 3. Man must have wine, and horses must have water. When your traveller had arrived, Cosette was meditating sadly, for although she was only eighty years old, she had already suffered so much that she reflected with the lugubrious air of an old woman. Her eye was black in consequence of a blow from a damp tinnadier's fist, which caused the latter to remark from time to time how ugly she is with her fist blow on her eye. Cosette was thinking that it was dark, very dark, that the pictures and crafts in the chambers of the travellers who had arrived must have been feared, and that there was no more water in the system. She was somewhat reassured because no one in the tinnadier establishment drank much water. Sustained people were never lacking there, but their thirst was of the sort which applies to the jug rather than to the picture. Anyone who had asked for a glass of water among all those glasses of wine would have appeared as savage to all these men. But there came a moment when the child trembled. Madame Tinnadier raised the cover of a steel pan which was boiling on the stove. The sister-glass and briskly approached the system. She turned the faucet. The child had raised her head and was following all the woman's movements. A six-stream of water trickled from the faucet and half-eared glass. Where is she? There is no more water. A momentary silence ensued. The child did not breathe. Bar resumed madame Tinnadier, examining the half-eared glass. This would be enough. Cosette applied herself to her work once more, but for a quarter of an hour she felt her heart leaping in her bosom like a big snowflake. She counted minutes passing this manner and wished it for the next morning. From time to time one of the drinkers locked into the street and exclaimed, as if black as an urban, or one must need to be a cat to go about the street without the lantern at this hour, and Cosette trembled. All at once one of the peddlers who lodged in the hostel re-entered and said in a harsh voice, my horse has not been watered. Yes it has, said madame Tinnadier. I tell that it has not retorted the peddler. Cosette had emerged from under the table. Oh yes, sir, said she. The horse has had a drink. He drank out of a bucket, a bucket for, and it was I who took the water to him, and I spoke to him. It was not true, Cosette lied. There's a bread as big as my fist, which has lies as big as the house, exclaimed the peddler. I tell that he has not been watered, you little jade. He has a way of blowing when he had had no water, which I know well. Cosette persisted, and added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish, and which was hardly audible. And he drank heartily. Come, said peddler, in a rage. This won't do at all. Let my horse be watered, and let that be the end of it. Cosette crapped under the table again. In truth that is fair, said madame Tinnadier. If the beast has not been watered, it must be. Then glancing about her. Well now, what's that other beast? She bent down and discovered Cosette covering at the other end of the table, almost under the drinker's feet. Are you coming? shrieked madame Tinnadier. Cosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hidden herself. Tinnadier resumed. Madame was there dog-like name, girl and water that hoarse. But madame said Cosette feebly. There's no water. Tinnadier threw the street door wide open. Well, go and get some then. Cosette dropped her head and went for an empty bucket, which stood near the chimney corner. This bucket was bigger than she was, and the child could have sat down in it at her ease. Tinnadier returned to her stove and tasted what was in the steel pan with a wooden spoon grounding the wire. There was plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious creature as that. I think I should have done better to strain my onions. Then she remaged in a jar which contained sooth, pepper and shallots. See here, Madame was there told. She added. On your way back, you will get a big loaf from the baker. He has 15 soupies. Cosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron. She took the coin without saying a word and put it in that pocket. Then she stood motionless, bucketing hand, the open door before her. She seemed to be waiting for someone to come to her rescue. Get along with the screemed Tinnadier. Cosette went out. The door closed behind her. This is the end of Chapter 3, Recording by Geneva. Recording by Ruth Golding. The line of open-air booths, starting at the church, extended as the reader will remember, as far as the hostury of the Tinnadier. These booths were all illuminated because the citizens would soon pass on their way to the midnight mass, with candles burning in paper funnels, which, as the schoolmaster, then seated at the table at the Tinnadier's observed, produced a magical effect. In compensation not a star was visible in the sky. The last of these stalls, established precisely opposite the Tinnadier's door, was a toy shop, or glittering with tinsel, glass and magnificent objects of tin. In the first row and far forwards, the merchant had placed on a background of white napkins an immense doll, nearly two feet high, who was dressed in a robe of pink crepe, with gold wheat-ears on her head, which had real hair and enamel eyes. All that day this marvel had been displayed to the wonderment of all passers-by under ten years of age, without a mother being found in Monferme sufficiently rich or sufficiently extravagant to give it to her child. Eponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplating it, and Cosette herself had ventured to cast a glance at it on the sly. It is true. At the moment when Cosette emerged, bucket in hand, melancholy and overcome as she was, she could not refrain from lifting her eyes to that wonderful doll, towards the lady, as she called it. The poor child paused in amazement. She had not yet beheld that doll close to. The whole shop seemed a palace to her. The doll was not a doll. It was a vision. It was joy, splendour, riches, happiness, which appeared in a sort of chimerical halo to that unhappy little being, so profoundly engulfed in gloomy and chilly misery. With the sad and innocent sagacity of childhood, Cosette measured the abyss which separated her from that doll. She said to herself that one must be a queen, or at least a princess, to have a thing like that. She gazed at that beautiful pink dress, that beautiful smooth hair, and she thought, how happy that doll must be. She could not take her eyes from that fantastic stall. The more she looked, the more dazzled she grew. She thought she was gazing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the large one, which seemed to her to be fairies and genii. The merchant, who was pacing back and forth in front of his shop, produced on her somewhat the effect of being the eternal father. In this adoration she forgot everything, even the errand with which she was charged. All