TWILIGHT DECLINES.
CHAPTER I.
THE GROUND-FLOOR ROOM.
On the morrow, at nightfall, Jean Valjean tapped at the gateway of the Gillenormand mansion, and it was Basque who received him. Basque was in the yard at the appointed time, as if he had had his orders. It sometimes happens that people say to a servant, "You will watch for Mr. So-and-so's arrival." Basque, without waiting for Jean Valjean to come up to him, said,—
"Monsieur le Baron has instructed me to ask you, sir, whether you wish to go upstairs or stay down here?"
"Stay down here," Jean Valjean replied.
Basque, who, however, was perfectly respectful in his manner, opened the door of the ground-floor room, and said, "I will go and inform her ladyship." The room which Jean Valjean entered was a damp, arched, basement room, employed as a cellar at times, looking out on the street, with a flooring of red tiles, and badly lighted by an iron-barred window. This room was not one of those which are harassed by the broom and mop, and the dust was quiet there. No persecution of the spiders had been organized; and a fine web, extensively drawn out, quite black, and adorned with dead flies, formed a wheel on one of the window-panes. The room, which was small and low-ceiled, was furnished with a pile of empty bottles collected in a corner. The wall, covered with a yellow-ochre wash, crumbled off in large patches; at the end was a mantel-piece of panelled black wood, with a narrow shelf, and a fire was lighted in it, which indicated that Jean Valjean's reply, "Stay down here," had been calculated on. Two chairs were placed, one in each chimney-corner, and between the chairs was spread, in guise of carpet, an old bed-room rug, which displayed more cord than wool. The room was illumined by the flickering of the fire, and the twilight through the window. Jean Valjean was fatigued; for several days he had not eaten or slept, and he fell into one of the arm-chairs. Basque returned, placed a lighted candle on the mantelpiece, and withdrew. Jean Valjean, who was sitting with hanging head, did not notice either Basque or the candle, till all at once he started up, for Cosette was behind him: he had not seen her come in, but he felt that she was doing so. He turned round and contemplated her; she was adorably lovely. But what he gazed at with this profound glance was not the beauty, but the soul.
"Well, father," Cosette exclaimed, "I knew that you were singular, but I could never have expected this. What an idea! Marius told me that it was your wish to see me here."
"Yes, it is."
"I expected that answer, and I warn you that I am going to have a scene with you. Let us begin with the beginning: kiss me, father."
And she offered her cheek, but Jean Valjean remained motionless.
"You do not stir: I mark the fact! It is the attitude of a culprit. But I do not care, I forgive you. Christ said, 'Offer the other cheek;' here it is."
And she offered the other cheek, but Jean Valjean did not stir; it seemed as if his feet were riveted to the floor.
"Things are growing serious," said Cosette. "What have I done to you? I am offended, and you must make it up with me; you will dine with us?"
"I have dined."
"That is not true, and I will have you scolded by M. Gillenormand. Grandfathers are made to lay down the law to fathers. Come, go with me to the drawing-room. At once."
"Impossible!"
Cosette here lost a little ground; she ceased to order and began questioning.
"But why? And you choose the ugliest room in the house to see me in. It is horrible here."
"You know—"
Jean Valjean broke off—
"You know, Madame, that I am peculiar, and have my fancies."
"Madame—you know—more novelties; what does this all mean?"
Jean Valjean gave her that heart-broken smile to which he sometimes had recourse.
"You wished to be Madame. You are."
"Not for you, father."
"Do not call me father."
"What?"
"Call me Monsieur Jean, or Jean, if you like."
"You are no longer father? I am no longer Cosette? Monsieur Jean? Why, what does it mean? These are revolutions. What has happened? Look me in the face, if you can. And you will not live with us! And you will not accept our bed-room! What have I done to offend you? Oh, what have I done? There must be something."
"Nothing."
"In that case, then?"
"All is as usual."
"Why do you change your name?"
