Feeling Cosette slip away from him, Jean Valjean sometimes behaved like a child. One day he saw the military governor of Paris ride past in full dress uniform braided with gold. He envied the man and thought how wonderful it would be to wear such a uniform. If he walked past the gates of the Tuileries in it, with Cosette on his arm, the sentries would present arms. Then Cosette would be so dazzled she would never think of looking at young men.
Into these sad thoughts came an unexpected shock. Since moving to the Rue Plumet, the two of them had a habit of sometimes going out to watch the sun rise. He would suggest it the night before, she would agree, and they would slip out before daybreak as if hatching a plot. He liked the empty fields on the edge of Paris where no one went. There Cosette would take off her hat, lay it on his knees and pick flowers, a little girl again.
One dawn in October 1831 they were near the Maine barrier. Jean Valjean sat on a pile of timber at the gate of a building yard, facing the road and deep in thought. With his back to where the sun would rise, he forgot all about it. Cosette, standing beside him, was watching the clouds turn pink when she cried out. Father, something’s coming down there.