at once the Tenardier's coarse voice recalled her to reality. What, you silly jade! You have not gone! Wait! I'll give it to you. I want to know what you're doing there. Get along, you little monster! The Tenardier had cast a glance into the street, and had caught sight of Cosette in her ecstasy. Cosette fled, dragging her pale, and taking the longest strides of which she was capable. Les Miserables, Volume II, by Victor Hugo, translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood, Book III of Les Miserables, Chapter V, The Little One, All Alone. As the Tenardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is near the church, it was to the spring in the forest in the direction of Shell that Cosette was obliged to go for her water. She did not glance at the display of a single other merchant. So long as she was in Belanger Lane, and in the neighborhood of the church, the lighted stalls illuminated the road, but soon the last light from the last stall vanished. The poor child found herself in the dark. She plunged into it, only, as a certain emotion came over her. She made as much motion as possible with the handle of the bucket as she walked along. This made a noise which afforded her company. The further she went, the denser the darkness became. There was no one in the streets, however she did encounter a woman who turned around on seeing her, and stood still muttering between her teeth. Where can that child be going? Is it a werewolf child? Then the woman recognized Cosette. Well, said she, it's the lark! In this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of torturous and deserted streets which terminate in the village of Mont-Fermé on the side of Shell. So long as she had the houses, or even the walls, only on both sides of her path, she proceeded with tolerable boldness. From time to time she caught the flicker of a candle through the crack of a shutter. This was light in life. There were people there, and it reassured her. But in proportion, as she advanced, her pace slackened mechanically as it were. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cosette paused. It had been hard to advance further than the last stall. It became impossible to proceed further than the last house. She set her bucket on the ground, thrust her hand into her hair, and began slowly to scratch her head, a gesture peculiar to children when terrified and undecided what to do. It was no longer Mont-Fermé. It was the open fields. Black in desert space was before her. She gazed in despair at that darkness, where there was no longer anyone, where there were beasts, where there were specters possibly. She took a good look and heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she distinctly saw specters moving in the trees. Then she seized her bucket again. Fear had lent her audacity. Bah! said she. I will tell him that there was no more water. And she resolutely re-entered Mont-Fermé. Hardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to scratch her head again. Now it was the Thanadier who appeared to her with her hideous hyena mouth and wrath flashing in her eyes. The child cast a melancholy glance before her and behind her. What was she to do? What was to become of her? Where was she to go? In front of her was the specter of the Thanadier, behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the forest. It was before the Thanadier that she recoiled. She resumed her path to the spring and began to run. She emerged from the village. She entered the forest at a run, no longer looking at or listening to anything. She only paused in her course when her breath failed her, but she did not halt in her advance. She went straight before her in desperation. As she ran she felt like crying. The nocturnal quivering of the forest surrounded her completely. She no longer thought. She no longer saw. The immensity of night was facing this tiny creature. On the one hand all shadow. On the other an atom. It was only seven or eight minutes walk from the edge of the woods to the spring. Cossette knew the way through having gone over it many times in daylight. Strange to say she did not get lost. A remnant of instinct guided her vaguely, but she did not turn her eyes either to right or to left for fear of seeing things in the branches and in the brushwood. In this manner she reached the spring. It was a narrow natural basin hollowed out by the water in a clay soil about two feet deep, surrounded with moss and with those tall crimped grasses which are called Henry IV's frills and paved with several large stones. A brook ran out of it, with a tranquil little noise. Cossette did not take time to breathe. It was very dark, but she was in the habit of coming to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the dark for a young oak which leaned over the spring and which usually served to support her. Found one of its branches clung to it, bent down and plunged the bucket into the water. She was in a state of such violent excitement that her strength was troubled. While thus bent over, she did not notice that the pocket of her apron had emptied itself into the spring. The fifteen sow piece fell into the water. Cossette neither saw nor heard it fall. She drew out the bucket nearly full and set it on the grass. That done she perceived that she was worn out with fatigue. She would have liked to set out again at once, but the effort required to fill the bucket had been such that she found it impossible to take a step. She was forced to sit down. She dropped on the grass and remained crouching there. She shot her eyes and then she opened them again without knowing why, but because she could not do otherwise. The agitated water in the bucket beside her was describing circles which resembled tin serpents. Overhead the sky was covered with vast black clouds, which were like masses of smoke. The tragic mask of shadow seemed to bend vaguely over the child. Jupiter was setting in the depths. The child stared with bewildered eyes at this great star, with which she was unfamiliar and which terrified her. The planet was, in fact, very near the horizon and was traversing a dense layer of mist which imparted to it a horrible, ruddy hue. The mist, gloomily in purple, magnified the star. One would have called it a luminous wound. A cold wind was blowing from the plane. The forest was dark. Not a leaf was moving. There were none of the vague, fresh gleams of summertime. Great boughs uplifted themselves in frightful whys. Slender and misshapen bushes whistled in the clearings. The tall grasses undulated like eels under the north wind. The nettles seemed to twist long arms furnished with claws in search of prey. Some bits of dry heather tossed by the breeze flew rapidly by and had the air of fleeing in terror before something which was coming after. On all sides there were lugubrious stretches. The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries