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mysterious index finger which we all perceive whenever we
fix our eyes on the darkness.
Once more, Jean Valjean had the choice between the ter-
rible port and the smiling ambush.
Is it then true? the soul may recover; but not fate. Fright-
ful thing! an incurable destiny!
This is the problem which presented itself to him:
In what manner was Jean Valjean to behave in relation
to the happiness of Cosette and Marius? It was he who had
willed that happiness, it was he who had brought it about;
he had, himself, buried it in his entrails, and at that mo-
ment, when he reflected on it, he was able to enjoy the sort
of satisfaction which an armorer would experience on rec-
ognizing his factory mark on a knife, on withdrawing it, all
smoking, from his own breast.
Cosette had Marius, Marius possessed Cosette. They had
everything, even riches. And this was his doing.
But what was he, Jean Valjean, to do with this happiness,
now that it existed, now that it was there? Should he force
himself on this happiness? Should he treat it as belong-
ing to him? No doubt, Cosette did belong to another; but
should he, Jean Valjean, retain of Cosette all that he could
retain? Should he remain the sort of father, half seen but
respected, which he had hitherto been? Should he, with-
out saying a word, bring his past to that future? Should he
present himself there, as though he had a right, and should
he seat himself, veiled, at that luminous fireside? Should
he take those innocent hands into his tragic hands, with a
smile? Should he place upon the peaceful fender of the Gil-