Story 12: These Are The Shadows of the Past
A/N: I've decided to start stating the tone of each story at the top of each chapter. Most are either fluffy, sad, or bittersweet.
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Type: Sad
June 27, 1824
Sunday
Mass was over, and Papa was doing what he always did after Mass. Since the start of May, he would do this for an hour or so. He gave bread and soup out to the poor. Cosette normally enjoyed doing this with her Papa. But today, it was too hot out and she was perspiring under her stiff gray Sunday dress.
Cosette knew better than to sulk. She was almost always happy to do what Papa bid her. She, who had never known happiness before that fateful day six months ago, loved spending time with him. Everything they did together delighted Cosette. She loved to go on long walks with him, and she loved to read with him. She loved to attend Mass with him, even if the services did bore her. In short, Cosette loved her Papa. Her savior, her guardian angel, the only person who had ever cared about her at all.
Well, and Mama. But I don't remember Mama at all.
But today, under the hot sun and in a crisp Sunday dress, Cosette was bored to tears. She fidgeted and she stepped back under the awning for blissful shade.
Then she saw the urchin children, going about in rags with their faces streaked in soot. Like me. She stood and began to help her Papa and the priest distribute small loaves of bread. She saw their bright, happy smiles, heard their chirped "merci, mademoiselle!"s and she felt a bit better. A bit.
But even so, she was sweltering and in a bad humor. But she must be a little lady, a dainty creature, for her Papa. And she put on a bright smile that would put the sun to shame and did as she should.
It was mid-afternoon when they were through. Papa thanked the priest and he took Cosette by the hand. "Come, my dear."
Cosette and her Papa began to walk along the main avenue. Cosette was sweltering and wished she could remove her bonnet. She knew that it was scandalous of her, but she remembered seeing 'Ponine taking off her bonnet in the summer months. She'd be running about and laughing with 'Zelma when suddenly she would stop and undo the laces of her bonnet. It would fall to the ground, where 'Ponine would leave it and let her long dark locks flow loose and free.
"That's awful, Éponine!" 'Zelma would cry. "You aren't meant to be so very scandalous."
'Ponine had laughed and twirled in a circle. "Is it, now? Well, why shouldn't I take off my bonnet? Ye gods, it's much too hot to go about with that on my head! Silly, nobody's watching anyhow."
"The Lark is watching," 'Zelma had said pointedly, nodding at Cosette.
"Well, she doesn't care," 'Ponine had said breezily. She'd waltzed over to where Cosette was sweeping. "You don't care if I remove my bonnet under this cruel sun, do you, Lark?"
Cosette had been torn between pleasing 'Ponine and 'Zelma, torn between each of her little mistresses. At last, she'd said softly, "No, I don't mind, Éponine." She used her young mistress's proper name – Éponine. While she may have called the two girls by simpler names in her head, she wouldn't have dared address them as so.
'Ponine had laughed again. "There, you see, Azelma? She doesn't care!"
Cosette had always wished she could be as carefree and bold as 'Ponine. She still wished that. But she could hardly displease her Papa. No, she must leave her bonnet on, like a good little girl. A polite young lady, one worthy of a finishing school. Not that she wanted to attend a finishing school. No, that was much too … British. She wanted to stay right here with her Papa.
"Are you hot?"
Cosette looked up at her Papa in surprise. She nodded timidly. "Yes, but only a little bit."
"We're nearly home. Why don't we stop in the ice cream parlor on the way home? We've never been before," Papa offered.
The eight-year-old's face lit up. "Oh! Oh, could we?"
Valjean smiled down at his little daughter. "Why, of course, darling. It's terribly hot out. And why don't you take off your bonnet?"
She let go of his hand and loosened the ribbons under her chin. "I shall loosen it."
"As you wish, my sweetness."
Father and daughter walked along until they reached the ice cream parlor. Valjean pushed open the wooden door, which was painted a bright blue, and held it open for Cosette. Cosette, meanwhile, resisted the urge to jump up and down in her excitement.
