Kabanata Kabanata 359 · PITY FOR THE UNHAPPY, BUT INDULGENCE FOR THE HAPPY

It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How

all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false

object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty!

Let us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he to blame

Marius.

Marius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions

to M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to

Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed

himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done

wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself to

gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him,

as much as possible, from Cosette’s mind. He had, in a manner, always

placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that, in this

way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than

effacement, it was an eclipse.

Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he

had serious reasons which the reader has already seen, and others which

will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without

harshness, but without weakness.

Chance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he had

argued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had

acquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had not

been able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret which he

had promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean Valjean’s

perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had a grave duty

to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand francs to some

one whom he sought with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile, he

abstained from touching that money.

As for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets;

but it would be harsh to condemn her also.

There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism, which

caused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically, what Marius

wished. She was conscious of Marius’ will in the direction of “Monsieur

Jean,” she conformed to it. Her husband had not been obliged to say

anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear pressure of his

tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience in this instance

consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot. She was not obliged to

make any effort to accomplish this. Without her knowing why herself,

and without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had

become so wholly her husband’s that that which was shrouded in gloom in

Marius’ mind became overcast in hers.

Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this

forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial. She was rather

heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the

man whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband

still more dearly. This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of

her heart, which leaned to one side only.

It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed

her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: “He is absent, I think. Did not

he say that he was setting out on a journey?”—“That is true,” thought

Cosette. “He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion. But not for

so long.” Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the

Rue de l’Homme Armé whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean

Valjean caused the answer “no” to be given.

Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth,

Marius.

Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been

absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his

father’s grave.

Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed

it.

Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the

ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach

as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have

elsewhere said, “looks before her.” Nature divides living beings into

those who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are

departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving

towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old,

and involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first

insensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The

boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It

is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid

lights, love. Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of

each other, but there is no longer a close connection. Young people

feel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not

blame these poor children.