Waking Pontmercy

By Patrick Kona

Cosette owes her life to her first love, her dear father Jean Valjean. She was just a tiny girl when Jean appeared at the Thénardiers’ door to help her escape her destiny as a bastard orphan. It was her father who rescued her beloved Marius from almost certain death from the barricade. And it was her father who taught her that love always has a plan.

As Cosette and Marius begin their marriage, their fortuitous life elevates them to wealth and power. Because of her fine upbringing, Cosette is a real Pontmercy. No one dares question where she came from or how she got there. Marius’s love for Cosette seems to blind him from seeing the demons that are overwhelming her. But he has demons of his own. As his addictions grow and threaten to ruin him, Marius must see that it is not just Cosette who is failing but he as well. Can he find the undeniable faith he once had in Cosette—and in himself—in time to rejoin their life of splendor?

Set in nineteenth century France, Waking Pontmercy brings the lives of Marius and Cosette to life, picking up where the master, Victor Hugo, left off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532069680

Patrick Kona

Patrick Kona grew up in Saskatchewan, Canada. He was introduced to Les Misérables at a young age when the 1952 American film adapted from the novel by Victor Hugo was broadcast by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Enchanted by the character Jean Valjean, he became inspired to write his debut novel, Waking Pontmercy.

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Copyright © 2019 Patrick Kona.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-6967-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7367-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6968-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019902848

iUniverse rev. date: 03/14/2019

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1     A Girl and Her Father, Jean

Chapter 2     Flashback to Jean Valjean as Monsieur Madeleine, Mayor of M sur M

Chapter 3     Reintroducing Cosette

Chapter 4     Fantine’s Lover Had None

Chapter 5     The Blonde and Monsieur Madeleine

Chapter 6     Cosette and Thénardier at the Inn

Chapter 7     Marius, Man of Paris

Chapter 8     Laying Father Fauchelevent to Rest

Chapter 9     Weaving Their New Life—Cosette and Marius

Chapter 10   Grisettes, Félix, and Saint Cloud: Confidant to Monsieur Gillenormand

Chapter 11   A New Epoch in France

Chapter 12   Madame Codelle’s Creations

Chapter 13   Éponine: Gone, Not Forgotten

Chapter 14   Flora of Petit-Picpus

Chapter 15   Cosette Follows in Her Father’s Footsteps

Chapter 16   Versailles

Chapter 17   Marius in the New Epoch

Chapter 18   The Birthday Garden at Versailles

Chapter 19   Marius and Cosette Raise a Family

Chapter 20   Grandfather’s Garden Game

Chapter 21   Verreaux et Pontmercy

Chapter 22   Marius the Plant Broker

Chapter 23   Jubilation

Chapter 24   The Perfect Garden for a Birthday Boy

Chapter 25   Marius Worries about the Birth

Chapter 26   Garden Green Light

Chapter 27   Jean and Sister Jeanne

Chapter 28   The Happy Day Has Come

Chapter 29   The Name

Chapter 30   Mom Cosette

Chapter 31   Dreamy One

Chapter 32   Tabacum Taboo

Chapter 33   Port to Port

Chapter 34   Opium Confidential

Chapter 35   Cosette Is Not Well

Chapter 36   Cosette Is Pregnant Again, Oh Dear

Chapter 37   Wine Blight in the Loire Valley

Chapter 38   Belgian Has a Name

Chapter 39   Cosette Has Baby Number Two

Chapter 40   Ten Years Later, Poor Cosette

Chapter 41   Bad Air of Versailles

Chapter 42   Meteoric Careers

Chapter 43   Le Havre Rebirth—Thanks, America

Chapter 44   Thénardier the American

Chapter 45   Vat, Bottle, Case by Case

Chapter 46   Son of Marius

Chapter 47   Codelle, Cosette, and the Ménage à Trois

Chapter 48   Marius High

Chapter 49   France, World Power

Chapter 50   Apparition of Father Jean

Chapter 51   Étienne Lenoir Ends the Steam Age

Chapter 52   Fauchelevent Endowment

Chapter 53   The Surreal Surrounds Cosette

Chapter 54   Frail Cosette

Chapter 55   Pontmercy, Boudin, and Monet

Chapter 56   Summer in Le Havre

Chapter 57   Father Félix Finds Cosette

Epilogue

About The Author

To my loving family—wife, Miriam; daughter, Brittany; and son, Spencer

PROLOGUE

F rance was a complicated, wonderful, and, at times, scary place to be at the end of the eighteenth century. Complicated by an emergent knowledge class, which after years of aristocratic rule was finally being heard in Versailles—the people expressed their determination to participate in how they were ruled. Then there was the indiscriminate use of the guillotine; fear was a constant companion. Common people just disappeared with no explanation or reason. Into this milieu young Jean Valjean was born. He became devoted to his family as he grew to be a young man. Meanwhile, the Bastille was stormed and France was perpetually close to civil war, with the nobility, clergy, and common people all making declarations. Political tensions were high and escalating. In 1789, King Louis XVI called a meeting of these factions to set out a plan. The meeting was bungled, and an unusual Tennis Court Oath was set out by the people. They freed prisoners and forced a new French constitution, and chaos was around every turn. Before the year’s end, the king had been stripped of unilateral power and a new epoch in French politics and culture had emerged.

