oul.

Cosette had had no mother. She had only had many mothers, in the plural.

As for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all solicitude; but
he was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.

Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing a
woman for life, what science is required to combat that vast ignorance
which is called innocence!

Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The convent
turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. The heart, thus
thrown back upon itself, works downward within itself, since it cannot
overflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions,
suppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire for
adventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the inner
obscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passions
immediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate permits them to
enter. The convent is a compression which, in order to triumph over the
human heart, should last during the whole life.

On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more sweet and
more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the continuation
of solitude with the beginning of liberty; a garden that was closed, but
a nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous, and fragrant; the same dreams
as in the convent, but with glimpses of young men; a grating, but one
that opened on the street.

Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child. Jean
Valjean gave this neglected garden over to her. "Do what you like with
it," he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned over all the clumps
and all the stones, she hunted for "beasts"; she played in it, while
awaiting the time when she would dream in it; she loved this garden
for the insects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass, while
awaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she would see
through the boughs above her head.

And then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with
all her soul, with an innocent filial passion which made the goodman
a beloved and charming companion to her. It will be remembered that M.
Madeleine had been in the habit of reading a great deal. Jean Valjean
had continued this practice; he had come to converse well; he possessed
the secret riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which has
spontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough sharpness to
seas