Page 2321 - les-miserables

other.
Then he sought his own chamber once more, and set his
candle on a table.
He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used
his right hand as though it did not hurt him.
He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by
chance? was it intentionally? on the inseparable of which
Cosette had been jealous, on the little portmanteau which
never left him. On his arrival in the Rue de l’Homme Arme,
on the 4th of June, he had deposited it on a round table near
the head of his bed. He went to this table with a sort of vi-
vacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.
From it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten
years before, Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the lit-
tle gown, then the black fichu, then the stout, coarse child’s
shoes which Cosette might almost have worn still, so tiny
were her feet, then the fustian bodice, which was very thick,
then the knitted petticoat, next the apron with pockets,
then the woollen stockings. These stockings, which still pre-
served the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than
Jean Valjean’s hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who
had brought those garments to Montfermeil for her. As he
removed them from the valise, he laid them on the bed. He
fell to thinking. He called up memories. It was in winter, in
a very cold month of December, she was shivering, half-na-
ked, in rags, her poor little feet were all red in their wooden
shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon those rags
to clothe herself in these mourning habiliments. The moth-
er must have felt pleased in her grave, to see her daughter

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