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Like the Music of Angels

Author's Note: Firstly, thank you to all of you who decided to give this story a look-see, plus those of you who are here because they follow me. Whether this is the first story of mine you're reading, or you've read them all … thank you! I don't have terribly much to say about this one, but feel free to ask me questions.
This story is technically set in the universe of previous story of mine, Until the Earth is Free, meaning the blend of book and musical and timelines are the same, however, it can definitely be read on its own. It will be written in a combination of writing in my usual style and excerpts from Cosette's diary. One scene from this story is admittedly partially stolen from UTEIF, but since they're technically set within the same universe, I figure this is totally allowed. I'm incredibly uncomfortable writing this, because romance is a territory I'm not used to, so feedback would be desperately appreciated. I expect this story might come out sounding a little cheesy, but my logic is that it won't be any cheesier than the romance segments of the musical itself.
Also, an absolutely enormous thank-you a million times over to the fantastic Ramonks33, who made the gorgeous cover image for me.

For my own reference: 9th fanfiction published, 6th story for Les Misérables.

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Word Count: 4,166

Chapter I: Lost and Found

June 3

The first time she saw him was in the Jardin du Luxembourg and she didn't quite know what she thought of him.

He was a little older than her, but by no more than three or four years. He was tall, with nut-brown hair that stuck up in odd directions and a generous scattering of nut-brown freckles across his face. He was long-limbed and well dressed: clearly he was quite a gentleman who came from a wealthy family. With him was a brown book-bag with a leather strap, and she gathered that he must be a student. His handsome face was scattered in a light dusting of pale freckles, and his hair was a soft nut brown. But what she found most intriguing about the gentleman — he was more of a boy, really — were his eyes. They were a shade of light green, and they looked at her in a way she'd never been looked at before. It was enough to make her blush.

All she could conclude was that she thought him handsome. She passed by him on the walking-path for but a moment, and his shoulder brushed gently against her own. It was alarming to Cosette how the feel of him filled her with a foreign tingling sensation, and how her heart could be heard pounding in her ears. As he bumped into her, they turned, and again their gazes met. Blue eyes stared into green. The gentleman gaped a moment; his mouth opening and closing like a fish. At last he said, "M-mademoiselle. Forgive me."

Cosette blushed harder, and she prayed that Papa could not hear her heartbeat, absolutely pumping blood a little faster now. All she managed was a polite smile and a shake of the head before continuing on her way. She and Papa continued their stroll, as was their daily ritual, and finally returned home. They ate a humble but filling supper of soup with some buttered bread on the side, and a glass of milk. It was a quiet affair, for Cosette's mind was consumed, taken over with thoughts of the young gentleman. Papa noted on her silence with a concerned frown: "Cosette, my child, are you quite all right? You're very quiet today."

She shook her head, smiled. "Am I? Don't worry, Papa, I'm perfectly fine. I suppose I must have been daydreaming."

Cosette had a good, private life here at home with her Papa. She had been living with him since she was seven or eight years old, and her life before him was a hazy blur. She remembered very little of her old life, and Papa never discussed it with her. The few images Cosette could recollect were confusing ones: of bare feet on snow and numb with cold, of a large woman who shouted, and of a dark and frightening wood with a well.

But Papa treated her so well, she'd never given life without him a second thought. Now, all her thoughts were of the gentleman, and they bewildered her. Certainly, she'd never expected to fall in love: romance was a matter that remained confined to the pages of the books she cherished, especially the works of Miss Austen and Shakespeare.

When she went to bed that night, she thought of the boy from the park. He filled her mind as she lay awake, and slipped into her dreams when at last she fell asleep with a final contended sigh.

.~*~*~*~.

June 4

Cosette didn't know why she expected she might see the gentleman again that day in the Jardin du Luxembourg. She and Papa went on a stroll there each and every day, and as far as Cosette could recall, she'd never seen the boy there in the past. She'd seen him once, by chance, and that was all. Paris was an enormous city, and home to countless people. As the odds were, she'd never see him again. So why was it that when they paused at their usual bench to read, she sat up a little straighter and kept looking up from her book?