Jean Valjean’s plight was not nearly as complex. He stole a loaf of bread. He was spared death at the guillotine. No doubt he was spared in part because he was hidden away in prison—as a free man he surely would have been back at his crossroads, ready to steal again and face ever more calamitous punishment. Every day he spent in jail was a day he ate, slept, and was off the streets.

Jean Valjean was just a kid who was chucked into the family quagmire—ignorant of most of what life was about. He was told to do things he didn’t understand and forced to behave according to his sister’s rules. His efforts to help the family never seemed to be enough, and the pressure mounted on the young man. He grew angry, as disappointments seem to come one after another. In 1796, Jean Valjean broke a window and stole a loaf of bread. His life was already harsh, and it was now about to spiral out of control.

Jean Valjean had a predisposition to use his strength and brawn, which he’d gained by handling trees and pruning tools for twelve hours a day, and he was afraid—afraid of what lay beyond and afraid he wouldn’t belong in the emerging society that was percolating in France. His sister’s family suffered too. So that was how an angry, desperate man would begin the next chapter in his sorry life: serving a five-year sentence in the galleys of Toulon for breaking and entering and burglary. His circumstances were dire. Anger festered to the base of his soul, turning what little hope he had into spite.

His festering anger and hatred for the men who put him in Toulon could not get the better of him. No one—not the police, not his family, and certainly not the Third Estate—would interfere with his plans to leave Toulon a free man. His determination was his only ally, for there was no rehabilitation. The jailer made sure the time in Toulon was purely punishment! So Jean Valjean bided his time. He got books while he was behind bars, he learned to read, and eventually he learned to write. He also picked up basic math skills while in the galley.

The General Maximum of 1793 had a profound effect on the French. Merchants were constantly under suspicion by hungry buyers who were rewarded (or at least sheltered) for reporting pricing abuse. So inexpensive goods were usually all that were offered for sale—black bread, for example. Better-quality white bread was stored away from the store window to be sold quietly after dark on the black market. So a downtrodden passerby, such as Jean Valjean, would have seen a rack of baked goods in the back of the store. And in Jean’s mind the obvious answer to his hunger was to take what the baker didn’t need.

Jean Valjean’s sexual interests and pursuits were apparently taboo. Victor Hugo made no mention, perhaps to add pith to Jean Valjean’s transition from fugitive to pious philanthropist. However, a spinster lady, formerly the housekeeper who kept house at the home adjacent to the home of the mayor of M sur M, Monsieur Madeleine, claimed to have seen several women call on the good mayor after the light of day had passed. Furthermore, a slender and well-educated woman living in Paris who was familiar with the events in Arras claimed that any woman would have given herself freely to be with the mayor of M sur M; on that point, there was no ambiguity. The women were interested a rendezvous, and well, we can only surmise.

The story of that angry man has been told. He lived. He died. He died with his adopted family by his side. The curse had been lifted a long time before, powered by his great faith and determination to receive a heavenly respite. Recently married Cosette looked on with naive, tearful, loving eyes. Husband Marius watched with tender remorse. Thank God he’d learned Jean Valjean’s secret in time to ask forgiveness for not seeing the purity and good of him. With that, the door had been opened for Jean Valjean to die with dignity and honor. In death, he would be free, a convict no more—free of Javert and free of his obsessions. This convict, the monster he had created, was no more. No longer would his past haunt him like a malicious ghost. He had kept his promise to Fantine, and finally, at last, he could be free.

Jean Valjean—let’s call him Father Jean—was always careful. The specter of Javert always loomed. He had to avoid the prying eyes of Javert. Javert, if he had had his way, would have submitted Jean Valjean again to the galleys in an instant. He would not have cared who became Cosette’s guardian. That was not material to his thinking. So it fell to Father Jean to avoid detection, avoid Javert, and raise Cosette until she could go out on her own. His shortcoming was what the enlightened might call a strength overextended. His commitment to—and maybe even love for—Cosette pushed him.

