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other thought than your happiness.’
‘You see,’ resumed Cosette, all bathed in tears, ‘that Mar-
ius says that you shall not die.’
Jean Valjean continued to smile.
‘Even if you were to take possession of me, Monsieur
Pontmercy, would that make me other than I am? No, God
has thought like you and myself, and he does not change his
mind; it is useful for me to go. Death is a good arrangement.
God knows better than we what we need. May you be happy,
may Monsieur Pontmercy have Cosette, may youth wed the
morning, may there be around you, my children, lilacs and
nightingales; may your life be a beautiful, sunny lawn, may
all the enchantments of heaven fill your souls, and now let
me, who am good for nothing, die; it is certain that all this
is right. Come, be reasonable, nothing is possible now, I am
fully conscious that all is over. And then, last night, I drank
that whole jug of water. How good thy husband is, Cosette!
Thou art much better off with him than with me.’
A noise became audible at the door.
It was the doctor entering.
‘Good-day, and farewell, doctor,’ said Jean Valjean. ‘Here
are my poor children.’
Marius stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him
only this single word: ‘Monsieur? ...’ But his manner of pro-
nouncing it contained a complete question.
The doctor replied to the question by an expressive
glance.
‘Because things are not agreeable,’ said Jean Valjean,
‘that is no reason for being unjust towards God.’