Chapter Text
Every Saturday morning, Jean Valjean meets his daughter for breakfast at their favourite spot, the Café Alouette: a snug little place with a red door, a simple menu, and strong coffee.
Although it’s now December, they sit out on the terrace (which is heated and sheltered by an awning), and watch peaceably, sipping their coffee, as snow falls gently over the street. Passersby surge past in pea coats and puffer jackets, clutching shopping bags and takeaway cups.
This weekly meeting is a tradition that started shortly after Cosette and Marius returned from their year-long trip abroad in March. Following their homecoming, they had launched straight into wedding planning—not that they had to do much work themselves, as Marius’s grandfather M. Gillenormand had hired a professional planner for them.
Yes, everything would be seen to; all the details would be arranged to perfection. All Cosette and Marius had to worry about was keeping Marius’s grandfather in check. They had had to graciously decline a number of luxurious venues he suggested before they managed to convince him that the Gillenormand mansion itself would be a more than adequate setting for the reception.
And now it is just around the corner: the wedding is to take place on the 16th of February, a little more than two months away. Valjean still has trouble believing it. At twenty-three, Cosette will be a young bride for this day and age. But she knows herself, she knows what she wants: Valjean has to trust her to make her own choices. And although nothing will change, not really—she and Marius have already been living together for three years; their relationship is already a marriage in all but name—Valjean still can’t help but feel he will lose her in some way when she becomes Mme Pontmercy.
It is a stupid thought, paternalistic and insecure, but it is a recurring one, and he has not quite been able to dismiss it.
So he watches her with a fond sadness as she chatters about the upcoming nuptials, gesturing energetically, pausing to sip her café crème.
All at once, she interrupts herself mid-sentence. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I have something for you.”
She turns to rummage through the brown leather purse hanging from the back of her chair, and pulls out a card, which she hands to Valjean.
The paper is sturdy and the ink is deep blue. Big, curlicued letters at the top announce: Marius & Cosette.
“It’s your invitation!” she chirps.
“I see. It looks very nice,” he says, a trifle awkwardly, unsure exactly what to say.
She looks at him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Dutifully, he looks back down at the card in his hands and reads it over, front and back. The back has an RSVP to fill out and return by January 20. A box for “yes”, a box for “no”, and a space to write in “number of attendees”.
“Well, I won’t leave you in suspense,” he says, reaching into his coat, feeling for the interior pocket where he keeps a pen handy.
“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it?” Cosette teases.
Valjean smiles. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Having successfully retrieved the pen, he pauses to look at her.
Cosette smiles back at him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Don't forget your invitation comes with a plus one, Papa,” she adds sweetly.
“Oui, ma chère,” he says in a fond but distant tone, lost in proud contemplation of his daughter’s face, in which he still catches glimpses of the little girl she once was.
Cosette folds her arms. “And did you read the fine print?”
“Oui, ma—wait, what?”
“The fine print.” Cosette is wearing a poker face that Valjean knows all too well she learned from him. “On your invitation. You didn't read it, did you?”
A gleam of mischief in her big blue eyes fills him with suspicion.
She nibbles at her pain au chocolat, peering up at him angelically through her lashes.
Valjean sets down the pen. He knows that look of feigned innocence: it means nothing good.
“Cosette…” he growls. “What are you up to?”
“It's on the back, in five-point font.” She reaches across the table to turn the invitation over, pointing with a black-polished fingernail. “By RSVP-ing yes, which, of course, you’ll do—you’re agreeing to the terms and conditions.”
Valjean glances at the card for long enough to confirm that yes, there is something written in tiny print on the back, which his aged eyes can’t hope to read.
“Marius expressed considerable doubt as to whether this is technically legally binding,” Cosette admits, “but he hasn’t passed the Bar yet, so do we really want to take his word for it? After all, you wouldn’t want to run afoul of the law, would you, Papa?” she teases.
“Dieu…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I really don't want to know.”
“Mandatory plus one,” she reveals at last, triumphant. “You must bring a date to the wedding, or one will be supplied for you.”
“What? ”
“Marius has an aunt your age. She's recently divorced and wants to meet someone. So if you don't bring anyone, we're seating her next to you and telling her you're single.”
“Cosette. This is ridiculous. And probably against the Geneva Convention.”
“Ah, but I won’t have to resort to such desperate measures if you would just bring someone yourself. A date,” she says sternly. “Not a friend. An actual romantic interest .”
Valjean shakes his head. “We’ve been over this. I’m too old for…”
"Yes Papa, we have been over this. We’ve been over this so many times. I’ve heard all your excuses already, so don’t bother.” She sighs. “Here’s the thing—” her voice softens and grows more serious, “Look, jokes aside…Papa, you deserve to be happy.” She looks at him with such love in her eyes that he feels a lump form in his throat. “And I know that you’re lonely.” She reaches across the table to touch his hand gently.
He makes a noncommittal sound, examining the chips in her black nail polish rather than looking her in the eyes.
“You could meet someone who would—who would, like…” she shakes her head, searching for words, “...shine a light into your whole life !” she says finally, removing her hand from Valjean’s as she gestures exuberantly. “That’s what it’s like when you find that person, Papa.”
Valjean registers a faint flare of pain at this admission: so Marius was the light, then, for her—and what did that say about her life before, her life with him? That it had been nothing but darkness? But this is unfair, and he knows it. He tamps the thought back down in time to catch the rest of what Cosette is saying.
“You could have that too—but you won’t even try,” she goes on, and now there is real emotion in her voice. “And I want that for you so, so bad. I want you to find what I have with Marius. So can you just...try? Please? For me?”
Valjean sighs, picking at his croissant.
Cosette pauses to take a fortifying sip of coffee. “Remember the other day you were asking what I wanted as a wedding gift? Well—this. This is it. I’m serious, Papa.”
She is. Her eyes are pleading. Her hand quivers slightly as she sets down her coffee cup. This is important to her.
Valjean closes his eyes. He knows when he’s beaten.
“Damn,” he mutters.