Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [162]
The man replied in a voice which he endeavoured to render indifferent, and in which there was a slight tremulousness.
“Suppose you were relieved of her?”
“Who? Cosette?”
“Yes.”
The red and violent face of the woman became illumined with a hideous expression.
“Ah, monsieur! my good monsieur! take her, keep her, take her away, carry her off, sugar her, stuff her, drink her, eat her, and be blessed by the holy Virgin and all the saints in Paradise!”
“Agreed.”
“Really! you will take her away?”
“I will.”
“Immediately?”
“Immediately. Call the child.”
“Cosette!” cried the Thénardiess.
“In the meantime,” continued the man, “I will pay my bill. How much is it?”
He cast a glance at the bill, and could not repress a movement of surprise.
“Twenty-three francs?”
He looked at the hostess and repeated:
“Twenty-three francs?”
There was, in the pronunciation of these two sentences, thus repeated, the accent which lies between the point of exclamation and the point of interrogation.
The Thénardiess had had time to prepare herself for the shock. She replied with assurance:
“Yes, of course, monsieur! it is twenty-three francs.”
The stranger placed five five-franc coins upon the table.
“Go for the little girl,” said he.
At this moment Thénardier advanced into the middle of the room and said:
“Monsieur owes twenty-six sous.”2
“Twenty-six sous!” exclaimed the woman.
“Twenty sous for the room,” continued Thénardier coldly, “and six for supper. As to the little girl. I must have some talk with monsieur about that. Leave us, wife.”
The Thénardiess was dazzled by one of those unexpected flashes which emanate from talent. She felt that the great actor had entered upon the scene, answered not a word, and went out.
As soon as they were alone, Thénardier offered the traveller a chair. The traveller sat down, but Thénardier remained standing and his face assumed a singular expression of good-nature and simplicity.
“Monsieur,” said he, “listen, I must say that I adore this child.”
The stranger looked at him steadily.
“What child?”
Thénardier continued:
“How strangely we become attached! What is all this silver? Take back your money. This child I adore.”
“Who is that?” asked the stranger.
“Oh, our little Cosette! And you wish to take her away from us? Indeed, I speak frankly, as true as you are an honourable man, I cannot consent to it. I should miss her. I have had her since she was very small. It is true, she costs us money; it is true she has her faults, it is true we are not rich, it is true I paid four hundred francs for medicines at one time when she was sick. But we must do something for God. She has neither father nor mother; I have brought her up. I have bread enough for her and for myself. In fact, I must keep this child. You understand, we have affections; I am a good beast; myself, I do not reason; I love this little girl; my wife is impulsive, but she loves her also. You see, she is like our own child. I feel the need of her prattle in the house.”
The stranger was looking steadily at him all the while. He continued:
“Pardon me, excuse me, monsieur, but one does not give his child like that to a traveller. Isn’t it true that I am right? After that, I don’t say—you are rich and have the appearance of a very fine man—if it is for her advantage, —but I must know about it. You understand? On the supposition that I should let her go and sacrifice my own feelings, I should want to know where she is going. I would not want to lose sight of her, I should want to know who she was with, that I might come and see her now and then, and that she might know that her good foster-father was still watching over her. Finally, there are things which are not possible. I do not know even your name. If you should take her away,