monsieur, please take this and give it to my landlord when you come back here," he said. "I shall not be returning."

The startled man took the key. "Monsieur le Mayor…of course. Are you going somewhere?"

"You could say that, yes," the mayor smiled. "My ultimate destination is far from here, but you could be of great assistance to me right now by taking me to the convent in the countryside." He pressed a handful of crisp bills into the man's palm. "Keep the change for your trouble."

The ride to the convent was long and painful. Every little bump in the road jarred the old man's bones, but he was thankful that he had had the sense to refrain from riding a horse. The steadily-growing weariness washed over him in waves and he let himself slump against the seat, battling the urge to fall asleep. For he knew that once he closed his eyes, he would not open them again.

The chaise rolled to a halt in front of the familiar gray stone walls and Jean Valjean slowly got out; the coachman came 'round and asked if he could help him, but the mayor was stubbornly determined to retain his dignity to the very last. Hefting his cane in one hand and his bag in the other, he brushed past the coachman and to the abbey doors, where he knocked thrice.

The Mother Superior herself greeted him. Instantly she recognized his face, even pale and worn as he was, and ushered him inside with a hushed word of welcome. "Madame," said Jean Valjean, "please understand that I mean no ill towards you, but I would like to be alone…if you please," he added with a touch of apology. The Mother Superior acknowledged this with a genial nod and bade him to make himself comfortable in one of the reception halls. She swept away towards the nuns' residence hall as he shuffled the other direction, his cane tapping loudly on the walkway.

At last seated in an armchair in front of a roaring fire, Jean Valjean allowed his exhausted body a bit of respite. Several times he caught himself nodding off in the cozy warmth of the expansive, empty building. "Fool," he grumbled to himself. "Wait. She shall come…just wait."

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Valjean watched the clock with the narrow-eyed vision of a hawk impatiently waiting for its prey to move into a clearing. Finally, at exactly half-past six in the evening, the doors burst open and a tall, slim figure in a dress came rushing towards him. Cosette's father smiled as she crashed into him, wrapping her up tightly in his arms. "Careful, darling," he chuckled, "you'll break this old body—I'm not quite as sturdy as I used to be."

"A neighbor said they saw you packing your bags and leaving town," Cosette said in an accusing rush. "I came here because….well, I suppose it was just instinct, having spent a good four years of my life in these walls. But…" she sighed exasperatedly, "why did you leave again?" She stroked his grizzled cheek. "You know you could come live with Marius and I, and I'd give you anything! Another garden out back, nice white bread to eat…" She laughed faintly and he smiled.

"I have received everything I need in life," said Jean Valjean. "Now, dearest, my time has come."

Cosette sobered. "What…? Papa, what do you mean? Don't be so cryptic!"

"I want you to have these." From his coat pocket her father pulled a stack of folded papers. They were clearly quite old; yellowed from time, ragged around the edges and imprinted with faded ink. He pushed them into her hands. "There are so many things I didn't tell you, Cosette…" His dull brown eyes sparkled with tears. "I regret everything you see on these documents. I received what I deserved…except for you." He tapped her lightly on the nose with a forefinger.

"Oh, Papa," whimpered Cosette, "please don't…"

"I love you, Cosette," whispered Jean Valjean, relaxing into the chair and closing his eyes. As he slipped from Earth's grip, he felt his daughter's arms come 'round him and hold him snugly against her; his snow-white head fell forward to rest on her shoulder and with his very last breath, Jean Valjean reveled in her familiar scent. His little golden-haired lark, she smelled warm—she smelled of spring sunshine and fresh roses and quivering energy, like a dancing flame come alive. She was his passing-on; she was his bane, the only reason on Earth that his heart had beat in his breast for as long as it had. And now, as that valiant old heart thudded for the last time and fell silent, its owner knew true peace.

"I love you too, Papa," wept Cosette.

From Heaven, Jean Valjean gave a beaming smile. At his side, Fantine looked down at her daughter and mirrored the grin before exchanging glances with the newly-deceased man. "You did well," she said warmly. "By both of us. Thank you."

"It was the least I could do," replied Jean Valjean humbly. He offered his arm. "Now, let's get up to that barricade—I hear the ABC boys are holding quite the celebration."

Gazing down from the towering barricade, Jean Valjean spotted a new figure strolling through the glowing streets below. Puzzled, he trotted down with ease; the happy cries and loud singing of those up above was drowned out by numb shock as he recognized that face. He approached slowly, trembling with every emotion under the eternal sun. He swallowed hard before addressing the newcomer: "Well…it's about time you joined us."

Cosette smiled, and Jean Valjean felt a heady rush of pure joy.

"I've been missing you for sixty years, Papa. So yes, I'd agree that it's about time."

Laughing, she looped her arm through his and they set off together for a leisurely stroll through the streets paved with golden cobblestones.

THE END