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thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed to
her that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was
Jean Valjean who had rescued her from it. Her childhood
produced upon her the effect of a time when there had been
nothing around her but millepeds, spiders, and serpents.
When she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep,
as she had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean’s
daughter, and that he was her father, she fancied that the
soul of her mother had passed into that good man and had
come to dwell near her.
When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his
white hair, and dropped a silent tear, saying to herself: ‘Per-
haps this man is my mother.’
Cosette, although this is a strange statement to make,
in the profound ignorance of a girl brought up in a con-
vent,— maternity being also absolutely unintelligible to
virginity,— had ended by fancying that she had had as lit-
tle mother as possible. She did not even know her mother’s
name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean re-
mained silent. If she repeated her question, he responded
with a smile. Once she insisted; the smile ended in a tear.
This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine
with darkness.
Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he
should deliver this name to the hazards of another memory
than his own?
So long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had
been willing to talk to her of her mother; when she became
a young girl, it was impossible for him to do so. It seemed