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Les MisÚrables - The Unpleasantness of receiving into One's House a Poor Man who may be a Rich Man

1. M. Myriel

2. M. Myriel becomes M. Welcome

3. A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bishop

4. Works corresponding to Words

5. Monseigneur Bienvenu made his Cassocks last too long

6. Who guarded his House for him

7. Cravatte

8. Philosophy after Drinking

9. The Brother as depicted by the Sister

10. The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light

11. A Restriction

12. The Solitude of Monseigneur Welcome

13. What he believed

14. What he thought

15. The Evening of a Day of Walking

16. Prudence counselled to Wisdom

17. The Heroism of Passive Obedience

18. Details concerning the Cheese-Dairies of Pontarlier

19. Tranquillity

20. Jean Valjean

21. The Interior of Despair

22. Billows and Shadows

23. New Troubles

24. The Man aroused

25. What he does

26. The Bishop works

27. Little Gervais

28. The Year 1817

29. A Double Quartette

30. Four and Four

31. Tholomyes is so Merry that he sings a Spanish Ditty

32. At Bombardas

33. A Chapter in which they adore Each Other

34. The Wisdom of Tholomyes

35. The Death of a Horse

36. A Merry End to Mirth

37. One Mother meets Another Mother

38. First Sketch of Two Unprepossessing Figures

39. The Lark

40. The History of a Progress in Black Glass Trinkets

41. Madeleine

42. Sums deposited with Laffitte

43. M. Madeleine in Mourning

44. Vague Flashes on the Horizon

45. Father Fauchelevent

46. Fauchelevent becomes a Gardener in Paris

47. Madame Victurnien expends Thirty Francs on Morality

48. Madame Victurnien's Success

49. Result of the Success

50. Christus nos Liberavit

51. M. Bamatabois's Inactivity

52. The Solution of Some Questions connected with the Municipal Police

53. The Beginning of Repose

54. How Jean may become Champ

55. Sister Simplice

56. The Perspicacity of Master Scaufflaire

57. A Tempest in a Skull

58. Forms assumed by Suffering during Sleep

59. Hindrances

60. Sister Simplice put to the Proof

61. The Traveller on his Arrival takes Precautions for Departure

62. An Entrance by Favor

63. A Place where Convictions are in Process of Formation

64. The System of Denials

65. Champmathieu more and more Astonished

66. In what Mirror M. Madeleine contemplates his Hair

67. Fantine Happy

68. Javert Satisfied

69. Authority reasserts its Rights

70. A Suitable Tomb

71. What is met with on the Way from Nivelles

72. Hougomont

73. The Eighteenth of June, 1815

74. A

75. The Quid Obscurum of Battles

76. Four o'clock in the Afternoon

77. Napoleon in a Good Humor

78. The Emperor puts a Question to the Guide Lacoste

79. The Unexpected

80. The Plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean

81. A Bad Guide to Napoleon; a Good Guide to Bulow

82. The Guard

83. The Catastrophe

84. The Last Square

85. Cambronne

86. Quot Libras in Duce?

87. Is Waterloo to be considered Good?

88. A Recrudescence of Divine Right

89. The Battle-Field at Night

90. Number 24,601 becomes Number 9,430

91. In which the reader will peruse Two Verses which are of the Devil's Composition possibly

92. The Ankle-Chain must have undergone a Certain Preparatory Manipulation to be thus broken with a Blow from a Hammer

93. The Water Question at Montfermeil

94. Two Complete Portraits

95. Men must have Wine, and Horses must have Water

96. Entrance on the Scene of a Doll

97. The Little One All Alone

98. Which possibly proves Boulatruelle's Intelligence

99. Cosette Side by Side with the Stranger in the Dark

100. The Unpleasantness of receiving into One's House a Poor Man who may be a Rich Man

101. Thenardier at his Manoeuvres

102. He who seeks to better himself may render his Situation Worse

103. Number 9,430 reappears, and Cosette wins it in the Lottery

104. Master Gorbeau

105. A Nest for Owl and a Warbler

106. Two Misfortunes Make One Piece of Good Fortune

107. The Remarks of the Principal Tenant

108. A Five-Franc Piece Falls on the Ground and Produces a Tumult

109. The Zigzags of Strategy

110. It Is Lucky That the Pont D'Austerlitz Bears Carriages

111. To Wit, the Plan of Paris in 1727

112. The Gropings of Flight

113. Which Would be Impossible With Gas Lanterns

114. The Beginning of an Enigma

115. Continuation of the Enigma

116. The Enigma Becomes Doubly Mysterious

117. The Man with the Bell

118. Which Explains How Javert Got on the Scent

119. Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus

120. The Obedience of Martin Verga

121. Austerities

