This story is a little darker than my previous ones about Valjean and Cosette. I gave it a T-rating for mentions of child abuse.
For my own reference: 63rd fanfiction, 8th story for Les Misérables.
It was late February, two months since the Christmas Day when Valjean found Cosette at the Thénardiers' inn and carried her away from her miserable life there. In Paris, there was still no sign of spring – only wintry weather, with cold, gray days when they didn't see the sun at all. But even on stormy nights, when sleet pelted at the windowpanes, Valjean and Cosette's little room in the Gorbeau House was always warm and snug. With the weather so unpleasant, they rarely went out, and Cosette spent much of her time on the rug in front of the stove. She sat on Valjean's lap as he slowly taught her how to read from his Bible, or she played with the paper-dolls that he had given her.
Valjean did everything he could to show Cosette that he loved her. He brushed her hair every morning, read to her every afternoon, tucked her into bed every night, and praised her every day at her progress in learning to read. He was trying so hard to fill her up with love, but still, somehow, Cosette seemed to be holding back from him. Sometimes she stiffened when he drew her into his lap, or flinched when he stroked her hair, as if expecting to be struck. And though he patiently reminded her again and again to call him papa, still she often forgot and called him monsieur instead. Perhaps worst of all, she never smiled at him. She sometimes smiled while playing with her paper-dolls – but never at him.
Valjean knew that this wasn't Cosette's fault. He knew that the Thénardiers had abused her, and it would take time for her to trust him. He resolved to go on being as tender and patient with her as possible, and he told himself that things would be better by springtime. Then he would take Cosette out to the parks to see the flowers and the birds, and let her run about and climb trees. He would buy her a skipping rope and an India-rubber ball to play with. She would laugh in the sunshine and smile at him and be so happy to be his little girl. She won't always be so wary and withdrawn, Valjean told himself, as he pinned all of his hopes on springtime.
One day, Valjean noticed Cosette staring him at suspiciously, almost like she was wondering if all his kindness to her didn't have some other, sinister purpose. She looked away as soon as he caught her at it, but the mistrust in her eyes pained him. That night, feeling almost at his wit's end, he prayed to God that she would open up to him soon.
The next morning, Cosette slept later than usual and still seemed groggy when she woke up. She didn't finish breakfast, but she nodded when Valjean asked her if she felt all right. He thought nothing of it until that afternoon. Cosette was playing with her paper-dolls when she suddenly turned her head away, lurched forward, and threw up on the floor.
Valjean rushed across the room to her. Poor Cosette was a sorry sight – crying and gagging, her dress spotted with flecks of vomit. When Valjean looked closer, he saw that she was sweating too, and worst of all, she was afraid. He tried to help her up, but she flinched and jerked away from him.
"I'm sorry, monsieur, I'm sorry," she said quickly. Her words were almost unintelligible through her tears and retches, and they filled Valjean with the worst sense of failure. Why did Cosette still expect him to angry? Had he not been gentle enough with her? "I'm sorry," she said again. "I didn't mean to. I'll clean it up. I..."
Valjean shushed her, and very slowly, so as not to frighten her further, he gathered her into his arms, not caring that she smelt like bile. "Cosette, Papa isn't angry with you, love," he said softly. He smoothed her furrowed brow to check for fever, and her skin was burning beneath his touch. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner that she was ill. "I know you didn't mean to do that. You're just sick, my poor girl. Let's get you cleaned up and back into bed, all right?"
He took her to the wash-stand and helped her clean her face, rinse out her mouth, and change back into her nightgown. He didn't want to leave her alone, so he slipped downstairs and asked their landlady to fetch a doctor. While he waited for him to arrive, Valjean cleaned up Cosette's vomit and paced the floor, worrying and praying that her sickness wasn't something serious.
A doctor arrived, a kindly old man carrying a little black bag of medicines and supplies. He was very gentle with Cosette, and Valjean thanked God for that, even though he didn't like anyone but him putting their hands on her. The doctor took her temperature, checked her pulse, and peered into her eyes and mouth while asking Valjean a series of questions. How old is she? How long has she had this cough? Has she been eating and sleeping normally? Has she complained of any aches or pains? Valjean answered those questions well enough – although he had the sinking feeling that if Cosette did ache anywhere, she wouldn't tell him – until the doctor starting asking about her medical history. Has she had the measles already? Has she had smallpox? To those, he could only say, "I don't know, I'm afraid."
