It's almost hard for me to believe that this is end. I've really enjoyed sharing this story with all of you. This chapter might be the last one to get posted, but it was the first one to get written. All the other chapters grew out of this one, and this one in turn grew out of the song "Live Like a Warrior," by Matisyahu, which I've quoted in part below. It's my fight song, what I listen to after a bad day. This isn't the first time Matisyahu's lyrics have inspired me to write, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I dream of someday meeting him and telling him how much his music has meant to me.
Your heart gets too heavy
With things you've carried a long time
You've been up, you've been down
You're tired and you don't know why
But you're never gonna go back
You only live one life, so let go, let go, let go
Today, live like you want to
Let yesterday burn, and throw it in a fire
— Matisyahu, "Live Like a Warrior"
Valjean heard the heavy monastery door creak open, and then Cosette's footsteps, a bit louder than usual, as she crunched across the frost on the ground towards him. It was still early in the evening, but winter was arriving, and the days were now so short that it was already as dark as midnight. But Valjean was easy to see in the garden; his silhouette was stark and black against the small fire that he was burning on a patch of dirt.
"Hello, Papa," Cosette said when she reached his side, and kissed his cheek. Her greetings to him were more casual now. Certainly, she was always still happy to see him, but she was no longer excited by it, as she once had been. Valjean told himself that this was inevitable, that it was part of Cosette growing up, but still it saddened him.
"Hello, precious," he said softly, as he wrapped one arm tightly around her and wished again that he could freeze time.
Cosette was now thirteen-years-old, and she was growing at an almost alarming rate. Sometimes it seemed to Valjean that she grew taller every day. She no longer had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but she still kissed him every day, and she still called him Papa. Valjean lived in dread of the day when she began calling him Father instead.
"What are you burning?" she asked him, looking down at the fire.
"It's just some old dead leaves," he said, sliding a few more leaves into the flames with his poker. "Your uncle and I saved most of them to make into mulch, but so many fell this autumn that we're still having to burn some up." He paused and ran his hand over her hair. "Have you been keeping warm enough?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Let me feel your hands."
She held her hands out, and Valjean took them in his and rubbed her fingers through her mittens, checking to make sure that they weren't too cold. She was wearing mittens, a cap, and heavy shawl over her school uniform; he never let set her set foot outside in cold weather unless she was dressed warmly enough, and yet he was still always asking her that question during the winter. Have you been keeping warm enough? Let me feel your hands. He said it so often that he imagined Cosette must be sick of hearing it, even though she never said so. But Valjean couldn't help it. He was still haunted by the memory of finding her in the woods, shivering in the cold, with raw hands and bare feet in the middle of winter.
He used to always ask her another question in cold weather, too. Are you wearing long underwear? She used to always answer, "Yes, Papa," until last winter, when she'd blushed crimson at the question, embarrassed, and exclaimed, "Papa!" He'd understood that he couldn't ask her about long underwear anymore.
Last winter, a few nights had been so cold that he and Fauchelevent had been forced to abandon their separate beds and sleep huddled together for warmth, in a pile of blankets in front of the fire. He knew that the dormitory room where Cosette and the other girls slept was always kept warm and comfortable, but he still wished so much that he could go to her room at night and spread an extra blanket over her.
"I don't want you to get cold," he said, still squeezing her hands in his. "The temperature's going to drop tonight without the cloud coverage." He looked up at the night sky, which was clear after several days of being overcast. Gray plumes of smoke from the fire rose above their heads and faded into the blackness, as if they were drowning in an inky sea.
Cosette followed his gaze. "The stars are so beautiful, though," she said softly. She'd been making more remarks like that lately, as she was growing quieter and more observant. She talked to Valjean, of course – still confided in him, which he treasured – but she didn't chatter away and say every thought that ran through her head, like she used to.
"That they are," Valjean agreed. They stared up at the stars in silence for a moment, and then he said, "I don't want you to catch a chill out here, darling." He gestured to the cottage; Fauchelevent was already inside, preparing dinner, and the golden-lit windowpane looked as cozy as could be in the chilly darkness. "Why don't you go on inside and help your uncle with dinner? I'll be there in a little while, as soon as this fire has died out."
