Many thanks to those of you who've reviewed this story. I would love to hear from a few more of you, if you have time. For clarification, this chapter is set about a week after the first one.


Through the summer and the fall, we had each other, that was all
Just she and I together, like it was meant to be
— Randy Newman, "When She Loved Me"

The sun shone kindly above Paris, and all over the city, cathedral spires and stained-glasses windows glistened in its light. It was early fall, and even though there would soon be chilly evenings and frost on the grass in the mornings, for today, the warm weather lingered, as if summer had changed her mind and decided to stay in Paris, just a little longer. But though it was quite warm in the sunshine, in the Petit Picpus convent, tucked away in one corner of the garden, it was pleasantly cool beneath the shade of an apple tree. Its branches hung low, heavy with ripe apples, filling the air with the heady smell of amber spice.

Cosette's classes were over for the afternoon, and so she was in the garden with her papa. Since the two of them had arrived in the convent two weeks ago, Cosette had spent every second of her free time with him. Right now, she was sitting atop his shoulders beneath the apple tree, picking apples and handing them down to him, while she told him what she had done in school that day.

"...and then we all took a turn reading aloud from our books," she said. Her voice dropped. "I read much slower than all the other girls. I had to keep sounding out the words. I don't like reading aloud. I'm stupid."

Valjean's brow furrowed as he reached up to take another apple from her and add it to the bushel basket he was holding on his hip. "Who said you were stupid?" he asked sharply.

"Well... no one did," she confessed quietly, over the rustling leaves. "But I felt stupid."

"You aren't stupid, Cosette," he said firmly. "I don't want to hear you call yourself that again, understand?"

"Yes, Papa," Cosette answered immediately. Her father rarely used that tone with her, and when he did, she knew that he really meant it.

"You aren't stupid," Valjean repeated, more gently. Cosette had learned to read only a few weeks ago. He'd taught her himself, when they'd still lived in the Gorbeau House. "You're just new here, and the other girls have all been reading for longer than you. You must be patient with yourself. Why, not that long ago, you didn't even know your letters, and now you're already reading whole sentences. You're smart to have learned so much so quickly." He patted her thigh next to his cheek, and she smiled as she tugged another apple from its branch.

Valjean paused to reflect. It was likely that the other girls Cosette's age had been reading for a few years already. Where had his Cosette been then, while they were learning their letters? She'd been scrubbing floors on her hands and knees, and stooping over a washtub to wash clothes, and doing all sorts of other heavy, hard work that little girls had no business doing.

Cosette interrupted his thoughts. "I still wish I could spend all day out here in the garden with you, Papa," she said longingly, "instead of going to classes."

Valjean patted her thigh again. "I wish you could too, sweetness," he said, and then he immediately regretted his words. Was it not selfish of him to wish for such a thing? Certainly, Cosette enjoyed sitting on his shoulders and picking apples on a crisp fall day, but neither the work nor the weather would always be so pleasant. There would be frigid winter mornings, and sweltering summer afternoons, and more hard, heavy chores that little girls had no business doing. His Cosette belonged inside, sheltered from the elements, practicing her spelling and arithmetic. Valjean added quickly, "But we must be content with what we have."

"What does content mean?"

"Well, it means that we're happy with what God has given us, and we don't want more."

Cosette was silent for a moment, then Valjean felt her shift on his shoulders; she leaned down to lay her cheek on top of his head. "But... then I am content," she said suddenly. "I'm content because nobody else's papa is the gardener. I must be the luckiest girl in this whole convent, aren't I?"

Valjean smiled. "I think you are, precious."

They picked apples for a few minutes longer, until they had filled the basket. "I think that's enough apples for today, Cosette," Valjean said, setting it on the ground. "Why don't we have a little quiet time before you have to go back in?" He reached up and lifted Cosette from his shoulders. He shifted her in his arms until he was holding her against his chest.

"You know, darling," he said to her, "I've been thinking about that problem you've had falling asleep."

Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder. "Because you can't put me to bed anymore," she murmured sadly into his tunic.

"Yes, and I think I've come up with something that might help. Here, this is for you." He reached into his trousers pocket with his free hand, and Cosette blinked in surprise when she saw what he pulled from it and held out to her.

"Your handkerchief?" she asked, bewildered, taking it from him.