himself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye sees black, the heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the sooty opacity, there is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts. No one walks alone in the forest at night without trembling. Shadows and trees, two formidable densities. A shimmerical reality appears in the distinct depths. The inconceivable is outlined a few paces distant from you with a spectral clearness. One beholds floating, either in space or in one's own brain. One knows not what vague and intangible thing like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes on the horizon. One inhales the effluvia of great black void. One is afraid to glance behind him, yet desirous of doing so. The cavities of night, things grown haggard, taciturn profiles which vanish when one advances, obscure dishevelments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the lugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of silence, unknown but possible beings, bendings of mysterious branches, alarming torsos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants against all this one has no protection. There is no hardy-hood which does not shudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is conscious of something hideous as though one's soul were becoming amalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadows is indescribably sinister in the case of a child. Forests are apocalypses and the beatings of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault. Without understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by that black enormity of nature. It was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her. It was something more terrible even than terror. She shivered. There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver, which chilled her to the very bottom of her heart. Her eye grew wild. She thought she felt that she could not be able to refrain from returning there the same hour on the morrow. Then, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud—one, two, three, four, and so on, up to ten—in order to escape from that singular state which she did not understand but which terrified her. And when she had finished, she began again. This restored her to a true perception of the things about her. Her hands, which she had wet in drawing the water, felt cold. She rose. Her terror, a natural and unconquerable terror, had returned. She had but one thought now, to flee at full speed through the forest, across the fields, to the houses, to the windows, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her. Such was the fright which the Thanadier inspired in her, that she dared not flee without that bucket of water. She seized the handle with both hands. She could hardly lift the pail. In this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket was full. It was heavy. She was forced to set it on the ground once more. She took breath for an instant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again. She resumed her march, proceeding a little further this time, but again she was obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose, she set out again. She walked bent forward with drooping head, like an old woman. The weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms. The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands. She was forced to halt from time to time. And each time that she did so, the cold water which slashed from the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight. She was a child of eight. No one but God saw that sad thing at that moment. And her mother, no doubt, alas, for there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves. She panted with a sort of painful rattle. Sobs contracted her throat, but she dared not weep. So afraid was she of the Thanadia even at a distance. It was her custom to imagine the Thanadia always present. However, she could not make much headway in that manner. And she went on very slowly, in spite of diminishing the length of her stops and of walking as long as possible between them. She reflected with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to Mont-Fermet in this manner, in that the Thanadia would beat her. This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woods at night. She was worn out with fatigue and had not yet emerged from the forest. On arriving near an old chestnut tree, with which she was acquainted, made a last halt. Longer than the rest, in order that she might get well rested, then she summoned up all her strength, picked up her bucket again and courageously resumed her march. But the poor little desperate creature could not refrain from crying, Oh my God! Oh my God! At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all. A hand which seemed to her enormous had just seized the handle and lifted it vigorously. She raised her head. A large black form, straight and erect, was walking beside her through the darkness. It was a man who had come up behind her and whose approach she had not heard. This man, without uttering a word, had seized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying. There are instincts for all the encounters in life. The child was not afraid. Chapter 6 of Book 3 of Les Miserables Volume 2 by Victor Huda. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jacqueline Provo. Les Miserables Volume 2 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood. Book 3. Accomplishment of the Promise Made to the Dead Woman. Chapter 6. Which Possibly Proves Bullets' Rules Intelligence. On the afternoon of that same Christmas Day, 1823, a man had walked for rather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard de l'Hôpital in Paris. This man had the air of a person who was seeking lodgings, and he seemed to halt by preference at the most modest houses on the dilapidated border of the faux-bore Saint Marceau. We shall see further on that this man had in fact hired a chamber in that isolated quarter. This man, in his attire, as in all his person, realized the type of what may be called the well-bred mendicant. Extreme wretchedness, combined with extreme cleanliness. This is a very rare mixture which inspires intelligent hearts with a double respect which one feels for the man who is very poor and for the man who is very worthy. He wore a very old and very well brushed round hat, a coarse coat worn perfectly threadbare of an ochre yellow, a color that was not an least eccentric at that epoch. A large waistcoat with pockets of a venerable cut, black breeches worn gray at the knee, stockings of black worsted, and thick shoes with copper buckles. He would have been pronounced a preceptor in some good family, returned from the immigration. He would have been taken for more than sixty years of age from his perfectly white hair, his wrinkled brow, his livid lips, and his countenance, where everything breathed depression and weariness of