Chapter Chapter 350 · JEAN VALJEAN STILL WEARS HIS ARM IN A SLING

To realize one’s dream. To whom is this accorded? There must be

elections for this in heaven; we are all candidates, unknown to

ourselves; the angels vote. Cosette and Marius had been elected.

Cosette, both at the mayor’s office and at church, was dazzling and

touching. Toussaint, assisted by Nicolette, had dressed her.

Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta, her robe of Binche

guipure, a veil of English point, a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath

of orange flowers; all this was white, and, from the midst of that

whiteness she beamed forth. It was an exquisite candor expanding and

becoming transfigured in the light. One would have pronounced her a

virgin on the point of turning into a goddess.

Marius’ handsome hair was lustrous and perfumed; here and there,

beneath the thick curls, pale lines—the scars of the barricade—were

visible.

The grandfather, haughty, with head held high, amalgamating more than

ever in his toilet and his manners all the elegances of the epoch of

Barras, escorted Cosette. He took the place of Jean Valjean, who, on

account of his arm being still in a sling, could not give his hand to

the bride.

Jean Valjean, dressed in black, followed them with a smile.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” said the grandfather to him, “this is a fine

day. I vote for the end of afflictions and sorrows. Henceforth, there

must be no sadness anywhere. Pardieu, I decree joy! Evil has no right

to exist. That there should be any unhappy men is, in sooth, a disgrace

to the azure of the sky. Evil does not come from man, who is good at

bottom. All human miseries have for their capital and central

government hell, otherwise, known as the Devil’s Tuileries. Good, here

I am uttering demagogical words! As far as I am concerned, I have no

longer any political opinions; let all men be rich, that is to say,

mirthful, and I confine myself to that.”

When, at the conclusion of all the ceremonies, after having pronounced

before the mayor and before the priest all possible “yesses,” after

having signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy,

after having exchanged their rings, after having knelt side by side

under the pall of white moire in the smoke of the censer, they arrived,

hand in hand, admired and envied by all, Marius in black, she in white,

preceded by the suisse, with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping the

pavement with his halberd, between two rows of astonished spectators,

at the portals of the church, both leaves of which were thrown wide

open, ready to enter their carriage again, and all being finished,

Cosette still could not believe that it was real. She looked at Marius,

she looked at the crowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as though she

feared that she should wake up from her dream. Her amazed and uneasy

air added something indescribably enchanting to her beauty. They

entered the same carriage to return home, Marius beside Cosette; M.

Gillenormand and Jean Valjean sat opposite them; Aunt Gillenormand had

withdrawn one degree, and was in the second vehicle.

“My children,” said the grandfather, “here you are, Monsieur le Baron

and Madame la Baronne, with an income of thirty thousand livres.”

And Cosette, nestling close to Marius, caressed his ear with an angelic

whisper: “So it is true. My name is Marius. I am Madame Thou.”

These two creatures were resplendent. They had reached that irrevocable

and irrecoverable moment, at the dazzling intersection of all youth and

all joy. They realized the verses of Jean Prouvaire; they were forty

years old taken together. It was marriage sublimated; these two

children were two lilies. They did not see each other, they did not

contemplate each other. Cosette perceived Marius in the midst of a

glory; Marius perceived Cosette on an altar. And on that altar, and in

that glory, the two apotheoses mingling, in the background, one knows

not how, behind a cloud for Cosette, in a flash for Marius, there was

the ideal thing, the real thing, the meeting of the kiss and the dream,

the nuptial pillow. All the torments through which they had passed came

back to them in intoxication. It seemed to them that their sorrows,

their sleepless nights, their tears, their anguish, their terrors,

their despair, converted into caresses and rays of light, rendered

still more charming the charming hour which was approaching; and that

their griefs were but so many handmaidens who were preparing the toilet

of joy. How good it is to have suffered! Their unhappiness formed a

halo round their happiness. The long agony of their love was

terminating in an ascension.

It was the same enchantment in two souls, tinged with voluptuousness in

Marius, and with modesty in Cosette. They said to each other in low

tones: “We will go back to take a look at our little garden in the Rue

Plumet.” The folds of Cosette’s gown lay across Marius.

Such a day is an ineffable mixture of dream and of reality. One

possesses and one supposes. One still has time before one to divine.

The emotion on that day, of being at midday and of dreaming of midnight

is indescribable. The delights of these two hearts overflowed upon the

crowd, and inspired the passers-by with cheerfulness.