122. Gayeties

123. Distractions

124. The Little Convent

125. Some Silhouettes of this Darkness

126. Post Corda Lapides

127. A Century under a Guimpe

128. Origin of the Perpetual Adoration

129. End of the Petit-Picpus

130. The Convent as an Abstract Idea

131. The Convent as an Historical Fact

132. On What Conditions One can respect the Past

133. The Convent from the Point of View of Principles

134. Prayer

135. The Absolute Goodness of Prayer

136. Precautions to be observed in Blame

137. Faith, Law

138. Which treats of the Manner of entering a Convent

139. Fauchelevent in the Presence of a Difficulty

140. Mother Innocente

141. In which Jean Valjean has quite the Air of having read Austin Castillejo

142. It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal

143. Between Four Planks

144. In which will be found the Origin of the Saying: Don't lose the Card

145. A Successful Interrogatory

146. Cloistered







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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace,
a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought
the new-comer 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier woman;
"why, the charge is only twenty sous!"

"It is forty in his case," retorted the Thenardier, 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier.

The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.

All at once, the Thenardier exclaimed:--

"By the way, where's that bread?"

Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thenardier 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 Thenardier;
"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 Thenardier, "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 Thenardier,
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:--

"Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more!"

The Thenardier took down the whip.

In the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the
fob of his waistcoat, without any one having noticed his movements.
Besides, the other travellers were drinking or playing cards,
and were not paying attention to anything.

Cosette contracted herself into a ball, with anguish, within the
angle of the chimney, endeavoring to gather up and conceal
her poor half-nude limbs. The Thenardier raised her arm.

"Pardon me, Madame," said the man, "but just now I caught sight
of something which had fallen from this little one's apron pocket,
and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it."

At the same time he bent down and seemed to be searching
on the floor for a moment.

"Exactly; here it is," he went on, straightening himself up.

And he held out a silver coin to the Thenardier.

"Yes, that's it," said she.

It was not it, for it was a twenty-sou piece; but the Thenardier
found it to her advantage. She put the coin in her pocket,
and confined herself to casting a fierce glance at the child,
accompanied with the remark, "Don't let this ever happen again!"

Cosette returned to what the Thenardier called "her kennel,"
and her large eyes, which were riveted on the traveller,
began to take on an expression such as they had never worn before.
Thus far it was only an innocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied
confidence was mingled with it.

"By the way, would you like some supper?" the Thenardier inquired
of the traveller.

He made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought.

"What sort of a man is that?" she muttered between her teeth.
"He's some frightfully poor wretch. He hasn't a sou to pay for
a supper. Will he even pay me for his lodging? It's very lucky,
all the same, that it did not occur to him to steal the money that
was on the floor."

In the meantime, a door had opened, and Eponine and Azelma entered.

They were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than
peasant in looks, and very charming; the one with shining chestnut
tresses, the other with long black braids hanging down her back,
both vivacious, neat, plump, rosy, and healthy, and a delight
to the eye. They were warmly clad, but with so much maternal art
that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract from the coquetry
of arrangement. There was a hint of winter, though the springtime
was not wholly effaced. Light emanated from these two little beings.
Besides this, they were on the throne. In their toilettes,
in their gayety, in the noise which they made, there was sovereignty.
When they entered, the Thenardier said to them in a grumbling
tone which was full of adoration, "Ah! there you are, you children!"

