As seems to be my habit now, I make some departures from canon here. I know that in the brick, Bishop Myriel lived in Digne, and died while Valjean was living as Mayor Madeleine. But here, he's still alive and living in Villers-Cotterêts. I relocated him there for two reasons: 1) It's close enough to Paris for a day-trip, and 2) it's a very small, very beautiful town where I, an ignorant American, was privileged to live for a year. I loved it so much, and sometimes I still miss it.

As The Bishop in this story, I imagined Earl Carpenter, who played him onstage in 2010. He's my favorite and as far as I know, the only actor to have played both The Bishop and Javert (in different productions, of course). He did them both so well! But of course, you're free to imagine Bishop Myriel however you want! Please enjoy the story!

(For my own reference: 69th fanfiction, 11th story for Les Miserables.)

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning.
– "Spring," Gerard Manley Hopkins

::

It was still before sunrise, so Valjean lit a lantern in the dark room and set it on Cosette's nightstand. "Wake up, Cosette," he said, bending over the child's bed and gently shaking her awake. "Wake up, my girl." She yawned and stirred, one arm wrapped around Catherine, her doll.

"Is it Easter?" she asked sleepily, as she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

Valjean smiled and kissed her temple. "Yes, it is. Happy Easter, love. Come and get dressed, now."

Cosette bounded happily out of bed and began to dress by the lantern light. She had been looking forward to Easter. Today she would get to wear her best dress – Papa had already laid it out for her on a chair – and they were going to ride in a horse-carriage to another city, and Papa had promised to buy her some chocolate after church.

Cosette didn't know it, but her papa had been looking forward to Easter too, for different reasons. The Saturday evening before, he had been so full of both anticipation and dread that he was surprised he ever fell asleep. But he had, and now Easter morning was finally here – the day of Christ's resurrection, the day of hope and rebirth. Valjean was more nervous than ever about leaving the safe anonymity of Paris, even just for a day, but there was no time left to worry about the trip, and he felt that it was something he had to do.

It hadn't been easy to hire a carriage-driver who would work on Easter Sunday morning, but Valjean had finally done it. He had arranged a few days ago for a carriage to arrive at the Gorbeau House very early this morning. He was a bit conflicted about spending so much money on it, but... he had to. He had to do this.

He put some bread with honey on the table for Cosette's breakfast, and while she sat and ate, he stood behind her chair and brushed her hair for her. He didn't usually do this – she was old enough to brush her own hair, of course – but he wanted to be sure that she looked her best today. He looked her up and down twice after she was done eating, making sure that her hair was smooth, her dress was neat, and her face was washed. Then, from the street outside, came the clip-clop of horse hooves. Their carriage was here. This is it, Valjean thought, his heart leaping up in his chest. But he must act calm. Cosette mustn't know how nervous he was. He took her hand and said lightly, "Come, Cosette, it's time to leave."

Cosette hadn't noticed her papa's nerves at all, but outside, in the chilly, still-dark morning, he lifted her into the carriage, and she suddenly remembered the last time that she'd ridden in a horse-carriage. It was last winter, when Papa took her from Monsieur and Madame's miserable old inn and brought her here to Paris. She had looked back at the squalid, stinking building once through the carriage window – the chipped glass windows that she'd washed so many times, the rough stone steps that she'd swept over and over – and then it was gone. Riding in a carriage again made the memories feel close, and she shivered, afraid.

"Are you cold, Cosette?" Valjean asked, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. She snuggled in against him and felt safe again.

She wasn't used to being awake so early, and the sound of her father's heartbeat and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves soon lulled her back to sleep against him. Valjean kept his arm around her and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, not wanting it to wrinkle. He had told Cosette only the barest facts of their trip, that they were going to Villers-Cotterêts, to attend Easter morning Mass at the church there. He had been nervous to tell her even this much, worried that she would ask him why they were traveling all the way to Villers-Cotterêts when there were so many churches in Paris where they could attend Mass. But thank God, she hadn't asked him. How Valjean dreaded the day when his Cosette grew older and started asking questions of him.

There were so many things that he couldn't tell Cosette. He couldn't tell her about his last journey to Villers-Cotterêts, and certainly not about what had happened between him and the bishop whose Mass they would be attending today. He couldn't tell her that Villers-Cotterêts was where he had, as a newly-paroled prisoner, turned from hating. Cosette must never know that he'd once had so much hate in his heart. All she knew about him was that he was her papa, and he loved her. Valjean had sworn to himself that no matter what it cost him, that was all she would ever know.