People halted in the Rue Saint-Antoine, in front of Saint-Paul, to gaze

through the windows of the carriage at the orange-flowers quivering on

Cosette’s head.

Then they returned home to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Marius,

triumphant and radiant, mounted side by side with Cosette the staircase

up which he had been borne in a dying condition. The poor, who had

trooped to the door, and who shared their purses, blessed them. There

were flowers everywhere. The house was no less fragrant than the

church; after the incense, roses. They thought they heard voices

carolling in the infinite; they had God in their hearts; destiny

appeared to them like a ceiling of stars; above their heads they beheld

the light of a rising sun. All at once, the clock struck. Marius

glanced at Cosette’s charming bare arm, and at the rosy things which

were vaguely visible through the lace of her bodice, and Cosette,

intercepting Marius’ glance, blushed to her very hair.

Quite a number of old family friends of the Gillenormand family had

been invited; they pressed about Cosette. Each one vied with the rest

in saluting her as Madame la Baronne.

The officer, Théodule Gillenormand, now a captain, had come from

Chartres, where he was stationed in garrison, to be present at the

wedding of his cousin Pontmercy. Cosette did not recognize him.

He, on his side, habituated as he was to have women consider him

handsome, retained no more recollection of Cosette than of any other

woman.

“How right I was not to believe in that story about the lancer!” said

Father Gillenormand, to himself.

Cosette had never been more tender with Jean Valjean. She was in unison

with Father Gillenormand; while he erected joy into aphorisms and

maxims, she exhaled goodness like a perfume. Happiness desires that all

the world should be happy.

She regained, for the purpose of addressing Jean Valjean, inflections

of voice belonging to the time when she was a little girl. She caressed

him with her smile.

A banquet had been spread in the dining-room.

Illumination as brilliant as the daylight is the necessary seasoning of

a great joy. Mist and obscurity are not accepted by the happy. They do

not consent to be black. The night, yes; the shadows, no. If there is

no sun, one must be made.

The dining-room was full of gay things. In the centre, above the white

and glittering table, was a Venetian lustre with flat plates, with all

sorts of colored birds, blue, violet, red, and green, perched amid the

candles; around the chandelier, girandoles, on the walls, sconces with

triple and quintuple branches; mirrors, silverware, glassware, plate,

porcelain, faïence, pottery, gold and silversmith’s work, all was

sparkling and gay. The empty spaces between the candelabra were filled

in with bouquets, so that where there was not a light, there was a

flower.

In the antechamber, three violins and a flute softly played quartettes

by Haydn.

Jean Valjean had seated himself on a chair in the drawing-room, behind

the door, the leaf of which folded back upon him in such a manner as to

nearly conceal him. A few moments before they sat down to table,

Cosette came, as though inspired by a sudden whim, and made him a deep

courtesy, spreading out her bridal toilet with both hands, and with a

tenderly roguish glance, she asked him:

“Father, are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Jean Valjean, “I am content!”

“Well, then, laugh.”

Jean Valjean began to laugh.

A few moments later, Basque announced that dinner was served.

The guests, preceded by M. Gillenormand with Cosette on his arm,

entered the dining-room, and arranged themselves in the proper order

around the table.

Two large armchairs figured on the right and left of the bride, the

first for M. Gillenormand, the other for Jean Valjean. M. Gillenormand

took his seat. The other armchair remained empty.

They looked about for M. Fauchelevent.

He was no longer there.

M. Gillenormand questioned Basque.

“Do you know where M. Fauchelevent is?”

“Sir,” replied Basque, “I do, precisely. M. Fauchelevent told me to say

to you, sir, that he was suffering, his injured hand was paining him

somewhat, and that he could not dine with Monsieur le Baron and Madame

la Baronne. That he begged to be excused, that he would come to-morrow.

He has just taken his departure.”

That empty armchair chilled the effusion of the wedding feast for a

moment. But, if M. Fauchelevent was absent, M. Gillenormand was

present, and the grandfather beamed for two. He affirmed that M.

Fauchelevent had done well to retire early, if he were suffering, but

that it was only a slight ailment. This declaration sufficed. Moreover,

what is an obscure corner in such a submersion of joy? Cosette and

Marius were passing through one of those egotistical and blessed

moments when no other faculty is left to a person than that of

receiving happiness. And then, an idea occurred to M.

Gillenormand.—“Pardieu, this armchair is empty. Come hither, Marius.