Then drawing them, one after the other to her knees, smoothing
their hair, tying their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them
with that gentle manner of shaking off which is peculiar to mothers,
she exclaimed, "What frights they are!"

They went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had
a doll, which they turned over and over on their knees with all
sorts of joyous chatter. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes
from her knitting, and watched their play with a melancholy air.

Eponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same
as a dog to them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up
four and twenty years between them, but they already represented
the whole society of man; envy on the one side, disdain on the other.

The doll of the Thenardier sisters was very much faded, very old,
and much broken; but it seemed none the less admirable to Cosette,
who had never had a doll in her life, a real doll, to make use
of the expression which all children will understand.

All at once, the Thenardier, who had been going back and forth
in the room, perceived that Cosette's mind was distracted, and that,
instead of working, she was paying attention to the little ones
at their play.

"Ah! I've caught you at it!" she cried. "So that's the way you work!
I'll make you work to the tune of the whip; that I will."

The stranger turned to the Thenardier, without quitting his chair.

"Bah, Madame," he said, with an almost timid air, "let her play!"

Such a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of
mutton and had drunk a couple of bottles of wine with his supper,
and who had not the air of being frightfully poor, would have been
equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should
permit himself such a desire, and that a man with such a coat
should permit himself to have a will, was something which Madame
Thenardier did not intend to tolerate. She retorted with acrimony:--

"She must work, since she eats. I don't feed her to do nothing."

"What is she making?" went on the stranger, in a gentle voice
which contrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his
porter's shoulders.

The Thenardier deigned to reply:--

"Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls,
who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now."

The man looked at Cosette's poor little red feet, and continued:--

"When will she have finished this pair of stockings?"

"She has at least three or four good days' work on them still,
the lazy creature!"

"And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has
finished them?"

The Thenardier cast a glance of disdain on him.

"Thirty sous at least."

"Will you sell them for five francs?" went on the man.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed a carter who was listening, with a loud laugh;
"five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls!"

Thenardier thought it time to strike in.

"Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair
of stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers."

"You must pay on the spot," said the Thenardier, in her curt
and peremptory fashion.

"I will buy that pair of stockings," replied the man, "and," he added,
drawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying it on the table,
"I will pay for them."

Then he turned to Cosette.

"Now I own your work; play, my child."

The carter was so much touched by the five-franc piece, that he
abandoned his glass and hastened up.

"But it's true!" he cried, examining it. "A real hind wheel!
and not counterfeit!"

Thenardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket.

The Thenardier had no reply to make. She bit her lips, and her
face assumed an expression of hatred.

In the meantime, Cosette was trembling. She ventured to ask:--

"Is it true, Madame? May I play?"

"Play!" said the Thenardier, in a terrible voice.

"Thanks, Madame," said Cosette.

And while her mouth thanked the Thenardier, her whole little soul
thanked the traveller.

Thenardier had resumed his drinking; his wife whispered in his ear:--

"Who can this yellow man be?"

"I have seen millionaires with coats like that," replied Thenardier,
in a sovereign manner.

Cosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat.
Cosette always moved as little as possible. She picked up some old
rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her.

Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on.
They had just executed a very important operation; they had just
got hold of the cat. They had thrown their doll on the ground,
and Eponine, who was the elder, was swathing the little cat, in spite
of its mewing and its contortions, in a quantity of clothes and red
and blue scraps. While performing this serious and difficult work
she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language
of children, whose grace, like the splendor of the butterfly's wing,
vanishes when one essays to fix it fast.

"You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other.
She twists, she cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her.
She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to
see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually, you will perceive
her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will see
her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you.
And you will say to me, `Ah! Mon Dieu!' and I will say to you:
`Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that
just at present.'"

Azelma listened admiringly to Eponine.

In the meantime, the drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song,
and to laugh at it until the ceiling shook. Thenardier accompanied
and encouraged them.

