Chương Chương 68 · FANTINE HAPPY

She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself.

That simple question, “And Cosette?” was put with so profound a faith,

with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of

doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:—

“I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen

you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all

night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of

celestial forms.”

He raised his glance to the crucifix.

“But,” she resumed, “tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place

her on my bed against the moment of my waking?”

He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to

recall.

Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his

appearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.

“Calm yourself, my child,” said the doctor; “your child is here.”

Fantine’s eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped

her hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to

prayer in the way of violence and tenderness.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “bring her to me!”

Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little

child who is carried.

“Not yet,” said the doctor, “not just now. You still have some fever.

The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be

cured first.”

She interrupted him impetuously:—

“But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that

doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!”

“You see,” said the doctor, “how excited you become. So long as you are

in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough

to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are

reasonable, I will bring her to you myself.”

The poor mother bowed her head.

“I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should

never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have

happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I

understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like,

but I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter.

I have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since

yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should

talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I

should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly

from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be

happy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled

at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I

have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that

there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave

as though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. When

it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, ‘She must have her

child.’”

M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned towards

him; she was making a visible effort to be calm and “very good,” as she

expressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in

order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty

about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she

could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.

“Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were

to go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the

journey well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten

me by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like

birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and

thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those

Thénardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew

how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during

all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh,

how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le

Maire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in

that diligence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant?

She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the

master; it could be so if you chose!”

He took her hand. “Cosette is beautiful,” he said, “Cosette is well.

You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too

much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the

clothes, and that makes you cough.”

In fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.

Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too

passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of

inspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent things.

“Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure

parties in summer. Are the Thénardiers prosperous? There are not many

travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a

cook-shop.”

M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with

anxiety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before

which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit,

retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them.

But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed:—

“I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!”

She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath,

and began to listen with rapture.

There was a child playing in the yard—the child of the portress or of

some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always

occurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious

stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child—a little girl—was going and

coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her

voice. Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was

this little girl whom Fantine heard singing.

“Oh!” she resumed, “it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice.”

The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine

listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M.

Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: “How wicked that doctor is not

to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that

he has.”

But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She

continued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow: “How

happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first

thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the

garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell.

She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then

she will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first

communion?”

She began to reckon on her fingers.

“One, two, three, four—she is seven years old. In five years she will

have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little

woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I

think of my daughter’s first communion!”

She began to laugh.

He had released Fantine’s hand. He listened to her words as one listens

to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind

absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased

speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine

had become terrible.

She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to

a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her

face, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she

seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something

alarming at the other extremity of the room.

“Good God!” he exclaimed; “what ails you, Fantine?”

She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which

she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the

other made him a sign to look behind him.

He turned, and beheld Javert.