It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in 1833, and Marius and Cosette were strolling through the gardens in Soho Square after church. They had arrived in London yesterday for their honeymoon. Even though Cosette was still grieving for her father, and Marius was still grieving for his friends, they felt it was important to have some semblance of normalcy in their lives. Surely that was what Jean Valjean would have wanted.
Cosette had almost gone to England last year with her father when he had to flee from the police again, but that was the night the barricades rose, and he had decided to stay behind to rescue Marius, a fact for which both of them would be forever grateful. Now they were here, and even though Cosette was glad to have Marius all to herself, she wished her Papa could enjoy it with them, in a place where he no longer had to worry about being hunted down.
"What do you think?" Marius asked, holding her hand.
"It's certainly not as grand as the Luxembourg Gardens," Cosette said. "But it has its charm." Marius smiled at the mention of the Parisian gardens where they had first met, where for several months they had cast furtive glances at each other without saying a word. Things had seemed so simple then, when their biggest worry was that Cosette's father would notice their flirting and stop taking Cosette to the gardens, which he eventually did.
"The Luxembourg Gardens," an old man said wistfully in French. "I remember them well."
Marius and Cosette turned to face the old man sitting behind them on a nearby bench. He was about eighty years old, and his hair was completely white. He was dressed in black and had a walking cane. He looked like a kinder, sadder version of Marius' grandfather.
"Forgive me," the old man said. "I did not mean to intrude. It's just been a long time since I've heard my native language."
"It's quite all right," Cosette said. Marius nodded.
"You are from Paris?" the old man asked.
"Yes," Marius said. "We came here on our honeymoon."
"Do you know anyone in London?"
"No."
"Perhaps you would like to come to my house for tea then?" the old man asked. "I know it may seem forward of me to ask, but my wife and I would love to have some company."
Marius and Cosette looked at each other. "That sounds wonderful," Cosette said. "Thank you."
"We should introduce ourselves first," Marius said. "My name is Marius Pontmercy, and this is my wife, Cosette." He smiled at her, still not used to the idea that she was his wife. Cosette did a small curtsy.
The old man got up to shake hands with them. "Pleasure to meet you both," he said. "My name is Charles Darnay."
After a short walk, they arrived at the Darnay house. Charles unlocked the door and invited them inside.
An old woman stepped into the drawing room. Her white hair was tucked beneath a bonnet. "Charles, you're home," she said. "And you've brought guests!"
"Yes, Lucie," Charles said affectionately. "These are Marius and Cosette Pontmercy, newlyweds from Paris. Monsieur, madame, this is my wife, Lucie Darnay."
"Pleased to meet you, madame," Cosette said.
"The pleasure is mine," Lucie said. "It's been so long since we've met anyone from France."
Marius and Cosette sat down on the sofa while Lucie went into the kitchen to fetch them tea and biscuits. The drawing room was warm and cozy but also elegant, similar to the one in Cosette's old house on Rue Plumet.
But the most intriguing thing about it was the fireplace mantle. It appeared to be a shrine to everyone the couple loved, living and dead. Naturally, there sat several miniatures of the Darnays' children and grandchildren. But there were also portraits of two old men, a woman who appeared to be a servant, and in the middle, in a place of honor, was a framed charcoal drawing of a young man with dark, disheveled hair and sad eyes. Marius and Cosette longed to ask who they all were, but felt it would be inappropriate, since they had only just arrived and such questions might arouse upsetting memories in their hosts.
"So, Monsieur Pontmercy, what is your profession?" Charles asked.
"I am an advocate," Marius said. "A barrister."
"Ah," Charles said with a knowing sigh.
"You used to be one?" Marius asked, assuming the old man was retired.
"No," Charles said. "But an old friend of mine was."
Lucie came back from the kitchen and set the tea and biscuits down on the table. "So, Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy," she said, hastily changing the subject. "Tell me about your families."
