A/N: This story arose out of ideas thrown around on Tumblr and these C/C fics arose out of that interaction - I published this one over there, and to my surprise there were others as taken with the potential of this pairing as I am. I'll slip it in here as there's a vague possibility I might write more chapters, given some of us think that Cosette/Courfeyrac should be a bit of a "thing" and I have a whole backstory for how they met and I can think of lashings of happy endings for various characters.
With thanks to Deep Forest Green for pointing out that I failed to mention Hugo as the source for some of Valjean's dialogue - the story was originally written for a small group of people very conversant with Hugo's text and for whom it was unnecessary to point out the source for some of his lines and the situation, but in publishing it here I should have mentioned that Valjean's "confession" comes almost directly from Hugo with a few modifications. The point of divergence is in how Courfeyrac, as opposed to Marius, would respond to Valjean's position.
How Cosette had met the boy still remained unclear to Valjean - the house in the rue Plumet had seemed a world away from the elegant nearby rue de Varennes or the tumult of the rue de Bourgogne, and even if he never felt entirely secure, he had thought it enough of a refuge to keep them secure for a time. But find her he had, as if by unerring instinct, and to his chagrin the student had penetrated the rustic overgrown garden and made a connection with his sweet, light-footed girl, insinuating himself into her life. Perhaps he should be grateful that the boy evidently had more than seduction on his mind, and to all appearances was as entranced with Cosette as she was with him. He could wish, though, that the garden really had served to hide their home like a wilderness secreted a country cottage, or that he had found some more secure corner of the city to hide himself and his charge.
Such wishes were quite pointless, and Valjean was determined to grasp realities with both hands. He had passed another night of agony, knowing what he must do and feeling the struggle of his soul against the chaffing necessity. Now, on the day after his beloved Cosette's wedding, it was quite certain the thing could not be undone. The marriage put her finally and irrevocably beyond him. He had quitted his duty to Fantine, and his charge was ended. She was her husband's now, and it was up to that young man to ensure her happiness.
Now he sat brooding, awaiting an audience with the boy who had stolen Cosette's smiles and her sighs, who had possession of her heart in such a way that Valjean felt himself quite crowded out. And that, he knew, was all to the better. The boy was of some means, and had already – with hand on heart and fervent pledges – vowed to complete his studies and work. "A task," he declared, "not so unpalatable as before, now that pears are out of season."
It had taken three days to put an Orléanist on the throne. It took a mere two to overthrow him, although there had been a third day of consolidation and mopping up the resistance. Valjean had missed most of the last, ferrying the injured to safety – foremost among them this young man, the one who had followed his friends to the barricade. Or rather, not followed – had lead, if what he saw before the student was injured was indicative. He was one of the central lieutenants, in a position of some command in the insurgent cell.
There had been a moment when, having fallen, Valjean was tempted to let Courfeyrac lie – to let his friends take charge of him – but even beyond his loyalty to Cosette, the desperate valour of the young man stirred something in him. He had behaved with courage, such a strength of purpose concealed beneath a veneer of dash and élan, that it was hard not to feel drawn to him by force of charm and charisma. To see him dashed to the ground in an explosive blast, followed by the threat of a bayonet at the hands of one of the National Guard as he lay insensible, had inspired Valjean to act. First, to fend off the attacker and carry him to his friend Combeferre in the wineshop. Second, to remove the student to the safety of his own household. "Be careful of him," Combeferre had said to Valjean, wiping his hands on the apron he was wearing to tend the wounded and looking on with weary concern. "He is dear to us…and there is a girl whose fate is tied with his own great heart. He would not wish her sorrow." This attachment, it seemed, was a curious thing to his friends, but one that they respected. "Combeferre ib right," said another young medical student with a congested head. "Ib would be a piby for hib to lose hib life so hard upon losing hib hear'."
So Valjean had gathered up Courfeyrac, taken him to his own home through the abandoned streets between the shuttered houses and shops, and had watched quietly through the interminable hours as his sweet girl helped the nurse attending the injured man, against Valjean's gentle attempts at persuading her not to do so. Her sombre, serious determination, sensitive hands, and face as pale as the injured man's was beneath his chestnut curls, as if both their lives hung upon a breath, left an indelible impression. Valjean was there, too, when the green eyes finally opened, lighting upon the fair face that hung over him, following with a slow, wide, bewildered smile from him and broken sobs of transcendent joy from his little girl, his little Cosette, as she pressed his hand to her face and he murmured something to make her laugh through the tears. Valjean had turned away and closed the door gently behind himself.
Now, the morning after the wedding, it was time to face facts. He had been slightly stymied in his aims so far in that it had proved very difficult to fend off the attentions of Théophile Courfeyrac, who showed a cheerful and obdurate appreciation for Valjean's efforts in taking him to safety and in reuniting him with Cosette, and would not be fobbed off with misdirections downplaying Valjean's role at the barricade. In this, he was aided by his friends, who were more than willing to account for Valjean's actions where Courfeyrac's recollection failed him in details.