As birds make nests out of everything, so children make a doll
out of anything which comes to hand. While Eponine and Azelma were
bundling up the cat, Cosette, on her side, had dressed up her sword.
That done, she laid it in her arms, and sang to it softly, to lull
it to sleep.

The doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the same time,
one of the most charming instincts of feminine childhood.
To care for, to clothe, to deck, to dress, to undress, to redress,
to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandle, to lull to sleep,
to imagine that something is some one,--therein lies the whole
woman's future. While dreaming and chattering, making tiny outfits,
and baby clothes, while sewing little gowns, and corsages and bodices,
the child grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl,
the big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of the
last doll.

A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite
as impossible, as a woman without children.

So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword.

Madame Thenardier approached the yellow man; "My husband is right,"
she thought; "perhaps it is M. Laffitte; there are such queer
rich men!"

She came and set her elbows on the table.

"Monsieur," said she. At this word, Monsieur, the man turned;
up to that time, the Thenardier had addressed him only as brave homme
or bonhomme.

"You see, sir," she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that was
even more repulsive to behold than her fierce mien, "I am willing
that the child should play; I do not oppose it, but it is good
for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing;
she must needs work."

"Then this child is not yours?" demanded the man.

"Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken
in through charity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water
on the brain; she has a large head, as you see. We do what we
can for her, for we are not rich; we have written in vain to her
native place, and have received no reply these six months.
It must be that her mother is dead."

"Ah!" said the man, and fell into his revery once more.

"Her mother didn't amount to much," added the Thenardier;
"she abandoned her child."

During the whole of this conversation Cosette, as though warned
by some instinct that she was under discussion, had not taken her
eyes from the Thenardier's face; she listened vaguely; she caught
a few words here and there.

Meanwhile, the drinkers, all three-quarters intoxicated, were repeating
their unclean refrain with redoubled gayety; it was a highly
spiced and wanton song, in which the Virgin and the infant Jesus
were introduced. The Thenardier went off to take part in the shouts
of laughter. Cosette, from her post under the table, gazed at the fire,
which was reflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to rock
the sort of baby which she had made, and, as she rocked it, she sang
in a low voice, "My mother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead!"

On being urged afresh by the hostess, the yellow man, "the millionaire,"
consented at last to take supper.

"What does Monsieur wish?"

"Bread and cheese," said the man.

"Decidedly, he is a beggar" thought Madame Thenardier.

The drunken men were still singing their song, and the child under
the table was singing hers.

All at once, Cosette paused; she had just turned round and caught
sight of the little Thenardiers' doll, which they had abandoned for
the cat and had left on the floor a few paces from the kitchen table.

Then she dropped the swaddled sword, which only half met her needs,
and cast her eyes slowly round the room. Madame Thenardier
was whispering to her husband and counting over some money;
Ponine and Zelma were playing with the cat; the travellers were
eating or drinking or singing; not a glance was fixed on her.
She had not a moment to lose; she crept out from under the table on
her hands and knees, made sure once more that no one was watching her;
then she slipped quickly up to the doll and seized it. An instant
later she was in her place again, seated motionless, and only turned
so as to cast a shadow on the doll which she held in her arms.
The happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that it
contained all the violence of voluptuousness.

No one had seen her, except the traveller, who was slowly devouring
his meagre supper.

This joy lasted about a quarter of an hour.

But with all the precautions that Cosette had taken she did not
perceive that one of the doll's legs stuck out and that the fire on
the hearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot,
projecting from the shadow, suddenly struck the eye of Azelma,
who said to Eponine, "Look! sister."

The two little girls paused in stupefaction; Cosette had dared
to take their doll!

Eponine rose, and, without releasing the cat, she ran to her mother,
and began to tug at her skirt.

"Let me alone!" said her mother; "what do you want?"

"Mother," said the child, "look there!"

And she pointed to Cosette.

Cosette, absorbed in the ecstasies of possession, no longer saw
or heard anything.

Madame Thenardier's countenance assumed that peculiar expression
which is composed of the terrible mingled with the trifles of life,
and which has caused this style of woman to be named megaeras.

