Bear with me on this one. I don't know much about emigration customs of nineteenth century France.

The italicized parts are those in English, because this is supposed to be in French. When I did use French, I included the translations in parenthesis.

I just realized that I have five different stories I'm trying to do at the same time, so please bear with me on the slow updates.

And, I just want to thank Phoenixflames12, because she has supported this fic all along, and when I get frustrated with this story it really helps to know I have such a dedicated reader who really thinks it's good!

Of course, that said, I appreciate every single one of you. Thanks for sticking with me!

Okay, enough sappiness, there's enough of that next chapter.

-Marseillaise

Cosette's pov

I really, really hoped we were doing the right thing.

The fiacre rumbled along, and about an hour went by without either of us speaking. Finally, Joly spoke up, to Marius.

"You will…visit?" he asked.

Marius nodded. "Often."

Joly smiled. "I'll send you letters."

As we neared the customs station where all persons leaving France had to go through, Joly became visibly nervous. Turning to Papa, he said, "are you sure this is foolproof?"

Papa nodded. "Without a doubt. Don't worry."

The man at the gates asked for papers, and Papa handed them over. Baron and Baroness Marius Pontmercy, Paris, France. Ultime Fauchelevent, father of Baroness Cosette Pontmercy. Paris, France. Edward Beige, adopted son of Ultime Fauchelevent, emigrating to London, England, from Paris, France…et cetera.

He looked them over, and said, "these appear to be in order. Mister Beige?" –Joly nodded- "You can take your things and go to that ship. About an hour and you will be in England. From there, give them this paper-" he handed Joly a paper- "- and they will show you where to go."

Joly nodded, and then turned to us. "Goodbye then. Thanks…Papa…for everything."

I waved. "Au revoir…"it was so strange, calling him by an English name, "Edward."

We turned away, getting back into the fiacre.

XXX
Joly's pov

The ship wasn't enormous, but it wasn't small either. I boarded and sat down on a bench. A young girl, perhaps seventeen, sat down next to me.

"Where are you from?" she asked in English.

I swallowed. "Paris. I am of Paris."

My accent must have given me away, and she smiled. - Ah, français. C'est bon, je parle français aussi. Vous… émigrent ? - (Oh, French. That's good, I speak French as well. You are…emigrating ?)

I nodded. - J'émigre au London. Et toi ? (I'm emigrating to London. And you?)

She smiled. - Non, juste…visite mes sœurs avec mes parents et mon petit frère. (No, just…visiting my sisters with my parents and my younger brother.)

Just then, a young boy, perhaps ten, came rushing up. I assumed he was her little brother.

-Bonjour ! he chirped.

- Comment tu t'appelles ? I asked. (what is your name ?)

He frowned, concentrating. – Je m'appelle Oliver, he said at last. (I'm Oliver)

-Enchanté ! Je m'appelle…Edward. (Nice to meet you! I'm…Edward)

His sister ruffled his hair, much to his annoyance. –Oliver ne parle pas français très bien, j'ai peur ! (Oliver doesn't speak French well, I'm afraid !)

-Ah.

She said something in English to Oliver, who turned to me and said, -au revoir, Edward! (goodbye, Edward!)

They left, leaving me on the deck. I frowned. Learning English would be the biggest hurdle by far, and it would certainly take effort. All I could do currently was say my name, where I was from, and maybe enough to order wine at a restaurant.

The boat left shore and, after a relatively short and harrowing boat ride where I nearly got seasick, we arrived in England. This was it. I had never previously been outside France, and it was a little unsettling.

The man at customs was nice, and he knew enough French for me to easily communicate with him. He gave me new papers, and told me to go to an omnibus, which I did.

The ride to London took several hours, and by the time I got there I was exhausted. I pulled out the paper with Musichetta's address, and flagged down what the London equivalent of fiacre was. Showing him the address, he nodded and we set off.

Everything seemed to have sped past me, and yet I was dead on my feet by the time we got to the row house the driver said was the address. I paid him with the little English money I had received at customs, but I must have overpaid him, for he looked with wide eyes at the money and sped off.

After everything, I was finally here. I knocked on the door.

A young woman answered who looked similar to Musichetta, presumably her sister. She looked at me curiously.

I swallowed. "Um. I am…" what name to use? My papers said Edward Beige, and that was the name I was going by, but Musichetta would know me by my real name. She looked impatiently.

-Parlez-vous le francais ? I said at last. (do you speak French?)

-Juste un peu. (Just a little)

-Est «Musichetta» ici?

She nodded and shut the door slightly. "'Chetta! Someone to see you! A Frenchman, it would seem."

I couldn't understand what she was saying, but all of a sudden, she was there, in the doorframe. Upon seeing me, her face went white, as if she was afraid, and tears leaked out of her perfect eyes.

"Is it really you?"

I nodded, and she flew into my arms. I held her tightly, never wanting to let go. She buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing and laughing at the same time.

"I missed you, François," she whispered.

"Me, too," I murmured.

And I knew, right then, it was the right thing to do. Because for the first time since that awful day one year ago, I felt as if my heart was healing. As if the gash left in it had been replaced by a scar, one that would never leave, but no longer constantly plagued me.

"Je t'adore, 'Chetta," I whispered. (I adore you)