Needless to say, she didn't see the boy again. The park was, in fact, largely deserted. The only other person there was a waif of a girl very near Cosette's age of sixteen. She wore a ragged dress which might have once been white had it not been so dirty, and her dark hair was stringy and matted. The girl was there for but a moment: she passed by their bench with little more than a glance their way, and then she was gone. A little later, a mother chased down her small children, a boy of no more than eight tormenting his younger sister with a worm.

As was their wont, Cosette and her Papa returned home, dined, and then went their separate ways. On most nights, she would tend to her knitting in the parlour with a fire in the hearth. But the weather was warm today, the sun was slow in its setting, and her heart was light as ever. She asked to sit outside in the garden a little and read. Papa gave her permission, if only for a little while.

The garden was a lovely place where the girl spent much of her time. Papa was experienced in gardening, and he'd planted some lovely flowers. There was also an apple tree, a small stone statue, and a little bench. This bench was where Cosette now sat, her copy of Pride and Prejudice open on her lap. But she wasn't reading it. Instead, she sat perched with her chin resting in her hand, gazing beyond the gate, her thoughts alternating between fantasies of the young gentleman, and self-scoldings, for she was being very silly and childish at the moment. It was not as thought she'd ever see him again. She was a schoolgirl dreaming of her knight in shining armour.

Merciful heavens — they didn't even know each other's names!

It was at this precise moment that something suddenly landed in a heap at her feet, drawing from Cosette a startled yelp. Someone had climbed their gate and had just landed clumsily in front of her. Now this figure gazed up at her, and she was looking down into his face — freckles and all.

The two stared at each other for what might have been an eternity, or perhaps less than a minute. And then Cosette realised that he was here, in her garden, and she didn't know his name. She didn't dare scream or call for her father, though every ounce of sense she was made of urged her to. Instead, she offered him one hand. He grasped it, and she helped him to his feet. His palm was slick with sweat.

She didn't know how to introduce herself, or what at all to say, but this boy certainly wasn't about to say anything. He was looking at her in awe: as though she were an angel and he'd caught her, pulled her down from the heavens. He was clearly too amazed to speak, so Cosette said something instead. "Pardon my rudeness, Monsieur … but who exactly are you and whatever are you doing in my garden?" A smile found its way to her lips, unwelcome at the moment. "And however did you find me?"

Those eyes didn't leave her for a second. The tingling feeling which had birthed in Cosette's chest blossomed to one of inexplicable giddiness. He spoke, gently, his voice soft. "My name is Marius Pontmercy. And I believe I must have followed an angel." Suddenly, he stepped back and blinked hard, as if he'd awoken from a trance. "My God," he said. He buried his freckled face in his palms and his ears went pink. "I'm doing everything all wrong. Oh, God … I do not even know your name."

Cosette couldn't help it; she giggled. "Cosette," she told him. "My name is Cosette."

"That's a beautiful name. It's the name of an angel, for you yourself, mademoiselle, are an angel." As Cosette stood before him, putting on a façade of bemusement but just as flustered and delightedly confused inside, he reached out to tuck behind her ear a lock of her ash blonde hair. She allowed him to do so as he went on, his words tumbling out of his mouth and tripping over themselves in a battle to be heard all at once. "Dearest mademoiselle. Forgive me, but … well, I believe I have fallen in love with you."

His hand was still stroking the lock of her hair, and Cosette, despite herself, allowed the truth to be spoken. "And as for you, monsieur, I believe I might be in love with you, too." It was a whisper. One of her hands was suddenly tightly holding his cravat, and she was pulling him close. And he, too, was coming closer and their lips were suddenly inches apart.