On this occasion, wounded pride exasperated her wrath still further.
Cosette had overstepped all bounds; Cosette had laid violent hands
on the doll belonging to "these young ladies." A czarina who should
see a muzhik trying on her imperial son's blue ribbon would wear
no other face.

She shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation:--

"Cosette!"

Cosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her;
she turned round.

"Cosette!" repeated the Thenardier.

Cosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a
sort of veneration, mingled with despair; then, without taking
her eyes from it, she clasped her hands, and, what is terrible
to relate of a child of that age, she wrung them; then--not one
of the emotions of the day, neither the trip to the forest,
nor the weight of the bucket of water, nor the loss of the money,
nor the sight of the whip, nor even the sad words which she had
heard Madame Thenardier utter had been able to wring this from her--
she wept; she burst out sobbing.

Meanwhile, the traveller had risen to his feet.

"What is the matter?" he said to the Thenardier.

"Don't you see?" said the Thenardier, pointing to the corpus delicti
which lay at Cosette's feet.

"Well, what of it?" resumed the man.

"That beggar," replied the Thenardier, "has permitted herself
to touch the children's doll!"

"All this noise for that!" said the man; "well, what if she did
play with that doll?"

"She touched it with her dirty hands!" pursued the Thenardier,
"with her frightful hands!"

Here Cosette redoubled her sobs.

"Will you stop your noise?" screamed the Thenardier.

The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and stepped out.

As soon as he had gone, the Thenardier profited by his absence
to give Cosette a hearty kick under the table, which made the child
utter loud cries.

The door opened again, the man re-appeared; he carried in both
hands the fabulous doll which we have mentioned, and which all
the village brats had been staring at ever since the morning,
and he set it upright in front of Cosette, saying:--

"Here; this is for you."

It must be supposed that in the course of the hour and more which he
had spent there he had taken confused notice through his revery of that
toy shop, lighted up by fire-pots and candles so splendidly that it
was visible like an illumination through the window of the drinking-shop.

Cosette raised her eyes; she gazed at the man approaching her
with that doll as she might have gazed at the sun; she heard
the unprecedented words, "It is for you"; she stared at him;
she stared at the doll; then she slowly retreated, and hid herself
at the extreme end, under the table in a corner of the wall.

She no longer cried; she no longer wept; she had the appearance
of no longer daring to breathe.

The Thenardier, Eponine, and Azelma were like statues also;
the very drinkers had paused; a solemn silence reigned through
the whole room.

Madame Thenardier, petrified and mute, recommenced her conjectures:
"Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire?
Perhaps he is both; that is to say, a thief."

The face of the male Thenardier presented that expressive fold
which accentuates the human countenance whenever the dominant
instinct appears there in all its bestial force. The tavern-keeper
stared alternately at the doll and at the traveller; he seemed to be
scenting out the man, as he would have scented out a bag of money.
This did not last longer than the space of a flash of lightning.
He stepped up to his wife and said to her in a low voice:--

"That machine costs at least thirty francs. No nonsense.
Down on your belly before that man!"

Gross natures have this in common with naive natures, that they
possess no transition state.

"Well, Cosette," said the Thenardier, in a voice that strove to be sweet,
and which was composed of the bitter honey of malicious women,
"aren't you going to take your doll?"

Cosette ventured to emerge from her hole.

"The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette,"
said Thenardier, with a caressing air. "Take it; it is yours."

Cosette gazed at the marvellous doll in a sort of terror.
Her face was still flooded with tears, but her eyes began to fill,
like the sky at daybreak, with strange beams of joy. What she felt
at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if she
had been abruptly told, "Little one, you are the Queen of France."

It seemed to her that if she touched that doll, lightning would
dart from it.

This was true, up to a certain point, for she said to herself
that the Thenardier would scold and beat her.

Nevertheless, the attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing
near and murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame Thenardier:--

"May I, Madame?"

No words can render that air, at once despairing, terrified, and ecstatic.

"Pardi!" cried the Thenardier, "it is yours. The gentleman has
given it to you."

