CHAPTER I.
AN EXTERNAL WOUND AND AN INTERNAL CURE.
Their life thus gradually became overcast; only one amusement was leftthem which had formerly been a happiness, and that was to carry breadto those who were starving, and clothes to those who were cold. Inthese visits to the poor, in which Cosette frequently accompanied JeanValjean, they found again some portion of their old expansiveness; andat times, when the day had been good, when a good deal of distresshad been relieved, and many children warmed and re-animated, Cosettedisplayed a little gayety at night. It was at this period that theypaid the visit to Jondrette's den. The day after that visit, JeanValjean appeared at an early hour in the pavilion, calm as usual,but with a large wound in his left arm, which was very inflamed andvenomous, which resembled a burn, and which he accounted for in someway or other. This wound kept him at home with a fever for more than amonth, for he would not see any medical man, and when Cosette pressedhim, he said, "Call in the dog-doctor." Cosette dressed his woundmorning and night with an air of such divine and angelic happiness atbeing useful to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his old joy return, hisfears and anxieties dissipated; and he gazed at Cosette, saying, "Oh,the excellent wound! the good hurt!"
Cosette, seeing her father ill, had deserted the pavilion, and regainedher taste for the little outhouse and the back court. She spent nearlythe whole day by the side of Jean Valjean, and read to him any bookshe chose, which were generally travels. Jean Valjean was regenerated.His happiness returned with ineffable radiance; the Luxembourg, theyoung unknown prowler, Cosette's coldness,--all these soul-cloudsdisappeared, and he found himself saying, "I imagined all that; I aman old fool!" His happiness was such that the frightful discovery ofthe Thénardiers made in Jondrettes den, which was so unexpected, had tosome extent glided over him. He had succeeded in escaping, his trailwas lost, and what did he care for the rest? He only thought of it topity those wretches. They were in prison, and henceforth incapableof mischief, he thought, but what a lamentable family in distress!As for the hideous vision of the Barrière du Maine, Cosette had notspoken again about it. In the convent, Sister Sainte Mechtilde hadtaught Cosette music; she had a voice such as a linnet would have ifit possessed a soul; and at times she sang sad songs in the woundedman's obscure room, which enlivened Jean Valjean. Spring arrived,and the garden was so delicious at that season of the year, that JeanValjean said to Cosette, "You never go out, and I wish you to take astroll." "As you please, father," said Cosette. And to obey her father,she resumed her walks in the garden, generally alone, for, as we havementioned, Jean Valjean, who was probably afraid of being seen from thegate, hardly ever entered it.
Jean Valjean's wound had been a diversion; when Cosette saw that herfather suffered less, and was recovering and seemed happy, she felt asatisfaction which she did not even notice, for it came so softly andnaturally. Then, too, it was the month of March; the days were drawingout, winter was departing, and it always takes with it some portion ofour sorrow; then came April, that daybreak of summer, fresh as everydawn, and gay like all childhoods, and somewhat tearful at times likethe new-born babe it is. Nature in that month has charming beams whichpass from the sky, the clouds, the trees, the fields, and the flowersinto the human heart. Cosette was still too young for this April joy,which resembled her, not to penetrate her; insensibly, and withoutsuspecting it, the dark cloud departed from her mind. In spring thereis light in sad souls, as there is at midday in cellars. Cosette was nolonger so very sad; it was so, but she did not attempt to account forit. In the morning, after breakfast, when she succeeded in drawing herfather into the garden for a quarter of an hour, and walked him up anddown while supporting his bad arm, she did not notice that she laughedevery moment and was happy. Jean Valjean was delighted to see herbecome ruddy-cheeked and fresh once more.
"Oh, the famous wound!" he repeated to himself, in a low voice.
And he was grateful to the Thénardiers. So soon as his wound was curedhe recommenced his solitary night-rambles; and it would be a mistake tosuppose that a man can walk about alone in the uninhabited regions ofParis without meeting with some adventure.