"I don't remember my real parents," Cosette said. "My father abandoned me when I was a baby and my mother died when I was a little girl. I was raised by a kind old man who I called Papa. He died a few months ago. He loved me so much, and I loved him. He even saved Marius' life. You see, there was a student uprising in Paris last June, and Marius was injured on the barricade. But Papa carried him through the sewers to safety, even though he knew if Marius lived I would marry him and he would have to give me up forever. It was so hard on him and I'm sure it hastened his death, but his only thought was for my happiness."
Charles and Lucie stared at each other with wide eyes. Marius and Cosette tried to decipher the look between them. Finally Lucie looked back at them.
"I'm very sorry to hear about your father," she said gently. "But why would he have to give you up after you got married?"
"He was an ex-convict," Cosette said. "He was on the run from the law. I only found out right before he died. But he did nothing wrong. He only stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister's starving children. And for that, and his escape attempts, he was imprisoned for nineteen years." She began to cry. Marius put a hand on her shoulder.
"That's terrible," Lucie said. "My father's story is rather similar. He was also imprisoned unjustly, in his case for eighteen years, in the Bastille. His only crime was reporting on the atrocities committed by a wealthy noble family."
"My family," Charles said. "You can say it."
"They are not your family," Lucie said firmly. "You disowned them."
"I disowned my family too!" Marius said excitedly. "My grandfather is a wealthy monarchist and my father was a colonel in Napoleon's army. My grandfather forbade my father to see me growing up, but after my father died, I found out the truth about him. I became a Bonapartist and left my grandfather's house to make my own way in the world, translating English and German books into French."
"I was also from a wealthy family in the Ancien Regime," Charles said. "And I also left my family to make my own way in the world, teaching French. I even changed my name to avoid the association. Alas, it didn't work."
"What do you mean, it didn't work?" Marius asked.
Charles and Lucie exchanged another meaningful glance, and Charles eventually decided to proceed.
"It was many years ago," he said. "During the Terror. We were living in London, and an old servant of my family's was arrested on false charges. I went to Paris to advocate on his behalf, but I was arrested as well, because I was an emigre. I was eventually released thanks to my father-in-law's testimony. But then I was arrested again, because someone had found a letter detailing my family's crimes. It was read aloud in court, and I was sentenced to death."
"How did you escape?" Marius asked. He knew he might be asking too many questions, but he couldn't help his curiosity.
Charles and Lucie fell silent. Charles looked down at the floor. He closed his eyes and finally looked up.
"Him," Charles said, gesturing to the charcoal portrait in the middle of the mantlepiece. "I escaped thanks to him. Sydney Carton. He's the old friend I mentioned earlier. That's the only picture we have of him. We found it in his flat after he died. We found many things there - none of them valuable, but they were valuable to us. He drew it himself. He was a rather good artist, wasn't he?"
"He looks a bit like a younger version of you," Cosette observed.
"He does," Charles said sadly. "And that is exactly how he was able to save my life."
Marius and Cosette's eyes widened, hoping that didn't mean what they thought it did.
Unfortunately, it did. Charles managed to tell them, holding Lucie's hand, with tears in his eyes, how Sydney Carton had come into his prison cell, switched clothes with him, knocked him unconscious, smuggled him away to safety, and stayed behind in his place to face the guillotine. Even though they had obviously told this story many times before to many people, that didn't make it any less painful. By the end, both Marius and Cosette were in tears.
"But why?" Cosette asked. "Why would he do such a thing?"
"Because," Lucie said softly, "he was in love with me."
"Oh," Cosette said.
"He believed himself unworthy of love," Lucie continued, "because he was a drunkard who had wasted his potential. He thought I would be happier with Charles than I would be with him, so he gave his life for me and my happiness."
"There was another girl who was in love with me," Marius said. He had already told Cosette this story, but it was still awkward to talk about in front of her. "Her name was Eponine. She lived in the tenement next to mine. She was thin and dressed in rags, and her father was cruel to her. I believe I was the only good thing in her life. But I wasn't good enough to her. I didn't see that she was in love with me. I asked her to find Cosette for me, and she did, even though it must have broken her heart. And then, when the barricades rose, she came there disguised as a boy. She took a bullet for me and died in my arms."