"Truly, sir?" said Cosette. "Is it true? Is the `lady' mine?"

The stranger's eyes seemed to be full of tears. He appeared
to have reached that point of emotion where a man does not speak
for fear lest he should weep. He nodded to Cosette, and placed
the "lady's" hand in her tiny hand.

Cosette hastily withdrew her hand, as though that of the "lady"
scorched her, and began to stare at the floor. We are forced
to add that at that moment she stuck out her tongue immoderately.
All at once she wheeled round and seized the doll in a transport.

"I shall call her Catherine," she said.

It was an odd moment when Cosette's rags met and clasped the ribbons
and fresh pink muslins of the doll.

"Madame," she resumed, "may I put her on a chair?"

"Yes, my child," replied the Thenardier.

It was now the turn of Eponine and Azelma to gaze at Cosette with envy.

Cosette placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor
in front of her, and remained motionless, without uttering a word,
in an attitude of contemplation.

"Play, Cosette," said the stranger.

"Oh! I am playing," returned the child.

This stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a
visit which Providence was making on Cosette, was the person
whom the Thenardier hated worse than any one in the world at
that moment. However, it was necessary to control herself.
Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavoring to copy
her husband in all his actions, these emotions were more than
she could endure. She made haste to send her daughters to bed,
then she asked the man's permission to send Cosette off also;
"for she has worked hard all day," she added with a maternal air.
Cosette went off to bed, carrying Catherine in her arms.

From time to time the Thenardier went to the other end of the
room where her husband was, to relieve her soul, as she said.
She exchanged with her husband words which were all the more furious
because she dared not utter them aloud.

"Old beast! What has he got in his belly, to come and upset us
in this manner! To want that little monster to play! to give away
forty-franc dolls to a jade that I would sell for forty sous,
so I would! A little more and he will be saying Your Majesty to her,
as though to the Duchess de Berry! Is there any sense in it?
Is he mad, then, that mysterious old fellow?"

"Why! it is perfectly simple," replied Thenardier, "if that amuses him!
It amuses you to have the little one work; it amuses him to have
her play. He's all right. A traveller can do what he pleases
when he pays for it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist,
what is that to you? If he is an imbecile, it does not concern you.
What are you worrying for, so long as he has money?"

The language of a master, and the reasoning of an innkeeper,
neither of which admitted of any reply.

The man had placed his elbows on the table, and resumed his
thoughtful attitude. All the other travellers, both pedlers
and carters, had withdrawn a little, and had ceased singing.
They were staring at him from a distance, with a sort of respectful awe.
This poorly dressed man, who drew "hind-wheels" from his pocket with
so much ease, and who lavished gigantic dolls on dirty little brats
in wooden shoes, was certainly a magnificent fellow, and one to be feared.

Many hours passed. The midnight mass was over, the chimes had ceased,
the drinkers had taken their departure, the drinking-shop was closed,
the public room was deserted, the fire extinct, the stranger still
remained in the same place and the same attitude. From time
to time he changed the elbow on which he leaned. That was all;
but he had not said a word since Cosette had left the room.

The Thenardiers alone, out of politeness and curiosity, had remained
in the room.

"Is he going to pass the night in that fashion?" grumbled the Thenardier.
When two o'clock in the morning struck, she declared herself vanquished,
and said to her husband, "I'm going to bed. Do as you like."
Her husband seated himself at a table in the corner, lighted a candle,
and began to read the Courrier Francais.

A good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the
Courrier Francais at least three times, from the date of the number
to the printer's name. The stranger did not stir.

Thenardier fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked
his chair. Not a movement on the man's part. "Is he asleep?"
thought Thenardier. The man was not asleep, but nothing could
arouse him.

At last Thenardier took off his cap, stepped gently up to him,
and ventured to say:--

"Is not Monsieur going to his repose?"

Not going to bed would have seemed to him excessive and familiar.
To repose smacked of luxury and respect. These words possess
the mysterious and admirable property of swelling the bill on
the following day. A chamber where one sleeps costs twenty sous;
a chamber in which one reposes costs twenty francs.