She had never been to an ice cream parlor before, and there hadn't been one at all in Montfermeil. It was all very fashionable and Cosette felt rather like a member of royalty.
They ordered a scoop of chocolate ice cream each, and the cold treat was like heaven on her tongue, like nothing she'd tasted before. It was very rich but it melted and filled every bit of her mouth with a delightfully, blissfully cold bittersweet flavor.
"Thank you, Papa," said Cosette as they began to walk back home.
"You are perfectly welcome, sugar." Valjean scooped her up and sat her on his shoulders. Cosette shrieked in pure, childish delight. He carried her all the way home like that.
When he opened the door to their apartment, Valjean glanced at his pocket watch. It was already half past four. High time for him to start making dinner. He and Cosette dined at about six in the evening, but he normally started cooking well before then.
"Heavens, it's rather late," he stated, lowering Cosette down. "I must start making dinner. You go play now, my love."
Cosette skipped off to her bedroom with a "Yes, Papa," and changed out of her Sunday dress, and yet she couldn't help but feel sorry for Papa. He deserved some help in the kitchen for once. She'd offered to prepare the meals with him on several occasions, but each time he'd decline with a kiss on the crown of her head and a smile.
She sat on her bed, cradling Catherine and singing her a lullaby. Or, more precisely, humming one. Cosette had heard Madame Thénardier singing it to her daughters, and she had heard 'Ponine and 'Zelma singing it to the kitten and to their rag dolls. But she didn't know the all words to it, nor was she sure of the title. But in her six miserable years living in Montfermeil, that lullaby had been one of the most beautiful things she's heard. Even if nobody was singing it to her.
But as she sang, her thoughts wandered to Papa. Why didn't he want her help? Surely he needed it. They would work much faster together and maybe Papa would have fun. That was what Cosette had come to learn about her Papa. He never wanted to have any fun, but when she persuaded him to do so, he always seemed to enjoy himself.
Cosette set Catherine down onto a chair with a stroke of the cheek and skipped off to the kitchen. Papa was seated on a stool, flipping through a heavy old cookbook they'd found in the book store.
"Papa?"
Valjean looked up to see his daughter standing in the doorframe. She had changed out of her Sunday dress and wore one of the lovely dresses he'd bought her when they first arrived in Paris. Merciful heavens, that had been six months ago. Had it been that long?
How fast the days fly away.
"Cosette, my child, whatever is the matter?"
Cosette bit her lip. "Papa, couldn't I help you with the cooking?"
Valjean shook his head. It was so sweet of Cosette to offer. So very like her. But no, no, he couldn't let her. She was a child. A child who had worked all her life, and now it was time she played. Time she got the childhood she deserved. The very worst thing was that her harsh past didn't seem to bother her.
"Papa. I want to help you," the child repeated.
Valjean hopped down from the stool, set the cookbook down, bent down and took her by the hands. "Please, Cosette. You're a child. Go play. Why don't you practice with your skipping rope in the garden?" He smiled. "Don't you worry about me, now."
Cosette sighed. "But why don't you want my help, Papa?"
"Because I want you to play." He kissed her on the forehead and returned to flipping through the cookbook. When he looked up, Cosette was still peering at him from the doorway.
"Go play!" he ordered with mock anger. She jumped and took a step backwards, and instantly he regretted it. He smiled to show her he was only teasing.
Cosette relaxed slightly, and she sighed. She shook her head at the silliness of her Papa before turning and heading off to find her skipping rope. It was at the bottom of her armoire, where she always kept it.
She took the rope in her hands and headed outside, but she knew that soon, she would go pester her Papa about helping him again. I shall help him even when he tells me not to. No matter what…
Cosette opened the door to the house on Rue Plumet and unfolded her skipping rope. Taking a wooden handle, painted bright pink, in each of her small hands, she began to skip. One, two, three, jump. One, two, three, jump. There is something very relaxing about skipping rope, reflected Cosette. Very rhythmic.
