Les Misérables
“Good gracious, yes, sir, it is twenty-three francs.”
The stranger laid five five-franc pieces on the table.
“Go and get the child,” said he.
At that moment Thénardier advanced to the middle of the room, and
said:—
“Monsieur owes twenty-six sous.”
“Twenty-six sous!” exclaimed his wife.
“Twenty sous for the chamber,” resumed Thénardier, coldly, “and six
sous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter a
little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife.”
Madame Thénardier was dazzled as with the shock caused by unexpected
lightning flashes of talent. She was conscious that a great actor was
making his entrance on the stage, uttered not a word in reply, and left
the room.
As soon as they were alone, Thénardier offered the traveller a chair.
The traveller seated himself; Thénardier remained standing, and his
face assumed a singular expression of good-fellowship and simplicity.
“Sir,” said he, “what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that
child.”
The stranger gazed intently at him.
“What child?”
Thénardier continued:—
“How strange it is, one grows attached. What money is that? Take back
your hundred-sou piece. I adore the child.”
“Whom do you mean?” demanded the stranger.
“Eh! our little Cosette! Are you not intending to take her away from
us? Well, I speak frankly; as true as you are an honest man, I will not
consent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a
tiny thing. It is true that she costs us money; it is true that she has
her faults; it is true that we are not rich; it is true that I have
paid out over four hundred francs for drugs for just one of her
illnesses! But one must do something for the good God’s sake. She has
neither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bread enough
for her and for myself. In truth, I think a great deal of that child.
You understand, one conceives an affection for a person; I am a good
sort of a beast, I am; I do not reason; I love that little girl; my
wife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just
the same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the
house.”
The stranger kept his eye intently fixed on Thénardier. The latter
continued:—
“Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one’s child to a passer-by,
like that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don’t say—you are rich; you
have the air of a very good man,—if it were for her happiness. But one
must find out that. You understand: suppose that I were to let her go
and to sacrifice myself, I should like to know what becomes of her; I
should not wish to lose sight of her; I should like to know with whom
she is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time; so that
she may know that her good foster-father is alive, that he is watching
over her. In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not
even know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say: ‘Well,
and the Lark, what has become of her?’ One must, at least, see some
petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know!”
The stranger, still surveying him with that gaze which penetrates, as
the saying goes, to the very depths of the conscience, replied in a
grave, firm voice:—
“Monsieur Thénardier, one does not require a passport to travel five
leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and
that is the end of the matter. You will not know my name, you will not
know my residence, you will not know where she is; and my intention is
that she shall never set eyes on you again so long as she lives. I
break the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit
you? Yes or no?”
Since geniuses, like demons, recognize the presence of a superior God
by certain signs, Thénardier comprehended that he had to deal with a
very strong person. It was like an intuition; he comprehended it with
his clear and sagacious promptitude. While drinking with the carters,
smoking, and singing coarse songs on the preceding evening, he had
devoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger, watching him
like a cat, and studying him like a mathematician. He had watched him,
both on his own account, for the pleasure of the thing, and through
instinct, and had spied upon him as though he had been paid for so
doing. Not a movement, not a gesture, on the part of the man in the
yellow great-coat had escaped him. Even before the stranger had so
clearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Thénardier had divined his
purpose. He had caught the old man’s deep glances returning constantly
to the child. Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideous
costume, when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put
to himself without being able to solve them, and which irritated him.
He had pondered it all night long. He could not be Cosette’s father.
Was he her grandfather? Then why not make himself known at once? When
one has a right, one asserts it. This man evidently had no right over
Cosette. What was it, then? Thénardier lost himself in conjectures. He
caught glimpses of everything, but he saw nothing. Be that as it may,
on entering into conversation with the man, sure that there was some
secret in the case, that the latter had some interest in remaining in
the shadow, he felt himself strong; when he perceived from the
stranger’s clear and firm retort, that this mysterious personage was
mysterious in so simple a way, he became conscious that he was weak. He
had expected nothing of the sort. His conjectures were put to the rout.
He rallied his ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second.
Thénardier was one of those men who take in a situation at a glance. He
decided that the moment had arrived for proceeding straightforward, and
quickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment,
which they know that they alone recognize; he abruptly unmasked his
batteries.
“Sir,” said he, “I am in need of fifteen hundred francs.”
The stranger took from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black
leather, opened it, drew out three bank-bills, which he laid on the
table. Then he placed his large thumb on the notes and said to the
inn-keeper:—
“Go and fetch Cosette.”