Your aunt will permit it, although she has a right to you. This

armchair is for you. That is legal and delightful. Fortunatus beside

Fortunata.”—Applause from the whole table. Marius took Jean Valjean’s

place beside Cosette, and things fell out so that Cosette, who had, at

first, been saddened by Jean Valjean’s absence, ended by being

satisfied with it. From the moment when Marius took his place, and was

the substitute, Cosette would not have regretted God himself. She set

her sweet little foot, shod in white satin, on Marius’ foot.

The armchair being occupied, M. Fauchelevent was obliterated; and

nothing was lacking.

And, five minutes afterward, the whole table from one end to the other,

was laughing with all the animation of forgetfulness.

At dessert, M. Gillenormand, rising to his feet, with a glass of

champagne in his hand—only half full so that the palsy of his eighty

years might not cause an overflow,—proposed the health of the married

pair.

“You shall not escape two sermons,” he exclaimed. “This morning you had

one from the curé, this evening you shall have one from your

grandfather. Listen to me; I will give you a bit of advice: Adore each

other. I do not make a pack of gyrations, I go straight to the mark, be

happy. In all creation, only the turtledoves are wise. Philosophers

say: ‘Moderate your joys.’ I say: ‘Give rein to your joys.’ Be as much

smitten with each other as fiends. Be in a rage about it. The

philosophers talk stuff and nonsense. I should like to stuff their

philosophy down their gullets again. Can there be too many perfumes,

too many open rose-buds, too many nightingales singing, too many green

leaves, too much aurora in life? can people love each other too much?

can people please each other too much? Take care, Estelle, thou art too

pretty! Have a care, Nemorin, thou art too handsome! Fine stupidity, in

sooth! Can people enchant each other too much, cajole each other too

much, charm each other too much? Can one be too much alive, too happy?

Moderate your joys. Ah, indeed! Down with the philosophers! Wisdom

consists in jubilation. Make merry, let us make merry. Are we happy

because we are good, or are we good because we are happy? Is the Sancy

diamond called the Sancy because it belonged to Harley de Sancy, or

because it weighs six hundred carats? I know nothing about it, life is

full of such problems; the important point is to possess the Sancy and

happiness. Let us be happy without quibbling and quirking. Let us obey

the sun blindly. What is the sun? It is love. He who says love, says

woman. Ah! ah! behold omnipotence—women. Ask that demagogue of a Marius

if he is not the slave of that little tyrant of a Cosette. And of his

own free will, too, the coward! Woman! There is no Robespierre who

keeps his place but woman reigns. I am no longer Royalist except

towards that royalty. What is Adam? The kingdom of Eve. No ’89 for Eve.

There has been the royal sceptre surmounted by a fleur-de-lys, there

has been the imperial sceptre surmounted by a globe, there has been the

sceptre of Charlemagne, which was of iron, there has been the sceptre

of Louis the Great, which was of gold,—the revolution twisted them

between its thumb and forefinger, ha’penny straws; it is done with, it

is broken, it lies on the earth, there is no longer any sceptre, but

make me a revolution against that little embroidered handkerchief,

which smells of patchouli! I should like to see you do it. Try. Why is

it so solid? Because it is a gewgaw. Ah! you are the nineteenth

century? Well, what then? And we have been as foolish as you. Do not

imagine that you have effected much change in the universe, because

your trip-gallant is called the cholera-morbus, and because your

_pourrée_ is called the cachuca. In fact, the women must always be

loved. I defy you to escape from that. These friends are our angels.

Yes, love, woman, the kiss forms a circle from which I defy you to

escape; and, for my own part, I should be only too happy to re-enter

it. Which of you has seen the planet Venus, the coquette of the abyss,

the Célimène of the ocean, rise in the infinite, calming all here

below? The ocean is a rough Alcestis. Well, grumble as he will, when

Venus appears he is forced to smile. That brute beast submits. We are

all made so. Wrath, tempest, claps of thunder, foam to the very

ceiling. A woman enters on the scene, a planet rises; flat on your

face! Marius was fighting six months ago; to-day he is married. That is

well. Yes, Marius, yes, Cosette, you are in the right. Exist boldly for

each other, make us burst with rage that we cannot do the same,

idealize each other, catch in your beaks all the tiny blades of

felicity that exist on earth, and arrange yourselves a nest for life.

Pardi, to love, to be loved, what a fine miracle when one is young!

Don’t imagine that you have invented that. I, too, have had my dream,

I, too, have meditated, I, too, have sighed; I, too, have had a

moonlight soul. Love is a child six thousand years old. Love has the

right to a long white beard. Methusalem is a street arab beside Cupid.