The kiss didn't last very long; perhaps only ten seconds. But it was bliss. All went quiet, but for the simultaneous beating of their hearts. His lips met hers in a firm promise, and on them she could taste his nervousness and breathlessness. She supposed he must be able to taste hers, too. Their mouths brushed against each other, her hand still holding tightly to his cravat; the other had wound its way around his back and was stroking the nape of his neck. His arms were wrapped firmly against her waist, fingers stroking her lower spine, and when he pulled away, his eyes were slightly glazed over, drunk for his love for her.

In an instant, Cosette felt herself go red and she took a step back. "I — I really must go. My Papa shall be expecting me." She began to desperately smooth out her skirts, her hair. "Forgive me, monsieur Marius. You must think me terribly rude, but … well, it's very late … " She felt herself blush further as she suddenly realised that she'd addressed him with a casual tu rather than the formal, more appropriate vous, given the fact that they'd only just met. But then she realised he had been addressing her with the informal tu as well.

Marius looked disappointed, but he didn't seem to be angry. "I shall be here tomorrow, Cosette, at the same time, if you so wish. I'll come."

She nodded, a rag doll bobbing its head up and down. "Please do. In the evening, here in my garden. And — you ought to go, too, before my Papa comes." Cosette turned and lifted her skirts, dashing across the garden and back to the house without another word; and behind her, she could hear Marius turning on his heels, too, and climbing their gate.

When she reached the entrance hallway downstairs, at the door leading to their landlord's hallway, she paused and sniffed at her sleeve, as though her father might be able to smell the love on her. Her dress smelled no different than it normally might, but the spots where he'd touched her, on her lower back, were warm and tingly with a feeling she knew next to little about, but had now decided she truly liked.

.~*~*~*~.

June 5

The next day was a Sunday, meaning that she and Papa had Mass to attend. Cosette never really enjoyed Mass, and she hated the stiff, scratchy feeling of her grey Sunday gown against her skin. Papa had told her she didn't have to attend each week if she didn't want to, so long as she said her prayers before going to bed. "I know you're a good girl, my sweet child," he would say. But Cosette went every week with him to the cathedral, just like clockwork. It wasn't the service she enjoyed, it was the work she and her father tended to afterwards.

Every Sunday, after the service, Papa collaborated with the priest and a few other good-hearted people who did charity work outside of the church for precisely two hours. They set up a stall stand and cooked soup and sliced bread to distribute to the poor. For this reason, they never attended their local church, as they lived in a wealthy neighbourhood, but rather, travelled to the Place San-Michel (the slums) and attended the weekly service there. From there, they gave out food to the poor and homeless of Paris, who flocked to the church like a fish to a worm.

There were people in all shapes and sizes, and they fascinated her as much as she pitied them. Stooped old men with their dirty white hair clinging to their scalps; factory men covered in soot; young women and girls Cosette's age and younger still; elderly ladies with the lines of their years of misery etched into their faces, their weathered hands. But the true reason Cosette liked to help with the charity work was the children. It saddened her heart to see them: dressed in rags which never sufficed in the winter, their tiny, skinny bodies covered in dirt. But each time she handed a child a fat slice of bread and a bowl of soup, their eyes lit up and smiles blessed their lamentable faces. That, Cosette felt, was reason enough to want to do good.

That day, she was afraid, for some reason, that she might not have room in her heart for the poor; Monsieur Marius Pontmercy had taken up so much room. So she was relieved to discover that doing the charity work still left her with the same satisfied feeling of doing good that it usually did. Or perhaps she was acting a little bit differently. Alice, an eleven-year-old girl who came regularly and whom Cosette had gotten to know a little, asked when being handed her share of soup and bread, "Has something happened to mademoiselle?"

Cosette frowned, gently waving her aside so that the next person in the queue might receive their food, but continued the conversation. "To me? No, not at all? What's possessed you to ask, Alice?"

Alice paused to take a large bite of bread before answering. Through a full mouth, she said, "Well, you got a faraway look in your eyes is all, mademoiselle."

"Have I? Well, that's funny, nothing at all has happened to me since we saw each other last week."

