"Papa," said Cosette one morning at the breakfast table, "I had a dream last night. My mother came to me- I knew it was my mother, even though I don't know what she looked like. She was wearing a thin white dress, and she was beautiful. I don't know how to describe it, but she had almost a heavenly glow. I think she must have achieved sainthood during her life."
Papa nodded without looking up. "Through martyrdom."
Cosette raised one eyebrow. All she knew of martyrdom was what the nuns had taught her- the saints who had been whipped, beaten, tortured, burned alive for their faith and their beliefs. A gust of fear swept over her, that her mother had suffered this way.
"What ever do you mean?" asked Cosette most concernedly, dropping her fork. "Was she murdered? Oh, please, papa, you must tell me, I must know what happened to her!"
"There are other kinds of martyrs, my child," said Papa smoothly. "No, your mother was not murdered. She died because others were foolish."
"Who was foolish?" Cosette asked loudly.
"Shh, Cosette. Toussaint must not hear us speak of this." Papa leaned forward and continued in a whisper. "Many people were foolish, Cosette. Myself included. They did not realize that F- that your mother had a child. They did not realize the extent of her love for a child born out of wedlock. They did not realize that one in a lofty position might take pity on her and look past her...indiscrepancies. They did not realize that the Thénardiers were taking advantage of her innocence. And of yours as well, of course."
He leaned back and took a sip of his soup. "I've said too much," he said, avoiding her gaze. "We shall speak of this again some other time. Eat your soup, child."
Cosette wrinkled her face, trying to process all these fragments of information. "My mother was not married to my father?" she asked quizzically.
"No. It was a childish affair. She was barely older than you are now." He visibly shuddered at this thought and placed his hand on hers. "Cosette, you understand that you must keep these secrets from the world, as I have kept them from you. Doors will close for you and you may never find a suitable husband. Write these secrets in your diary if you must, but then tear out the pages and burn them."
"You started to say her name," Cosette began, disregarding his warning. "It started with an F."
"Fantine," said Papa, after a pause, and he cast his eyes heavenward for just a moment. "Childlike, sweet, pure, yet brave and noble as any man."
"How did she die?"
"Tuberculosis. Some bastard shoved snow down her dress and- " he broke off, pained by the memory. "Hacking cough. She might have gotten better."
"But why did you say she was a martyr?"
"Because she gave her life for you. Everything she did- she did to pay for your keeping." He swallowed hard. "I was hoping I would never have to tell you this. I hope you will forgive me for keeping these secrets for so long, but I did not want you to feel upset or guilty. You did nothing wrong. Neither did she. But God ordained it that she would suffer as Christ suffered, and that you would reap the benefits of her sacrifice. And looking at the beautiful young woman you've become, so much like her..." his voice choked with emotion, but he went on. "Her last act on this earth was to give you to me. She was so completely trusting, even after what I did to her."
"You keep saying that, Papa, but what did you do? I can't imagine that you would ever hurt her."
"Not on purpose, of course. She was an...employee of mine, in the town where I used to live. I never noticed her until the day I found her wandering the streets. Even in her misery, she was still beautiful."
"You loved her," Cosette said with a slight teasing smile. Troubled as she was, she read Jane Austen and took great youthful pleasure in playing matchmaker for the adults around her.
Papa shook his head. "You must not assume such things, Cosette," he said. "I took care of her, but even then I was far too old for her. We didn't think about each other that way."
Cosette's smile grew bigger. "You're in denial," she said. "I know it. I can read the signs."
"I have said too much," her father said, abruptly getting up from the table and looking away from her. "Forget that we had this conversation. Just... forget everything."
Although he hid from her for days after that, Cosette could see that his eyes were clouded over and his face was contorted into a mask of sadness. Cosette wished there was something, anything she could do to change the past and make the pain go away. But she couldn't, because there wasn't. Every time Papa looked at her, he would see Fantine. She, Cosette, was only the second woman in his life, and she always would be. All she could do was wait for time to pass.
Nevertheless, Cosette was happy.