"You have changed yours."
He smiled the same smile again, and added,—
"Since you are Madame Pontmercy, I may fairly be Monsieur Jean."
"I do not understand anything, and all this is idiotic. I will ask my husband's leave for you to be Monsieur Jean, and I hope that he will not consent. You cause me great sorrow; and though you may have whims, you have no right to make your little Cosette grieve. That is wrong, and you have no right to be naughty, fear you are so good."
As he made no reply, she seized both his hands eagerly, and with an irresistible movement raising them to her face she pressed them against her neck under her chin, which is a profound sign of affection.
"Oh," she said, "be kind to me!" And she continued: "This is what I call being kind,—to behave yourself, come and live here, for there are birds here as in the Rue Plumet; to live with us, leave that hole in the Rue de l'Homme Armé, give us no more riddles to guess; to be like everybody else, dine With us, breakfast with us, and be my father."
He removed her hands,—
"You no longer want a father, as you have a husband."
Cosette broke out,—
"I no longer want a father! Things like that have no common sense, and I really do not know what to say."
"If Toussaint were here," Jean Valjean continued, like a man seeking authorities and who clings to every branch, "she would be the first to allow that I have always had strange ways of my own. There is nothing new in it, for I always loved my dark corner."
"But it is cold here, and we cannot see distinctly; and it is abominable to wish to be Monsieur Jean; and I shall not allow you to call me Madame."
"As I was coming along just now," Jean Valjean replied, "I saw a very pretty piece of furniture at a cabinet-maker's in the Rue St. Louis. If I were a pretty woman, I should treat myself to it It is a very nice toilette table in the present fashion, made of rosewood, I think you call it, and inlaid. There is a rather large glass with drawers, and it is very nice."
"Hou! the ugly bear!" Cosette replied. And clenching her teeth, and parting her lips in the most graceful way possible, she blew at Jean Valjean; it was a grace imitating a cat.
"I am furious," she went on, "and since yesterday you have all put me in a passion. I do not understand it at all; you do not defend me against Marius, Marius does not take my part against you, and I am all alone. I have a nice room prepared, and if I could have put my dear father in it, I would have done so; but my room is left on my hands and my lodger fails me. I order Nicolette to prepare a nice little dinner, and—they will not touch your dinner, Madame. And my father Fauchelevent wishes me to call him Monsieur Jean, and that I should receive him in a frightful old, ugly, mildewed cellar, in which the walls wear a beard, and empty bottles represent the looking-glasses, and spiders' webs the curtains. I allow that you are a singular man, it is your way; but a truce is accorded to newly-married folk, and you ought not to have begun to be singular again so soon. You are going to be very satisfied, then, in your Rue de l'Homme Armé; well, I was very wretched there. What have I done to offend you? You cause me great sorrow. Fie!"
And suddenly growing serious, she looked intently at Jean Valjean and added,—
"You are angry with me for being happy; is that it?"
Simplicity sometimes penetrates unconsciously very deep, and this question, simple for Cosette, was profound for Jean Valjean. Cosette wished to scratch, but she tore. Jean Valjean turned pale, he remained for a moment without answering, and then murmured with an indescribable accent, and speaking to himself,—
"Her happiness was the object of my life, and at present God may order my departure. Cosette, thou art happy, and my course is run."
"Ah! you said thou to me," Cosette exclaimed, and leaped on his neck.
Jean Valjean wildly strained her to his heart, for he felt as if he were almost taking her back again.
"Thank you, father," Cosette said to him.
The excitement was getting too painful for Jean Valjean; he gently withdrew himself from Cosette's arms, and took up his hat.
"Well?" said Cosette.
Jean Valjean replied,—
"I am going to leave you, Madame, as you will be missed."
And on the threshold he added,—
"I said thou to you; tell your husband that it shall not happen again. Forgive me."
Jean Valjean left Cosette stupefied by this enigmatical leave-taking.