He was as single-minded in protecting Cosette as Javert was in restoring his integrity. Jean Valjean had eluded him again, and that hurt. Even after Javert’s suicide, Father Jean could not release himself from the shackles of his ghostly existence. Now, remember Javert—all dogma and no heart. Indeed! Javert had great power over Jean Valjean with his authority as chief of police. A disciplined, unsophisticated man, he chose to commit suicide rather than live with the duality in his life forced on him when Jean Valjean decided not to kill him at the barricade. He was torn between his professional integrity and his emerging sense of compassion.

In the end, Victor Hugo tells us how Javert reconciled his feelings; finally, the man developed a case for Jean Valjean. Finally, he saw God’s will in a man he fully expected would eradicate him. And maybe Javert was disappointed. He would not be so lucky as to have Jean Valjean put him out of his misery. No, Javert remained alive to deal with his issues.

Wolf-son Javert’s youth is worthy tid-bit; let pity not enter into it. His mother, whom he abhorred for her repeat arrests and interment, survived him. She was not a big woman or a small one. She had a flash of shiny, wavy black hair down her back even as she aged. She was a fine-looking woman. Her eyes were like those of the tiger—brown, gold, and sometimes with green. Her features were fine. Her cheekbones were clear; her eyes and cheeks were symmetrical around her nose, and her nose by itself was small and easy to look upon.

She had only one disfigurement. There was a scar on her right jaw, as if a sharp blade had come down on her unexpectedly at some time in her life. The blade had started at the back of the jawbone and come out near the chin. It was a straight, clean cut with what would have been a very sharp blade. The wound had healed gently except for a scar at the beginning of the cut. When the cut had started to heal, an infection had begun at the starting end, at the back of her jawbone, which had left a scar. The scar looked like a ladle with a skinny handle.

Javert’s mother managed to get by working as a chambermaid, a job that kept her disfigured face away from everyone else. It was constant work. Most of the time, she didn’t mind it. She did not want to have to think or process or otherwise do anything demanding. She made beds, cleaned floors, polished mirrors, and mopped stairs. She was a simple woman with good values—values she learned as what not to do if she wished to avoid the galleys. She learned to stop stealing when it suited her. She learned to devise ways to stay awake when it might have suited her to sleep. She had a friend, so she was not completely devoid of the social ways of everyday people, one of whom she’d become.

Javert’s suicide at the river proved Javert’s dogmatic life view. For him his self-loathing was irreconcilable. There was only one way out. He was not unlike the courageous cuirassiers of Napoleon’s Waterloo force, who fell helplessly into their own trap, the sunken road at Ohain. In life, Javert must have known Jean Valjean felt pity for his desperate purpose to hunt him down and bring him to justice, but his death carried with it a foretelling; it was almost as if Javert’s death symbolized the death of the king and the shifting balance of power in France.

When she learned that her only son, Javert, had committed suicide, she was shocked; tears she’d never known, poured. It had been years since she’d seen him. She knew he despised her. He was a bastard child—a brand that clung to him like a scared child to his mother. He was taken from his mother at an early age and lived in foster care. He blamed her for his guilt and shame. He would withdraw into sullenness and put on a brave iron face. Scarred and afraid he might repeat her mistakes, he decided to never marry. It was the harshest sentence he could have been asked to serve, and the judge, jury, and state attorney in that case were only one: Javert. His cold, awful spell would never be broken, or so he thought.

For the longest time, Javert denounced his mother, usually saying, when asked if he had family, No, my father died in prison, and I haven’t seen Mother since I was a small boy. She was not my real mother anyway. They told me I was born in a prison! Look at me! Do I look like I was born in a prison? But a mother’s love could warm a cold heart and break the shackles of retribution. To her, it mattered not that Javert had distanced himself from her. All that mattered was that he was out there. He was making a life for himself. She had seen him only twice as an adult. One time, she saw him when there was a stir among some prostitutes, and he found fit to arrest one of them. Good for him! she thought to herself. There was her son doing his job. Another time, she was sure she saw him near the Rue Ménilmontant, walking confidently, and she waved to get his attention. He didn’t know who she was and didn’t wave back, nor did he go her way. He must have recognized me, she thought. It was easier and less painful for them both if he just kept walking without saying a word.

Mrs. Javert, as she became known, didn’t find out he was dead until months later. When the tears stopped, her thoughts shifted. The miserable soul couldn’t even come visit his mother before he met his end, she thought remorsefully. It was not as if his death had been an accident! Then she tried to empathize. It must have been building for some time, she thought. His righteousness got the better of him, she’d said when she first heard the news.