life. Judging from his firm tread, from the singular vigor which stamped all his movements, he would have hardly been thought fifty. The wrinkles on his brow were well placed and would have disposed in his favor any one who observed him attentively. His lip contracted with a strange fold which seemed severe and which was humble. There was in the depth of his glance an indescribable melancholy serenity. In his left hand he carried a little bundle tied up in a cankerchief. In his right he leaned on a sort of a cajole cut from some hedge. This stick had been carefully trimmed and had an air that was not too threatening. The most had been made of its knots and it had received a coral-like head made from red wax. It was a cajole and it seemed to be a cane. There are but few passers-by on the boulevard, particularly in the winter. The man seemed to avoid them rather than to seek them, but this without any effectation. At that epoch, King Louis the Eighteenth went nearly every day to choiser le roi. It was one of his favorite excursions. Towards two o'clock almost invariably the royal carriage and cavalcade was seen to pass at full speed along the boulevard de l'Hôpital. This served in lieu of a watch or clock to the poor women of the quarter who said, It is two o'clock, there he is returning to the toil d'oré. And some rushed forward and others drew up in line, for a passing king always creates a tumult. Besides, the appearance and disappearance of Louis the Eighteenth produced a certain effect in the streets of Paris. It was rapid but majestic. This impotent king had a taste for a fast gallop. As he was not able to walk, he wished to run. The cripple would gladly have had himself drawn by the lightning. He passed pacific and severe in the midst of naked swords. His massive couch, all covered with gilding, with great branches of lilies painted on the panels, thundered noisily along. There was hardly time to cast a glance upon it. In the rear angle on the right, there was visible on tufted cushions of wife's satin, a large, firm, and ready face. A brow freshly powdered, a lusso royal, a proud, hard, crafty eye, the smile of an educated man, two great épollets with fringed bullion, floating over a bourgeois coat, the golden fleece, the cross of Saint Louis, the cross of the Legion of Honor, the silver plaque of the Saint Esprit, a huge bell and a wide blue ribbon. It was the king. Outside of Paris, he held his hat decked with white ostrich plumes on his knees, and wrapped in high English gaiters. When he re-entered the city, he put on his hat and slewed it barely. He stared coldly at the people, and they returned it in kind. When he appeared for the first time in the Saint Marceau quarter, the whole success which he produced is contained in this remark of an inhabitant of the faux-bore to his comrade. That big fellow yonder is the government. This infallible passage of the king at the same hour was therefore the daily event of the boulevard de l'Hôpital. The promenadeur in the yellow coat evidently did not belong in the quarter, and probably did not belong in Paris, for he was ignorant as to this detail. When at two o'clock the royal carriage, surrounded by a squadron of the bodyguard, all covered with silver lace, debouched on the boulevard after having made the turn of the solpe triée, he appeared surprised and almost alarmed. There was no one but himself in this cross-lane. He drew up hastily behind the corner of the wall of an enclosure, though just did not prevent Michel Le Duc de Av from spying him out. Michel Le Duc de Av, as captain of the guard on duty that day, was seated in the carriage opposite the king. He said to his majesty, yonder is an evil-looking man. Members of the police who were clearing the king's route took equal note of him. One of them received an order to follow him, but the man plunged into the deserted little streets of the Faubourg, and as twilight was beginning to fall, the agent lost trace of him, as is stated in a report addressed that same evening to Michel Le Comte de Anglais, minister of state, prefect of police. When the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off his track, he redoubled his pace, not without turning round, many a time, to assure himself that he was not being followed. At a quarter past four, that is to say, when night was fully come, he passed in front of the theater of the port St. Martin, where the two convicts was being played that day. This poster, illuminated by the theater's lantern, struck him. For although he was walking rapidly, he halted to read it. An instant later, he was in the blind alley of La Planchette, and he entered the pewter platter, where the office of the coach for ligny was then situated. This coach set out at half-past four. The horses were harnessed, and the travelers summoned by the coachmen were hastily climbing the lofty iron ladder of the vehicle. The man inquired, Have you a place? Only one beside me on the box, said the coachman. I will take it. Climb up. Nevertheless, before setting out, the coachman cast a glance at the traveler's shabby dress, at the diminutive size of his bundle, and made him pay his fare. Are you going as far as lagny, demanded the coachman. Yes, said the man. Traveler paid to lagny. They started. When they had passed the barrier, the coachman tried to enter into conversation, but the traveler only replied in mono-syllables. The coachman took to whistling and swearing at his horses. The coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did not appear to be thinking of that. Thus they passed Gornet and Lule Sir Marn. Toward six o'clock in the evening, they reached Shell. The coachman drew up in front of the carter's end and stalled in the ancient buildings of the Royal Abbey to give his horses a breathing spell. I get down here, said the man. He took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down from the vehicle. An instant later he had disappeared. He did not enter the end. When the coach set out for lagny a few minutes later, it did not encounter him in the principal streets of Shell. The coachman turned to the inside travelers. There, said he, is a man who does not belong here, for I do not know him. He had not the air of owning a zoo, but he does not consider money. He pays to lagny and he goes only as far as Shell. It is night, all the houses are shut, he does not enter the end, and he is not to be found. So he has dived through the earth. The man had not plunged into the earth, but he had gone with great strides through the dark down the principal street of Shell. Then he had turned to the right before reaching the church and to the cross leading to Montfermille, like a person who was acquainted with the country and had been there before. He followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it intersected by the ancient tree-bordered road, which runs from Gagny to Lagny, he heard people coming. He concealed