She went on skipping. One, two, three, jump. One, two – Cosette was startled as she noticed a waif of a girl clutching at the bars to the iron-wrought gate. Cosette stopped skipping and, with a glance over her shoulder, approached the gate.
"Hello."
The girl was younger than she, about four or five years old. Four but clad in rags. Her dark hair was tied into a messy bun and a grimy bonnet had been slapped atop it. The girl's feet were bare and dirty, and she wore a ragged old gray dress. She looked at Cosette with envy and what was almost hatred.
"Hello," Cosette repeated, smiling. She believed she'd seen this girl a few times in the neighborhood, but not up close. She certainly had never spoken to her. Cosette had always figured she was an urchin, one of the ones who wandered about in wealthy neighborhoods in the hopes of finding a kind heart or two.
"You're wealthy, mademoiselle," the girl whispered in a smoky voice. "You're rich."
"Do you need some help? Are you hungry?" Cosette knew she was blatantly disobeying her Papa, for he'd told her she must never speak to strangers. And especially not when he wasn't there. But this girl wasn't really a stranger. She was about half Cosette's age and it wasn't as though she could do any harm.
"Don't need no help," the little girl mumbled. "I am hungry, though. Ya give the food out to all the poor on Sundays, I know that. I seen ya, mademoiselle. I seen ya and your Papa. Giving out bread and soup in your Sunday clothes. But I can't get none. 'Cos I ain't poor, see. Not really."
Cosette was bewildered and somewhat confused. She didn't quite understand what the little girl was saying. "If you're hungry…" She turned toward the house. Surely Papa would be more than willing to give this poor girl a piece of bread.
An angry shout stopped her in her tracks. It was a harsh, angry voice that reminded her of Madame. Perhaps Madame had come to fetch her back! She spun around, expecting to see her mistress. Instead, she saw the elderly woman from across the street. Her gate was open and she was coming towards Cosette, shaking her fist in the air.
"Émélie!"
The young waif of a girl spun around and let out a faint cry. It was then Cosette saw the tall broom she was hiding behind her back. "Madame…"
"Whatever are you doing, Émélie? Get inside! I've got guests coming for a cocktail party at seven o'clock, as you know. Or I suppose you're too stupid to remember … and I do believe I've told you to sweep the parlor! Now get on with it, or I'll lower your wage!"
The little girl, Émélie, scuttled off in a tumble of thin little legs. She disappeared inside the neighbor's house.
The elderly woman glanced at Cosette piteously. "Terribly sorry about that, child. I do hope she wasn't bothering you too much. That Émélie, she's our youngest maid and is always wandering off, pestering the neighbors."
Cosette shook her head and backed away. The old woman gave her a respectful nod before bustling away inside. But long after the neighbor was gone, Cosette was huddled in the garden. She curled up in a ball and hid under the bench, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Her little song came out in a breath like a prayer: "There is a castle on a cloud…" For in that old bat of a woman she saw Madame, and in Émélie she saw herself.
Valjean, meanwhile, was heading outside. He was going to tell Cosette that, if she truly wanted to, she could help him with the meal. Instead, he found his daughter curled up under the stone bench, singing and sobbing a song under her breath.
"Cosette?"
She scrabbled out from under the bench. "Oh! Papa!" As she hurried to dust herself off, he saw the faint glimmer of a tear rolling down her cheek.
Valjean bent down and took Cosette by the shoulders, drawing her in close. "Oh, Cosette. Whatever happened, my child? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Papa," she said in a shaken voice. "Perfectly fine. I simply … well. It doesn't matter. I'm absolutely fine. Honest." She wriggled free of his embrace and offered him a wobbly smile. "You see?"
He drew in a deep breath. Clearly, something was amiss. But he knew better than to press her. "Cosette, sweetness, I meant to ask you if you still wanted to help with the cooking."
"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes, please!"
He took her hand and they walked inside together, where everything that had just happened in the garden was left behind. Forgotten. Shut away.
But not by Cosette.
