Les Misérables
assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed.
That done, he took his bearings, and resumed his march through the
forest.
It was the man who had just met Cosette.
As he walked through the thicket in the direction of Montfermeil, he
had espied that tiny shadow moving with a groan, depositing a burden on
the ground, then taking it up and setting out again. He drew near, and
perceived that it was a very young child, laden with an enormous bucket
of water. Then he approached the child, and silently grasped the handle
of the bucket.
CHAPTER VII—COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE STRANGER IN THE DARK
Cosette, as we have said, was not frightened.
The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost
bass.
“My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you.”
Cosette raised her head and replied:—
“Yes, sir.”
“Give it to me,” said the man; “I will carry it for you.”
Cosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her.
“It really is very heavy,” he muttered between his teeth. Then he
added:—
“How old are you, little one?”
“Eight, sir.”
“And have you come from far like this?”
“From the spring in the forest.”
“Are you going far?”
“A good quarter of an hour’s walk from here.”
The man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly:—
“So you have no mother.”
“I don’t know,” answered the child.
Before the man had time to speak again, she added:—
“I don’t think so. Other people have mothers. I have none.”
And after a silence she went on:—
“I think that I never had any.”
The man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed
both hands on the child’s shoulders, making an effort to look at her
and to see her face in the dark.
Cosette’s thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light
in the sky.
“What is your name?” said the man.
“Cosette.”
The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her
once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette’s shoulders, seized
the bucket, and set out again.
After a moment he inquired:—
“Where do you live, little one?”
“At Montfermeil, if you know where that is.”
“That is where we are going?”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused; then began again:—
“Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?”
“It was Madame Thénardier.”
The man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but
in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor:—
“What does your Madame Thénardier do?”
“She is my mistress,” said the child. “She keeps the inn.”
“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going to lodge there to-night.
Show me the way.”
“We are on the way there,” said the child.
The man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty.
She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes
towards the man, with a sort of tranquillity and an indescribable
confidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to
pray; nevertheless, she felt within her something which resembled hope
and joy, and which mounted towards heaven.
Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed:—
“Is there no servant in Madame Thénardier’s house?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you alone there?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice:—
“That is to say, there are two little girls.”
“What little girls?”
“Ponine and Zelma.”
This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the
female Thénardier.
“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”
“They are Madame Thénardier’s young ladies; her daughters, as you would
say.”
“And what do those girls do?”
“Oh!” said the child, “they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in
them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves.”
“All day long?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you?”
“I? I work.”
“All day long?”
The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not
visible because of the darkness, and replied gently:—
“Yes, sir.”
After an interval of silence she went on:—
“Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse
myself, too.”
“How do you amuse yourself?”
“In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many
playthings. Ponine and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I
have only a little lead sword, no longer than that.”
The child held up her tiny finger.
“And it will not cut?”
“Yes, sir,” said the child; “it cuts salad and the heads of flies.”
They reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the
streets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the
bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply
her with questions, and now preserved a gloomy silence.
When they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all
the open-air booths, asked Cosette:—
“So there is a fair going on here?”
“No, sir; it is Christmas.”
As they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm:—
“Monsieur?”
“What, my child?”
“We are quite near the house.”
“Well?”
“Will you let me take my bucket now?”
“Why?”
“If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me.”
The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern
door.
CHAPTER VIII—THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE’S HOUSE A POOR
MAN WHO MAY BE A RICH MAN
Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big
doll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant’s; then she
knocked. The door opened. The Thénardier appeared with a candle in her
hand.
“Ah! so it’s you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you’ve taken your
time! The hussy has been amusing herself!”
“Madame,” said Cosette, trembling all over, “here’s a gentleman who
wants a lodging.”
The Thénardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace,
a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the
newcomer with her eyes.
“This is the gentleman?” said she.
“Yes, Madame,” replied the man, raising his hand to his hat.
Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection
of the stranger’s costume and baggage, which the Thénardier passed in
review with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the
gruff mien to reappear. She resumed dryly:—
“Enter, my good man.”
The “good man” entered. The Thénardier cast a second glance at him,
paid particular attention to his frock-coat, which was absolutely
threadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and, tossing
her head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted
her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband
replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed
up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular
beggar. Thereupon, the Thénardier exclaimed:—
“Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left.”
“Put me where you like,” said the man; “in the attic, in the stable. I
will pay as though I occupied a room.”
“Forty sous.”
“Forty sous; agreed.”
“Very well, then!”
“Forty sous!” said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thénardier woman;
“why, the charge is only twenty sous!”
“It is forty in his case,” retorted the Thénardier, in the same tone.
“I don’t lodge poor folks for less.”
“That’s true,” added her husband, gently; “it ruins a house to have
such people in it.”
In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench,
had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a
bottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of
water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the
kitchen table, and her knitting.
The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had
poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention.
Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We
have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was
thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be
hardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put
out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual
anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people.
Her hands were, as her mother had divined, “ruined with chilblains.”
The fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all
the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully
apparent. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of
pressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a
rag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired horror
in winter. All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a scrap of
woollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywhere black and
blue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the
Thénardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The
hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child’s whole
person, her mien, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals
which she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance,
her silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole
idea,—fear.
Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak;
fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her
petticoat, made her occupy as little space as possible, allowed her
only the breath that was absolutely necessary, and had become what
might be called the habit of her body, admitting of no possible
variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an
astonished nook where terror lurked.
Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not
dare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her
work again.
The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was
habitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain
moments as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a
demon.
As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had
never set foot in a church. “Have I the time?” said the Thénardier.
The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.
All at once, the Thénardier exclaimed:—
“By the way, where’s that bread?”
Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thénardier uplifted her
voice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table.
She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the
expedient of children who live in a constant state of fear. She lied.
“Madame, the baker’s shop was shut.”
“You should have knocked.”
“I did knock, Madame.”
“Well?”
“He did not open the door.”
“I’ll find out to-morrow whether that is true,” said the Thénardier;
“and if you are telling me a lie, I’ll lead you a pretty dance. In the
meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece.”
Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, and turned
green. The fifteen-sou piece was not there.
“Ah, come now,” said Madame Thénardier, “did you hear me?”
Cosette turned her pocket inside out; there was nothing in it. What
could have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not
find a word to say. She was petrified.
“Have you lost that fifteen-sou piece?” screamed the Thénardier,
hoarsely, “or do you want to rob me of it?”
At the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the
cat-o’-nine-tails which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner.
This formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufficient strength to
shriek:—