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The sound of ringing church bells pealed across the convent courtyard, muffled by the snow heaps and softly falling flakes. By the time the tolling reached the gardeners’ hut, nestled among the trees and flowers, it was only a faint whisper in the air. The euphonious echo, combined with the distant seclusion of the hut when compared to the walls of the convent, created inside the feeling of an otherworldly pocket of land, disconnected from the world beyond it. It was this safety and comfort that Cosette longed for while sitting in her classroom on a Christmas morning, watching the snow fall outside through a frosted window.
Through the sheet of white she could not even see the gardens where her father and uncle’s hut sat; the horizon seemed to sit a few feet away. She hunkered in her seat and waited while the nun droned on, amusing herself by watching the swirl of steam released with her breath. There was an ever-present chill in the air that settled into her bones, even inside the convent. Having to sit inside in the cold seemed unfair, when outside there was more beauty, and a promise of warmth at the hut with her father if she could get to it. Cosette waited and wished to hear the school bell ring, at which time all the girls would be released until evening Mass, feeling each second as it ticked by.
While the holiday meant arduous prayer and strict tradition for the nuns, Cosette still held on to that innocent joy of childhood, and looked onto the season with an anticipation of gifts and love. Perhaps it was due to lingering feelings of delight from her first real Christmas, where she had received her first toy, Catherine the doll, along with her first feelings of love that she could remember in her short life. Now the doll was lost to Paris — and how she regretted not bringing it with her that night she and her father left the Gorbeau place! Still, the fond memories lived on, and left her excited for what was to come.
The bell rang on the hour, and when the nun finally ceased her lesson Cosette shot to her feet and began gathering her books with a great burst of energy. She followed the other girls out into the hall and then to their dormitory, but after depositing her books by her bed she split off from the group. While her classmates went to the library to warm themselves by the fire, Cosette shrugged on her coat, shoved her gloves and a letter into her pockets, and went the opposite way.
The stone halls of the convent were winding, and echoed even her small padding footsteps. She hurried as fast as she could, eager to get to that place of sanctity outside, when something at the convent doors gave her pause. It was a feeling that something was out of place, and sure enough, she quickly noticed a woman she did not recognize in the corner of the chamber. The woman was dressed unlike any nun or student of the convent, still wearing her winter coat, and looked pale like she had just come in from the cold. She stood alone and rather awkwardly. The sight of any new person at the convent was an oddity, and Cosette, shy as she was, studied the stranger from afar.
What she did not know was that this stranger studied her too. Nor did Cosette know that she had known this stranger in her infancy. She had no way to know it, but this was a past friend of her mother, Favourite. It was through some great mechanician of chance, and perhaps fate or providence, that Favourite had been led through the downtrodden path of life and streets of Paris to the very convent that Cosette now took refuge at. As she gazed upon the child a thought tugged at her mind, a sort of recognition. Though the young girl in front of her had brown hair, the shape of her face and the look in her eyes reminded Favourite of someone from the past. The sight of the child pulled at her heart.
Favourite beckoned the child forward. Cosette, shy as she was, but obedient in the way the nuns had taught, crept forward cautiously towards the woman. Favourite opened her mouth as if to say something, then paused.
“Child, are you going out into this cold? Do you have your gloves?” she asked, concern in her voice.
Cosette tugged her gloves out of her pocket and showed them to Favourite as an answer. “I’m going to visit my father,” she said, “he’s waiting for me outside.”
At this Favourite’s eyes widened. “And what is your father’s name?”
“Monsieur Ultime Fauchelevent,” stammered Cosette, “he and my uncle are the gardeners.”
“And your mother?”
Cosette twisted the gloves she held in her hands and cast a glance behind her, but the large stone chamber was still empty except for the two of them. “It’s just me and my father," she said finally.
At this, Favourite looked at Cosette thoughtfully. She felt certain she knew this child, but could not understand the string of events that led her to such a place as the convent, or into the hands of such people as the convent gardener. “What is your name?” she eventually asked, circling back to the question she had intended to impose initially.
“I’m called Cosette,” came the reply. Favourite’s eyes widened in recognition of this name. Though she had known the child by a different name, she recognized the little nickname that was, through her mother’s transformation of words, derived from “Euphrasie.” Memories of years past, when life was still kind, when she lived in the city with Fantine and the others, came rushing back to her. She recalled the sweet summers . She opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sharp and echoing sound of footsteps, and a nun entered the chamber.
“Mademoiselle!” she cried upon sighting Favourite. “Have they really left you alone in the cold like this? Come, you must come with me.” The nun swiftly crossed the room and took hold of Favourite’s arm. She began to guide her down the hall, not sparing a glance at Cosette, who stood silently still in the same spot.
Just before Favourite left the chamber, she glanced once more behind herself at the watching Cosette. “Merry Christmas, Cosette!” she called, and then she was gone.
Cosette watched the empty doorway for a moment, feeling rather perplexed. Then, she shook herself, and slid on her gloves as the woman had reminded her to. She was of the age where, although taken by curiosity in the moment, she did not think to wonder long about the woman, and did not question what she was doing at the convent, nor what her name was. She crossed the room and pushed open the convent door. The cold wind hit her with great force, and all that was left in her mind from then on were thoughts of her father and of Christmas.