Mrs. Javert was no saint in their failed relationship. She was passive. Why didn’t she attempt to win him back? Where was her compassion? She was no mother at all. It was every man for himself—pejoratively, of course. As time worked its magic, she began to mourn his passing. She began to feel some of the old remorse of their estrangement. She had no answer for why she had let it go on and on. Couldn’t bear rejection, she thought. No sooner would that thought enter her head than she’d think, Well, he wouldn’t want to see me anyway. After all, he’s cut me out of his life so far. Her gut-level honesty brought her back to reality.

Cleaning rooms at the inn was easy. Once one room was done, she would go on to the next until the rooms for that day were done. If she had reached out to Javert, her son, what changes in her simple life would she have been called on to do? She didn’t want to be a burden either. So by mutual ambivalence at best, and dogged estrangement at worst, the two were never reunited—until after he was dead. She couldn’t read well, so she asked what the paper said: Inspector Javert took his own life, and his corpse was not recovered. How could he have been so disciplined and resolute as an officer of the law and then taken his own life? Whom had he talked to before he died? Had that person had anything to do with it?

In that moment, Mrs. Javert began to question his death. She went to the library and then to the precinct where her son had worked. After persistent inquiry, she got her own copy of the obituary. She got to see the note he’d left for the officers the night he took his own life. She found out he had been a worthy public servant, incarcerating many dangerous men. The last thing she found was information about a convict he had pursued for years and twice put in Toulon. She found the record of that inmate, Inmate 9430, and his death at the shipyards of Toulon. That was how things remained for months.

She could not put out of her head that his death had had nothing to do with the dangerous convict. There had to be another explanation. Her son would not have taken his own life without the conviction that it was the only solution. For death to be the most meaningful solution in his mind, the alternative must have been absolutely fearful. What animal, what vision or horrible disease of body or mind, could have so overwhelmed that courageous and determined man? She kept studying what she could, and she made several trips to the precinct, hoping to learn of another clue or possible reason behind his demise. Poor Javert!

And poor Cosette. She had many sleepless nights, feeling the anxiety of Father Jean but not knowing why.

Hugo entranced us with his tale of Jean Valjean and then introduced us to a love so serendipitous and right. It took all of Valjean’s selfless love and might to set that love in motion. Was the miracle of his love enough to make it flourish, or was his reclusive brooding the force to tear it apart?

CHAPTER 1

A Girl and Her Father, Jean

S he owed her life to her first love, dear father, Jean Valjean. This thought popped into her head when she made her bed, when she tucked in at night to sleep. Her life had been an extraordinary tale of rags to riches. She was a tiny child when this huge burly man, called Jean Valjean, appeared at the Thénardiers’ door to fetch her. From that day forward, after years of hiding in plain sight, she was free of the tyranny. For that she put father on a pedestal.

She looked up from her bed in the morning—her bed was a soft mattress of downy feathers and tough, carefully stuffed horsehair. She reached out her left hand, still entranced by the feeling of the fresh, clean linens. The touch lasted just long enough to feel that it was true—not a dream. She was in a fine home, sleeping on a fine bed, knowing that her day and all that she knew, and all that she could do, was blessed. It was time to get out of bed and start her day. She knew it. The sun’s rays splitting the window covering told her it was time. There she lay just a few moments longer, saying a prayer for her beloved adoptive father. Her night’s sleep had been fitful, and she’d been dreaming—she was carrying pails of water for the Thénardiers. She closed her eyes for a moment to replace the scary dream with a pleasant thought. Oh, those innkeepers. She laughed.

That reflection helped jostle the magic love she felt for her father. If only she’d known about how he’d been treated, maybe she could have done things differently! Cosette thought about the many injustices her dear Jean Valjean had suffered. They insisted he be kept down, kept in the shadows with the damned. The yellow card indeed! As a child, she’d managed to hear him when he was talking in his sleep, murmuring something about a yellow card. It was years later when she asked Marius what it meant. The place she knew, the father she loved—how could these things be such opposites? For all the oppression, for the despondent undertow, he had survived. She had him to thank for giving her a life away from those dreadful Thénardiers. She knew there was much about her father, Jean, she did not know. Father Jean took his love and respect for Monseigneur Bienvenu with him to the grave. C’est le vie! How could he, the good brother, be so cavalier and invite this poor, savage soul into his clergyman’s house?

And she could not forget that it was her father Jean who had rescued her beloved Marius from almost certain death from the barricade. She swung one leg out of bed, pausing for a moment. Her mind drifted to Marius—his grin, his chest, his warmth, and his pure affection. The other leg swung out of bed a little easier, and she took a step, reaching back to release her soft cotton sleeve from being caught on the headboard. She looked down at her legs and said a few words to herself; then she muttered something about Father Jean that filled her bedroom. She thought of his gentle ways when he was a grown man, a humble servant of God.

