Written for a kinkmeme fill. PG, humour/fluff.
So Little I Know
Mysteries were no secrets to Cosette.
They were everywhere, from Papa's little valise which smelled like marjory and incense, only better, to Sister Saint-Michel's nose which was red in summer and white in winter, infringing the common law of noses. There were shadows and dreams and the fact that Cosette, who was also Euphrasie and Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, still dimly recalled someone calling her a dog-lack-name.
She had grown up learning to keep her eyes and ears open, because while some mysteries, like the valise and the names, were like the small barred window in the convent's parlour, hardly letting in any light, others were easier to see through. The trick, Cosette had found, was that to think very hard and very long about the new strange thing until it felt you thinking about it and became less strange. Once it was friendly, it let you take it up and turn it about until it turned into a good thing. Like Sister's nose, which sneezed upon her rounds of the dorms, allowing the girls to snuggle their green apples (and Adèle's copy of The Misfortunes of Virtue, a gift from her cousin François which she said was a life of the Blessed Martyrs) under their counterpanes.
Today, the mystery was a young man.
The young man was always there when Papa and she took their daily walk in the Luxembourg garden. Cosette hadn't noticed him at first, because Papa always had something interesting to tell her about the roses, or the violets, or the caterpillars, but after a while she had noticed that there were always three of them in the alley. Then she had asked to see the round pool, where children floated their boats on the finer days, and there was the young man, boatless, looking down at his boots. Then they had stopped coming for a while, because Papa needed to travel to Montfermeuil and meditate with a tree, and when they showed up again, down came the young man, looking as if he had just swallowed a whole corner of blue sky with the sun in it.
While Papa talked to her, he gazed at them intently, mouth slack, headgear askew, and when Cosette's eyes darted off to him in silent concern (because this was also how Sister Marthe used to look when her toe corns troubled her), he blushed and examined the ground with a vengeance.
Cosette wondered if he was fond of caterpillars too.
Winter came, putting an end to the roses, and Papa began to talk about the statues instead, telling her all about Monsieur Condorcet who studied calculus in order to invent the popular jury, so that poor people got a fairer trial, was martyred for his theorem but went to Heaven all the same. It was all very interesting, but surely the young man must have heard it before? Most young men who came here were students who could afford no other distraction (Papa said once, adding that his darling, of course, was a young lady who was entitled every sane distraction in the world, and that he would take her to see a virtuous bedridden portress after their walk).
But then of course, Papa was Papa, and always spoke beautifully. And perhaps the young man just wanted to rest his toe corns.
The winter months passed. Spring came bouncing on their heels, and Cosette found that she had grown another five inches and needed a new dress. Papa looked a little sad at the news, and kept giving bizarre hints that Cosette should at least keep her purple hat, Uncle Fauchelevent's legacy to her because she had liked it so much on the old scarecrow guarding the tulip bed. Cosette laughed, because everyone knew that you couldn't wear old and blue with new and white, not unless you were getting married, and how could she marry anyone when she only knew Papa in that new world of hers?
There were nurses and children and the pool which looked like a fresh blue eye and at least twice as many sweet little dogs that ran about yipping this and yapping that. There was the young man, too, and his eyes almost popped out of his head when he came across them. He looked very dashing in the brand new sun, and Cosette could not help smiling at him from under her white hat. Papa, who seemed to be done with the statues, didn't notice anything and began to tell her about the pigeons.
The young man blushed chastely, almost reprovingly. Then he did something very odd.
He took something white out of his pocket, looked right and left, bit his lip, glanced at Papa furtively, then at her. Cosette saw that it was a handkerchief and opened her eyes wider. The young man pressed the handkerchief to his heart, then to his cheek. His face was the colour of a Red Delicious now. He brushed his lips to the handkerchief, and as he did, it dropped open from his fingers and Cosette spotted the two letters standing out, white on white, in a corner : U. F. Tiny as they were, she couldn't have mistaken them: she herself had embroidered them last year as a New Year gift. Papa always said that his birthdate didn't matter and he refused to celebrate his saint's day too (and now that was strange because Papa was such a devout man), so Cosette had decided that along with St Sylvester, Ultime Fauchelevent would be spoiled and petted on the 31 of December, the last day of the year.
Cosette did some more thinking. Papa must have lost the handkerchief some time during this year, perhaps in November, when he'd bent down to read the inscription on Monsieur Condorcet's statue. The young man had found it, but it didn't look as if he wanted to return it. Cosette looked again. No, he was doing some more kissing.
And then, suddenly, the mystery blazed into light.