The wind bit at her exposed face, and she had to take stretching steps through the mounds of snow, but she kept onward. The knowledge of the muffled calm and warmth she was on her way to kept her going. When she arrived at the hut she did not knock, instead throwing the door open and leaping inside.
As promised, warmth immediately greeted her. There was a fire going, the orange light soft against the blue filtering in through the window, and it heated up the entirety of the small but cozy hut. Someone had set out bread, cheese, and wine on the table. However, despite all of this, what truly filled her with joy was the sight of her father and uncle, seated at the table and waiting for her.
Cosette grinned, and her father rose to envelop her in a hug.
“Papa!” she cried. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Cosette,” he said, squeezing her tighter and kissing the top of her head. She giggled, then squirmed her way out of his grasp to turn to Fauchelevent, who sat facing them.
He held his arms open to her. “Aw, come here,” he said, and Cosette leaned in to hug him too, exchanging similar pleasantries.
After this, Cosette immediately turned to the fireplace and lowered herself to her knees. Yesterday she had been sure to swipe an extra shoe from her convent bedroom, and in a joyous spirit she had left it beside the fireplace, as was custom. She recalled all too well the stinging disappointment of the many years prior. Those years where she would leave her shoe in a dark corner of the hearth, and in the morning had gone to check it with a mounting anticipation that turned to desperation and a crashing sadness when year after year her shoe stayed empty while the other girls’ were filled. She still felt that same creep of worry when she went to check her shoe now, but she needn’t have feared. In the shoe sat two shining francs, and the dark past of disappointment was replaced with pure exhilaration. Cosette squealed in excitement and grabbed the two coins. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her father sitting back in his chair and smiling.
Following the joy of the discovery that this year, like the last, she had finally received such a gift, Cosette could not sit still throughout dinner. Around her bread and cheese she spoke in an animated way about her day, her lessons, and the odd woman she had met. Her father and uncle sat and let her talk. Then, at the end of the meal they exchanged glances and Fauchelevent stood and entered the back room. When he came out he was holding a box in his hands. Her father called her over, and Cosette rounded the table to stare down at the box in wonder.
“Now,” began her father, “this is from your uncle and I together. You will probably have to keep it here, as I don’t know if the nuns would allow such possessions in the dormitory, but you can come and play with it any time you would like.”
Cosette reached out and took the box somewhat reverently. “What is it!” she cried.
Fauchelevent laughed and said “Why don’t you open it and find out!”
At that, Cosette slid the lid of the box off and gasped. Inside was a doll. It had rosy cheeks, brown curls, and a soft blue crepe dress. She felt a moment of wonder akin to the reveries she had when admiring her old doll, Catherine, on display at the market in Montfermeil. The difference now was that the doll was hers, and she could reach into the box and hold it and keep it, and it brought back memories of when she had first received Catherine as well. When an impossible dream was made true for her, who had had so little before. She was overwhelmed.
“It’s not Catherine, but I thought you still needed a doll,” said her father.
“I picked it out,” Fauchelevent added, winking at her.
“Oh thank you, thank you!” she cried, again wrapping them both in a hug. She then drew back. “I have a present too,” she said, and she withdrew the letter she had stuffed into her coat pocket earlier.
Her father clearly had not been expecting such a thing, and he took the letter with some surprise. Cosette bounced on her feet in anticipation as he sliced it open, and Fauchelevent went to his shoulder to peer down at it. When he saw what it was he smiled.
“A nun has been teaching us to draw, and I thought, well, she said I was good, and I didn’t know what else–” Cosette began in a rush.
Her father cut her off. “I love it, Cosette, it’s beautiful.”
He turned the paper around for Fauchelevent to better see it. With some pens and paper from school, Cosette had sketched out a scene very similar to the one she now found herself in. It was of a peaceful moment in the little hut. She, her father, and her uncle sat around the table, sharing food much as they just had been. It was spring though, and sunlight streamed through the window while a vase of pretty flowers sat at the center of the table. But most of all, the entire image exuded an overpowering feeling of warmth and love, for it was with this that it was crafted.
“I think we must hang it up,” Fauchelevent said. “Here, near the window?” He took the drawing and held it there, studying how it looked in that position.
“Oh, would you look at that lighting!” said Cosette’s father admirably.
“Why yes, and the details!” Fauchelevent agreed.
“We almost look lifelike!”
“And the accuracy of the house!’
“The flowers!”
Cosette was only half listening. The sight of the drawing had awoken in her a new and funny feeling. It was something that had begun to dawn on her while she was staring out the window of that classroom and thinking of the hut and the warmth and comfort she knew she would find there. And not only was there her father and uncle, but now there were also the nuns who taught and instructed her, the other girls in her class who she laughed with late into the night, and even the kind, strange woman who had reminded her that day to wear her gloves. That lingering sense of fear and fault that stayed in the back of her mind, leftover from her time with the Thenardiers, dissipated. For the first time in her short life, Cosette felt the assurance of childhood she had been missing: that the entire world was filled with love and people who loved her, that she had a place she could go where she was always certain she could find comfort, and that there was kindness for her. This discovery, after so long spent in a state of survival and despair, was like a rush of light on her poor soul. It felt as if years of weight and darkness were being taken from her. She could have cried.
What she did instead was lean forward and hug her father again. He looked down at her with a soft smile, as if he knew what had just gone on in her heart, and hugged her back. Outside the snow continued its gentle descent, and the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fireplace.
“I love you, Cosette,” he whispered.