himself precipitately in a ditch, and there waited until the passers-by were at a distance. Recussion was nearly superfluous, however, for as we have already said, it was a very dark December night. Not more than two or three stars were visible in the sky. It is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not return to the road to Montfermille. He struck across the fields to the right and entered the forest with long strides. Once in the forest, he slackened his pace and began a careful examination of all the trees advancing step by step, as though seeking and following a mysterious road known to himself alone. There came a moment when he appeared to lose himself, and he paused and indecision. At last he arrived, by dents of feeling his way inch by inch at a clearing where there was a heap of whitish stones. He stepped up briskly to these stones and examined them attentively through the mists of night, as though he were passing them in review. A large tree, covered with these excrescent, says, which are the warts of vegetation, stood a few paces distant from the pile of stones. He went up to this tree and passed his hand over the bark of the trunk, as though seeking to recognize and count all the warts. Opposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut tree, suffering from appealing of the bark, to which a band of zinc had been nailed by way of dressing. He raised himself on tiptoe and touched the band of zinc. Then he trod about for a while on the ground comprised in the space between the tree and the heap of stones, like a person who was trying to assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed. That done, he took his bearings and resumed his march to the forest. It was the man who had just met Cozette. As he walked through the thicket in the direction of Mont-Fermille, he had aspired that tiny shadow moving with a groan, depositing a burden on the ground, then taking it up and setting out again. He drew near and perceived that it was a very young child laden with an enormous bucket of water. Then he approached the child and silently grasped the handle of the bucket. End of book three, chapter six, recording by Jacqueline Probo, Richmond, Virginia. Chapter seven of book three of Les Miserables, volume two by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Eastman. LibriVox, volume two by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood. Book three. Accomplishment of the promise made to the dead woman. Chapter seven. Cozette side by side with the stranger in the dark. Cozette, as we have said, was not frightened. The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost base. My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you. Cozette raised her head and replied. Yes, sir. Give it to me, said the man. I will carry it for you. Cozette let go of the bucket handle. The man walked along beside her. It really is very heavy, he muttered between his teeth. Then he added. How old are you, little one? Eight, sir. And have you come far like this? From the spring in the forest. Are you going far? A good quarter of an hour's walk from here. The man said nothing for a moment. Then he remarked abruptly. So you have no mother. I don't know, answered the child. Before the man had time to speak again, she added. I don't think so. Other people have mothers. I have none. And after a silence she went on. I think that I never had any. The man halted. He set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hands on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark. Cozette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky. What is your name? said the man. Cozette. The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her once more. Then he removed his hands from Cozette's shoulders, seized the bucket and set out again. After a moment he inquired. Where do you live, little one? At Montfermay, if you know where that is. That is where we are going? Yes, sir. He paused, then began again. Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest? It was Madame de Nardier. The man resumed in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor. What does your Madame de Nardier do? She is my mistress, said the child. She keeps the inn. The inn, said the man. Well, I am going to lodge there tonight. Show me the way. We are on the way there, said the child. The man walked tolerably fast. Cozette followed him without difficulty. She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes towards the man with a sort of tranquility and an indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to providence and to pray. Nevertheless she felt within her something which resembled hope and joy, and which mounted towards heaven. Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed. Is there no servant in Madame de Nardier's house? No, sir. Are you alone there? Yes, sir. Another pause ensued. Cozette lifted up her voice. That is to say there are two little girls. What little girls? Ponine and Selma. This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female de Nardier. Who are Ponine and Selma? They are Madame de Nardier's young ladies. Her daughters, as you would say. And what do those girls do? Oh, said the child. They have beautiful dolls. Things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play. They amuse themselves. All day long? Yes, sir. And you? I? I work. All day long? The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not visible because of the darkness, and replied gently. Yes, sir. After an interval of silence she went on. Sometimes when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself too. How do you amuse yourself? In the best way I can. They let me alone, but I have not many playthings. Ponine and Selma will not let me play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that. The child held up her tiny finger. And it will not cut? Yes, sir, said the child. It cuts salad and the heads of flies. They reached the village. Cozzette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed the bake-shop, but Cozzette did not think of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply her with questions, and now preserved a gloomy silence. When they had left the church behind them, the man on perceiving all the open-air booths asked Cozzette, so there is a fair going on here. No, sir, it is Christmas. As they approached the tavern, Cozzette timidly touched his arm. Mr. What, my child? We are quite near the house. Well? Will you let me take my bucket now? Why? If Madame sees that someone has carried it for me, she will beat me. The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern door. End of Book 3, Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Book 3 of Les Miserables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Catherine Eastman Les Miserables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood Book 3, in the year 1817 Chapter 8 The unpleasantness of receiving into one's house a poor man who may be a rich man Cozzette could not refrain from casting a side-long glance at the big doll which was still displayed at the toy merchants. Then she knocked. The door opened. The Tarnardier appeared with a candle in her hand. Ah! so it's you, you little wretch. Good mercy, but you've taken your time. The hussy has been amusing herself. Madame, said Cozzette, trembling all over, here's a gentleman who wants a lodging. The Tarnardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern keepers, and eagerly sought the newcomer with her eyes. This is the gentleman, said she. Yes, Madame, replied the man raising his hand to his hat. Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture and an inspection of the stranger's costume and baggage which the Tarnardier passed in review with one glance caused the amiable grimace to vanish and the gruff mean to reappear. She resumed dryly. Enter, my good man. The good man entered. The Tarnardier cast a second glance at him, paid particular attention to his frock coat, which was absolutely threadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases a regular beggar. Thereupon the Tarnardier exclaimed, Ah! see here, my good man, I am very sorry, but I have no room left. Put me where you like, said the man, in the attic, in the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room. Forty sews. Forty sews, agreed. Very well, then. Forty sews, said a carter in a low tone to the Tarnardier woman, why the charge is only twenty sews. It is forty in his case, retorted the Tarnardier 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 glass. 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 somber 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 chill-blanes. 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 shivering, 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 whole-ridden linen, not a scrap of woolen. Her skin was visible here and there, and everywhere, black and blue spots could be described, which marked the places where the Tarnardier 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 mean, her attitude, 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 soul 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 space 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 Tarnardier. The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette. All at once the Tarnardier exclaimed, By the way, where's that bread? Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Tarnardier 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 tomorrow whether that is true, said the Tarnardier, and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sue piece. Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron and turned green. The fifteen-sue piece was not there. I'll come now, said madame Tarnardier. Did you hear me? Cosette turned her pocket inside out. There was nothing in it. What could have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not find a word to say. She was petrified. Have you lost that fifteen-sue piece? screamed the Tarnardier hoarsely. Or do you want to rob me of it? At the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the catanine tails, which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner. This formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufficient strength to shriek, Mercy, madame, madame, I will not do so any more! The Tarnardier took down the whip. In the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the fob of his waistcoat without anyone having noticed his movements. Besides, the other travellers were drinking or playing cards and were not paying attention to anything. Cosette contracted herself into a ball with anguish within the angle of the chimney, endeavouring to gather up and conceal her poor, half-nude limbs. The Tarnardier raised her arm. Pardon me, madame, said the man, but just now I caught sight of something which had fallen from this little one's apron pocket and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it. At the same time, he bent down and seemed to be searching on the floor for a moment. Exactly here it is. He went on, straightening himself up. And he held out a silver coin to the Tarnardier. Yes, that's it, said she. It was not it, for it was a twenty-sue piece. But the Tarnardier found it to her advantage. She put the coin in her pocket and confined herself to casting a fierce glance at the child, accompanied with a remark, Don't let this ever happen again! Cosette returned to what the Tarnardier called her kennel, and her large eyes, which were riveted on the traveller, began to take on an expression such as they had never worn before. Thus far it was only an innocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied confidence was mingled with it. By the way, would you like some supper? The Tarnardier inquired of the traveller. He made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought. What sort of a man is that? She muttered between her teeth. He's some frightfully poor wretch. He hasn't a suit to pay for a supper. Will he even pay me for his lodging? It's very lucky, all the same, that it did not occur to him to steal the money that was on the floor. In the meantime a door had opened, and Eponine and Azelna entered. They were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than peasant in looks, and very charming. The one with shining chestnut tresses, the other with long black braids hanging down her back, both vivacious, neat, plump, rosy, and healthy, and a delight to the eye. They were warmly clad, but with so much maternal art that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract from the coca-tree of arrangement. There was a hint of winter, though the springtime was not wholly effaced. Light emanated from these two little beings. Besides this, they were on the throne. In their toilettes, in their gaiety, in the noise which they made, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the tenardier said to them in a grumbling tone which was full of adoration, Ah, there you are, you children! Then, drawing them, one after the other, to her knees, smoothing their hair, tying their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them with that gentle manner of shaking off, which is peculiar to mothers, she exclaimed, what fright they are! They went and seated themselves in the chimney-quarter. They had a doll, which they turned over and over on their knees with all sorts of joyous chatter. From time to time, Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting and watched their play with a melancholy air. Eponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same as a dog to them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up four and twenty years between them, but they already represented the whole society of man, envy on the one side, disdain on the other. The doll of the Tynardier sisters was