At a quarter past four, that is to say, after dark, he passed in front of the theatre of the Porte Saint Martin where the play that day was The Two Convicts. The poster, lit up by the reflection from the theatre, seemed to strike him, for, although he was walking rapidly, he stopped to read it. A moment after, he was in the
cul-de-sac
de la Planchette, and entered the Pewter platter, which was then the office of the Lagny stage. This stage started at half past four. The horses were harnessed, and the travellers, who had been called by the driver hastily, were climbing the high iron steps of the vehicle.
The man asked:
“Have you a seat?”
“Only one, beside me, on the box,” said the driver.
“I will take it.”
“Get up then.”
Before starting, however, the driver cast a glance at the poor apparel of the traveller, and at the smallness of his bundle, and took his pay.
“Are you going through to Lagny?” asked the driver.
“Yes,” said the man.
The traveller paid through to Lagny.
They started off. When they had passed the barrière, the driver tried to start a conversation, but the traveller answered only in monosyllables. The driver concluded to whistle, and swear at his horses.
The driver wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did not appear to notice it. In this way they passed through Gournay and Neuilly sur Marne. About six o‘clock in the evening they were at Chelles. The driver stopped to let his horses blow, in front of the waggoners’ tavern established in the old buildings of the royal abbey.
“I will get down here,” said the man.
He took his bundle and stick, and jumped down from the stage.
A moment afterwards he had disappeared.
He did not go into the tavern.
When, a few minutes afterwards, the stage started off for Lagny, it did not overtake him in the main street of Chelles.
The man had not sunk into the ground, but he had hurried rapidly in the darkness along the main street of Chelles; then he had turned to the left, before reaching the church, into the cross road leading to Montfermeil, like one who knew the country and had been that way before.
He followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it intersects the old road bordered with trees that goes from Gagny to Lagny, he heard footsteps approaching. He concealed himself hastily in a ditch, and waited there till the people who were passing were a good distance off. The precaution was indeed almost superfluous, for, as we have already said, it was a very dark December night. There were scarcely two or three stars to be seen in the sky.
It is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not return to the Montfermeil road; he turned to the right, across the fields, and gained the woods with rapid strides.
When he reached the wood, he slackened his pace, and began to look carefully at all the trees, pausing at every step, as if he were seeking and following a mysterious route known only to himself. There was a moment when he appeared to lose himself, and then he stopped, undecided. Finally he arrived, by continual groping, at a glade where there was a heap of large whitish stones. He made his way quickly towards these stones, and examined them with attention in the dusk of the night, as if he were passing them in review. A large tree, covered with these excrescences which are the warts of vegetation, was a few steps from the heap of stones. He went to this tree, and passed his hand over the bark of the trunk, as if he were seeking to recognise and to count all the warts.
Opposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut tree wounded in the bark, which had been staunched with a bandage of zinc nailed on. He rose on tip-toe and touched that band of zinc.
Then he stamped for some time upon the ground in the space between the tree and the stones, like one who would be sure that the earth had not been freshly stirred.
This done, he took his course and resumed his walk through the woods.
This was the man who had fallen in with Cosette.
As he made his way through the copse in the direction of Montfermeil, he had perceived that little shadow, struggling along with a groan, setting her burden on the ground, then taking it up and going on again. He had approached her and seen that it was a very young child carrying an enormous bucket of water. Then he had gone to the child, and silently taken hold of the handle of the bucket.
7
COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE UNKNOWN, IN THE DARKNESS
COSETTE, we have said, was not afraid.
The man spoke to her. His voice was serious, and was almost a whisper.
“My child, what you are carrying there is very heavy for you.”
Cosette raised her head and answered:
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Give it to me,” the man continued, “I will carry it for you.”
Cosette let go of the bucket. The man walked along with her.
“It is very heavy, indeed,” said he to himself between his teeth. Then he added:
“Little girl, how old are you?”
“Eight years, monsieur.”
“And have you come far in this way?”
“From the spring in the woods.”
“And are you going far?”
“A good quarter of an hour from here.”
The man remained a moment without speaking, then he said abruptly:
“You have no mother then?”
“I don’t know,” answered the child.
Before the man had had time to say a word, she added:
“I don’t believe I have. All the rest have one. For my part, I have none.”
And after a silence, she added:
“I believe I never had any.”
The man stopped, put the bucket on the ground, stooped down and placed his hands upon the child’s shoulders, making an effort to look at her and see her face in the darkness.
The thin, puny face of Cosette was vaguely outlined in the livid light of the sky.
“What is your name?” said the man.
“Cosette.”
It seemed as if the man had an electric shock. He looked at her again, then letting go of her shoulders, took up the bucket, and walked on.
A moment after, he asked:
“Little girl, where do you live?”
“At Montfermeil, if you know it.”
“It is there that we are going?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
He made another pause, then he began:
“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 nose, consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the waggoners. The husband answered by that imperceptible shake of the forefinger which, supported by a protrusion of the lips, signifies in such a case: “complete destitution.” Upon this the Thénardiess exclaimed:
“Ah! my brave man, I am very sorry, but I have no room.”
“Put me where you will,” said the man, “in the garret, in the stable. I will pay as if I had a room.”
“Forty sous.”
“Forty sous. Very well.”
“In advance.”
“Forty sous,” whispered a waggoner to the Thénardiess, “but it is only twenty sous.”
“It is forty sous for him,” replied the Thénardiess in the same tone. “I don’t lodge poor people for less.”
“That is true,” added her husband softly, “it ruins a house to have this sort of people.”
Meanwhile the man, after leaving his stick and bundle on a bench, had seated himself at a table on which Cosette had been quick to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The pedlar, who had asked for the bucket of water, had gone himself to carry it to his horse. Cosette had resumed her place under the kitchen table and her knitting.
The man, who hardly touched his lips to the wine he had poured for himself, was contemplating the child with a strange attentiveness.
Cosette was ugly. Happy, she might, perhaps, have been pretty. We have already sketched this little pitiful face. Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but one would hardly have thought her six. Her large eyes, sunk in a sort of shadow, were almost completely dulled by continual weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual anguish, which is seen in the condemned and in the hopelessly sick. Her hands were, as her mother had guessed, “covered with chilblains.” The light of the fire which was shining upon her, made her bones stand out and rendered her thinness fearfully visible. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of drawing her knees together. Her whole dress was nothing but a rag, which would have excited pity in the summer, and which excited horror in the winter. She had on nothing but cotton, and that full of holes; not a rag of woollen. Her skin showed here and there, and black and blue spots could be distinguished, which indicated the places where the Thénardiess had touched her. Her naked legs were red and rough. The hollows under her collar bones would make one weep. The whole person of this child, her gait, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals between one word and another, her looks, her silence, her least motion, expressed and uttered a single idea: fear.
Fear was spread all over her; she was, so to say, covered with it; fear drew back her elbows against her sides, drew her heels under her skirt, made her take the least possible room, prevented her from breathing more than was absolutely necessary, and had become what might be called her bodily habit, without possible variation, except of increase. There was in the depth of her eye an expression of astonishment mingled with terror.