Cosette nods mutely -- yes, it's past, and her father will be awake and well soon; she can hold to that. And M. Joly is being kind, and as comforting as he can be. It's not his fault that he can't fix everything.
She ought to be bright and cheerful for him. She ought to be bright and cheerful for everyone, for all of them. But she can't manage it right now, after everything today has brought her.
She wants to run out of the room, and she wants to fling herself down on her father's bed, and she wants Marius to hold her close, all at once. She swallows, and presses her clasped hands hard to her mouth for a moment more, trying to steady herself.
"I know," she says, to both of them. She unclenches her fingers with a small and deliberate effort, so she can reach out to her husband, with a hand that only trembles a little. Then she can look up at Joly, pale and as composed as she can be right now, and find more words.
"My -- my mother is here. She should know. I can, I can send her a note, or find her -- I don't want to be in the way, monsieur, I know you have important work to do here, but my father shouldn't wake up alone. I don't want him to be alone."
And afraid, she doesn't add, because it's still too horribly strange a thought. Her father is never afraid; he's a rock of strength and certainty. All of that is clearly untrue now, but it feels like some kind of betrayal to say so out loud.
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She ought to be bright and cheerful for him. She ought to be bright and cheerful for everyone, for all of them. But she can't manage it right now, after everything today has brought her.
She wants to run out of the room, and she wants to fling herself down on her father's bed, and she wants Marius to hold her close, all at once. She swallows, and presses her clasped hands hard to her mouth for a moment more, trying to steady herself.
"I know," she says, to both of them. She unclenches her fingers with a small and deliberate effort, so she can reach out to her husband, with a hand that only trembles a little. Then she can look up at Joly, pale and as composed as she can be right now, and find more words.
"My -- my mother is here. She should know. I can, I can send her a note, or find her -- I don't want to be in the way, monsieur, I know you have important work to do here, but my father shouldn't wake up alone. I don't want him to be alone."
And afraid, she doesn't add, because it's still too horribly strange a thought. Her father is never afraid; he's a rock of strength and certainty. All of that is clearly untrue now, but it feels like some kind of betrayal to say so out loud.