Part 76 (1/2)

”Forty sous.”

”Forty sous; agreed.”

”Very well, then!”

”Forty sous!” said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thenardier woman; ”why, the charge is only twenty sous!”

”It is forty in his case,” retorted the Thenardier, in the same tone. ”I don't lodge poor folks for less.”

”That's true,” added her husband, gently; ”it ruins a house to have such people in it.”

In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench, had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a gla.s.s. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting.

The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention.

Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people.

Her hands were, as her mother had divined, ”ruined with chilblains.” The fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully apparent.

As she was always s.h.i.+vering, she had acquired the habit of pressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired horror in winter.

All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a sc.r.a.p of woollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywhere black and blue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the Thenardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child's whole person, her mien, her att.i.tude, the sound of her voice, the intervals which she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance, her silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole idea,--fear.

Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak; fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her petticoat, made her occupy as little s.p.a.ce as possible, allowed her only the breath that was absolutely necessary, and had become what might be called the habit of her body, admitting of no possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an astonished nook where terror lurked.

Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not dare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her work again.

The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain moments as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a demon.

As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had never set foot in a church. ”Have I the time?” said the Thenardier.

The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.

All at once, the Thenardier exclaimed:--

”By the way, where's that bread?”

Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thenardier uplifted her voice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table.

She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of children who live in a constant state of fear. She lied.

”Madame, the baker's shop was shut.”

”You should have knocked.”

”I did knock, Madame.”

”Well?”

”He did not open the door.”

”I'll find out to-morrow whether that is true,” said the Thenardier; ”and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece.”