Les miserables (Abridged) - Victor Hugo [260]
“You are right,” answered the father, in a mild tone which contrasted with the rudeness of the young girl, “but they would not let you go into the churches; the poor must have shoes. People do not go to God’s house barefooted,” added he bitterly. Then returning to the subject which occupied his thoughts—
“And you are sure then, sure that he is coming?”
“He is at my heels,” said she.
The man sprang up. There was a sort of illumination on his face.
“Wife!” cried he, “you hear. Here is the philanthropist. Put out the fire.”
The astounded woman did not stir.
The father, with the agility of a mountebank, caught a broken pot which stood on the mantel, and threw some water upon the embers.
Then turning to his elder daughter:
“You! unbottom the chair!”
His daughter did not understand him at all.
He seized the chair, and with a kick he ruined the seat. His leg went through it.
As he drew out his leg, he asked his daughter:
“Is it cold?”
“Very cold. It’s snowing.”
The father turned towards the younger girl, who was on the pallet near the window, and cried in a thundering voice:
“Quick! off the bed, good-for-nothing! will you never do anything? break a pane of glass!”
The little girl sprang off the bed trembling.
“Break a pane of glass!” said he again.
The child was speechless.
“Do you hear me?” repeated the father, “I tell you to break a pane!”
The child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose upon tiptoe and struck her fist into a pane. The glass broke and fell with a crash.
“Good,” said the father.
He was serious, yet rapid. His eye ran hastily over all the nooks and corners of the garret.
You would have said he was a general, making his final preparations at the moment when the battle was about to begin.
The mother, who had not yet said a word, got up and asked in a slow, muffled tone, her words seeming to come out as if curdled:
“Dear, what is it you want to do?”
“Get into bed,” answered the man.
His tone admitted of no deliberation. The mother obeyed, and threw herself heavily upon one of the pallets.
Meanwhile a sob was heard in a corner.
“What is that?” cried the father.
The younger daughter, without coming out of the darkness into which she had shrunk, showed her bleeding fist. In breaking the glass she had cut herself; she had gone to her mother’s bed, and she was weeping in silence.
It was the mother’s turn to rise and cry out.
“You see now! what stupid things you are doing? breaking your glass, she has cut herself!”
“So much the better!” said the man. “I knew she would.”
“How! so much the better?” resumed the woman.
“Silence!” replied the father. “I suppress the liberty of the press.”
Then tearing the chemise which he had on, he made a bandage with which he hastily wrapped up the little girl’s bleeding wrist.
That done, his eye fell upon the torn chemise with satisfaction.
“And the chemise too,” said he, “all this looks convincing.”
An icy wind whistled at the window and came into the room. The mist from without entered and spread about like a whitish wadding picked apart by invisible fingers. Through the broken pane the falling snow was seen. The cold promised the day before by the Candlemas sun had come indeed.
The father cast a glance about him as if to assure himself that he had forgotten nothing. He took an old shovel and spread ashes over the moistened embers in such a way as to hide them completely.
Then rising and standing with his back to the chimney:
“Now,” said he, “we can receive the philanthropist.”
7 (8)
THE SUNBEAM IN THE HOLE
THE LARGE GIRL went to her father and laid her hand on his.
“Feel how cold I am,” said she.
“Pshaw!” answered the father. “I am a good deal colder than that.”
The mother cried impetuously:
“You always have everything better than the rest, even pain.”
“Down!” said the man.
The mother, after a peculiar look from the man, held her peace.
There was a moment of silence in the den. The eldest daughter was scraping the mud off the bottom of her dress with a