"Oh." Alice looked a bit disappointed. "Well, perhaps you're just thinking 'bout something, mademoiselle."

"Yes, love, that must be it, indeed."

This had all occurred earlier today; it was now late in the evening but the sun had not set. Papa was inside, in their apartment on the second floor of the house, reading from his Bible. Cosette, meanwhile was sitting in the garden, on the bench, book in lap. She wasn't reading, of course: she was much too excited and nervous. She worried that Marius wouldn't come, that he'd only stopped by that one time. What if he saw another young lady he thought beautiful, he took interest in her, and forgot Cosette altogether? Was that the sort of thing men did? She didn't think so, but of course, she didn't think that most men followed girls home and climbed their garden gates before even introducing themselves.

Her worries were soon stifled, however, when she saw a young gentleman walking rapidly down the street, and he soon came to her garden gate. It was all Cosette could do not to jump to her feet and run to him. But instead, she remained seated, and waved to him, like a proper lady. Marius seemed to brighten when he spotted her, and at once he took to climbing the gate. He thankfully managed not to fall this time, and came over to sit next to her on the bench, taking her hands in his. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said sincerely.

Cosette couldn't help it; she giggled again, ever the silly schoolgirl. "Good evening," she returned once she'd overcome her fit of giggles. Then, she added mindlessly, "You came."

"Why, of course I came, Cosette. I cannot resist you; I spent all of my day pacing my chambers and awaiting the time I could leave my home to walk here — you see, I live rather far away, quite on the other side of the city. It was a long walk, but very worth it."

Cosette was a little alarmed. "Oh, no, I've made you come a long way! That's not very fair of me. You should have taken a hansom cab. From what I can tell, you're at least as well-off as myself, if not more so. Of course, we know very little about each other."

His lips came closer towards hers. "I'm of a wealthy background, it is true, but I don't … believe in such indulgences when there are poor souls who never have enough to eat each day in the slums of this city."

Like Papa, Cosette thought, but she didn't say anything. Instead she only murmured something about what a good person he was and how she agreed completely. She loved her father dearly, but she wasn't stupid and she knew he wouldn't take kindly to her being in love. How she hated keeping secrets from him! But Marius would simply have to remain one, else Papa had them move away, and then she'd never see her love again. Papa was a subject she'd prefer remained unspoken of.

They spent the entire evening telling each other about themselves, often interrupting with brief kisses before allowing the other to continue. Cosette learned that Marius was twenty, and technically an orphan — his mother had died of illness when he was a baby and his father had gone away to live in a distant village and had passed away recently; Marius had never met the man but had travelled to attend his funeral. He had no brothers or sisters. She learned that he'd been raised by his grandfather, a wealthy baron, who'd recently shunned his grandson for reasons Marius didn't elaborate on. The young gentleman did have enough money to get by more or less comfortably, and he was living in a tenement building on the outskirts of Paris. He was a student of law, and still managed to pay for his tuition with only some difficulty. He had many friends, fellow students, with whom he met almost every day at a café. When Cosette asked him what these meeting were about — were they study sessions or simply friendly get-togethers for drinks and amusement? — Marius answered that they were neither, and said nothing more of the matter.

However, when came the time for Cosette to tell Marius about herself, she found herself at a loss for words: she knew she was unlike other young ladies, for her past was a complicated one and which she only remembered in disconnected fragments. Like Marius, she had never known her mother. Her maman had given her up when Cosette was around two, and the child had been raised by another family in a little village outside of Paris. She didn't really remember these years of her life, but from what little she could recall, she understood they'd not been happy ones. When she was seven or eight, she explained, her Papa had come for her and adopted her. He was not even her true father, but he may as well have been, for he'd raised her since she was a child, and raised her well. At the time he took her in, he told her that he'd been sent by her mother, who'd only just gone to be with God. From there, Cosette remembered her life better. Papa was a wealthy, but humble man, and she'd spent her entire life in this house on Rue Plumet, where she'd been educated at home by Papa.