After he had healed enough the boy was removed to his own family's home in one of the more fashionable if conservative streets in St-Germain, and his parents had arrived in haste and confusion from their property in the Midi, having left for Paris as soon as they heard of his part in the uprising. They had shown a mix of exasperation and affection towards their thoroughly unrepentant son, and Valjean – who escorted Cosette on her daily visits to him – had been introduced to a bewildering array of sisters and brothers who tousled their sibling's hair, called him Théo with affection, and were rapturous about the charms of his future bride. Their warm generosity caused a mixture of relief and anxiety in Valjean; he rejoiced to see his daughter, so solitary in her upbringing, surrounded by young people who adored her, but he both feared and hoped her drawing ever further into their world and out of his.
And that was for the best. He had made his plans, and they were unwittingly aided by the warm heartedness of the de Courfeyracs, who enveloped his daughter so utterly in their lives that he could gradually, imperceptibly withdraw from it. She was loved, she had material well-being, and soon any shadow of his past or her's would be removed from her future.
Thus, this audience. Having done all he could to ensure their happiness, he would not force himself upon it. His long night of agony was done, and it was time to take the last steps to complete and seal their happiness.
He waited, with some anxiousness, in the drawing room, having told one of the Courfeyrac family servants that he wished to see his son-in-law, but not to divulge his name. "A surprise", he said, earning the firmly raised eyebrow of the well-trained, observant footman who notes, but does not speak. Now he waited amidst the detritus of the wedding party, the bouquets of flowers, chairs in disarray, candles that had burned to stumps and had yet to be replaced. No one attempted to enter – those of the family who had managed to rise already, and they were few in number, were in the morning room, and the servants had yet to restore order here.
There was a sound at the door, and there was Courfeyrac – smiling, looking well content and well rested, wrapped in a comfortable paisley robe. His grin broadened when he saw Valjean.
"Ah, it's you then, father – don't know why Bernard had such a mysterious air when he announced you. But you have come too early. It is only half past twelve. Cosette is asleep."
He pulled one of the chairs up to face the other, and gestured to it. Valjean had intended to remain standing, but accepted the invitation to sit.
"Do you mind?" Courfeyrac asked, reaching for his pipe. Valjean shook his head. "My mother will have fits when she sees me smoking in here, but on this morning I think I am allowed an exception. Are you well? How is the hand?"
Valjean responded vaguely – he had been careful to hold the supposedly injured hand that had prevented him signing any documents as if it pained him, the old accustomed subterfuge preventing him dropping out of character. He had, however, caught Courfeyrac examining it shrewdly once or twice.
"By the way – I am so glad you've come to call as there is something we must speak with you about. As you know, my parents have been absurdly generous in allowing us to set up housekeeping here – they're saying they want a smarter apartment for their visits to town, but of course they want to launch us off on the right foot on this matrimonial adventure. And you know what an enormous, cavernous place it is. We've talked it over, and we think it would be much better for all if you quit the rue de l'Homme Armé. Dreadful, sickly place – my friend Joly would have vapors over the bad humors there. And Cosette simply can't do without you, so you must indulge both daughter and the son who wants to make his bride happy and join us here. What a happy little coterie we shall have. Although I probably should have waited and let Cosette ask you…do be a good fellow and don't tell her I've let slip the good news? You'll breakfast with us, of course."
"Sir," said Jean Valjean, "I have something to say to you. I am an ex-convict."
Courfeyrac's paused a moment, then slapped his knee and set his pipe aside.
"Ah-ha! I knew there was something going on that was a bit out of the order of things – let me guess, your hand isn't injured at all, is it? I told Enjolras when we had him dodge up that acte de notoriété for the wedding that there was something odd afoot…I was inclined to suspect you were less than enthused at having an insurgent as a prospective son-in-law, but could have laid an even wager there was something curious in your own baggage."
"Monsieur Courfeyrac," said Jean Valjean, "I was nineteen years in the galleys."
"Oh, ho – you state it so blandly. Well, go on – tell me the whole story. Why nineteen years?"
"For theft. Then, I was condemned for life for theft, for a second offence. At the present moment, I have broken my ban. My name is not Fauchevelent. It is Jean Valjean."
"Now back to the beginning: what was the original crime? The original theft? What did you steal, Valjean?"
Valjean was confused. This was not how the interview was supposed to go – he had hoped to bluntly horrify Courfeyrac, to free him to instigate the necessary exile. Courfeyrac, instead, was responding like an advocate for the defense. Obstinately, Valjean tried to portray himself in the worst light. Equally obstinately, and with cunning questions, Courfeyrac drew the story of the bread and broken window from him. Desperately, the older man pointed out he was not Cosette's real father, which lead to another line of questions, and the story of Fantine was drawn out of him in short, abrupt, abrasive phrases, without him being quite aware of how it was done. The young man sitting in front of him was proving almost diabolically clever in making connections, and what was a half-insinuated phrase was soon linked to the correct conclusion, the story laid bare.