Back in her convent days, she and the other boarders used to read the Bible, the maiden's staple diet in the book department. This was a girl-tailored edition, stamped by the Bishop and countersigned by the Mother Prieure, and thus reduced to a very slim volume with most of the Ancient Testament hacked off for some reason or other (the Big Girls' yearly challenge was to smuggle in a complete edition, but they had never succeeded in all of Cosette's six years' residency). What stories had survived the girls read and marvelled over for lack of stronger stuff. Everyone's favorite was David and Jonathan, because it was a rare occurence where the L-word had escaped the nuns' axe, and the younger girls, their hearts aching with a tender vicarious emotion, read and read again the sacred text, Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than the love of women. It was well known among the forms that Marie de Valsin and Marguerite Cornier had co-written Jonathan's letters to the exiled David, a sixteen page masterpiece which the girls passed among themselves furtively (ending in a terrible mess-up when the Prieure stumbled upon a half-finished draft and nearly sacked their drawing master, whose godfather had been the famous painter.)
Cosette herself was more attracted to stories where one of the characters was an older man, a mentor figure. David playing his harp to the tormented Saul, John resting his head on Christ's chest. Best of all were Elijah losing his coat when he was taken to Heaven in a fire chariot and Elisah finding it and keeping it forever and ever, because it had belonged to his dearest...
Oh.
Why of course! How silly, how inconsiderate of her to have thought that the young man came because of her! She should have known better. She was an ugly girl, the nuns had always said, and it was universally known that nuns do not lie. Even the Mother Prieure seemed to think so. Whereas Papa – why, Papa was an angel. Of course the young man would want to be with Papa, who knew so much about Monsieur Condorcet and took such good care of others. It all made sense, though the sense hurt a little, like an extra pinch from her corset, because the young man was looked so handsome and tender.
Now was lifting the handkerchief between his raised hands, as if praying to it, and Cosette's white hat ducked a little in return to signal that she was receiving him loud and clear.
It was no more than Papa deserved, to have an Elisah that would love him all for himself and take care of him better than Cosette would ever do, because he was a man and better suited to partake of Papa's mysteries. Of course Papa, being Papa, did not have the slightest idea that he could be loved by one of his kind, as evidenced by the fact that he was still busy feeding the pigeons their daily bread.
The young man folded the handkerchief away lovingly, rose, pressed one hand to his breast-pocket and took a soft, sad step towards the iron gates.
Cosette, meanwhile, was taking a resolution.
But as the next day rolled on, bringing back the Spring sun and their walk in its wake, Cosette, like Napoleon before her, discovered that ability was nothing without opportunity. The young man wasn't there when they passed the pool and entered the shaded alley where their bench waited for them. Her anxieties rose as the walk shortened, and he still wasn't there. Perhaps he had given up on them? Perhaps he had despaired because she, and not Papa, had looked on his rite of worship? Perhaps there was a secret code in the way he maneuvered the handkerchief and she, the simpleton, had missed it?
She stopped before a large chestnut, letting Papa settle first on the bench and open the book of La Fontaine's fables he had brought with him. The ivory handle of her small parasol had just come unstuck and she was trying to fix it when she heard two young men greeting each other on the other side of the tree.
"Thought you still in Gaillon, Théodule?"
"Nay, I'm being posted to Ménant now. The way they move us lads about, you'd think France was a bleeding backgammon board. But speak of a small world! You're the second acquaintance I've come across here today."
"That so? And who was the first?"
"My cousin Marius. You may have passed him your way here - big ninny, curled dark hair, head in the clouds, the rest in a canary yellow waistcoat and grey trousers. Now I think of it, that's strange - he looked quite the smart fellow, and yet the last time I heard of him, our venerable grandpapa was kicking him out of the house without a sou to call his own."
Cosette's heart nearly missed a beat. He was there! He had not failed them! And homeless! And sou-less! Oh, what a companion for dear Papa!
"Come to gape at the mamselles, has he?"
"Not he! In fact, they had had me tail him for a while, when they suspected he was chasing a bit of skirt. And do you know where I found him?"
"In a...house of mirth?"
"In a graveyard, mon cher. Strewing flowers on some old cove's tombstone. That's gallantry for you!"
Her father called her, then, and Cosette hurried forth, her heart thumping against her ribcage. She ran a little so that he wouldn't suspect her burning cheeks. Now she knew, with unshakeable certainty, that the young man would come as long as they did, and that he was the stuff that would be faithful to the dear choice of his soul until death parted them. All she had to do was to reassure him that his affections were well placed indeed.
And give Papa a great big nudge, Cosette thought, biting her lip while the object of her thoughts read aloud to her about cicadas and ants. The young man - Marius, now that she knew how to call him - had just made his apparition at the end of their lane. Think, Cosette, she told herself urgently, and threw in a quick prayer to Saint Rita, the patroness of good causes.
The young man stopped where she had stopped and fell into a study of the chestnut tree. Cosette took in a large breath.
"Oh my," she whispered, pushing up her underlip into a pout. "How silly that young man looks!"
Papa, held up mid-line, left the insects to their debate on home economics and blinked around.