For sixty centuries men and women have got out of their scrape by

loving. The devil, who is cunning, took to hating man; man, who is

still more cunning, took to loving woman. In this way he does more good

than the devil does him harm. This craft was discovered in the days of

the terrestrial paradise. The invention is old, my friends, but it is

perfectly new. Profit by it. Be Daphnis and Chloe, while waiting to

become Philemon and Baucis. Manage so that, when you are with each

other, nothing shall be lacking to you, and that Cosette may be the sun

for Marius, and that Marius may be the universe to Cosette. Cosette,

let your fine weather be the smile of your husband; Marius, let your

rain be your wife’s tears. And let it never rain in your household. You

have filched the winning number in the lottery; you have gained the

great prize, guard it well, keep it under lock and key, do not squander

it, adore each other and snap your fingers at all the rest. Believe

what I say to you. It is good sense. And good sense cannot lie. Be a

religion to each other. Each man has his own fashion of adoring God.

Saperlotte! the best way to adore God is to love one’s wife. _I love

thee!_ that’s my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath of Henri

IV. places sanctity somewhere between feasting and drunkenness.

Ventre-saint-gris! I don’t belong to the religion of that oath. Woman

is forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the part of Henri IV. My

friends, long live women! I am old, they say; it’s astonishing how much

I feel in the mood to be young. I should like to go and listen to the

bagpipes in the woods. Children who contrive to be beautiful and

contented,—that intoxicates me. I would like greatly to get married, if

any one would have me. It is impossible to imagine that God could have

made us for anything but this: to idolize, to coo, to preen ourselves,

to be dove-like, to be dainty, to bill and coo our loves from morn to

night, to gaze at one’s image in one’s little wife, to be proud, to be

triumphant, to plume oneself; that is the aim of life. There, let not

that displease you which we used to think in our day, when we were

young folks. Ah! vertu-bamboche! what charming women there were in

those days, and what pretty little faces and what lovely lasses! I

committed my ravages among them. Then love each other. If people did

not love each other, I really do not see what use there would be in

having any springtime; and for my own part, I should pray the good God

to shut up all the beautiful things that he shows us, and to take away

from us and put back in his box, the flowers, the birds, and the pretty

maidens. My children, receive an old man’s blessing.”

The evening was gay, lively and agreeable. The grandfather’s sovereign

good humor gave the key-note to the whole feast, and each person

regulated his conduct on that almost centenarian cordiality. They

danced a little, they laughed a great deal; it was an amiable wedding.

Goodman Days of Yore might have been invited to it. However, he was

present in the person of Father Gillenormand.

There was a tumult, then silence.

The married pair disappeared.

A little after midnight, the Gillenormand house became a temple.

Here we pause. On the threshold of wedding nights stands a smiling

angel with his finger on his lips.

The soul enters into contemplation before that sanctuary where the

celebration of love takes place.

There should be flashes of light athwart such houses. The joy which

they contain ought to make its escape through the stones of the walls

in brilliancy, and vaguely illuminate the gloom. It is impossible that

this sacred and fatal festival should not give off a celestial radiance

to the infinite. Love is the sublime crucible wherein the fusion of the

man and the woman takes place; the being one, the being triple, the

being final, the human trinity proceeds from it. This birth of two

souls into one, ought to be an emotion for the gloom. The lover is the

priest; the ravished virgin is terrified. Something of that joy ascends

to God. Where true marriage is, that is to say, where there is love,

the ideal enters in. A nuptial bed makes a nook of dawn amid the

shadows. If it were given to the eye of the flesh to scan the

formidable and charming visions of the upper life, it is probable that

we should behold the forms of night, the winged unknowns, the blue

passers of the invisible, bend down, a throng of sombre heads, around

the luminous house, satisfied, showering benedictions, pointing out to

each other the virgin wife gently alarmed, sweetly terrified, and

bearing the reflection of human bliss upon their divine countenances.

If at that supreme hour, the wedded pair, dazzled with voluptuousness

and believing themselves alone, were to listen, they would hear in

their chamber a confused rustling of wings. Perfect happiness implies a

mutual understanding with the angels. That dark little chamber has all

heaven for its ceiling. When two mouths, rendered sacred by love,

approach to create, it is impossible that there should not be, above

that ineffable kiss, a quivering throughout the immense mystery of

stars.

These felicities are the true ones. There is no joy outside of these

joys. Love is the only ecstasy. All the rest weeps.

To love, or to have loved,—this suffices. Demand nothing more. There is

no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a

fulfilment.