As he spoke, Courfeyrac's expressive face registered a great range of emotions, from curiosity and concern to fascination and an oddly frank admiration when he described how he rose to mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Fantine's fate engendered not the disgust he feared, but rather an anger for her persecutors.
"Foul world that would damn a woman to that intolerable decision – this is what we force our women to, to either a pedestal or perdition…" he seemed prepared to launch into a vehement strain of rhetoric on the subject, but Valjean was not listening. He steeled himself for Courfeyrac's realization of how necessary this decision was, for both his own sake and, most especially, for Cosette. However much he and his friends attempted to change the world through their political activities, Valjean feared the moral abyss between their ideals and the world's reactions was not bridgeable.
"And that, Monsieur, is why I must withdraw from Cosette's life."
Courfeyrac openly gawped. "Pardon?"
"What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know that she was in existence. I love her, it is true. One loves a child whom one has seen when very young, being old oneself. When one is old, one feels oneself a grandfather towards all little children. You may, it seems to me, suppose that I have something which resembles a heart. She was an orphan. Without either father or mother. She needed me. That is why I began to love her. Children are so weak that the first comer, even a man like me, can become their protector. I have fulfilled this duty towards Cosette. I do not think that so slight a thing can be called a good action; but if it be a good action, well, say that I have done it. Register this attenuating circumstance. To-day, Cosette passes out of my life; our two roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing for her. She is Madame Courfeyrac. Her providence has changed. And Cosette gains by the change. All is well. As for the six hundred thousand francs, you do not mention them to me, but I forestall your thought, they are a deposit. How did that deposit come into my hands? What does that matter? I restore the deposit. Nothing more can be demanded of me. I complete the restitution by announcing my true name. That concerns me. I have a reason for desiring that you should know who I am."
"Well, I'm rather glad you've told me your story and I refuse to be insulted by the mention of money, given the extraordinary duress you're under. Let us deal with matters in order. Will you now tell Cosette?"
It was now Valjean's turn to be astonished. "Tell Cosette? Have you not listened to me? Come, you are young, but surely you know enough of how such things work as to know that it is for her sake that I do this. And you must help me in shielding her from this – I promise I shall not intrude on your life together…allow me but to see her once in a while, under what strictures you feel necessary, and I shall gradually withdraw. She will be safe from the stigma and her innocence and happiness protected, and you, too, shall be safe."
Courfeyrac shrugged.
"I don't mean to be disrespectful and I hope it shall not be seen as such for six-and-twenty to address a man of your years and experience, but don't you think Cosette should have something to say in this, given that it is her life and her happiness that we are addressing?"
"It is to preserve that happiness for which I act!" Valjean said, rigidly controlling his frustration.
"I have no doubt at all about that, and I do quite see where you are coming from – Cosette, thanks to your efforts, has been very sheltered, and the impulse does you great credit. Now that you've explained her past and your own, it all makes a great deal of sense. And I quite see that you are trying to shield her happiness, even if it destroys your own."
"Pray, do not think I shall be destroyed by this –"
Courfeyrac waved his hand. "Of course you will be. I'm not so blinded by my own love for her that I don't see yours. Or, for that matter, her profound love and veneration for you. Has it not occurred to you that you two should really talk about this? Cosette, from the time I have known her, has always concerned herself with your contentment and wellbeing. Do you think we spoke of nothing but romantic raptures in all those trysts? No – I'm a rather practical man in spite of all, and we spoke of you and your place in her life. She adores you. How do you imagine you can secure her happiness by absenting yourself from it?"
"You could tell her something…it was necessary for me to leave…"
"And that's another thing," Courfeyrac said, warming to his subject. "Why should she not be treated as a rational person? I know my ideas might seem a little advanced on political matters, but really, it seems like basic common sense to me that she should not be treated as an infant – yes, yes, I know you want to spare her any pain and protect her utterly, and I would spare her too, but it seems to me you're denying her any voice at all in this matter. You would not deny her intelligence, I am sure, or her good sense, or her warm heart, and I would suggest to you that if her past history tells us anything, it is that our beautiful lark can survive and flourish against very dark and long odds."
Valjean wavered, the instinct of unworthiness, of self-flagellation and desire to shield his darling from any unpleasantness coming up against the breezy, emphatic confidence and conviction of this young man. He still wished to protest, to open this young man's eyes to just how harsh the world could be.
And yet there was still that flicker of hope, of belief in grace, of daring to think that perhaps, just perhaps, he might allow himself some small measure of happiness.
Courfeyrac caught the uncertainty and smiled encouragement.
"Come. Let us speak to Cosette and see what she has to say."
A year later, dandling his first grandson on his knee in the same drawing room, while Cosette chattered to Courfeyrac's extraordinary friends about the passage of convict law reforms, Valjean allowed himself to forgive his son his terribly persuasive manner and diabolically beautiful mind.