Les Miserables (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Victor Hugo

  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.

  This fear was such that on coming in, all wet as she was, Cosette had not dared go and dry herself by the fire, but had gone silently to her work.

  The expression of the countenance of this child of eight years was habitually so sad and sometimes so tragical that it seemed, at certain moments, as if she were in the way of becoming an idiot or a demon.

  Never, as we have said, had she known what it is to pray, never had she set foot within a church. “How can I spare the time?” said the Thénardiess.

  The man in the yellow coat did not take his eyes from Cosette.

  Suddenly, the Thénardiess exclaimed out:

  “Oh! I forgot! that bread!”

  Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thénardiess raised her voice, sprang out quickly from under the table.

  She had entirely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of children who are always terrified. She lied.

  “Madame, the baker was shut.”

  “You ought to have knocked.”

  “I did knock, madame.”

  “Well?”

  “He didn’t open.”

  “I’ll find out to-morrow if that is true,” said the Thénardiess, “and if you are lying y
ou will lead a pretty dance. Meantime give me back the fifteen-sous coin.”

  Cosette plunged her hand into her apron pocket, and turned white. The fifteen-sous coin was not there.

  “Come,” said the Thénardiess, “didn’t you hear me?”

  Cosette turned her pocket inside out; there was nothing there. What could have become of that money? The little unfortunate could not utter a word. She was petrified.

  “Have you lost it, the fifteen-sous coin?” screamed the Thénardiess, “or do you want to steal it from me?”

  At the same time she reached her arm towards the cowhide hanging in the chimney corner.

  This menacing movement gave Cosette the strength to cry out:

  “Forgive me! Madame! Madame! I won’t do so any more!”

  The Thénardiess took down the whip.

  Meanwhile the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, without being noticed. The other travellers were drinking or playing cards, and paid no attention to anything.

  Cosette was writhing with anguish in the chimney-corner, trying to gather up and hide her poor half-naked limbs. The Thénardiess raised her arm.

  “I beg your pardon, madame,” said the man, “but I just now saw something fall out of the pocket of that little girl’s apron and roll away. That may be it.”

  At the same time he stooped down and appeared to search on the floor for an instant.

  “Just so, here it is,” said he, rising.

  And he handed a silver coin to the Thénardiess.

  “Yes, that is it,” said she.

  That was not it, for it was a twenty-sous coin, but the Thénardiess found her profit in it. She put the coin in her pocket, and contented herself with casting a ferocious look at the child and saying:

  “Don’t let that happen again, ever.”

  Cosette went back to what the Thénardiess called “her hole,” and her large eye, fixed upon the unknown traveller, began to assume an expression that it had never known before. It was still only an artless astonishment, but a sort of blind confidence was associated with it.

  “O! you want supper?” asked the Thénardiess of the traveller.

  He did not answer. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

  “What is that man?” said she between her teeth. “It is some frightful pauper. He hasn’t a penny for his supper. Is he going to pay me for his lodging only? It is very lucky, anyway, that he didn’t think to steal the money that was on the floor.”

  A door now opened, and Eponine and Azelma came in.

  They were really two pretty little girls, rather city girls than peasants, very charming, one with her well-polished auburn tresses, the other with her long black braids falling down her back and both so lively, neat, plump, fresh, and healthy, that it was a pleasure to see them. They were warmly clad, but with such maternal art, that the thickness of the stuff detracted nothing from the coquetry of the fit. Winter was provided against without effacing spring. These two little girls shed light around them. Moreover, they reigned. In their toilet, in their gaiety, in the noise they made, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the Thénardiess said to them in a scolding tone, which was full of adoration: “Ah! you are here then, you children!”

  Then, taking them upon her knees one after the other, smoothing their hair, tying over their ribbons, and finally letting them go with that gentle sort of shake which is peculiar to mothers, she exclaimed:

  “Are they dowdies!”

  They went and sat down by the fire. They had a doll which they turned backwards and forwards upon their knees with many pretty prattlings. From time to time, Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting, and looked sadly at them as they were playing.

  Eponine and Azelma did not notice Cosette. To them she was like the dog. These three little girls could not count twenty-four years among them all, and they already represented all human society; on one side envy, on the other disdain.

  The doll of the Thénardier sisters was very much faded, and very old and broken; and it appeared none the less wonderful to Cosette, who had never in her life had a doll, a real doll, to use an expression that all children will understand.

  All at once, the Thénardiess, who was continually going and coming about the room, noticed that Cosette’s attention was distracted, and that instead of working she was watching the little girls who were playing.

  “Ah! I’ve caught you!” cried she. “That is the way you work! I’ll make you work with the strap, I will.”

