Hello and happy new year, readers! I'm very excited to finally start publishing this story. It's going to be a long one, at least by my standards (possibly the longest story I've written so far!), and I don't often write multi-chapter stuff, so this is a big deal for me.
To me, one of the most interesting things in Les Miserables are the "so many questions and answers" that Cosette mentions in her song "In My Life." No doubt there was a lot that she was "longing to know," both about her own past and Valjean's. How did she make sense of how drastically her life changed when Valjean adopted her? What questions did she ask him about his past? What did he tell her, and what did she believe? Well, in this story, I'm going to attempt to answer those questions and more. This is set when Cosette is a young teenager, and she and Valjean are living on Rue de l'Ouest (after leaving the convent and before moving to Rue Plumet). As you might know, in most of my stories about these two, Cosette is a little girl, so I wanted to write her as a teenager for a change.
When I started working on this story, I couldn't decide if I should tag it to the book, the play, or the new movie. Well, I never could decide, and so I ended up drawing from all three — and taking a few liberties with all three! I hope this won't be too confusing for anyone! Please review or PM me if you have any questions. Like all writers, I love getting any feedback from my readers.
(For my own reference: 65th fanfiction, 9th story for Les Miserables, 1st story of 2014.)
April 7, 1829
Feast Day of St. Jean-Baptiste de la Salle, patron saint of teachers
My 13th Birthday
Happy birthday to me! This lovely new journal was my birthday present from Papa. He gave me this and a chocolate mille-feuille from my favorite patisserie after dinner tonight. I'm so glad Papa bought me this journal. Its cover is a beautiful blue, my favorite color, and it comes with its own pen and little ink pot. Now I have a place to put down all my thoughts, and practice my writing, too. Sister Marie-Agathe at school says that my penmanship needs improvement.
I feel quite grown-up now — thirteen!
::
April 8, 1829
Feast Day of St. Julie Billiart, patron saint against poverty
I couldn't pay attention in school today. I'm lucky none of the nuns noticed and rapped my knuckles with their rulers, like they did to Josephine last week. But I felt so tired. I didn't sleep very well last night. As I was going to bed, a strange sort of sadness spread over me, and I laid awake for a long time, listening to the wind in the trees outside, and wondering. How old am I? Am I really thirteen? Perhaps I'm already fourteen. Perhaps I'm still only twelve.
You see, Papa told me once that he had no way of knowing my exact age or my real birthday. I must've looked crestfallen when he said that, because to cheer me up, he chose an age (seven, at the time) and birthday (April 7th) for me on the spot, and promised that we would celebrate it every year. And so we have, very happily. Papa is so sweet and always gives me something nice on my birthday. He even gets me some chocolate or candy, even though my birthday nearly always falls in the middle of Lent, when we're supposed to abstain from sweets.
But looking back now, I see that telling me he didn't know my birthday was one of the few times Papa was ever truthful with me about my history. In the years since, I suppose to keep from disappointing me again, he's told me nothing of the past — neither mine nor his. Often I try not to think about it, because when I do, it can be upsetting to realize how much I don't know about my own life. Sometimes I feel like a book whose first chapter has been ripped out. Sometimes I want so much to know what was written on those missing pages.
What time of the year is my real birthday? What time of the day was I born? What was it like for my mother? Was I a fussy baby?
But these are questions I could never ask Papa. Even if he knew the answers to them, would he tell me? I doubt it. I love him, but he would always change the subject or find excuses not to answer me whenever I used to ask him questions — a habit that I've long given up. He never scolded me for asking, but he would claim that he couldn't remember, or that he was too tired to talk about it, or that he would tell me when I was older.
I'm older now, aren't I? But still... I wonder how old I am.
I know the author's note for this chapter was practically longer than the chapter itself. I'm sorry! But the story is really going to get going with Cosette's next entry in her journal, and I promise it'll be longer. I hope you'll stay tuned! :)