To my anonymous reviewer, please see the reviews page for my reply. To everyone, it's hard for me to believe, but with this chapter, we're about at the halfway point of the story!

May 4, 1829
Feast Day of St. Godehard, patron saint of sick children

Today I'm writing this outside in our front garden. Papa thinks I'm doing schoolwork, for I often do my schoolwork in the garden when the weather's warm. I don't think he'll look too closely and see that I'm actually writing in this journal.

Our garden looks just like a painting right now, with the most gorgeous blue hyacinths and purple irises in full-bloom. I do wish I had the words to capture how beautiful they are, or how heavenly they smell.

I remembered today that I once asked Papa what his name was. The memory just came to me out of nowhere. It's odd how the human mind works sometimes. I hope that as I write more in this journal, I'll remember more things that I thought I'd forgotten. For the more I write, the more desperately I want to find answers.

It sounds strange, doesn't it, that I had to ask my own father his name, but I was still quite young at the time. He told me when we first met to call him papa, and I've always done so, but one day, it occurred to me that if I ever got lost or we were separated somehow, I would need to know Papa's proper name to ask other grown-ups for him.

So one evening, we were eating dinner in our old room at the boarding house, and as Papa leaned over to cut my meat for me, I looked up at him and asked, "What's your real name?"

He stopped cutting my meat and just stared at me for a moment. Then he smiled and laughed, as if I'd said something funny. "You know my name, my silly girl," he said, touching my nose with his finger. "It's Papa, of course."

I knew, even then, that papa could not be his actual name. I started to ask, "But what..." but that was as far as I got before he interrupted me. "Eat your dinner, love," he said, and then he got up from the table to pour us some more water, even though our glasses weren't empty.

I never asked him that question again, but I did start to pay attention to what other grown-ups called him. That was how I realized he was changing his name.

::

May 6, 1829

Sometimes I hate being a girl. Sometimes it seems like life would be simpler if I were a boy. I started bleeding today, and I feel so awful from it that I'm staying home from school. What I hate so much is that I never know how I'm going to feel when I'm bleeding. Some months, I feel perfectly fine and normal, but other months, I feel like a piece of cloth that's been scoured on a scrubboard, wrung out, and tossed on a line to dry.

This May seems to be one of the latter months.

I've never told Papa when I'm bleeding, not since that very first time it happened last fall, but I think he can tell. This morning, when I told him I didn't feel well enough to go to school, he just nodded and said, "Do you want me to rub your back for you?" Some months, I ask him to do that, because my back can ache quite badly when I'm bleeding, but I said, "No, it isn't my back this time, it's my stomach." I've barely eaten anything all day, but Papa hasn't tried to make me. Thank goodness for that, because I feel so bloated right now that just the thought of food almost makes me sick. Papa usually gives me a good deal of space during those days of the month when I'm bleeding, which I appreciate.

I'm lying on the floor of my room right now, because when I tried to lie in bed, it felt all wrong, too soft and too warm. Everything just feels wrong. To distract myself, I'll write some more about my earlier life.

I know I haven't been telling my story exactly in order. Today I'll go back to when Papa and I first came to Paris. We lived in an attic room in a boarding house. It was a small, plain place, but we were quite happy there. Living with Papa felt so strange to me at first. He was wonderful, and I loved him, but it was still strange. The inn-keepers had treated me like a slave, but now, quite suddenly, here I was with this new man who treated me like a princess. I had never known such kindness as Papa showed me, and I almost couldn't believe it. He rather babied me at first; he bathed me and brushed my hair and tucked me in and did everything for me, and I loved it. I loved finally feeling loved.

We played such silly games together, too. Papa used to gallop about the room with me on his shoulders, pretending to be a pony, or he'd tickle me until I fell over from laughing. I could not have been happier with him, but always, beneath the happiness, there was a feeling of shock. I simply could not believe my good luck.

I can't remember how long we stayed in the boarding house; it felt like a long time, but time passes slowly when you're young. I know Papa bought me new dresses and shoes because I had outgrown my old ones.

But we left that boarding house very suddenly one night. I still wonder about that. Why did Papa want to leave so quickly? Was he running from someone? Or something?

I had gone to bed as usual, but in the middle of the night, Papa gently shook me awake. "Come, Cosette, wake up," he whispered, in a low, urgent voice. "Hurry, my girl, we're leaving." I sat up in bed, blinking and bewildered. Papa had lit a lantern, and by its dim light, I could see him packing. He threw his two silver candlesticks and other things into a big sack.

I started to ask a question – I think it was Where are we going? or Why are we leaving? – but Papa shook his head and said, "There's no time, darling," and lifted me out of bed. He didn't even give me time to change into a dress or put on my shoes. He just had me pull my coat on over my nightgown, threw the sack over one shoulder, scooped me up with his other arm, and we slipped silently out of that room and down the stairs.

At the last minute, just before we left, I grabbed my doll off my bed and tucked her inside my coat. I still have her, Catherine, the doll Papa gave me when we first met. I don't sleep with her anymore, but I keep her on a shelf in my room. Perhaps it's babyish to still have a doll at my age, but every time I try to give her up, I imagine my mother leaving me behind at that horrible inn, and I can't do it. Besides, Catherine was the very first thing that Papa ever gave me. He presented her to me right after we left the inn, and I remember holding her and thinking, "She belongs to me now, and I belong to him." I might never be able to part with her.

It was a dark night and must have been very late, because there wasn't another soul out and all the shutters were closed, which is unusual in Paris. But even though the streets were deserted, Papa hurried and kept glancing over his shoulder, as if we were being followed. Maybe we were, because once, I thought I heard footsteps in the darkness behind us. I clung to Papa and whispered into his neck that I was afraid.

"I know, sweetness," he whispered back, "but it's all right. Papa's right here. Keep quiet now." He kissed me and I felt better, but he never slowed down. In fact, he walked even faster, until he was practically running.

He hurried on through the dark for what felt like a long time. It was a chilly night, but I was warm with my coat and his arms around me. I eventually fell asleep against his shoulder, and when I woke up, we were in the convent. But I must continue that part of the story on another day. Now my back has started to ache, and I'm going to find Papa and ask him to rub it for me.