After nineteen years in Toulon, he would never again leave himself vulnerable. Cosette wrote much of his ways into her own personal script—it happened so gently that she didn’t feel the change. Did she design the new Cosette, or was it just proximity to Jean? She could anticipate the ways of men, covert sometimes and boisterous within the same conversation. She learned how to hide, take cover. Ever a lady, she could swaddle her sly moves in an easy conversation well beyond the detectives’ ears—share nothing and hear all. Her bequeath of six hundred thousand francs was an honor for her father Jean. The rest of his estate would honor the gentleman Fauchelevent.

What if he had been a longshoreman? Maybe their paths would never have crossed. Or maybe he’d have been a fine policeman. Goodness, she thought, had that been the case, I doubt he would have met my pauvre madam. The father Jean she knew was not afraid to help another soul. Nothing would deter his moral compass.

She wanted to know so much about him, but there was no one to ask. Could she try to trace his past, or would his remembrance only bring pain to Marius? When she was married, he’d made such careful preparation to avoid his name, and the shame, interfering with their future. Maybe he was right—best to leave the past in the past. Love and curiosity couldn’t be more tightly intertwined. Cosette knew better than to let the heart have its way with the head. She would listen, and her life with Marius would become a love for the ages! Their future, as it was with their past, would emerge, and love would power them through anything that got in their way. Love had a plan.

CHAPTER 2

Flashback to Jean Valjean as Monsieur Madeleine, Mayor of M sur M

H e lived a Spartan life. A franc was not a lot of money, and somehow he managed to live on about four francs a day; his bank account showed he withdrew only thirteen thousand francs in ten years! This way of life carried over into his politics. While mayor of M sur M, he went without the usual accoutrements of patronage. He simply had no need for them. The spirit of Bienvenu was with him at all times—he devoted himself to enriching the lives of others in honor of Monseigneur Bienvenu, who’d managed to help others even when his own cupboard was bare. He gave freely to the poor. As a popular mayor with a trove of accolades, even some from the king, his parity to the bishop was obvious. Many citizens would remark about the quite nature and modest demeanor of their mayor. It was unfortunate that his Spartan ways drew attention he so wished to avoid! He would have been better served to sport a fine coat, hat, and other refinements in measure with his office. However, that was not his way. So long as he was fair and honest, his destiny could be challenged by only one man, Javert.

Marius made many cautious inquiries of his Cosette. He wasn’t being intrusive, just wanting to get to the family that had brought him his true love. How did he live? Did he say anything of his funeral wishes? Did he want to rest in Montfermeil? M sur M? Paris? He had so many questions for Cosette, but asking was to no avail. She was not privy to any of the information.

Cosette’s father’s aging was indeed sudden. She recoiled at the thought of how he had aged! He’d been a fine, gentle, and even attractive gentleman. Yes, his hair had turned from salt and pepper to white in a spectacular way. He became a fine man, fit to carry on his duties as any gentleman, including the daily walks and conducting what business he may, such as the routine but infrequent two- and three-day trips he was known for. However, his form—all his being—recoiled when his love and his life, Cosette, was to be married. Jean Valjean, it was said, aged twenty years! His back became curved, his walk was labored, and his ability to move about was hampered as much by bone and muscle as by brain and reflex. His manly ways were replaced quickly with those of a geriatric. He had gone from being a man of stately proportion to a codger in a weathered coat.

How could one imagine now the powerful convict bearing the load of a laden cart in the service of one Fauchelevent! His past was just that; that part of his life was now a vapor only breathed by the ghosts of Javert and Éponine. Cosette saw it happen; after all, Father came by to see her daily. It was hard to accept, as his strength until then had been undeniable. Cosette surely thought he would just go on forever. Maybe she did not see the heartache? Father didn’t hide it well! It was as if suddenly and irrevocably, the great Jean Valjean was traveling the path toward his God. Cosette, the protected child she was, the naive child, was not allowed to see the inner workings of her father, and so she could be forgiven for not anticipating what would come next. So she never asked him what his funeral wishes might be. This was irrelevant in her mind.

To have seen Father Jean go from a broad-shouldered gentleman in his fifties (so it may have appeared) to a bent gray-haired old man in such a short time must have shocked and frightened Cosette. He was almost unrecognizable. Fortunately, that did not dissuade Marius and Cosette from rushing to see Father. They showed their respects—and not a minute too soon. Privately, Marius had been deeply suspicious of how Cosette’s father had come to bestow a gift of six hundred thousand francs. Upon learning from Jean Valjean that he was an ex-convict, Marius could only assume that the windfall was illicit and would have to be returned to its rightful owners. In fact, he asked Cosette if she would stay with him if they had only three thousand francs per year to live, an amount equivalent to his allowance from Uncle Gillenormand.