very much faded, very old, and much broken, but it seemed nonetheless admirable to Cosette, who had never had a doll in her life, a real doll, to make use of the expression which all children will understand. All at once the Tynardier, who had been going back and forth in the room, perceived that Cosette's mind was distracted, and to that, instead of working, she was paying attention to the little ones at their play. Ah, I've caught you at it, she cried, so that's the way you work, I'll make you work to the tune of the whip, that I will. The stranger turned to the Tynardier without quitting his chair. Bah, madam, he said, with an almost timid air. Let her play. Such a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton, and had drunk a couple of bottles of wine with his supper, and who had not the air of being frightfully poor, would have been equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should permit himself such a desire, and that a man with such a coat should permit himself to have a will, was something which madame Tynardier did not intend to tolerate. She retorted, with acrimony, she must work, since she eats, I don't feed her to do nothing. What is she making? went on the stranger, in a gentle voice, which contrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his porter's shoulders. The Tynardier deigned to reply, stockings, if you please, stockings for my little girls who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now. The man looked at Cosette's poor little red feet, and continued, When will she have finished this pair of stockings? She has at least three or four good days' work on them still, the lazy creature. And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has finished them? The Tynardier cast a glance of disdain on him. Thirty sews at least. Will you sell them for five francs? went on the man. Good heavens! exclaimed a Carter who was listening with a loud laugh. Five francs, the deuce I should think so! Five balls! Tynardier thought at time to strike in. Yes, sir, if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair of stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers. You must pay on the spot, said the Tynardier in her curt and peremptory fashion. I will buy that pair of stockings, replied the man, and, he added, drawing a five franc piece from his pocket and laying it on the table, I will pay for them. Then he turned to Cozette. Now I own your work, play, my child. The Carter was so much touched by the five franc piece that he abandoned his glass and tassened up. But it's true, he cried examining it, a real hind wheel and not counterfeit. Tynardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket. The Tynardier had no reply to make. She bit her lips and her face assumed an expression of hatred. In the meantime, Cozette was trembling. She ventured to ask, Is it true, madame? May I play? Play! said the Tynardier in a terrible voice. Thanks, madame! said Cozette. And while her mouth thanked the Tynardier, her whole little soul thanked the traveller. Tynardier had resumed his drinking, his wife whispered in his ear, Who can this yellow man be? I have seen millionaires with coats like that, replied Tynardier in a sovereign manner. Cozette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat. Cozette always moved as little as possible. She picked up some old rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her. Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had just executed a very important operation. They had just got hold of the cat. They had thrown their doll on the ground, and Eponine, who was the elder, was swathing the little cat in spite of its mewing and its contortions in a quantity of clothes and red and blue scraps. While performing this serious and difficult work, she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language of children whose grace, like the splendor of the butterfly's wing, vanishes when one assays to fix it fast. You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists, she cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually you will perceive her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will see her ears, and then you will see her tail, and it will amaze you. And you will say to me, Amon Dieu, and I will say to you, Yes, madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that just at present. Azelma listened admiringly to Eponine. In the meantime the drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song, and to laugh at it until the ceiling shook. Tenardier accompanied and encouraged them. As birds make nests out of everything, so children make a doll out of anything which comes to hand. While Eponine and Azelma were bundling up the cat, Cosette on her side had dressed up her sword. That done she laid it in her arms and sang to it softly to lull it to sleep. The doll is one of the most imperious needs, and, at the same time, one of the most charming instincts of feminine childhood. To care for, to clothe, to deck, to dress, to undress, to redress, to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandel, to lull to sleep, to imagine that something is someone. Therein lies the whole woman's future. While dreaming and chattering, making tiny outfits and baby clothes, while sewing little gowns and corsages and bodices, the child grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl, the big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of the last doll. A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy and quite as impossible as a woman without children. So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword. Madame Tenardier approached the yellow man. My husband is right, she thought. Perhaps it is Monsieur Lafitte. There are such queer rich men. She came and set her elbows on the table. Monsieur, said she. At this word, Monsieur, the man turned. Up to that time the Tenardier had addressed him only as brave homme or bonhomme. You see, sir, she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that was even more repulsive to behold than her fierce mean. I am willing that the child should play. I do not oppose it, but it is good for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing. She must needs work. Then this child is not yours, demanded the man. Oh, Mondia, no, sir. She is a little beggar whom we have taken in through charity, a sort of imbecile child. She must have water on the brain. She has a large head, as you see. We do what we can for her, for we are not rich. We have written in vain to her native place, and have received no reply these six months. It must be that her mother is dead. Ah! said the man, and fell into his reverie once more. Her mother didn't amount to much, added the Tenardier. She abandoned her child. During the whole of this conversation, Cosette, as though warned by some instinct that she was under discussion, had not taken her eyes from the Tenardier's