The sun rose on the journey to Villers-Cotterêts, and Valjean stared out the carriage window and watched it come up through the trees of the Forêt de Retz. The sight calmed him. Honestly, he didn't know why he was so nervous – wasn't this a good thing that he was doing, after all? But still, as they neared Villers-Cotterêts, and the trees began to thin out, and the ground grew hillier, Valjean could not stay calm. By then, Cosette was awake again and staring happily out the window at the apple orchards and the birds, so different from the city scenes that she saw Paris. The middle of a huge, hilly forest was an odd spot for such a small village – and certainly an odd spot to find salvation. But then, hadn't Christ been born in a stable?

The small, modest Église Saint-Nicolas looked as pretty as a painting, with blooming flowerpots on either side of its main door, and its spire gleaming in the morning sun. But when they exited the carriage in front of it, Valjean's heart began to pound when he saw the very same cobblestones where he had ripped up his parole ticket and tossed it to the wind. Even after all these years, he half-expected to see the yellow slips of paper still lying on the ground. He quickly took Cosette's hand and held it tighter than he meant to, but still, thank God, she did not suspect that anything was wrong, and they joined the rest of the townspeople filing into little church for Mass.

They sat near the back of the church, but Valjean had a clear view of Bishop Myriel after he climbed the steps behind the pulpit. He looked different – there were more gray hairs at his temples, more wrinkles around his eyes – but Valjean recognized him immediately. He felt that he would know him anywhere, no matter how much time passed. The bishop had changed his life so drastically, and so much for the better, that his face was etched into Valjean's memory. That was why he had woken Cosette up so early, made sure she was dressed so nicely, and spent so much money on a carriage here. That was why he'd risked leaving Paris, even though he suspected that Javert was still searching for him. He wanted Bishop Myriel to know that he hadn't shown him mercy in vain, that his words about becoming an honest man hadn't been lost. Valjean tried every day to be worthy of the bishop's mercy. He tried every day to be worthy of Cosette's love.

The Easter Mass was long, but Cosette behaved splendidly. Valjean had been taking her to the church nearest the Gorbeau House every week since he brought her home last December, and she had already learned all of the responses and a number of songs. She knew exactly when to sit, stand, or kneel. She was still learning how to read, but when her papa opened the hymnal and pointed to the words with his finger, she liked to lean against him and follow his hand intently, as if she understood every word. Sweetest of all, she held his hand the entire time.

The Mass was long, but to Valjean, it seemed to pass in no time at all, and before he knew it, he and Cosette were on their way out of the church. Bishop Myriel had left first, in the service processional, and now, as he did every Sunday, he was standing on the steps outside, shaking hands with his congregants and wishing them a happy Easter as they left. Valjean and Cosette were getting closer... Valjean grew nervous again, and he didn't know why. Bishop Myriel had probably forgotten him, and even if he did remember him, he would never recognize him. Valjean looked nothing now like he had then, in his tattered old clothes, with a shaved head and unkempt beard and eyes full of bitterness.

And now, suddenly, there they were, face-to-face again, years later. Bishop Myriel smiled and extended his hand to Valjean. "Happy Easter, monsieur. Thank you for coming," he said – the same words that he'd said to every other man leaving church. It was just as Valjean suspected: the bishop hadn't recognized him, and as they shook hands, he didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

The double-take was subtle. Valjean probably wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been watching, but there it was: Bishop Myriel looked away from him for a second, then looked back. His eyes, as piercing as ever, gazed straight into Valjean's and lingered there. Then, just as subtle, there was a flash of recognition, and a smile slowly spread across his face. His hand tightened around Valjean's.

"Happy Easter," Bishop Myriel said again, softly enough that only Valjean could hear his words. "It's good to see you again, my brother."

Valjean couldn't believe that he had been so nervous about seeing the bishop again. The sense of peace that swelled in his heart now was unlike anything he'd felt before. He wished that he had the words to express it, but when he said simply, "Thank you, Monsignor," the bishop seemed to understand.

Cosette was still standing a little behind him. Suddenly eager, Valjean put his hands on her shoulders and led her forward. It felt like the last several years of his life had all been leading up to his moment, but he wasn't nervous. "Monsignor," he said, "this is my daughter, Cosette."

Valjean had practiced it with her last night, and again on the carriage ride here, until she knew it by heart. Cosette, what are you going to say when you meet the bishop? And now, just as they'd rehearsed, she dropped a perfect curtsey and said sweetly, "Bonjour, Monsignor. Happy Easter."

