Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [306]
At last, she was in the garden one day, and heard poor old Toussaint saying: “Monsieur, do you notice how pretty mademoiselle is growing?” Cosette did not hear what her father answered. Toussaint’s words threw her into a sort of commotion. She ran out of the garden, went up to her room, hurried to the glass, it was three months since she had looked at herself, and uttered a cry. She was dazzled by herself.
She was beautiful and handsome; she could not help being of Toussaint’s and her mirror’s opinion. Her form was complete, her skin had become white, her hair had grown lustrous, an unknown splendour was lighted up in her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty came to her entire, in a moment, like broad daylight when it bursts upon us; others noticed it moreover, Toussaint said so, it was of her evidently that the passer-by had spoken, there was no more doubt; she went down into the garden again, thinking herself a queen, hearing the birds sing, it was in winter, seeing the sky golden, the sunshine in the trees, flowers among the shrubbery, wild, mad, in an inexpressible rapture.
For his part, Jean Valjean felt a deep and undefinable anguish in his heart.
He had in fact, for some time past, been contemplating with terror that beauty which appeared every day more radiant upon Cosette’s sweet face. A dawn, charming to all others, ominous to him.
Cosette had been beautiful for some time before she perceived it. But, from the first day, this unexpected light which slowly rose and by degrees enveloped the young girl’s whole person, wounded Jean Valjean’s gloomy eyes. He felt that it was a change in a happy life, so happy that he dared not stir for fear of disturbing something. This man who had passed through every distress, who was still all bleeding from the lacerations of his destiny, who had been almost evil, and who had become almost holy, who, after having dragged the chain of the galleys, now dragged the invisible but heavy chain of indefinite infamy, this man whom the law had not released, and who might be at any instant retaken, and led back from the darkness of his virtue to the broad light of public shame, this man accepted all, excused all, pardoned all, blessed all, wished well to all, and only asked of Providence, of men, of the laws, of society, of nature, of the world, this one thing, that Cosette should love him!
That Cosette should continue to love him! That God would not prevent the heart of this child from coming to him, and remaining his! Loved by Cosette, he felt himself healed, refreshed, soothed, satisfied, rewarded, crowned. Loved by Cosette, he was content! he asked nothing more. Had anybody said to him: “Do you desire anything better?” he would have answered: “No.” Had God said to him: “Do you desire heaven?” he would have answered: “I should be the loser.”
Whatever might affect this condition, were it only on the surface, made him shudder as if it were the commencement of another. He had never known very clearly what the beauty of a woman was; but, by instinct, he understood, that it was terrible.
This beauty which was blooming out more and more triumphant and superb beside him, under his eyes, upon the ingenuous and fearful brow of this child—he looked upon it, from the depths of his ugliness, his old age, his misery, his reprobation, and his dejection, with dismay.
He said to himself: “How beautiful she is! What will become of me?”
Here in fact was the difference between his tenderness and the tenderness of a mother. What he saw with anguish, a mother would have seen with delight.
The first symptoms were not slow to manifest themselves.
From the morrow of the day on which she had said: “Really, I am handsome!” Cosette gave attention to her dress. She recalled the words of the passer-by: “Pretty, but badly dressed,” breath of an oracle which had passed by her and vanished