Once again, to all of you who've reviewed this story, thank you! Or as Hugo would say, merci beaucoup. Or because I'm about to dash off to Hebrew class, todah raba. In any language, I'm grateful. :)
April 17, 1829
Good Friday
Today I'm writing this in our parlor, rather than in my bedroom. I usually write in this journal there, so that Papa won't see. But Papa isn't home just now. He's at the liturgical service at our church down the street. I stayed home because I don't go to church on Good Friday. I know that's sinful of me. It isn't that I don't want to go; it's that I'm afraid to.
You see, on Good Friday, churches always go through the Stations of the Cross, reading, rather graphically, about what happened to Christ on His way to Calvary. That's what I can't bear — hearing about how He was stripped and crowned with thorns, how He was struck and scourged by the Roman soldiers, how He staggered and fell under the weight of the cross. It makes me shudder just to write about it. It makes the memories feel too close. I know it's blasphemous to compare oneself to Christ, and I don't mean to do that now... but I do know how it feels to be struck and scourged, to fall under the weight of things too heavy to carry, while some angry person screams at you to get back up. I remember.
Years ago, on our first Good Friday together, Papa took me to church, and it was a disaster. I think I managed to last until the seventh station, when Jesus falls for the second time, and then I broke down crying so hysterically that Papa wrapped his arms around me and carried me out of church, right in the middle of the service.
I thought he would be angry, but he wasn't, and he didn't ask me any questions about why I so upset. He just sat on a bench in the church courtyard and held me until I'd calmed down — which I think took some time. I remember pressing my ear against his chest and listening as hard as I could to his voice and his heartbeat, because in my head, I could hear Madame's voice again, screaming terrible things at me. But Papa kept repeating, "You're safe now, sweetness, you're my good girl," over and over, until finally, I didn't hear Madame's voice anymore. Then he told me what happened to me wasn't my fault and made me repeat it after him, then we fed crumbs to the birds for a while, and then we went home.
Papa has never been to church on Good Friday since then, until now. He always stayed at home with me. I had to persuade him to go this year. He seemed reluctant to leave me home alone, which was strange because when I was a little girl and we lived in the boarding house, I remember him leaving me there alone sometimes. Not often, but sometimes he would tell me, "You be a good girl, Cosette, and don't touch the stove. Papa will be back soon." Then he would kiss me goodbye and leave, always locking the door behind him. He never said one thing about where he went or what he did, but true to his word, he always returned soon. It didn't frighten me, and I never thought it unusual – after all, what reference did I have for normal behavior?
But now, I wonder where he was going. The thought occurs to me that right now, while he isn't home, I could go into his bedroom and snoop through his things. He might have papers, or... I don't know what, but something, hidden away in there that would tell me more about my past, or his, or even about my mother.
But I'm not going to do that, of course. It would be far too wicked of me, especially on Good Friday, when we're all supposed to be especially repentive of our sins. And I don't want to spy on Papa that way. I feel certain that he would never do it to me. But I must confess, it's tempting.
The church bells haven't rung all day, because of course they're not rung from Good Friday to Easter Sunday Morning, but I think the service must be almost over. I should put this journal away in my room. Papa will be home soon.