But Cosette didn't move. Some branches burning in the fire suddenly collapsed; the flames dropped smaller, casting Cosette's face into shadow. "But Papa," she said softly, "I need to talk you."
Valjean smiled. It was always so important to Cosette to tell him what she'd learned in school that day, and he always loved hearing it. It gladdened him to know that she was getting a good education. "I know, child," he said patiently, "but you can talk to me while we're eating dinner. Go on inside, now."
Obeying her father was second nature to her, and yet Cosette still didn't move. "No, Papa," she said, and there was strange, urgent tone in her voice. "I mean... I need to tell you something – just you. I don't... I can't say it in front of anyone else."
The tone of her voice concerned Valjean, and he turned from the fire to face her fully. He sensed that something was wrong. "All right, Cosette," he said gently, "what is it you need to tell me?"
"Well," she began slowly, looking uncertain, "we... we had a creative writing assignment in class. Sister Marie-Cecile said that each had to write a story, and use our best penmanship, and make sure that we spelt every word right, and... we had to make the story up ourselves."
Cosette seemed troubled as she told him this, but Valjean couldn't imagine why. She loved to read; surely writing a story of her own would be an assignment that she enjoyed. He nodded for her to continue.
"Well, we all turned in our stories last week, and Sister Marie-Cecile gave them back to us today, and..." Cosette fell silent again.
"What? Did you get a bad mark on yours?" Valjean asked. Cosette usually got very good marks on her schoolwork, and perhaps an unexpected bad mark was the reason she was so upset.
"No... no, I got a good mark on it. Sister Marie-Cecile even wrote that it was a good story."
"Well, then, what's the matter?" Valjean asked, perplexed.
Cosette looked guiltily down at her feet. "I broke the rule, Papa," she said, so lowly that Valjean could barely hear her over the crackle of the fire. "We were supposed to make the story up all by ourselves, but I... I cheated. I wrote about something that really happened." With that, she pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket and thrust it out at Valjean, her hand shaking. Bewildered, Valjean took it from her and began to read, and as soon as he saw the title of her story, he began to understand.
The Lark
By Cosette Fauchelevent
The Lark, Valjean knew, was what those terrible inn-keepers had called Cosette. He'd never known exactly why. He'd never once called her that by name. He'd wanted her to forget that part of her life completely. How could she still remember that name? Uneasy, he read on.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Catherine.
Catherine – that name was familiar to Valjean, too. It was what Cosette had named the doll that he'd given her when they first met. How Cosette had loved that doll, but they'd had to leave it behind when they'd fled Gorbeau House in the middle of the night. Valjean still felt guilty for that – Catherine had been the first toy that Cosette had ever had, after all, and the first gift that he ever gave her.
Catherine lived in a little village, with an inn-keeper man and his wife, who were very unkind to her. They made her work hard all day doing chors, even on Sundays. They never gave her enough to eat, and if they found any fault in her work, they hit her. They never called her Catherine. Sometimes they called her crude words, but usually, they called her The Lark.
Valjean felt his chest turn to ice. Dear God... Cosette remembered. All these years that they'd been living their quiet, happy lives in the convent, Valjean always assumed that Cosette had forgotten her life before him. But he was wrong. She hadn't forgotten those years at all. She remembered. Everything that he'd tried so hard to make her forget, everything that he'd hoped and prayed for her to forget, she remembered. She remembered being hungry and alone. She remembered being beaten and mistreated. Why had Valjean not been able to make her forget it? Had he not loved her enough? The worst sense of failure spread over him as he read on.
Catherine did not know it, but God was watching her. One very cold winter day, she was sent into the forest to fetch water from the well. It was dark and frightening in the forest, but –
As much as it pained Valjean to discover that Cosette remembered those years, he wanted to read more, to know how the story ended, but that was as far as he read, for just then, Cosette suddenly snatched the paper from his hands, crumpled it up, and threw it in the fire. For a moment, Valjean simply watched it burn to ash, too astonished to say anything, and then, before any words could come to him, Cosette suddenly burst into tears.
