This is a bunch of vignettes centered around one theme, which I hope gives Cosette some depth.

"That's beautiful, Cosette," Jean Valjean said. Cosette beamed with pride.

"Shall I play another?" she asked, turning the pages of her book of short piano songs. "I've been practicing another one, too."

"Yes, please," her father said, smiling.

Cosette turned back around and faced the piano, sitting up straight like she'd been taught and placed her fingers on the ivory keys. Since they'd left the convent a month ago, they had spent many nights like this. After dinner they'd go into the living room and her father would read, and she'd do some needlework or play her music. Her father loved to listen to her, and tonight he sat clapping as she performed her pieces.

"That was perfect, Cosette," her father said, patting her shoulder.

Cosette sighed in relief. When he was out of the room, she let her shoulders slump.

"That's not good enough!" the woman shrieked. Cosette, shivering, crawled underneath the table, her skinny arms around her naked knees. Her large blue eyes, wide in fear, encountered the snarling face of the dog, who shared the space beneath the table with her. He growled as he gnawed on his bone. Cosette yelped and scooted away, wondering which was more dangerous: Madam or the dog?

A hand grabbed her by the back of her dress- or the rag that could be called one.

"Please, Ma'am," she begged as she was set roughly on her feet, trembling.

"Do it again, brat!" the woman commanded, her face red as she yelled at the girl.

"Go. But first get the firewood from the back, and start the fire. Then repair 'Zelma's stockings- they've got a hole in the toe."

"It's so cold," she murmured.

"It could be a forest fire out there and you'd still have to do it," Madame Thenardier spat. "Now if I hear you complain again, you'll be getting the splintered end of the broom. Now go!"

Cosette jerked awake, wiping her tears from her eyes. The nightmare slipped from her mind quickly, and details were already beyond her. Trembling, Cosette got out of bed and went to pour herself a glass of water.

She was thirteen years old, and her father had never once spoken of the past. Truth be told, she could not remember much, but knew it was somehow shameful. Why else would they never speak of it? And why else would she have these horrid dreams? At least once a month, she had some terrifying nightmare... she never quite remembered it, but there was always a large, cruel woman in it. In her nightmares, she was always cold, and always hungry. in her nightmares, she was always being reprimanded. She was never good enough.

She would never return to that past, whatever it was. She would never make anyone ashamed again. So every day, Cosette stood up straight and smiled. She would never let her father down, for if she did, who knows what would happen? Maybe even he had a bit of that cruel woman inside of him, and Cosette would be punished again. She would not let that happen.

If she ever felt like arguing with her father, she always resisted. After all, he was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She must not ruin it, and make him disappointed. She would be perfect.

"Cosette is good at that, aren't you?" her father said with a smile. "You adore embroidery."

Cosette hated embroidery. She often stuck her fingers and always felt a knot in her neck, and the hours of reclining made her back ache. She much preferred tatting or crocheting, where she could carry on a conversation and just let her hands do the work, without having to bend down so much.

"That would be wonderful," Toussaint said. "This place needs some sprucing up," she said. It was true; the apartment in the rue de l'Ouest was dreary. Cosette was fourteen, and they had just moved out of her adored rue Plumet for "a change of scenery." They'd be spending some time in another neighborhood.

"I would be happy to decorate," Cosette said pleasantly, with enthusiasm. "I think I'll use very bright colors, to bring some joy. How does that sound, father?"

Cosette had one vexation; she was not beautiful. Actually, she was homely. But it actually seemed to please her father. He told her she was beautiful, and looked insulted whenever the nuns had said she was homely. But she knew that for some reason, deep down he was glad she was not beautiful. She could see the relief on his face when they went out, and no one stared at her.

So one day, when she found herself to be beautiful, she at first felt triumphant. To be beautiful!

But her father did not want her to be beautiful. She tried to think of herself as ugly for a long time, but found very shortly that her beauty could not be disguised. It gave her pleasure to be beautiful, too.

"Well," she said to herself, "If I cannot make him happy by being homely, I can be the most beautiful woman there ever was. I shall be so good at it, I can make him happy that way."

Cosette bought new clothes, women's clothes, beautiful clothes. She carried herself with pride and grace, acquired a slightly different tone of speech, and learned to tilt her head when she laughed and look through her eyelashes at people.