While this was taking place, what had Cosette been doing?
On waking up, Cosette had run to get her shoe. In it she had found the
gold piece. It was not a Napoleon; it was one of those perfectly new
twenty-franc pieces of the Restoration, on whose effigy the little
Prussian queue had replaced the laurel wreath. Cosette was dazzled. Her
destiny began to intoxicate her. She did not know what a gold piece
was; she had never seen one; she hid it quickly in her pocket, as
though she had stolen it. Still, she felt that it really was hers; she
guessed whence her gift had come, but the joy which she experienced was
full of fear. She was happy; above all she was stupefied. Such
magnificent and beautiful things did not appear real. The doll
frightened her, the gold piece frightened her. She trembled vaguely in
the presence of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten
her. On the contrary, he reassured her. Ever since the preceding
evening, amid all her amazement, even in her sleep, she had been
thinking in her little childish mind of that man who seemed to be so
poor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything had
changed for her since she had met that good man in the forest. Cosette,
less happy than the most insignificant swallow of heaven, had never
known what it was to take refuge under a mother’s shadow and under a
wing. For the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her
memory ran, the poor child had shivered and trembled. She had always
been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity; now it
seemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold, now
it was warm. Cosette was no longer afraid of the Thénardier. She was no
longer alone; there was some one there.
She hastily set about her regular morning duties. That louis, which she
had about her, in the very apron pocket whence the fifteen-sou piece
had fallen on the night before, distracted her thoughts. She dared not
touch it, but she spent five minutes in gazing at it, with her tongue
hanging out, if the truth must be told. As she swept the staircase, she
paused, remained standing there motionless, forgetful of her broom and
of the entire universe, occupied in gazing at that star which was
blazing at the bottom of her pocket.
It was during one of these periods of contemplation that the Thénardier
joined her. She had gone in search of Cosette at her husband’s orders.
What was quite unprecedented, she neither struck her nor said an
insulting word to her.
“Cosette,” she said, almost gently, “come immediately.”
An instant later Cosette entered the public room.
The stranger took up the bundle which he had brought and untied it.
This bundle contained a little woollen gown, an apron, a fustian
bodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woollen stockings, shoes—a complete
outfit for a girl of seven years. All was black.
“My child,” said the man, “take these, and go and dress yourself
quickly.”
Daylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermeil who
had begun to open their doors beheld a poorly clad old man leading a
little girl dressed in mourning, and carrying a pink doll in her arms,
pass along the road to Paris. They were going in the direction of
Livry.
It was our man and Cosette.
No one knew the man; as Cosette was no longer in rags, many did not
recognize her. Cosette was going away. With whom? She did not know.
Whither? She knew not. All that she understood was that she was leaving
the Thénardier tavern behind her. No one had thought of bidding her
farewell, nor had she thought of taking leave of any one. She was
leaving that hated and hating house.
Poor, gentle creature, whose heart had been repressed up to that hour!
Cosette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open, and gazing
at the sky. She had put her louis in the pocket of her new apron. From
time to time, she bent down and glanced at it; then she looked at the
good man. She felt something as though she were beside the good God.
CHAPTER X—HE WHO SEEKS TO BETTER HIMSELF MAY RENDER HIS SITUATION WORSE
Madame Thénardier had allowed her husband to have his own way, as was
her wont. She had expected great results. When the man and Cosette had
taken their departure, Thénardier allowed a full quarter of an hour to
elapse; then he took her aside and showed her the fifteen hundred
francs.
“Is that all?” said she.
It was the first time since they had set up housekeeping that she had
dared to criticise one of the master’s acts.
The blow told.
“You are right, in sooth,” said he; “I am a fool. Give me my hat.”
He folded up the three bank-bills, thrust them into his pocket, and ran
out in all haste; but he made a mistake and turned to the right first.
Some neighbors, of whom he made inquiries, put him on the track again;
the Lark and the man had been seen going in the direction of Livry. He
followed these hints, walking with great strides, and talking to
himself the while:—
“That man is evidently a million dressed in yellow, and I am an animal.
First he gave twenty sous, then five francs, then fifty francs, then
fifteen hundred francs, all with equal readiness. He would have given
fifteen thousand francs. But I shall overtake him.”
And then, that bundle of clothes prepared beforehand for the child; all
that was singular; many mysteries lay concealed under it. One does not
let mysteries out of one’s hand when one has once grasped them. The
secrets of the wealthy are sponges of gold; one must know how to