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Cosette’s hair keeps getting in her face, and her legs hurt. They’ve been walking for what feels like hours, now. But she’s used to being tired, and at least she’s not scared now, even walking through the woods at night – something that used to terrorise her so much. They’re not that terrible, if you’re not alone; and she’s not, tonight.
There’s a man with her, the one who took her away from Madame Thenardier’s house; he walks next to her, and holds her hand. In her other hand, Cosette holds Catherine, her grip excessively strong – because no matter how silly it sounds, she’s still afraid someone would take her away.
They don’t talk a lot, Cosette and the man; she doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know his name if she’d want to call him. But his presence is comforting, his hand is warm; their silence is not tense, at least not for Cosette. It’s almost peaceful, so different from Madame’s screams.
They walk, and walk, and walk, in the night. Cosette tries to keep up, doesn’t want him to find her lazy and bring her back to Madame; but after a while – it’s hard to say how long – her eyes start to feel heavy, and keeping them open becomes a struggle. Her steps are shorter, lifting her legs is almost impossible. Only her hold on Catherine doesn’t waver.
The man notices, and stops. Cosette freezes, afraid she’ll be reprimanded – or worse -, but he simply kneels down next to her and opens his arms, unsure; Cosette understands, and lets him pick her up.
They keep walking like that, the man holding the girl and the girl holding the doll. If his arms relax a little, as he grows used to the little weight in his arms, and long brown hair begin to tickle his nose, Cosette doesn’t notice.
It only takes a few steps for her to fall asleep, her head on the man’s shoulder, Catherine pressed between them.
Cosette sits in the convent’s garden, next to Papa’s house. It’s a Sunday afternoon in late May, and the three of them – she, Papa and his brother – have taken their chairs outside, to bask in the warm sun. Catherine is in her lap, like every time Cosette comes here.
She’d like to live with Papa, in this little house near the garden’s wall, but she only comes on Sunday: after the Mass she, Papa and her uncle walk back from the church and they eat, all together. It's different than dinner in the convent, with the nuns and the other schoolgirls: less formal. Cosette likes it.
Sunday’s lunch is for telling Papa all about her week: they barely see each other, apart for when she runs into him tending to the bushes, while she’s playing with her classmates. She tells him about her friends, their rivalries, their little wars, their truces, with all the seriousness of an epic poet narrating a tragedy; and Papa listens carefully, asking questions from time to time. Even her uncle interjects once or twice.
All week long, Cosette’s eyes and ears are wide open: she wants to know everything that’s happening, so she can tell them. Her stories start just outside the church, continue while they eat and last well late in the afternoon. That’s her favourite part of the week: sitting at the table, now clean of all dishes – or, once spring comes, outside, just like today – and talking until her voice goes hoarse.
During all this, Catherine is with her; she lives with Papa and keeps him company while Cosette is at school. It was her idea: she was afraid that her friends would take Catherine, just like – who was it? Somebody used to steal her toys, before, in a past that grows more and more confused every day. And this way, Papa will miss her less.
At sunset, Cosette waves goodbye to her uncle and Catherine; Papa takes her hand, and it’s time to return to the convent. Even then, after hours and hours, she still has stories to tell; her chattering only slows down once she grows tired.
The silence that follows is a comfortable one; sometimes Papa may use this moment to tell her about his week, but he’s not a very loquacious man. So they walk, silent; it’s not rare, especially in the first weeks, that Papa picks her up. He never complains about her weight; probably doesn’t even feel it, strong as he surely must be.
They say goodbye at the door; Cosette kisses his cheek and goes inside.
Only six days before next Sunday.
Cosette still has to get used to their new house. It’s lovely, that she can see: simple and not too big, but beautiful – she especially likes the garden.
But it feels so weird, to live all alone; well, not exactly alone, but three – Papa, the maid and her – is a very small number. Sometimes she wakes up at night expecting to hear her schoolmates’ breath in the beds next to hers and is alarmed by the silence.
She’d be ashamed to admit it – she’s far too old for that – but she sleeps with Catherine almost every night, like she’d wanted to do many times at the convent.
They don’t play together as much as they used to, during the day; Catherine is mostly left on her chair, next to Cosette’s table. But hugging the doll at night is sometimes the only way to fall asleep.
Some days, Cosette might even talk to Catherine, whispering her secrets she couldn’t possibly tell Papa.
That’s a new, unexpected problem: having to hide something from her father. Nothing serious, or bad: but he’d be saddened to hear how alone she feels most days - her maid is no substitute for the other girls at school – so she doesn’t tell him.
And then, there’s the boy.
They go to the park every day, Papa and Cosette: in the afternoon, mostly. He’s quiet and Cosette does most of the talking, as usual; and finding topics to discuss is way harder, now that she doesn’t have her classes and her friends to talk about. So, Cosette tells him about a book she’s reading, or the plants in their garden, or invents stories about people they cross on the street.
What she talks about hardly matters, anyway: her Papa, Cosette has come to realise, is simply happy to listen to her voice, interjecting from time to time with a question and listening attentively.
It’s here she sees the boy, taking his walk at the same time as them. He must be a little older than her, even if it’s hard to tell from a distance. He’s pretty and, even from far away, Cosette can tell he has kind eyes.
She likes him; she wishes he would come closer and talk to them. But Papa would probably get nervous; he was never very social but, now that they’ve left the convent, he seems even more wary of everyone they meet.
Still, Cosette is happy; especially because now she doesn’t have to wait all week to see Papa – he’s always just a few steps away.
And if sometimes she smiles at the boy in the park… well, only Catherine knows.
The Pontmercy house is beautiful, but doesn’t feel like hers. Not yet, at least. It’s much bigger than Papa’s house in the convent’s garden, or the one they lived in here in Paris, until not too long ago; perhaps even bigger than the entire convent.
And it’s so loud, here: it’s surprising, considering how few people live here – but Marius’ grandfather talks and screams for ten. Cosette is still not used to it, after all that time with Papa.
The house is also fuller than any place she remembers living him: of paintings on the walls, of furniture, of servants. If feels almost suffocating, at times, the mere amount of things in each room tends to be overwhelming for her.
Her bedroom is no exception: large as the room is, Cosette can’t walk between the bed and the wardrobe while wearing her largest gowns, or she’ll get stuck.
Most of these things were gifts from Marius or especially his grandfather, who’s taken a liking to Cosette and finds it hard to let a week pass without offering to buy her a new hat or a painting – that is, when he doesn’t skip the question and just gives them to her.
Cosette herself brought very little, when she moved in: her clothes, albeit well made, were not many, and there was no use for the furniture. One thing, of course, she couldn’t leave behind: Catherine sits in the blue armchair close to the window, where Cosette can see her easily from her side of the bed.
Despite the care she still reserves her, the doll is starting to show her age: her porcelain skin is tainted, her eyes are less shiny and her hair has lost its curls.
Still, Cosette couldn’t find it in herself to throw her away, even aware as she is that a bride is definitely too old for toys.
Marius hasn’t commented. He simply asked how long Cosette’s had the doll; a simple question, really, but one his bride has realised she didn’t know the answer to.
She does, now: her father – or, the man she’d thought was her father – had bought it for her the night they met, as he wrote into the letter he left for her. Even in her confused state of mind – the letter’s revelations would’ve done that to everyone – that passage had made Cosette smiling: such a little detail to remember!
Sometimes, she goes into her bedroom, alone, and hugs Catherine, like she used to do all Sundays after lunch; and – but maybe that’s only her imagination – she feels like she’s a kid again, holding the doll while her father carries her, during a night she’d forgotten for a long time.