Valjean smiled. "It's yours now. Smell it." Cosette obeyed and drew the handkerchief close to her face. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. The handkerchief smelled of sweat and dirt, but it was the most wonderful smell in the world to Cosette, for it was how her papa always smelled.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. "It smells like you."

Valjean smiled back at her. "That's right," he said. "I want you to keep it and smell it every night, before you go to bed. It'll help you fall asleep. Now, you give me your handkerchief." Cosette obeyed, pulling her own handkerchief from her apron pocket and holding it out to him. He took it from her and wiped his brow with it; soon enough, it would carry his gardener's smell of sweat and dirt. "When mine doesn't smell like me anymore, we'll switch back, all right?"

Cosette gave him a look of such pure, open adoration that anyone would've thought he had just hung the moon in the sky. "What a good idea, Papa," she breathed.

Valjean's eyes shifted to the across the garden, where a group of little girls Cosette's age were sitting on the grass near the hedges, giggling and playing some sort of hand-clapping game. Cosette spent every second of her time in the garden with him, and while of course he was always happy to be with her, it also concerned him that she never played with the other girls. He knew that the Thenardiers had had two little girls, who had been as cruel to Cosette as their parents. Valjean didn't blame them for that, of course – children couldn't be expected to learn kindness if they'd never had an adult to model it for them – but they had left Cosette with the impression that all other children were so cruel.

"Cosette," he asked, "the other girls here have all been nice to you, haven't they?"

Cosette immediately dropped her eyes to the ground. The other girls had all been nice enough, but whenever one of them even spoke to her, she became almost paralyzingly shy. "Yes," she finally mumbled.

Valjean put his hand on her chin and gently raised her head until their eyes met. "I want you to try making friends with one of them, all right? Can you try doing that for me, precious?" Cosette looked reluctant, but she nodded. "That's my good girl," he praised, and he set her on the ground again.

Across the garden, the other girls had stopped their game and were walking across the grass to line up in front of the monastery. It was almost time for them to go back inside for the evening. That meant that he and Cosette would have to say goodbye until tomorrow, and sometimes saying goodbye to him still made her cry.

To delay her tears, Valjean put his hands on her shoulders and said again, "You're not stupid, Cosette... but tell me what you are." He had done this with her before. When he'd first taken her home from the Thenardiers last winter, it saddened him to realize that never in her memory had anyone ever spoken a kind word to her. So he'd sat her on his lap and made sure that this was the first verse of the Bible that he read to her.

Now, Cosette pursed her lips, trying to remember the exact wording. Then she said slowly, "I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

Valjean smiled and kissed her cheek. "That's right," he said. "You are fearfully and wonderfully made, and I want you to always remember that – always, all right? You've got to go back in now, so give me a hug, a big one." Cosette flung her arms around him and hugged him with all her strength. Valjean kissed her brow. "I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"I love you too, Papa," she whispered into his ear, and then she reluctantly turned and ran to catch up with the other girls. Just before she went back inside the monastery, she looked back and blew a kiss to him over her shoulder. Valjean felt his heart melt. Then the heavy monastery door closed shut behind her, and she was gone again, until tomorrow afternoon, which suddenly felt very far away. Valjean pulled her little handkerchief from his pocket and held it close to his face. It smelled sweet and clean, like Cosette, and he prayed that she would be as comforted by having his handkerchief as he was by having hers.

Later, Fauchelevent helped him carry the basket of apples into their cottage. Most of the apples were to be stored away and eaten during the coming winter, but some of them they would spend the evening washing and peeling. It was easy enough work, although it left their hands sore.

"You know," Fauchelevent said, as they walked across the garden, "I believe if you asked Cosette who created the world, she would say it was you."

Valjean was silent for a moment, not sure whether he should feel flattered or horrified. It was certainly meant as a compliment, but still, Fauchelevent was nearly blaspheming. "I don't think so," he answered after a pause. "I read her the creation story from Genesis, about how God created the world in six days. She knows that."

"Well, she might know that, but I think she still believes that you did it. If I were a gambling man, I'd bet money on it." He paused and looked at Valjean with some surprise, as if he must be a deaf-and-dumb fool not to have noticed something so obvious. "You can tell it by her eyes when she looks at you. Have you not seen it?"