"That young man?" he finally asked, gazing at Cosette in astonishment.
"Yes!" She tapped her little foot impatiently to the ground. "He looks as if he'd never seen a tree in his life. And he's taking up our space! I don't like him at all!"
Suddenly Papa began to laugh. Cosette thought that she heard relief in his laugh, but didn't pause to wonder why.
"Oh, Cosette. You're so grown up these days that I tend to forget that Mademoiselle is still a child at heart. And my child is being a little unfair." He lowered his voice. "Why, he looks a fine young specimen to me. Bit on the skinny side, of course."
Cosette made a mental note of upping their meal budget once the young man came to live under their roof.
"I think you need a little reminder of what kind-heartedness is, my dear girl. Shall I read The Two Friends next?"
Better and better, thought Cosette while pretending to pout some more at his teasing tones, and quietly signaled to the young man that he should listen with care.
"And what is that, pray?" Papa asked two days later when Cosette came to him after lunch with a flower which she tucked into his blue frock coat.
"A dandelion."
Spring had been most kind to their overgrown garden. It had taken her the better part of an hour to select the best and brightest individual, and that was only after she had struck off sunflowers (too big), marigolds (too small) and goat's beard (too embarrassing if Papa's future soulmate happened to ask for the flower's name).
"Child, I can't go out in the streets with you and a dandelion. Why on earth do you want me to have it? "
"...Because I say so?" And because it would take a dispatch from the Archangel Michael to put you into a yellow waistcoat, so we're making do and mend. Her father sighed, but smiled across the sigh.
"...But when thou shalt be old," he muttered, "thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not."
Cosette, recognising her cue, slipped a firm hand under his arm.
"Then you must play by the book, Papa, and Follow the Leader."
"Child, you are being irreverent."
Can't one be reverent and playful? Cosette wondered, because this was such an impossible day, its sun-drenched air fizzing with energy. It made every sight a moveable feast, pulling at the pavement under their feet until the last whitewashed façade of their old corner had vanished and the madcap bustle of the Quartier Latin boomed around them. Aloud she said, "No, I'm just being a cicada. Come, Papa, indulge me a little. I'll let you scold me when winter is back."
And there was the garden already, its black and gold fence surrounded by grisettes and students all stirring with the pulse of the day. She sauntered them into the garden, Papa laughing and letting her steer him by the hand up along the flowerbeds.
"But this is our old alley you're taking me to?"
"Yes, why not? Today, I'm a conservative leader. Perhaps I'll be a revolutionary tomorrow, and take you over to the big swings. "
"What about young Rousseau? He might be here again, taking up your space."
Cosette smiled to herself. "He might. But I think that today, I shall make an effort and share."
"That's my good g... Cosette, we can't sit here!"
"We can't." Cosette's deft sidestep had brought her just before Marius, effectively blocking the young man's attempt at rising from his bench, half way down the lane. "But you should."
"Cosette!" Her father looked aghast. "Monsieur, I do apologize for my child's liberty –"
"No, no, do allow me – an honour and a joy, I'll just – ." The young man doffed his hat wildly, knocking the small parasol out of Cosette's hand. "Oh, dear God."
"Yes!" Cosette beamed approval. "God" was always an excellent preamble with Papa.
"Absolutely not. You were here first, and we should really leave you to your peace."
"No, no, the Napoleonic code on public versus private domain –" Now Papa and the young man were both trying to retrieve the parasol simultaneously. Cosette snatched it up and open it in one smooth motion, backing Papa into a seated position.
"There!" she told Marius, turning to face him. "Now all you have to do is speak from the heart."
"Cosette!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Papa, I know he has a petition for you." When she looked at Marius again, his face was trembling with a red-rose warmth that drowned his freckles and which she knew to be the preliminary shiver of pure, incandescent hope. He was clearly asking her for permission to speak, which she bestowed at once with a little tilt of her head. Papa, meanwhile, was ruining the scene by looking for his purse.
"Not a material petition," Cosette rectified sternly. "A confession, rather. For which I don't think my presence would be entirely proper, so I shall go and meditate with the ducks over here. I won't be far."
She wondered if she ought to add a blessing, but it seemed a little precocious and she contented herself with a kiss to her father's brow. Then the small pool was at her feet, where the ducks took shelter from the heat, and she tried very hard to pray, though her thoughts today felt like a swoop of bees, everywhere, and golden, and sharp-sweet. She turned her face a little and saw that the young man had fallen to his knees, clasping Papa's hand in his while he extended his other arm in her direction. It was very kind of him to take her as a witness, she thought, and looked down at the drowsy water where the ducks were leaving rings and trails, raising blurred visions of the young man dashing off with Papa to fight the good fight, as the Apostle said, and coming back with Papa, or in Papa's arms, or even on Papa's back because he was on the skinny side. (But so handsome.)