"Cosette, sweetheart, it's all right," Valjean said automatically, and he wrapped his arms around her and lead her inside the cottage. Fauchelevent looked from the Dutch-oven, surprised, when he came in with Cosette still sobbing. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Valjean shook his head, and Fauchelevent slipped outside to keep an eye on the fire, guessing that Cosette and her papa needed a moment alone. Before he left, he poured a cup of tea and set it on the table, and Valjean was grateful. He furtively stirred in a spoonful of some crushed St. John's Wort – calms the nerves, read the little label on the plant.
"Cosette, darling, try to calm down," Valjean said in his most soothing voice, as he sat them down at the table, his arms still wrapped around Cosette. She did try to calm down, but she was shaking and crying harder than Valjean had seen her cry in years, and it took some time. He kept his arms around her and wiped her face occasionally with his handkerchief, as if she were a little girl again.
"You looked so... unhappy," Cosette suddenly got out between her tears, before Valjean could ask her anything. "When you were reading it, your face looked so – I didn't want you to read anymore. That's why I threw it in the fire."
Valjean took a deep breath and prayed to God to help him find the right words and keep his voice calm. "I'm sorry, darling," he murmured into her hair. "I didn't mean to look unhappy. I was just... surprised. I didn't know that you could still remember that time."
At the word remember, Cosette stopped crying, raised her head, and looked at him. It was as if she had been waiting to hear that word. "I did break the rules, didn't I, Papa?" she asked slowly. "I mean, I wrote about something that really happened. It did really happen, didn't it?"
Valjean sighed heavily. "Yes, Cosette," he said in a low voice. "I wish it hadn't, but it did." It pained him to say the words, but to his surprise, Cosette actually seemed relieved by them.
"Oh, I thought it did," she breathed. She sounded as if she'd been wanting to say this for a long time. "I mean, I was so sure that it had happened, but I can't remember it very well – only just barely – and you never talked about it, and I always wondered why, and sometimes I thought that perhaps I'd only dreamed it, or... oh, I don't know. It feels so confusing sometimes, Papa."
He handed her teacup, now that she'd stopped shaking, and she drank a sip. It seemed to calm her.
A new and devastating thought suddenly occurred to Valjean – if Cosette remembered her life before him, then did she know that he wasn't her blood father? He'd told her when they first met to call him Papa, and she'd always done so, but perhaps she understood that they weren't related by blood. But Valjean couldn't bear to ask her. After all, what if Cosette did believe that he was her blood father? It would crush her to learn that he wasn't. No, he would never find it in him to ask her that question.
"I'm sorry, darling," he said again. He felt sure that this was the hardest conversation he'd ever had in his life. He was terrified that she would ask him some question that he couldn't answer. He went on carefully, "I never meant to confuse you. It was just such an unhappy time. I thought it would be better for you if we never talked about it. Perhaps that was wrong of me."
Cosette sighed and leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, thinking. "It was sort of strange," she said. "I started writing about it, and more came back to me, and it was... it felt sort of easier, to pretend like it had happened to someone else." She took another sip of tea. "I wish I hadn't burned it up. I didn't really mean to."
"I know you didn't, precious. You were just upset." He paused and pressed a kiss to her temple. "But I think I know how the story ends, anyway."
Cosette smiled, then grew thoughtful again. "I thought it really happened," she said again, "a long time ago, but I wasn't certain. Sometimes I don't – sometimes it's like I don't feel certain of anything, Papa."
"Cosette, you know that I love you, don't you?"
"Yes, Papa." She was still sniffling, but the immediacy of her answer comforted him. She didn't hesitate. She knew that he loved her.
"Feel certain of that, then," he said, stroking her hair. "Whenever you don't feel certain of anything else in the world, remember I love you, and feel certain of that."
Cosette reached for his hand and squeezed it in hers. "Always," she whispered.
FIN