"Well, this seems like nothing worse than a touch of the flu," the doctor said, carefully prodding Cosette's neck to check that her lymph nodes weren't swollen. "But I'd like to listen to her lungs, just to sure. Raise your arms above your head, little one." Cosette obeyed, but when the doctor gathered up the hem of her nightgown and started to lift it off her, she clamped her arms back down and screamed for her papa.
Valjean was there right away, of course, shushing her screams and calming her down. "It's all right, Cosette," he said, resting one large hand on Cosette's head until her tense body began to relax. Then he turned to the doctor, who looked bewildered by Cosette's reaction. "Must she take her nightgown off?"
The doctor's brow furrowed, concerned. "I'm afraid I can't rule out diphtheria without listening to her heart and lungs," he answered softly.
A cold fear ran through Valjean. He knew that diphtheria could be fatal, especially in young children. He sighed and turned back to Cosette, praying that this wouldn't mean a setback for her.
"Cosette, darling, the doctor just needs to take your nightgown off for a little while, to find out how sick you are."
"No," Cosette wailed, shaking her head before he even finished talking.
"You can sit on Papa's lap the whole time," Valjean offered. Cosette tilted her head, considering this, but still looked doubtful. Valjean put his hands on her shoulders and said firmly, "Cosette, listen to me. The doctor isn't going to hurt you, I promise." She ducked her head, but Valjean moved one hand to her chin and tilted it upwards to look her in the eye. "Sweetheart, I know you're scared, but I'm here now, and I'm never going to let anyone hurt you again. Can you trust me?"
She looked at him for a long time, her eyes searching his, before she finally nodded.
She took off her nightgown herself – she didn't want either of them to do it – and sat, as stiff as a board, on Valjean's lap while the doctor pressed one ear against her bare chest, then her back, to listen to her heart and lungs. She looked away from him, staring at the wall, but Valjean watched the doctor's face closely for any sign that something might be wrong. Fortunately, he seemed satisfied by what he heard, but when he put his hand on Cosette's arm, just above her elbow, he frowned.
"How did she fracture her arm?" he asked Valjean in a low voice.
"Her arm is fractured?" Valjean asked, horrified. God forgive him, how did he not notice?
"It isn't now," the doctor explained, "but it was. You see this bump here..." He put Valjean's hand over it. Sure enough, there was a strange, hard bump in Cosette's arm, as if a pebble were trapped beneath her skin. "Likely she fractured her arm there, and it didn't heal properly." He raised his eyes and looked Valjean in the face. "What happened? Why wasn't her arm treated?" he asked, and there was no mistaking the suspicion in his voice.
Valjean's stomach twisted into knots. Cosette's arm had been fractured... Her screams when the doctor tried to take off her nightgown... Valjean knew that the Thénardiers had mistreated her, but now he had a horrible feeling that their abuse was even worse than he thought. Dear God, she was just a child. What the devil had they done to her? He shifted Cosette from his lap onto the bed, covered her with the sheet, and stood up.
He spoke to the doctor in an opposite corner of the room, where Cosette couldn't overhear them, and tried to make him understand. It wasn't an easy situation to explain, especially to a stranger, but Valjean told the man that he had adopted Cosette, quite recently, and that the people she'd lived with before had been...
Here Valjean hesitated, searching for the right word. Unkind seemed too kind for those people. Cruel, perhaps? "Evil," he finally said in a low voice. He didn't think that evil was a word to be used lightly, but he felt now that it was the only word that suited the Thénardiers. "But I'm taking care of her now," he added.
The doctor studied him closely, his eyes narrowed. "Well, if you're taking proper care of her, then she should recover from this quickly enough. I'll return to check on her in a few days' time, and I'll be able to tell if any more harm has been done to that little one." There was a clear warning in his voice, but his suspicions seemed calmed by Valjean's obvious concern for Cosette.
The doctor gave him a dark bottle of medicine and instructions on how much to give Cosette before he left. She docilely swallowed the spoonfuls that Valjean poured for her and didn't complain, but he could tell from her face that it tasted bad. He undressed her the rest of the way, gave her a cold-water sponge bath, and tucked her into bed without putting a fresh nightgown on her. Her body was still hot and sweaty, and he hoped that sleeping naked between the cool sheets would help bring her temperature down.
Cosette slept away the afternoon while Valjean alternated between standing at the stove, fixing a pot of soup for her to eat when she woke up, and sitting in a chair beside her bed, watching to see if her condition changed. He wanted to be close by in case she had another nightmare. Occassionally she still woke up screaming. Those screams haunted Valjean, but even more heartbreaking were the conversations they had after Cosette woke up. No matter how gently he asked her, she declined every attempt he made to comfort her.