She noticed her father was happy again, after the initial scare of her beauty. She believed she had succeeded; what she did not realize was that all Valjean wanted was for her to be happy. Cosette had gotten so good at acting happy, that he had no idea it was fake. He was happy to see her happy, nothing more.

And, if she had to say whether she was content or not, she would say she was. Cosette wanted for nothing. But every night, she retired exhausted, her mind aching because of all the work it had done that day. And, often enough to make sure she never forgot, that horrible woman interrupted her sleep, calling her a filthy slut, a brat, a bastard, an imbecile, a rat, horrible names that made Cosette shiver. She would never go back to that again.

After years of this act, Cosette met Marius. Marius, who adored her. Marius, who asked nothing from her. Not a thing. He asked not for complements, for smiles, for her love. Perhaps it was because he did not ask that she so readily gave those things to him. Cosette had never experienced anything remotely close to love before, and then it fell right into her lap. It could have scared her, had she fallen for anyone but Marius. But he was perfect for her; not only did he not ask for her love, he almost fearfully stayed away from asking for her body. He did not even try to kiss her. Sometimes she wondered if he even wanted to, but then he would kiss her hand or her hair and she would know he did want to, he just wouldn't. She loved him more for this.

Cosette breathed easily with him. She talked, but instead of cheerful chatter, she talked about real things. He talked to her about politics, and she understood little- and did not really care that much about it- but she liked listening to him, and she liked that he wanted to tell her these things. She liked that he wanted to hear what she thought about things other than the weather.

Cosette dressed up for him every night, and did her hair in the best way, and wore her prettiest gowns. But it was not because she believed he would stop loving her if she was not perfect. She wanted to look beautiful for him, because she knew she was pretty and thought it perfectly fine to show off a little. He did the same thing. His hair had been mussed one night- he'd been caught late and ran to her garden, and was windswept- and she'd complemented it, thinking he looked handsome that way. She noticed with quiet pride that he'd worn it similarly every day since. He also flaunted his knowledge of politics and writing the same way she flaunted hers of music and emotions. They wanted to appear their best for each other.

As Cosette spent more time with Marius, she began to realize how much she resented the act she fronted with her father. She wondered how necessary it was. Her father clearly loved her, so why did she need to act perfect? But then she'd have another nightmare, and remember. Marius loved her, but he did not know her secret, whatever it was. She did not even know the secret, but her father did. Somehow, everything always came back to that. There was something shameful in her past, something she needed to make up for, something her father never forgot.

Cosette always assumed it was she he was ashamed about.

Cosette was feeling extremely unimportant, but in the greatest way one can. She lay on her back on the thick grass in the garden of the rue plumet on a clear night, staring at the stars above her. It was a full moon, and the sky was lit up into a dark, velvety blue. She felt such a profound connection to the stars and to God.

She was just a piece in the whole world- nothing more, but also a loved piece of God's world. A very fortunate piece, too, especially with what had been happening to her lately. Cosette sighed and smelled the perfume of the flowers and the thick, warm summer air, and wondered if she had ever felt better.

God obviously loved her, He loved everyone He created. Maybe she'd been going about this wrong; when she had moments like this, she was confident that God loved her as she was. So her act must be unnecessary.

Marius turned over, propping himself on his elbow beside her.

"You look so beautiful," he said, touching her cheek very lightly with his fingers. She smiled, warmed by his touch and his presence. "Sometimes I wonder if you're even real..."

She turned away immediately, disheartened.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting up. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I'm real," she said forcefully.

"I know you are," he said, bewildered. "I just meant, it's so new and exciting, and dreamlike, what's happened between us in the past few weeks. Did you believe this would happen to you? Could you foresee it?"

She softened and smiled at him. "No. I wouldn't have guessed in a hundred years."

"I also meant, I wonder sometimes. You're an angel, Cosette, you're perfect. You're my angel."

She stiffened again. "Please don't say that."

"Cosette, I don't mean to hurt you-" He sounded scared, as she sat up, crossing her arms over her chest and looking very upset.

"I know you don't," she said. "But I am not perfect."

"Is it wrong for me to think so?"

