Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [159]
“The old fool! what has he got into his head, to come here to disturb us! to want that little monster to play! to give her dolls! to give forty-franc dolls to a slut that I wouldn’t give forty sous for. A little more, and he would say your majesty to her, as they do to the Duchess of Berry! Is he in his senses? he must be crazy, the strange old fellow!”
“Why? It is very simple,” replied Thénardier. “If it amuses him! It amuses you for the girl to work; it amuses him for her to play. He has the right to do it. A traveller can do as he likes, if he pays. If this old fellow is a philanthropist, what is that to you? if he is crazy it don’t concern you. What do you interfere for, as long as he has money?”
Language of a master and reasoning of an innkeeper, which neither in one case nor the other admits of reply.
The man had leaned his elbows on the table, and resumed his attitude of reverie. All the other travellers, pedlars, and waggoners, had drawn back a little, and sung no more. They looked upon him from a distance with a sort of respectful fear.
This solitary man, so poorly clad, who took five-franc coins from his pocket with so much indifference, and who lavished gigantic dolls on little brats in wooden shoes, was certainly a magnificent and formidable “good-fellow.”
Several hours passed away. The midnight mass was said, the revel was finished, the drinkers had gone, the house was closed, the room was deserted, the fire had gone out, the stranger still remained in the same place and in the same posture. From time to time he changed the elbow on which he rested. That was all. But he had not spoken a word since Cosette was gone.
The Thénardiers alone out of propriety and curiosity, had remained in the room.
“Is he going to spend the night like this?” grumbled the Thénardiess. When the clock struck two in the morning, she acknowledged herself beaten, and said to her husband: “I am going to bed, you may do as you like.” The husband sat down at a table in a corner, lighted a candle, and began to read the Courrier Français.
A good hour passed thus. The worthy innkeeper had read the Courrier Français at least three times, from the date of the number to the name of the printer. The stranger did not stir.
Thénardier moved, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked his chair. The man did not stir. “Is he asleep?” thought Thénardier. The man was not asleep, but nothing could arouse him.
Finally, Thénardier took off his cap, approached softly, and ventured to say:—
“Is monsieur not going to repose?”
Not going to bed would have seemed to him too much and too familiar. To repose implied luxury, and there was respect in it. Such words have the mysterious and wonderful property of swelling the bill in the morning. A room in which you go to bed costs twenty sous; a room in which you repose costs twenty francs.
“Yes,” said the stranger, “you are right. Where is your stable?”
“Monsieur,” said Thénardier, with a smile, “I will conduct monsieur.”
He took the candle, the man took his bundle and his staff, and Thénardier led him into a room on the first floor, which was very showy, furnished all in mahogany, with a high-post bedstead and red calico curtains.
“What is this?” said the traveller.
“It is properly our bridal chamber,” said the innkeeper. “We occupy another like this, my spouse and I; this is not open more than three or four times in a year.”
“I should have liked the stable as well,” said the man, bluntly.
Thénardier did not appear to hear this not very civil answer.
He lighted two entirely new wax candles, which were displayed upon the mantel; a good fire was blazing in the fireplace. There was on the mantel, under a glass case, a woman’s head-dress of silver thread and orange-flowers.
“What is this?” said the stranger.
“Monsieur,” said Thénardier, “it is my wife’s bridal cap.”
The traveller looked at the object with a look which seemed to say: “there was a moment, then, when this monster was a virgin.”
Thénardier lied,