Cosette tried not to think about it often, and most of the time she could find much pleasanter things to occupy her thoughts. Nevertheless, her guard slipped once in a great while, such as on her birthday when she had a special supper with her papa, or some of the other girls at the convent were picked up by their parents, and she could not help thinking about her mother.
A few times, when she had been very little and very naughty, she would bother papa to tell her one story (just one!) about her mother, and each time he became quiet, and set her down from his knee, or left the room, or looked at her with an intense… some feeling.
She stopped asking, but she kept thinking. Sometimes she knew; it had been her fault.
ETA: And what would a good drabble day be without a little crossover weirdness? A response to the prompt "An unknown friend." I do apologize in advance.
“Oh, jolly, you’ve made good time! Let’s have him now, and be off. That inspector is demmed hard to shake, eh?”
Valjean squinted into the darkness. He saw a flash of white teeth, outstretched hands, the glint of gold cuff links on the finest shirtsleeves made in Paris.
“Lud, you’re not Sir Thomas! And this isn’t the cellar beneath the rum smugglers’ hold, now, is it?”
Valjean shifted the weight of the boy on his shoulder, and stared openmouthed into the dank gloom, where some foppish foreigner looked decidedly uncomfortable in the knee-deep muck of the sewer.
“Margot is right. I am getting too old for this.”
[Because where would Les Miz be, without the original Revolution and that demmed Pimpernel always spoiling everything?]