Marius was shocked when he found out about Jean Valjean’s incarceration. It came as such a surprise. He was already married to Cosette, so there was no turning back. He’d married a bastard child, born of a prostitute, and her father was a well-meaning fraud! His world was unraveling, and at first his simple mind raced selfishly. He had only himself to blame! He knew nothing of the man Cosette called Father. He had let the halo of wealth and status stupefy him beyond investigation. Did he dare ask Cosette? She likely was as much in the dark as he was. He didn’t know how to process, so he blamed the philanthropist. He’d lied! He’d swindled! He’d hid from the law! Marius wanted to distance himself and poor Cosette from the malady that this black cloud would surely bring.

Marius thought on this for a good while. He raged between fully alerting the police to wanting to flee, taking his dear Cosette away from all this. After all, Marius thought, Jean did insist that his name not be used on the marriage certificate. Okay, he thought, the old man was shrewd—protecting Cosette was one thing, a very important thing. But by poisoning Marius against him, he kept Marius from wanting to delve into the secret life he’d led. Marius found himself sitting in a bar in Paris, staring at the ceiling. Alone. Another drink, monsieur? he heard. It was the bartender tending to his business. Marius nodded yes.

What if you knew a great secret, that if disclosed, would bring defamation and shame to those you love—in the name of upholding the law? Marius posed to the bartender.

Well, monsieur, let’s say that the law, as you seem to suggest, has been broken, the bartender replied. And what of it? Did citizens die? Did a government fall? Did our way of life as we know it get blown to the wind? he asked whimsically, fully knowing Marius was being coy.

Marius shook his head. No, none of these things. He looked down at the floor.

Well, why so glum? the bartender asked. He paused for a few seconds and then more brightly said, Now, don’t take this wrong. Did any good come of the said crime?

Now that you ask, yes. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Yes, I believe a greater good was served. A great man was set free.

Okay, continue. Now we are getting somewhere.

And a young woman—a beautiful, intelligent woman—was set free too, Marius said thoughtfully.

Well, it’s settled then, isn’t it? the bartender said. No one, and certainly not this woman, should have to suffer indignation for what is obviously a petty, dare I say, crime. No one should have to live with shame that is borne of injustice. What do you say to that, monsieur?

Marius picked up the thinking from there. You, sir, are true. I have shouldered guilt like a martyr might have, and you’ve lifted it from my shoulders. Pour us each a shot, and let’s toast your wisdom! The glasses clattered as they were handed from the cupboard to the table, and the sound of pouring scotch was all they could hear. They raised their glasses and drank. Marius’s eyes had been opened, and from that moment, he would never look back. The bartender smiled, for his retort had been a good one. Perhaps monsieur would leave a tip to suit the occasion.

Jean Valjean earned his way honorably in the field of business, and the accumulated wealth was guarded. The funds he amassed were unknown in the day, save for the coffers of one Bonaparte, whose spending, not saving, knew no bounds. The propensity to save garnered Jean Valjean several funds. One was dispersed to Cosette in her care. Another funded the hospital and schools in M sur M. Yet another was created with other family in mind.

CHAPTER 3

Reintroducing Cosette

C osette’s birth name was Euphrasie, a beautiful reference to euphoria. Her young mother, Fantine, had a few names in mind, and it took a while to find just the right one. So while Fantine called her daughter Euphrasie, she also sometimes called her Phrasie, keeping the singsong of her name; at other times she’d say Cosie or Cosette. This was the whim of the mother, and eventually it seemed that Cosette became more often used than other nicknames. By the time the child was three, the name Cosette was the preferred and common first name for Fantine’s daughter.

Euphrasie was Fantine’s greatest achievement, by merely being the product of her loins. She and onetime lover Tholomyès brought into the world a beautiful child who was one for the ages: naive, intelligent, and fiercely determined to survive. Fantine was no less a child when she met Tholomyès. She was a virgin infatuated with the swaggering, indomitable Félix Tholomyès. She found him overflowing with charisma, and his wit was such she had either pain from laughing at his jokes or an ache from hearing his stories of woe, few that there were. He was smitten with her smooth skin, warm smile, and that long, abundant blonde hair!

Fantine’s friends were more familiar with men and were freer to win the men of their choice. Poor Fantine was not at all gifted in anything. Why not be a grisette? She hung out with her friends in hopes that she might meet someone, and it worked. She and her girlfriends were friends with a group of guys. They paired off until only Fantine and Tholomyès were left. Fantine had lustrous, beautiful blonde hair and was an attractive woman; Tholomyès was not a handsome man, so he was not all that lucky with the girls. He lacked good looks, which he made up for with his capacity to be audacious. This character gave Fantine such confidence! She felt she could do anything when she was around him. He just felt lusty and horny for her—he wouldn’t have known love if it had stared him in the face.

