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A soft clinking noise was all that could be heard on a quiet, eerily still morning in the harsh winters of Paris in 1831. If one were to brave the blustery cold of the morning at such an hour, even before Monsieur Lafite, owner of the Boulangerie des Chats, had begun opening up his bakery, they would be met with a rather dismal sight.
Sheets of ice stubbornly stuck to the cobblestone streets here and there, despite the efforts of many a workman and to the anxiety of many a driver. A pair of gamins sat huddled together against the wall of the bakery, impatiently awaiting Monsieur Lafite in the hopes that he might have some stale or burnt bread left over from the night before to hand out. More beggars lined the alleyways, cradling their children or precious few possessions in their arms, waiting for the world to wake.
But what was that clinking noise? There—obscured in the dark shadows that still covered the early morning, were two figures moving along the line of beggars, dropping coins in the frostbitten hands of the poor. They moved like graceful phantoms, hardly uttering a sound as though in fear of disturbing the peaceful air. A man in a threadbare yellow overcoat led a warmly clad girl, not more than fourteen or fifteen, to give alms to the unfortunate souls cast aside by the rest of society. Indeed, there were Jean Valjean and Cosette making their rounds as they did every morning, always active before the rest of the world, and sure to slip back into hiding before Paris awoke. As they moved they stretched out warm and sympathetic hands, lent sad smiles and the occasional encouraging whisper. From comically large pockets Valjean fished out rolls of bread and apples to give to the children, offering kind pats on the head and the promise of more the next day. Cosette spoke softly to the women, who hid their faces, ashamed, coaxing them to take the sou pieces from her.
Indeed, it was a heartwarming sight to anyone who happened to look out their window at that moment. Those two generous souls seemed to be offering with each coin a breath of new hope.
The first few traces of sunlight began appearing over the tips of the buildings when at last business owners and workers emerged from their homes to start the day. Valjean nudged his daughter gently, a slight trace of urgency in his eyes. Cosette nodded reluctantly as though used to this, and they began to leave the little square.
But they were not to go far.
Among the few people already setting up shop, an old woman was pushing a heavy cart of fabrics in a rickety wheelbarrow. The wheels constantly stopped against the ice and cobblestones, causing the old woman to mutter impatiently to herself as she kept glancing at the dress shop a few hundred yards away in despair. Valjean could see that the ruts of the wheels were barely held together by twine and were falling apart. In the space of only a second Valjean had murmured in Cosette's ear he would be gone only a minute, and he was by the old woman's side, lifting the wheelbarrow out of the ice. He proceeded to smile at the old woman, whose face was partially obscured by her shawl, which she had wrapped round her head to guard from the cold.
"To Madame Lefleur's, I gather, Madame?" Valjean asked, indicating with his head the dress shop. The woman nodded and Valjean began to push the cart slowly and carefully over the street. Cosette, meanwhile, stopped to talk to Monsieur Lafite's young son, who regularly came out to see her and Valjean on such mornings, and began to help him carry the baguettes inside the bakery.
As they made their way carefully over the dangerous street, a strong gust of wind suddenly loosened the old woman's hold on her shawl and swept it away. She cursed to herself angrily, scoffing at Valjean as though he had caused this. Valjean dutifully made to fetch it for her, but the sudden sight of the woman's uncovered face elicited such a strong shock from Valjean that he was struck dumb in that moment, and the shawl was left to be tossed around in the wind.
There was something in her weary grey eyes and sardonic scoff that pulled at a memory gnawing away deep in his heart. Surely it couldn't be. The lines in her face were cut deeper now, and the wrinkles in the brow increased. Her hair was white and her papery skin freckled and spotted. But that face which he had long forgotten now had appeared before his eyes, aged more than thirty years since their last meeting.
"Jeanne?" Valjean asked quietly, his eyes never leaving his elder sister's. The old woman stared at him suspiciously.
"How do you know my name? Are you with the police, because I told those scoundrels—"
The ancient doors in Valjean's heart that had locked his past away for so long now swung open. Could it be that fate had at last reunited him with the sister he had long searched for over the years and given up for lost?
"Jeanne Valjean?"
Again the old woman stopped. "I haven't used that maiden name in years," she muttered, glancing back behind her at Cosette, who, with the young Lafite, was chasing the shawl through the streets as the wind tossed it around almost playfully. She shook her head at them, lips twisting in a frown of impatience.
Valjean's heart stopped, and flashes of memories from long ago recurred to him. They were like stones on the shore of the beach that had been polished and softened with time and distance. He had treasured them long ago, each child he'd loved and each kind (admittedly scarce) memory he had saved. Here was good Jeanne, who had so tirelessly brought him up despite all her difficulties, while he in turn had supported her and the children.
Suddenly it were as though Valjean was twenty-five again, and in what might have been excitement he hastily bowed in his adopted gentlemanly way and said, "'Tis I, Jeanne, your brother, Jean. Do you remember me? It must be thirty or more years now since we have met."
Jeanne turned to him sharply, her eyes narrowing in disbelief as she began to look Valjean over.
"Don't pull my leg, now, or I'll have it seen to you're hung by your toes."
Valjean allowed a smile to escape him as he touched her elbow lightly. "Truly, Jeanne, it is I. Remember how you used to make clothes for the children from potato sacks, and I fashioned dolls from straw for them? Remember how little Pierre always stole the neighbor's eggs from the coop?"
Jeanne stared at him levelly, her gaze constant and unwavering. She seemed no more changed with Valjean's proof of identity than before. "Got out of prison, then, I see. And you didn't think to come back to help?" Her words were cold and hard, far from the warmth Valjean had dared to hope for. He suddenly felt the wind blow harder, the cold of that bitter morning prick at his skin. He was stranded in that moment, stranded on an island with nobody but Jeanne, who faced him as a judge and condemned him once more as a thief.