"Well!" said the stranger, "you are right. Where is your stable?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Thenardier, with a smile, "I will conduct you, sir."

He took the candle; the man picked up his bundle and cudgel,
and Thenardier conducted him to a chamber on the first floor,
which was of rare splendor, all furnished in mahogany, with a
low bedstead, curtained with red calico.

"What is this?" said the traveller.

"It is really our bridal chamber," said the tavern-keeper. "My wife
and I occupy another. This is only entered three or four times
a year."

"I should have liked the stable quite as well," said the man, abruptly.

Thenardier pretended not to hear this unamiable remark.

He lighted two perfectly fresh wax candles which figured on
the chimney-piece. A very good fire was flickering on the hearth.

On the chimney-piece, under a glass globe, stood a woman's head-dress
in silver wire and orange flowers.

"And what is this?" resumed the stranger.

"That, sir," said Thenardier, "is my wife's wedding bonnet."

The traveller surveyed the object with a glance which seemed to say,
"There really was a time, then, when that monster was a maiden?"

Thenardier lied, however. When he had leased this paltry building
for the purpose of converting it into a tavern, he had found
this chamber decorated in just this manner, and had purchased
the furniture and obtained the orange flowers at second hand,
with the idea that this would cast a graceful shadow on "his spouse,"
and would result in what the English call respectability for his house.

When the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared.
Thenardier had withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish him
a good night, as he did not wish to treat with disrespectful cordiality
a man whom he proposed to fleece royally the following morning.

The inn-keeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she
was not asleep. When she heard her husband's step she turned
over and said to him:--

"Do you know, I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow."

Thenardier replied coldly:--

"How you do go on!"

They exchanged no further words, and a few moments later their
candle was extinguished.

As for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle
in a corner. The landlord once gone, he threw himself into
an arm-chair and remained for some time buried in thought.
Then he removed his shoes, took one of the two candles,
blew out the other, opened the door, and quitted the room,
gazing about him like a person who is in search of something.
He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he heard
a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child.
He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built
under the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself.
This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps.
There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds,
among dust and spiders' webs, was a bed--if one can call by the name
of bed a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw,
and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheets.
This was placed on the floor.

In this bed Cosette was sleeping.

The man approached and gazed down upon her.

Cosette was in a profound sleep; she was fully dressed. In the
winter she did not undress, in order that she might not be so cold.

Against her breast was pressed the doll, whose large eyes, wide open,
glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep
sigh as though she were on the point of waking, and she strained
the doll almost convulsively in her arms. Beside her bed there
was only one of her wooden shoes.

A door which stood open near Cosette's pallet permitted a view
of a rather large, dark room. The stranger stepped into it.
At the further extremity, through a glass door, he saw two small,
very white beds. They belonged to Eponine and Azelma.
Behind these beds, and half hidden, stood an uncurtained wicker cradle,
in which the little boy who had cried all the evening lay asleep.

The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of
the Thenardier pair. He was on the point of retreating when his
eye fell upon the fireplace--one of those vast tavern chimneys
where there is always so little fire when there is any fire at all,
and which are so cold to look at. There was no fire in this one,
there was not even ashes; but there was something which attracted
the stranger's gaze, nevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes,
coquettish in shape and unequal in size. The traveller recalled
the graceful and immemorial custom in accordance with which children
place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas eve, there to await
in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy.
Eponine and Azelma had taken care not to omit this, and each of them
had set one of her shoes on the hearth.

The traveller bent over them.

The fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit,
and in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou piece.

The man straightened himself up, and was on the point of withdrawing,
when far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight
of another object. He looked at it, and recognized a wooden shoe,
a frightful shoe of the coarsest description, half dilapidated
and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette's sabot.
Cosette, with that touching trust of childhood, which can always
be deceived yet never discouraged, had placed her shoe on the
hearth-stone also.

Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet
and touching thing.

There was nothing in this wooden shoe.

The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat, bent over and placed a louis
d'or in Cosette's shoe.

Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf.




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