Fantine was not so clever as to feign pregnancy as a way to reel him in. Just the same, the lovemaking of two passionate people left them both satisfied. She felt such euphoria, such an escape! He, for his part, set out to bed her, and indeed he had. In that one evening of embrace, caress, and copulation, Fantine threw to the wind any risk of pregnancy and made love to her only true love, the freelancing Tholomyès. As stoic as Fantine was, her lovemaking did not advance the skill or help in his future amorous pursuits. His future loves would not be so obliging or discreet. The wrath that his body and soul would endure were well into the future, and he had no cares, no foreboding. For the time, he too was gratified by Fantine.

She was beautiful, so kind and loving. And that hair! Stunning. To feel her bare skin and her breasts and to taste her flavors were scintillating and forever stuck in his mind. In this way, Fantine had won the day. She had planted in him a powerful mnemonic. What she did not know was planted in her was the seed of her first and only child. Father Tholomyès was absent at the birth and absent thereafter. Fantine made no attempt to assert his paternity, and so she would raise little Euphrasie on her own, getting by as she might in a world that had only disdain for unwed mothers. Not even his absence from her life would dissuade her from loving him. It was not a spell cast by Tholomyès! Fantine was her own author, her own character, and her own spellbound reader.

What followed was a tale of tragedy. Fantine died at the hands of Thénardier. Thénardier never laid a hand on her and did not contract her murder. No, Thénardier killed her slowly. He used his position as Cosette’s caregiver. He used his manpower, street sense, and greed. It was, as they say, like taking candy from a baby—and Thénardier did. He had no conscience, no caring. He was not a proper citizen. Fantine’s love and commitment to Cosette were bizarre, one would have to agree. She made it a priority to pay Thénardier for her dear daughter’s keep, which extended for an excruciating eight years. Cosette was a child of eleven when she was finally rescued by Monsieur Madeleine. Fantine was driven mad. She gave up the only thing she cared about, her dear Cosette, but resisted going to see her in Thénardier’s care. The stigma of being an unwed mother was too much to bear.

Fantine loved her little girl absolutely without a single distraction. Cosette was her joy and her reason to live. She cherished each word, movement, and smile. But she was having monstrous, calamitous, and horrifying dreams. She would never harm Cosette. She thought, How can I go on, with my madness as it is, and spare harm to my dear, dear Cosette? After many confusing days and nights, it came to Fantine that her only child, Cosette, would need to be in another’s care. She would cloak this as a respite from the social disaster that was being an unwed mother. As opportunities presented themselves, she would make appropriate overtures, such as How wonderful a home you have, how gracious you seem, and your children are charming. You must be a wonderful mother! She realized she had to act; she had to be successful in finding Cosette a safe home.

Thénardier took her in; after all, his own children were useless around the hotel. Cosette would fit in nicely to do all the tasks no one else wanted. The deal was done.

CHAPTER 4

Fantine’s Lover Had None

T he Tholomyès family went about their affairs and were very successful doing business with the government of King Louis XIV. And though they had been very successful, the status that was normally associated with wealth was a part of their success that they played down. They worked hard, and this helped them generate wealth at a pace that was not extraordinary but was steady; combined with the ethic of Sr. Tholomyès, they amassed a reasonable wealth. They were modest, preferring to contain their wealth to the bank managed by family friend and Louis’s confidant Monsieur Matius Cortpasse. It was best not to be seen as doing too well. Such display usually drew the unsavoriness from all corners, who wound up making their pitch for any manner of fantastic deal in hopes of luring away a portion of the family’s savings.

Thénardier, who was a spy among the revelers at Mardi Gras had an eye for people and opportunity, spotted the philanthropist Monsieur Madeleine. That was how the burglar, thief, and grave robber got through life. Monsieur Tholomyès was not unfamiliar with these behaviors, though he was not ever one to circulate in situations that might bring attention in public. He preferred to let others enjoy the limelight. He was not trying to be shadowy or invisible; he just didn’t have time or inclination to groom, cockle, and strut about. It was not a class thing; it mattered only slightly more to him if he was in a room full of industrialists or among the Bastille crashers. He wanted to have a life to himself and his family. He wanted them to live and enjoy. Simple.

Tholomyès took the family on summer holidays to curry intellect and a sense of the arts and appreciate nature. It was not long before his son Félix would look forward every spring to his summer. They liked making visits to the Normandy coast, especially Félix. He was charming and witty and often became the center of attention among the traveling youth. Félix’s dad was especially generous during their summer trips, and he often overheard his father explain to his mom that they could afford to go. They also visited the south of France, which was somewhat expensive. Still, the family made the trip. Maybe Monsieur Tholomyès had had an especially good year, and there was extra vacation money. Félix could only guess.

