But at that moment Fantine was joyous. She has passed a frightful night. Her cough, her fever, her dreams. In the morning she is delirious, and the doctor orders that he shall be informed as soon as Madeleine arrives. She lays plaits in her sheets and murmurs calculations of distances. At twenty-five she is the spectre of herself; illness improvises old age. Each time Sister Simplice asks how she feels: Well. I should like to see the mayor. He is usually exact at three, because exactness is kindness. From half-past two she asks the time more than ten times. At the third stroke she sits up, joins her yellow hands, and looks at the door. No one enters. A quarter past: she falls back. Every time the clock strikes she starts up and looks, then falls back again. She utters no name and blames no one. At five the sister hears her say, very low: He is wrong not to come today, since I am going away tomorrow.
She sings the old cradle romance with which she once lulled Cosette, a song that has not returned in five years: roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue; the Virgin by the stove; linen, a needle, thread; then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury me. The nun, accustomed to austerities, feels a tear. At six a maid is sent to the portress. The mayor set out before six in a little tilbury and a white horse, alone, without a driver; some say the road to Arras, some the road to Paris; he told the portress not to expect him that night. Fantine, on her knees in the bed, head through the curtains, hears. Why are you talking so low? The maid proposes the city council. Simplice blushes; it is a lie. She raises her calm, sad eyes: the mayor has gone away. Fantine's white face becomes ineffable. Gone. He has gone to get Cosette. She prays, begs pardon for having spoken loud, kisses the little silver cross the sister gave her, and talks of rosy fingers, of Euphrasie, of the lace cap, of how far it is to Montfermeil. The sister, who has no idea of distances, thinks he will be here tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall see Cosette. I am mad; I could dance.
The doctor comes on tiptoe between seven and eight, thinking her asleep, and finds her big eyes. She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed? See, there is just room. They have not thought it well to undeceive her. He is surprised: the pressure on her chest has decreased; her pulse has regained its strength; a sort of life has suddenly reanimated this worn-out creature. Cosette will arrive tomorrow. He prescribes chinchona and a calming potion if the fever rises, and tells the sister to avoid painful emotions. As he takes his departure: she is doing better; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; we may be able to save her.
