Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [152]
“Who is it that has sent you out into the woods after water at this time of night?”
“Madame Thénardier.”
The man resumed with a tone of voice which he tried to render indifferent, but in which there was nevertheless a singular tremor:
“What does she do, your Madame Thénardier?”
“She is my mistress,” said the child. “She keeps the tavern.”
“The tavern,” said the man. “Well, I am going there to lodge to-night. Show me the way.”
“We are going there,” said the child.
The man walked rather fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty. She felt fatigue no more. From time to time, she raised her eyes towards this man with a sort of tranquillity and inexpressible confidence. She had never been taught to turn towards Providence and to pray. However, she felt in her bosom something that resembled hope and joy, and which rose towards heaven.
A few minutes passed. The man spoke:
“Is there no servant at Madame Thénardier’s?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
There was another interval of silence. Cosette raised her voice:
“That is, there are two little girls.”
“What little girls?”
“Ponine and Zelma.”
The child simplified in this way the romantic names dear to the mother.
“What are Ponine and Zelma?”
“They are Madame Thénardier’s young ladies, you might say her daughters.”
“And what do they do?”
“Oh!” said the child, “they have beautiful dolls, things which there’s gold in; all kinds of stuff. They play, they amuse themselves.”
“All day long?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And you?”
“Me! I work.”
“All day long?”
The child raised her large eyes in which there was a tear, which could not be seen in the darkness, and answered softly:
“Yes, monsieur.”
She continued after an interval of silence:
“Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they are willing, I amuse myself also.”
“How do you amuse yourself?” “The best I can. They let me alone. But I have not many playthings. Ponine and Zelma are not willing for me to play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that.”
The child showed her little finger.
“And which does not cut?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said the child, “it cuts lettuce and flies’ heads.”
They reached the village; Cosette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed by the bakery, but Cosette did not think of the bread she was to have brought back. The man questioned her no more, and now maintained a mournful silence. When they had passed the church, the man, seeing all these booths in the street, asked Cosette:
“Is it fair-time here?”
“No, monsieur, it is Christmas.”
As they drew near the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm:
“Monsieur?”
“What, my child?”
“Here we are close by the house.”
“Well?”
“Will you let me take the bucket now?”
“What for?”
“Because, if madame sees that anybody brought it for me, she will beat me.”
The man gave her the bucket. A moment after they were at the door of the tavern.
8
INCONVENIENCE OF ENTERTAINING A POOR MAN WHO IS PERHAPS RICH
COSETTE could not help casting one look towards the grand doll still displayed in the toy-shop, then she rapped. The door opened. The Thénardiess appeared with a candle in her hand.
“Oh! it is you, you little beggar! Lud-a-massy! you have taken your time! she has been playing, the wench!”
“Madame,” said Cosette, trembling, “there is a gentleman who is coming to lodge.”
The Thénardiess very quickly replaced her fierce air by her amiable grimace, a visible change peculiar to innkeepers, and looked for the new-comer with eager eyes.
“Is it monsieur?” said she.
“Yes, madame,” answered the man, touching his hat.
Rich travellers are not so polite. This gesture and the sight of the stranger’s costume and baggage which the Thénardiess passed in review at a glance made the amiable grimace disappear and the fierce air reappear. She added drily:
“Enter, goodman.”
The “goodman” entered. The Thénardiess cast a second glance at him, examined particularly his long coat which was absolutely threadbare, and his hat which was somewhat broken, and with a nod, a wink, and a turn of her