His parents were both deceased. His mother had died giving birth. Father, he’d been told, was run over by a speeding imperial during the dark of night. He’d been at a late meeting and had been drinking when he stepped outside to get some air; he was then surprised by a speeder and how close they were coming. He apparently lost his balance and unfortunately stepped backward, directly into their path. The very imperial that hit him transported him immediately for care at the hospital, but by the time they arrived he had already passed away. Internal injuries were to blame for Monsieur Tholomyès’s untimely death, they said. So Félix was on his own, given over to his aunt for care. She made sure Félix studied, played sports, and made out as if tragedy had not struck the family. Sadly, the timing was such that Monsieur Tholomyès’s time with young Félix was cut short, and so there was not nearly enough time to show him how to be a citizen, let alone how to get on in the world. So it was fortuitous that the aunt’s commitment to his upbringing was persistent. Félix grew up with a love of learning, a love of sport, and little else. He went on to become an attorney, so somehow, he managed.

As he was growing up, Félix easily made friends and acquaintances. He learned to play well with his peers. He became comfortable with the mores and coquetry of the female, inasmuch as he could see the patterns, behaviors, and flair for her sex. He fell in love several times, of a puppy-love nature, never getting close enough to really see what was so mysterious about the girl yet getting close enough to know he wanted more. One could say Félix grew up like most boys, full of latent insecurities and unsatisfied conquests. He did have opportunity to work in his aunt’s horse stables and in this way made peace with the animal that had taken his father’s life. After spending a few months with the animals, he forgave them unconditionally. Forgiving an animal? Really? Okay, for as little information as he had gotten on his father’s death, it was trying not to want to blame anything and everything, including the horse. Why, if the horse had not been hitched to the carriage, there would have been no problem; thus, he blamed the horse. If the driver had been more careful or had not been in a rush, there would have been no problem; thus, he blamed the driver. If his father had not been drinking, there would have been no problem; thus, he blamed the drink. If the road had been wider, the driver would not have come so near.

So you can see Félix lived with his fate; more to the point, he disaggregated it to the point where anyone, even anything, could be a culprit. He carried on with the not knowing. How could he reconcile who was to blame? And so he blamed all. As he grew, new priorities came into his life, masking his insecurities. His friends, family, and the occasional lover would distract him. And he’d try to avoid melancholy. It’s not fair, he told himself. How could these unresolved circumstances, aged and worn out, repeat themselves in my mind with such resolve? It didn’t make sense to have a pall cast over him! He was better than that, he would tell himself. The cause of his father’s death wormed away inside. He could dull the pain with whiskey, and he did. He could lie to himself that it didn’t matter, but it did. And he could procrastinate on getting the investigation reopened so he wouldn’t have to deal with finding out. Would he ever find out just what had happened?

He had good days and some, rare as they were, when he was fixed in his bed, moving side to side. Lifting his head was almost impossible. When pain becomes suffering, it grips us each differently. For Félix it was a balancing act where even the intelligence of the man was no match for the vagary of nature. Nature’s pull was a power he could not overcome. He would try to lift his head, but it was like an invisible hand was there, not touching, forcefully stopping his movement. An invisible force—the worst kind! Fighting it was humiliating! How could he explain this phenomenon? It was far to the left of logic and yet so real. His recourse? Sleep until it helped no more.

He sometimes could work continuously for hours without sleep and in doing so mask nature’s attempt to take him over. Other times he would go out seeking respite by raising a glass, being boisterous with friends, or just running out on the street, pausing briefly to check for hazardous contact with man or beast. Then he’d start off at a full run, like a starter pistol had been fired, and everyone around could hear his leathery footfalls as he’d speed along as fast his legs would carry him. When he was finally out of breath or his path was blocked, he’d make a huge racket with his breathing while he came to a stop, doubling over to place hands on his thighs, huffing and puffing. In this position he’d stare down at the cobblestones, listening to his breathing. Then he’d listen to his heart pounding in his chest. It made a very satisfying bu-bump, bu-bump sound that resonated in his chest. After a time he’d slowly stand, wave at any curious onlookers, and look skyward, as if to say thank you to a God he couldn’t know.

When these antics were no longer enough, it suited him to pay for sex, and he had a favorite prostitute. He enjoyed her skinny body, smooth skin, and perky tits. Her smile—rarely seen, to be fair—never failed to win him over, if only for a minute. She’d treat him to fellatio, stripping before him to make him hard and then stripping him to reveal his eager penis. She enjoyed the agent provocateur role and that sexual tension