"That's awful," Lucie said. "But what happened to her is not your fault."
"Nor is it your fault what happened to Sydney Carton," Marius said.
"I know," Lucie said. "But it still feels that way sometimes. I keep feeling like maybe there was something more I could have done for him."
"I'm sure you did everything you could," Cosette said.
"It's not just Eponine that haunts me," Marius went on. "The barricade I was on… I was the only survivor. All of my friends were killed. The only reason I was saved was because of Cosette's father. But I wasn't any worthier of life than they were. They had families and loved ones too. I didn't even believe in the cause like they did. And in the end, their uprising failed, and they all died for nothing. Sometimes I still see their faces, and hear their voices, and I feel like I should have died on that barricade with them."
"I know how you feel," Charles said solemnly. "I still think about the people I was imprisoned with in La Force, who went to the guillotine. Many of them were innocent of any serious crimes. Like me, their only sin was being from a noble family, or being associated with one. There was a young seamstress, barely more than a child, who was to be executed the same day as me. There's no reason I should have been spared and not her. I have tried in vain to make sense of it all."
"Does it ever get better?" Marius asked.
"Yes and no," Charles said. "The nightmares stop. Memories fade. Life goes on. But it never really leaves you. You will never really be the same."
"How did you go on?" Cosette asked.
"We went on for each other, and for our children," Lucie said. "Little Lucie - she goes by Lucille now - and Sydney. He was born a year after we escaped from France. They've both given us grandchildren, and Lucille has given us great-grandchildren. Sydney fought in the war, and became a judge, and has a son also named Sydney. He took his son to Paris last year and told him the story of their namesake. We have never returned to France since our escape, and we never will. Too many bad memories. But it gives us some comfort to know that someday - likely soon - we will see Sydney and my father and Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross and all our other friends and relatives again."
"I'm sure they would all be very proud of you, and the life you've made for yourselves," Marius said.
"I like to think so," Charles said. "But our course is nearly done. And now, it is up to you to live lives that would make your fathers, and Eponine, and your friends proud. Do not let them be forgotten. But do not forget to live your own lives either. Do not be ashamed of your sadness, or of your happiness."
Marius and Cosette felt the same way they imagined Jean Valjean had felt when he accepted the silver candlesticks from the Bishop of Digne all those years ago. They felt as though they had been handed a huge responsibility that they were neither prepared for nor deserved. But what else could they do but accept?
"Thank you, monsieur, madame," Cosette said. "It is strange that we should have so much in common. I think you were sent to us by God."
"Or perhaps you were sent to us," Charles said.
The sky was already growing dark, so Marius and Cosette ate dinner with the Darnays and stayed overnight in their spare bedroom which had once belonged to their children. After breakfast, they said their goodbyes, but they traded addresses so they could keep in touch.
A few weeks later, Marius and Cosette returned to Paris and settled into the daily routine of married life. But they never forgot their chance encounter with the elderly couple. For all their similarities, they realized, there was one way in which they could not imitate the Darnays, and that was that they had no pictures of their fallen loved ones. They had a lock of hair from Jean Valjean, but other than that, they had no physical mementos at all.
In a way, that made things easier. It meant they didn't have to look at their loved ones' faces every time they walked into the drawing room, or reached for something on their bedside table. But it also meant that the memories faded faster. Every day and week and month that passed, it became harder and harder to picture them, and easier and easier to forget them, at least for a little while.
But there was something the Darnays had done that they could also do. There was another way they could ensure that their loved ones would not be forgotten.
Marius and Cosette eventually had three children. They named them Jean-Georges, Fantine Eponine, and Gavroche Courfeyrac. When they were old enough, Marius and Cosette told them what their names meant. And they felt sure that the original bearers of those names would be pleased. For even if their faces were lost to history, they would always hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.