Did you have a bad dream, Cosette? Do you want to talk about it? Do you want to sleep in Papa's bed? he would ask her, and to each question, she stammered in response, N-no, no, I'm fine, even as she trembled with fear. Why don't you just let Papa hold you for a while, then? he offered, and Cosette never resisted when he drew her into his lap, but nor did she ever ask to be held.
Fortunately, she suffered no nightmares that afternoon, but did cough often in her sleep. When she finally awoke in the evening, she sat slowly up in bed and rubbed her eyes, her sleep-tousled hair falling down around her face.
"Are you awake, Cosette?" Valjean asked. "Do you feel any better, child?" She didn't answer, but only looked at him and held out her arms, as if she wanted him to pick her up. Valjean was so stunned that he almost didn't believe it. "Do you want Papa to hold you?" She nodded, and his shock turned into the sweetest joy he'd ever felt.
She was still naked, so he fetched a fresh sheet from the wardrobe and wrapped it around her as he scooped her out of bed. Cosette snuggled up against him, tucking her head beneath his chin, and Valjean had to blink back tears. This was the first time that Cosette had ever reached out to him like this. Her long, hard years with the Thénardiers had taught her to rely on no one but herself for comfort. The way she cuddled against Valjean now gave him a feeling of victory.
A thought ran through his mind as he held her – should he ask Cosette about what had happened to her arm, or why she had panicked when the doctor tried to undress her? Might it be good for her to talk about it? But then he imagined Cosette crying and trying to find the words, or even worse, her shutting down, shutting him out again, saying nothing. No, he couldn't bring up such a subject – certainly not now, when she was finally reaching out to him. He didn't dare ruin this moment that he had waited so long for.
He stood there with her until she said that she was hungry, but when he tried to put her down at the table, she wrapped her arms around his neck and wouldn't let go. He ended up sitting with her in his lap while she slowly ate an entire bowl of soup. Her appetite encouraged him, but by the time she finished, she was already sleepy again. The doctor had said to let her rest as much as she wanted and give her plenty to eat and drink, so Valjean gave her another dose of medicine and an extra glass of water before he carried her back to bed. She was tired, but when he tried to lay her down in her bed, again she clung to him and wouldn't let go.
"I want to stay with you, Papa," she begged drowsily. "Please?"
Valjean's heart melted like a snowflake in the sun. He couldn't believe the change that had come over her. "Of course you can stay with Papa," he said soothingly. "You can always stay with Papa, Cosette."
He tucked her into his own bed and laid down beside her to help her fall asleep. She sighed contentedly as she rested her head over his heart, as if she had done it every night of her life, and as soon as she was asleep, Valjean stopped trying to hold back his tears. They slipped silently down his cheeks and fell onto Cosette's hair. Never before had he been so happy that he actually wept, but then, never before had he felt this grateful. Cosette's illness was a blessing in disguise. While Valjean hated to see her sick, the fever was accomplishing what he had failed to. It was breaking down the walls that Cosette had built up to protect herself. It was teaching her, the child who'd always had to take care of herself, that she could trust him to take care of her.
The fever was a sickness in her body, but Valjean realized now that Cosette had come to him with a much more dangerous illness in her soul. The Thénardiers's abuse had poisoned the poor girl with the disease of thinking that she didn't deserve to be loved. That was why she had resisted him. But now she was finally, finally accepting and returning his affection, and Valjean thanked God that his love had cured her of that terrible illness.
He was grateful too that Cosette had fallen sick while in his care. Valjean couldn't bear to imagine what might've happened if she had become feverish while still with the Thénardiers. They would've never let her rest from her work, much less spent a single sou on medicines or a doctor. She would've gone untreated, worsened, and perhaps even died. Valjean shuddered to think of that dark possibility. The image of Fantine, pale and thin and wasted in the hospital bed, flashed through his mind, and he wrapped his strong arms close around Cosette, warm and safe in his bed.
He kept a close watch over her as she slept. The medicine seemed to be working. Her face grew less flushed, and her forehead felt cooler to his touch. Not once did she wake up screaming or even cough in her sleep. Best and sweetest of all, she stayed snuggled close against him all night. When she awoke the next morning, still naked in his arms, she was much improved, clear-headed and alert again. She smiled when her eyes blinked open and focused on him, and Valjean smiled back, kissed her cheek, and thanked God that in every way, Cosette was now healthy at last.
FIN