  The stranger, without leaving his chair, turned towards the Thénardiess.

  “Madame,” said he, smiling diffidently. “Pshaw! let her play!”

  On the part of any traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton, and drunk two bottles of wine at his supper, and who had not had the appearance of a horrid pauper, such a wish would have been a command. But that a man who wore that hat should allow himself to have a desire, and that a man who wore that coat should permit himself to have a wish, was what the Thénardiess thought ought not to be tolerated. She replied sharply:

  “She must work, for she eats. I don’t support her to do nothing.”

  “What is it she is making?” said the stranger, in that gentle voice which contrasted so strangely with his beggar’s clothes and his porter’s shoulders.

  The Thénardiess deigned to answer.

  “Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls who have none, worth speaking of, and will soon be going barefooted.”

  The man looked at Cosette’s poor red feet, and continued:

  “When will she finish that pair of stockings?”

  “It will take her at least three or four good days, the lazy thing.”

  “And how much might this pair of stockings be worth, when it is finished?”

  The Thénardiess cast a disdained glance at him.

  “At least thirty sous.”

  “Would you take five francs for them?” said the man.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed a waggoner who was listening, with a horse-laugh, “five francs? It’s a humbug! five bullets!”

  Thénardier now thought it time to speak. “Yes, monsieur, if it is your fancy, you can have that pair of stockings for five francs. We can’t refuse anything to travellers.”

  “You must pay for them now,” said the Thénardiess, in her short and peremptory way.

  “I will buy that pair of stockings,” answered the man, “and,” added he, drawing a five-franc coin from his pocket and laying it on the table, “I will pay for them.”

  Then he turned towards Cosette.

  “Now your work belongs to me. Play, my child.”

  The waggoner was so affected by the five-franc coin, that he left his glass and went to look at it.

  “It’s so, that’s a fact!” cried he, as he looked at it. “A regular hindwheel! and no counterfeit!”

  Thénardier approached, and silently put the coin in his pocket.

  The Thénardiess had nothing to reply. She bit her lips, and her face assumed an expression of hatred.

  Meanwhile Cosette trembled. She ventured to ask:

  “Madame, is it true? can I play?”

  “Play!” said the Thénardiess in a terrible voice.

  “Thank you, madame,” said Cosette. And, while her mouth thanked the Thénardiess, all her little soul was thanking the traveller.

  Thénardier returned to his drink. His wife whispered in his ear:

  “What can that yellow man be?”

  “I have seen,” answered Thénardier, in a commanding tone, “millionaires with coats like-that.”

  Cosette had left her knitting, but she had not moved from her place. Cosette always stirred as little as was possible. She had taken from a little box behind her a few old rags, and her little lead sword.

  Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had just performed a very important operation; they had caught the kitten. They had thrown the doll on the floor, and Eponine, the elder, was dressing the kitten, in spi
te of her mewings and contortions, with a lot of clothes and red and blue rags. While she was engaged in this serious and difficult labour, she was talking to her sister in that sweet and charming language of children, the grace of which, like the splendour of the butterfly’s wings, escapes when we try to preserve it.

  “Look! look, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She moves, she cries, she is warm. Come, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl; I will be a lady. I’ll come to see you, and you must look at her. By and by you must see her whiskers, and you must be surprised. And then you must see her ears, and then you must see her tail, and that will astonish you. And you must say to me: ‘Oh! my stars!’ and I will say to you, ‘Yes, madame, it is a little girl that I have like that.’ Little girls are like that now.”

  Azelma listened to Eponine with wonder.

  Meanwhile, the drinkers were singing an obscene song, at which they laughed enough to shake the room. Thénardier encouraged and accompanied them.

  As birds make a nest of anything, children make a doll of no matter what. While Eponine and Azelma were dressing up the cat, Cosette, for her part, had dressed up the sword. That done, she had laid it upon her arm, and was singing it softly to sleep.

  The doll is one of the most imperious necessities, and at the same time one of the most charming instincts of female childhood. To care for, to clothe, to adorn, to dress, to undress, to dress over again, to teach, to scold a little, to rock, to cuddle, to put to sleep, to imagine that something is somebody—all the future of woman is there. Even while musing and prattling, while making little wardrobes and little baby-clothes, while sewing little dresses, little bodices, and little jackets, the child becomes a little girl, the little girl becomes a big girl, the big girl becomes a woman. The first baby takes the place of the last doll.

  A little girl without a doll is almost as unfortunate and quite as impossible as a woman without children.

  Cosette had therefore made a doll of her sword.

  The Thénardiess, on her part, approached the yellow man. “My husband is right,” thought she; “it may be Monsieur Laffitte. Some rich men are so odd.”