Bishop Myriel smiled, obviously charmed. After all, who wouldn't be? Cosette had never looked more darling. She was wearing her best dress, which was a beautiful light blue color, the same shade as her eyes. Valjean had washed her hair the day before, so that it was now a sleek, shiny gold, and her cheeks were warmed to a rose-petal pink by the morning sun. To make the image even sweeter, she held out to the bishop a small wild daisy that she had plucked from the grass nearby – her own childish Easter offering.

"Why, thank you, and happy Easter to you, child," Bishop Myriel said, sounding sincerely grateful as he took the tiny flower from her. He actually tucked it into the collar of his bishop robe. He glanced from Cosette to Valjean, then back to the little girl, and added, "I hope that you will always be a blessing to your father." He clasped Valjean's hand one last time before turning to greet the man leaving church behind him. "Thank you for coming, truly," he said, "and thank you for bringing your daughter. She's precious."

Walking back to the carriage, Valjean felt like he was walking on air. Just before they climbed inside, Cosette tugged on his hand. "Papa? Here, I picked a flower for you, too." She held out another little daisy, identical to the one that she had given Bishop Myriel.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Valjean said, taking it from her and kissing her brow. He tucked it into his coat lapel. He liked the idea of him and Bishop Myriel both wearing daisies that Cosette had picked for them. It made this Easter day feel even more perfect.

As they rode back to Paris, Valjean thought about the sermon that Bishop Myriel had delivered during Mass. He had talked about how much Christ had to suffer on Good Friday, so that everyone could know the joy of salvation on Easter Sunday. He had pointed out that sometimes unspeakable things had to happen to bring about something good. Valjean could certainly relate to that. He and Cosette were so happy together now, but their journey to each other had been full of hardships. Cosette was only in Valjean's care because her mother had been forced to sell her body and then died, slowly and painfully. Unspeakable things.

Every day for nineteen long years, Valjean had cursed God in his heart. He'd shaken his fist at the sky and demanded to know why. But on that Christmas Day four months ago, when he had first laid eyes on Cosette, a new trust in God was born in his heart. He no longer demanded to know why, for he knew now that God's plan was beyond his understanding. If he had not been in prison for those nineteen years, he would never have been in Montreuil-sur-Mer when Fantine was, and he would never have found his way from her deathbed to Cosette. Ever since the first time Cosette laid her head on his shoulder and fell asleep in his arms, Valjean had not asked God any questions. In fact, he had not asked God for anything. He prayed often, but only out of gratitude.

Just thinking about it made him feel so blessed that tears suddenly gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Startled, he tried to wipe them away before Cosette could notice, but she had already seen, and now she climbing into his lap, filling his empty arms.

"Papa?" she asked, alarmed. "Oh, Papa, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Valjean wiped his tears away and wrapped one arm around her, reassuringly. "Oh, nothing's wrong, sweetheart. Papa's just happy. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes grown-ups cry when they're happy, too."

Cosette did not seem entirely convinced. "But I don't want you to cry, Papa," she said worriedly.

"Well, give me a kiss, then, and I won't cry anymore."

Cosette smiled, pleased that the solution was so simple, and kissed his cheek. She smelled sweeter than ever, like springtime and incense, and Valjean's heart gladdened as she settled into his lap. When he had first brought her home last winter, she'd been such a jumpy little thing, frightened of her own shadow and always clinging to him. For their first month together, Cosette had slept in his bed with him every night, because she woke up crying from nightmares so often. But she was blossoming under all his love and affection, and although Valjean loved seeing her grow more confident and less fearful, she was becoming so independent, too. She could sleep through the night in her own bed now, and it already felt like a long time since he'd woken up with her in his arms. It already felt like she was somehow slipping away from him.

"Papa?" Cosette begged, tugging on his coat lapel with one hand and pointing out the carriage window with the other. "Will you play I Spy with me?"

Valjean smiled at her. "Of course I will, love." Sometimes she seemed to be growing up so quickly, but right now, she was sitting in his lap, asking him to play with her. Winter was finally over, and spring was here – birds singing and flowers blooming. It was Easter morning, and they were going home together. What more could he possibly ask for?

FIN

I don't celebrate it, but to those who do, happy Easter. To fellow Members of the Tribe, happy Passover. To those who don't celebrate either one, happy springtime. And to anyone in the southern hemisphere who isn't enjoying spring right now... thanks for reading this story anyway!