That was when she felt her elbow tugged and fastened in a rough clasp, and gasped in surprise while her father dragged her along the path, onward and roundward to the gates again.
"But – " she stammered, and wrenched a look backwards, trying to see where Marius was still standing. She thought that he had his arms stretched out, but Papa was tugging her forward mercilessly at a thunderous pace.
"But this is very rude!" She tried to free her arm, but Papa's clutch was not to be reasoned with, making it very clear who was to lead and who to follow.
"You said he was fine, and now you're all grouchy? Oh, and you have lost your dandelion! Can't we go back and say good-bye at least?"
"We're never going back to this place," Papa growled back. That was too much, and Cosette, for the first and last time in her life, jabbed the tip of her parasol between two cobbles and stomped her foot for all – grisettes, boulevardiers, and the toothless old woman selling licorice water – to see.
"Well, it's not as if it was anything to me! But really, Papa, I swear there's no way to please you!"
Her father opened and closed his mouth, peering at her. They were face to face, and while there was still thunder between them, his voice, when he spoke, sounded more sad than angry.
"Sometimes, Cosette, I feel that I no longer understand you."
They retraced their steps to the Rue Plumet in silence, and in silence she parted from him, going to the pavillion while he stopped to close and lock their gate.
All the remaining afternoon she stayed in her rooms, crossing from one to the next in a cloud of muzzy vexation. Her piano would not be played; when it was, the white keys went rogue on Scarlatti until the two cats in the next garden began to screech and Toussaint stepped up from her kitchen to inquire if Mademoiselle needed a drop of laudanum. Cosette tried reading, but the pages veered under her eyes and all she could think of was La Fontaine, and the true friend who had seeked out his friend in the dark of night to pledge his devotion.
How could it be that Papa, who had spent the last ten years a humble servant of Perpetual Adoration, had turned his back when it had come up in the flesh and a Sunday frock coat? There must have been a mistake. Perhaps Papa, a full-fledged pelican when it came to humility, had renounced the young man because he deemed himself unworthy? Or – oh, and that was a painful flash of thought – thought it a prank, a cruel joke on Cosette's part?
She dropped the book and rushed out of her room. She had told the young man to confess, but now was her turn. She would tell Papa everything, starting from her revelation over the handkerchief, and see to it that he understand how precious he was.
She knew that he wouldn't be in the garden, not when there was still daylight and passers-by across their fence. She climbed the stairs down her living room and opened the back door that gave on the small courtyard and Papa's lodge. There he was, kneeling on the stones with his arms extended before him, muttering aloud. At first Cosette thought that he was reciting the Angelus, then she noticed his gardening gloves and the ever-rising pile of weeds and roots next to him.
"Insufferable young whipper-snapper !"
No, decidedly not the Angelus.
"Calling her his Ursule! Calling the Spring a love-letter to her!" A long-stemmed root was flung to the pile. "Breeezes! Stars! The Great Mystery of woman! Why, he'd have babbled the entire Song of Songs to her if I'd let him! I'll give him the Song of Songs, the obnoxious puppy! I'll give him a song and dance!" A loud crack followed as a whole clump of nettles yielded to Papa's force of traction. Papa's shoulders knotted into a budge, as if he felt quite willing to unroot the cobbles next, then slumped back into a more sheepish posture. "Forgive me my wrath, o Lord," he added,"and teach me once more the way of repentance." He glared at the nettles in his hand. "In a little while."
Cosette turned about and shut the door softly.
She climbed the stairs back to her room and stopped on the threshold, looking at each object in turn. She let her eyes rest on the curtains and the Japanese porcelain set again and again, until the colour red was all she saw when she closed her eyes. She felt as if she could follow each move of her strong young heart as it pumped red life into her, up to the tingle in her fingertips.
When Toussaint called her, she went into the kitchen and helped the old servant carry the dishes and the bread to the table. Then she said, "My father is still gardening. I think we shall give supper another ten minutes."
The old woman nodded and began her retreat to the narrow kitchen.
"Toussaint... " Cosette spoke quietly, looking straight at her. "Toussaint, what is the Song of Songs?"
There were four Bibles in the house. One was Cosette's slim volume, sheltered in her room. One was pocket-sized and Father's companion on his rounds. One was in Father's own room, and one was on this very table because of his favorite verse on man not living from bread alone.
She stepped up to it, enveloped in red light and the same unnamed rapture that she would feel two months later, under the moonlight, when a shadow that was still the shadow-end of a dream slipped into her garden.
The book fell open. Cosette began to read.
[A/N : I really wanted Cosette to grasp the misunderstanding about the handkerchief, so Marius had to call her Ursule even though he'd heard Valjean speak her name. Let's say he thought (rightly) that it was a pet name and didn't think it proper to use it himself rather than her official Christian name.]