I'm sincerely touched and humbled by all the kind and thoughtful reviews this story has received. This chapter comes (almost) straight out of the 2012 film.
April 14, 1829
Holy Tuesday
I can't write about my early life at the inn, so today I'll write about happier times, like the day when Papa arrived and took me away. I think it was the best day of my life. It was a bitterly cold winter day, and I'd been sent into the woods to fetch water — the worst of all my chores, because the woods were so frightening to me, especially at night.
Papa found me there. He took me back to the inn, where he and inn-keepers spoke for some time above my head. They were arguing with Papa, I think, lying to him that they'd taken good care of me and didn't want me to go. Then, finally, Papa picked me up and carried me away. I'd never seen him before that day, but I wasn't afraid. I was warm with his arms around me, and so glad to leave wretched place behind forever.
Papa brought me to Paris right away. We rode to the city in a horse and carriage. I'd never ridden in one before. I remember that as soon as we were on our way, Papa sat me in his lap and said, "Cosette, you and I are going to Paris, to live there. You belong to me now. You're my little girl, and I'm your papa. I'm going to take care of you from now on. Do you understand?"
I wasn't sure if I did understand – no one had ever taken care of me before – but I liked this new man already, so I nodded. "Papa," I said, trying out the word.
He grinned and kissed me. "That's right," he said, "that's me." It was the first time I ever called him papa, and the first time he ever kissed me.
I was tired from working all day, so I laid down with my head in Papa's lap, and he took off his coat and spread it over me like a blanket. He put one hand on my head, and I felt protected. I felt safe, for the first time I could ever remember.
When I was younger, I used to think I fell asleep in Papa's lap, and what happened next was only a nightmare. But it wasn't. It was real.
When we reached the Paris, a man on a huge, dark horse chased us through the streets – so fast that the horse's hooves struck sparks against the pavement – and shouted at us. I was terrified out of my mind, sure we would be trampled to death. When I couldn't run fast enough, Papa grabbed me up and carried me. "Hold tight to me," he whispered, his breath quick and hot on my cheek. "Don't let go, no matter what happens." So I clung to him, my arms tight around his neck, and shut my eyes.
I opened them again when he stopped moving. I found that we lying down on a high, narrow ledge. Papa was holding me so tightly it hurt, and with his other arm, he held one hand to his lips, motioning for me to stay quiet. The angry man shouted things from the pavement below, but he couldn't see us, and after his footsteps faded away, Papa let out a huge breath and whispered, "Good girl, Cosette. It's all right now." I tried to answer him, but I was so scared that when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a squeak. I was still holding onto him, just as he'd told me to, so tightly that my arms would be sore the next day.
We've never once spoken of that night. Papa has never brought it up, and I was too afraid to. For a few years, I pretended it was a nightmare, even as I always secretly knew it to be real. I've always wondered but never given voice to my questions.
Who was that man? Why was he chasing us? At the time, I thought he was after me; I thought he wanted to catch me and take me back to that miserable inn. But now, I think he was after Papa. I just can't imagine why. What did he want with Papa? And how did he know him? And if that man did know Papa, could he have known my mother, too? Could she have had something to do with it? That's possible, isn't it?
I just flipped back through the pages and reread my last entry. Perhaps, someday, I will be able to write about that time, and it will be bearable – but not now. I know the Bible tells us to forgive those who've hurt us, but sometimes, that's so much easier said than done.
::
April 16, 1829
Holy Thursday
Feast Day of St. Benoit-Joseph Labre, patron saint of beggars
Rereading my last entry, it seems strange that I didn't wonder about Papa's past when we first met. I feel like I should've asked him then, Who are you? Where are you from? What do you mean, you're my father? But I didn't. I've no explanation for that.
When he walked out from between the trees in that dark forest, I didn't wonder who he was, or where he'd come from. When he picked me up and carried me away from that inn — which, while dreadful, was the only place I could ever remember living — I just leaned my head on his shoulder and relaxed, and never asked where he was taking me. When he told me to call him papa, I did so, and never wondered how a man I'd only met that day could be my father.
I think one reason for that was because when we're children, we don't see the world in the same way adults do. We don't think about the same things. But a bigger reason was because I hated the wretched inn and inn-keepers so much, I didn't care who he was or where we went, as long as he took me away from that terrible place.
I think too that I knew, even then, I was safe with Papa. I could tell from the way he said my name that he would never hurt me. I could tell from the way he took my hand and led me out of the woods that he would always take good care of me. And he always has. I can't put into words the sheer relief I felt, knowing I didn't have to be afraid anymore. It was like magic. It was like love at first sight.