"Yes!" she beseeched. "Because I'm not, and I won't ever be, and you should know that now."

"Cosette, I don't expect you to be perfect," he said, and then realized he'd contradicted himself. "I guess I meant... well, you're perfect to me. I haven't seen flaws yet."

"I make mistakes every day. At least five before breakfast."

"Mistakes are different than flaws."

"But they are imperfections," she said with conviction.

"Fine," he said with a smile. "Then I really could care less if you were perfect or not. None of it detracts from that fact that you are perfect for me."

"That's different," she allowed. "I'm not arguing with that. But I'm not an angel."

"You've never thought you found someone on earth who couldn't possibly just be like everyone else? Someone who's brought you to happiness, from loneliness and sorrow?"

"That's an awful lot to put on one person," she said, feeling pressure now. She thought of her father, though. He really had brought her out of the depths of hell- whatever they had been- and brought her to happiness. He had been that person for her.

Marius bent his head. "I'm not being very clear tonight, am I? I don't want you to feel like I'm expecting anything from you."

I know, she wanted to say. But sometimes when someone doesn't pressure you, it creates an even greater sense of duty, and makes you nervous. I've been living like that for years and years now.

"Let me explain," he said. "I used to be lonely. I had my friends, I had my books and my work, I had everything I needed, but I was still alone. My friends... they are different men than I. I had no one to talk to, not for real. I had books, politics. They can drive a person; I can respect those things, but I cannot love them. Then I fell in love with you, and... suddenly I had something that was my own. I don't mean you- I mean my love for you; it was mine to give and share, but mine all the same. Then I met you, for real, and you are different from anyone I've ever known. Your presence has changed my life, Cosette; every day I look forward to seeing you in the evenings with a joy that I've never felt before about anything. I'm happier sitting beside you than I have been doing anything that other people praise as great joys- I grew up in a wealthy household, I've gone to parties, I've studied and I've even travelled a bit with my grandfather. But those things don't bring me the joy I have right here, in this garden, with you. I look at you, and I know you are different than the others in the world. Why else would I love you and not anyone else? You're different. I see it every night when you let me come here."

Cosette had no other words; she fell into Marius' arms, and wished that she could remember the moment forever, the summer night and the crickets and the stars and him, Marius.

"I don't understand it!" Cosette exclaimed, pacing in front of the fire late one night after one of her father's visits. "Why did he suddenly decide to be so odd? It's as if he's stopped loving me!"

"No one has stopped loving you."

"That you know of," Cosette shot back at her husband, but then sighed, crawling up onto the bed with him and tucking her feet beneath her, how a child sits. "I just don't know what's wrong, and why he's suddenly angry with me."

"He has no reason to be angry with you! I assure you, it's him, not you."

"It's possibly both," she argued. "Maybe he is being selfish, I'll give you that. He can't stand it now that he's not the only person I love, and that I don't have all the time in the world for him. Fine. But I have been rather inattentive of him, more so than was necessary, and I ignored him. He gave me everything Marius, don't you understand? I owe him more than a smile and a 'goodbye.'"

"Gratitude is different than servitude," he said. "And you are not a child anymore. You can't be there for him all the time. He wants you to be a little girl again- that's perfectly natural, but it's also impossible."

"But... it makes me feel guilty," she said, feeling the familiar tightening of her throat. "Like I've failed him. After all the time I've spent trying to please him, I've failed, and he doesn't love me anymore..." tears streaked down her cheeks, as her ultimate insecurity was realized. "I failed him."

Cosette never really understood until she had children of her own. Each day, she saw their faces looking up to her expectantly, looking for praise. They were so eager to please, but they did not need to be. Though she was sometimes angry with her children, or frustrated, she loved them more than anything else in the world and would do anything for them. Despite mistakes they'd made, foolish decisions, and unkind words said, she loved them. Looking back, her father had felt the same way about her, and she did not understand.

Cosette never found out what had happened to her in the past, but she knew after having her own children that it did not matter. If something bad had happened to one of her sons or daughters, she would not love them less for it- the opposite. She would want to protect them, and to ensure their happiness and their safety. She was ashamed that she's doubted her father that way. She couldn't change her actions now; she could only love her children as much as she could.