"I searched for you," Valjean said hesitantly, recalling those empty days of asking neighbors, only to be shot down with half-hearted shakes of the head and glares. "You had disappeared when I returned."
"I waited five years." The words were calm and quiet, but Valjean, even towering over her, felt the embarrassing feeling of being scolded by Jeanne once more. "Little Marie died that year, God bless her soul, of pneumonia, that winter you were to return. Then three more years passed! When those years were up you still failed to come back, so I took the children to an orphanage. I couldn't very well raise them on my own, could I? Haven't seen them since."
One would have thought that with her bitter words, Jeanne was seething with anger. But it was not so. She seemed to already have dismissed the past with a shrug, and she now turned her attention back to the wheelbarrow in front of them. She cared not for their old lives and hardships, but what lay in front of her now. The mention of the loss of seven children affected her no more than would the loss of a thread in a blouse.
For a moment Valjean watched his sister attempt to move the wheelbarrow again. She struggled against the icy street, yet her pride kept her eyes straight ahead. Silently Valjean took the handles once more from her, despite her muttered curses.
"How long have you been in Paris, Jeanne?" He asked softly, after a sufficient time had passed and they had continued on their little journey. Valjean was careful to steer both the cart and his sister from the growing traffic of the streets. He remembered well how Jeanne got too distracted to heed such things.
"I'm here only to deliver these fabrics to Madame Lefleur. I came here alone and I leave tonight. Where to is none of your business."
Valjean nodded. Awkward silence ensued, but Valjean took no notice of it. His mind was busy with the thought of his nephews and nieces he'd slaved to feed, being brought up in a cold, feelingless orphanage. He remembered the state he'd found Cosette in as a little girl and shuddered to think perhaps they had suffered the same fate. And despite her apathy, Valjean was glad to see Jeanne. His curiosity about his family, occasionally present in the back of his mind, was satisfied on her account. He could see she was doing tolerably well, too; though her cart was broken, she wore the blouse of a respectable, wage-earning seamstress.
Just as they reached Madame Lefleur's, Valjean stopped.
"I have a daughter now—Cosette. She's the most beautiful child in the world, Jeanne, and you should see her. She is with the baker's son for the moment; would you like to meet her?" He was hopeful, and a bit eager, he knew. But oh, how fulfilling it would be to have Cosette know his family! Too long had it been just the two of them. Introducing a new, perhaps motherly, figure could do so much for her. Jeanne looked up at him, her grey eyes nonchalant and emotionless.
"What is it to me? I will be gone in a few hours."
"Ah, that's no matter! We may arrange more visits later, whenever may suit you. Perhaps you may visit our home before you depart."
Jeanne watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she said, "Our paths will not cross again, Monsieur. I have no wish to meet your daughter, but to sell my fabrics and go home."
Valjean struggled to speak, his brain confused, unable to process the full extent of the meaning of her words.
"But surely you wish to meet your niece? To perhaps have family once more?"
Jeanne began picking up her bundles from the wheelbarrow, treading over the icy path carefully to the dress shop.
"I do not."
"Why?"
"We lead separate lives now, Monsieur. I am no longer the sister who housed you, and the brother I knew thirty years ago is dead."
With that, she disappeared into the store, leaving Valjean on the street, alone and quiet.
When Cosette decided to check on her Papa, she found him standing motionless in the middle of the street, staring at the door of the dress shop he occasionally brought her to. Passersby shot him odd looks as the streets began to grow busier, and Cosette knew he would want to be home before too many people were about. Valjean was very narrowly saved from being trampled under a carriage by Cosette, who placed a gentle hand on him to pull him back to his senses.
"Papa?" Cosette whispered to him, pulling him to the side of the street. She held the woman's lost shawl in her hand; this she draped over the wheelbarrow so the old lady could find it later. Worry shone in her eyes as she examined Valjean's unresponsive face. It took her much gentle encouragement for him to look at her at last.
"Yes, Cosette?" His voice and eyes were distant, Cosette noted. But only a few minutes ago they had been walking arm in arm so blissfully happy, warm despite the cold by each other's presence.
"Are you ill, Papa? It's getting rather chilly. Come, let's go home."
When Valjean at last nodded, he gave her a small smile. "I'm alright, dear Cosette. I only hope I have not made you wait too long."
He hooked his arm through Cosette's, and for once Cosette appeared to be the guide as they walked the streets. Cosette noticed that he pressed against her more closely than he usually did. She couldn't help but feel that he needed the comfort from her presence. Cosette patiently decided to ask no questions of him until they arrived at Rue Plumet. But even she could not contain the nagging thought occurring again to her mind.
"Papa, who was that old woman?" Cosette asked softly as she helped him remove his coat once inside.
Valjean finally met her eyes. They were tired, and sadder than they usually were.
"Are you happy with me?" He asked. "Only me, I mean. Do you ever wish you had a mother?"
Cosette was taken aback. "How could I be unhappy with you, Papa? Without you in my life I was a miserable little thing. But you've been both father and mother to me. Why, what's gotten into you?" She attempted a light tone, but suddenly she saw tears fall from her father's eyes. She quickly went over to him and embraced him fondly, trying to contain her worry. What had happened? Never before had she seen him cry. Valjean kissed the top of her head, wrapping an arm around her small frame.
"I met a stranger on the streets," he said slowly. "A stranger long forgotten in my past. She was a woman I knew."
Cosette gently withdrew from his arms, looking her father straight in the eye. "Whoever she was, Papa, she doesn't love you as much as I do."
And Valjean smiled.