This was what she knew, but she didn't tell Marius most of it. She told him, perfectly plainly, that she didn't remember much of her early childhood, but that she, too, was an orphan, and that her Papa had adopted her when she was still small. And that was that.

By this point, the sun had sunken completely below the horizon, and the sky had turned to a rich, ink black. Very soon, Papa would be calling her to come inside, so Cosette bid Marius farewell for the night with one last kiss and asked him to return to her tomorrow at the same time. This he promised to do as he turned and started heading for the gate, albeit reluctantly. "Oh, and — Marius," Cosette called softly after him. He practically wheeled on the spot. "Don't tire yourself on your way here tomorrow, now."

"I shan't," he said, before climbing the gate, and in a minute he was gone.

She watched him go this time, before turning herself and dashing towards the house. As she crossed the garden, Papa called to her from the upper window: "Cosette, sweet child, come inside now! It's very late!"

"I'm already coming, Papa!" she shouted back, and when she'd climbed the stairs and entered the apartment she saw him sitting at the table already in his sleep-clothes.

"You oughtn't be outside at this hour, Cosette," he told her firmly. "Run along now, and prepare yourself for bed."

"Yes, Papa." She washed her face and changed into her nightdress. She said her prayers and bid her father a good night before putting out her oil-lamp and crawling into bed. It usually took Cosette a long time to fall asleep, for it was during the night when she did a lot of thinking, and that kept her up for a while. But tonight, she fell asleep almost instantly.

Marius Pontmercy was in her dreams yet again that night, and she welcomed him there.

.~*~*~*~.

June 6, 1831

For my fifteenth birthday — such a long time ago; an entire year and a half! — Papa bought me this diary at the bookshop. It's an old gift, I suppose, and until now I've only filled a few pages of it. I forgot about it, which I know is awfully selfish of me seeing as it was a present, but I've never been the sort of girl to keep secrets from her Papa. You see, I had no reason to really use this diary at all until now. But a few days ago, I told my Papa everything that I felt or thought. Now I've a great big secret to keep from him, and I hate lying to Papa. It makes me feel awful; lying to him like this, for he's always so loving to me and he deserves better. But the truth is that I've a secret he simply mustn't know about, and that secret is that I'm quite in love.

The gentleman in question is Marius Pontmercy. We have known each other for all of two days. You see, we ran into each other by accident in the Jardin du Luxembourg once, and I'd not been able to get him out of my mind. Such silly, girlish thoughts, for then I'd not even known his name! Can you even begin to imagine? But then the next day, whilst I was sitting in the garden, he came up to my house, though we hadn't even spoken, climbed the gate, and introduced himself. I suppose he must have followed me home: such bizarre behaviour. I don't know much about men and their habits at all; but I don't believe most men follow pretty girls home.

Well, it doesn't matter because I love him and he loves me, and we've already confessed this to each other. We've kissed, too: and his lips are full and sweet, the kind you'd wish to spend days and days pecking with kisses. He's a little older than I but not by much (he's twenty, and I am sixteen), and a law student. Yesterday we told each other about ourselves, our lives. He's an orphan, which surprised me, just like myself.

Now, one might think he was a very bold and noble sort — like a knight in a fairy tale — but to be frank he's not at all. Marius is not boisterous or outgoing: in fact he's quite the opposite; he's really very shy and sweet. I like that in a man, I think. It's more attractive. And besides, those who are charismatic are more likely to be untrustworthy. That's what I think, anyhow.

I feel so silly writing these words down, but I need to put my thoughts down somewhere else I fear I shall burst from the power of them! Hopefully I'll start acting a little more reasonably soon and I'll get my head out of the clouds. Perhaps in a few days.

But Marius must remain a secret. As I said, I didn't think I'd ever have a secret to keep from Papa before, and certainly not one as big as Marius. As I've also said, I feel terribly guilty keeping secrets from Papa.

Then again, he keeps secrets from me too.