face. She listened vaguely. She caught a few words here and there. Meanwhile the drinkers, all three-quarters intoxicated, were repeating their unclean refrain with redoubled gaiety. It was a highly spiced and wanton song, in which the virgin and the infant Jesus were introduced. The Tenardier went off to take part in the shouts of laughter. Cosette, from her post under the table, gazed at the fire, which was reflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to rock the sort of baby which she had made, and as she rocked it she sang in a low voice, My mother is dead. My mother is dead. My mother is dead. On being urged afresh by the hostess, the yellow man, the millionaire, consented at last to take supper. What does Monsieur wish? Bread and cheese, said the man. Decidedly he is a beggar, thought Madame Tenardier. The drunken men were still singing their song, and the child under the table was singing hers. All at once, Cosette paused. She had just turned round and caught sight of the little Tenardier's doll, which they had abandoned for the cat, and had left on the floor a few paces from the kitchen table. Then she dropped the swaddled sword, which only half met her needs, and cast her eyes slowly round the room. Madame Tenardier was whispering to her husband and counting over some money. Panine and Selma were playing with the cat. The travellers were eating or drinking or singing. Not a glance was fixed on her. She had not a moment to lose. She crept out from under the table on her hands and knees, made sure once more that no one was watching her. Then she slipped quickly up to the doll and seized it. An instant later she was in her place again, seated motionless, and only turned so as to cast a shadow on the doll which she held in her arms. The happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that it contained all the violence of voluptuousness. No one had seen her except the traveller, who was slowly devouring his meager supper. This joy lasted about a quarter of an hour. But with all the precautions that Cosette had taken, she did not perceive that one of the doll's legs stuck out and that the fire on the hearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot, projecting from the shadow, suddenly struck the eye of a Selma who said to Eponine, Look, sister! The two little girls paused in stupefaction. Cosette had dared to take their doll. Eponine rose, and without releasing the cat, she ran to her mother and began to tug at her skirt. Let me alone! said her mother. What do you want? Mother! said the child. Look there! And she pointed to Cosette. Cosette, absorbed in the ecstasies of possession, no longer saw or heard anything. Madame Tenardier's countenance assumed that peculiar expression which is composed of the terrible mingled with the trifles of life, and which has caused this style of woman to be named Magarras. On this occasion, wounded pride exasperated her wrath still further. Cosette had overstepped all bounds. Cosette had laid violent hands on the doll belonging to these young ladies. A Zarina, who should see a Muzik tying on her imperial son's blue ribbon, would wear no other face. She shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation. Cosette! Cosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her. She turned round. Cosette! repeated the Tenardier. Cosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a sort of veneration mingled with despair. Then, without taking her eyes from it, she clasped her hands, and what is terrible to relate to the child of that age, she wrung them. Then, not one of the emotions of the day, neither the trip to the forest, nor the weight of the bucket of water, nor the loss of the money, nor the sight of the whip, nor even the sad words which she had heard Madame Tenardier had been able to wring this from her. She wept. She burst out sobbing. Meanwhile, the traveller had risen to his feet. What is the matter? he said to the Tenardier. Don't you see? said the Tenardier, pointing to the corpus delicti which lay at Cosette's feet. Well, what of it? resumed the man. That beggar, replied the Tenardier, has permitted herself to touch the children's doll. All this noise for that, said the man. Well, what if she did play with that doll? She touched it with her dirty hands, pursued the Tenardier with her frightful hands. Here Cosette redoubled her sobs. Will you stop your noise? screamed the Tenardier. The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and stepped out. As soon as he had gone, the Tenardier profited by his absence to give Cosette a hearty kick under the table, which made the child utter loud cries. The door opened again. The man reappeared. He carried in both hands the fabulous doll which we have mentioned, and which all the village brats had been staring at ever since the morning, and he set it upright in front of Cosette, saying, Here, this is for you. It must be supposed that in the course of the hour and more which he had spent there, he had taken confused notice through his reverie of that toy shop, lighted up by firepots and candles so splendidly that it was visible like an illumination through the window of the drinking shop. Cosette raised her eyes. She gazed at the man approaching her with that doll, as she might have gazed at the sun. She heard the unprecedented words, It is for you. She stared at him. She stared at the doll. Then she slowly retreated, and hid herself at the extreme end under the table in a corner of the wall. She no longer cried. She no longer wept. She had the appearance of no longer daring to breathe. The Tenardier, Eponine, and Azelma were like statues also. The very drinkers had paused. A solemn silence reigned through the whole room. Madame Tenardier, petrified and mute, recommended her conjectures. Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire? Perhaps he is both, that is to say, a thief. The face of the male Tenardier presented that expressive fold which accentuates the human countenance whenever the dominant instinct appears there in all its bestial force. The tavernkeeper stared alternately at the doll and at the traveller. He seemed to be senting out the man, as he would have sent it out a bag of money. This did not last longer than the space of a flash of lightning. He stepped up to his wife and said to her in a low voice, that machine costs at least thirty francs, no nonsense, down on your belly before that man. Gross natures have this in common with naïve natures, that they possess no transition state. Well, Cosette, said the Tenardier, in a voice that strove to be sweet, and which was composed of the bitter honey of malicious women, aren't you going to take your doll? Cosette ventured to emerge from her hole. The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette, said to Tenardier with a caressing air. Take it, it is yours. Cosette gazed at the marvellous doll in a sort of terror. Her face was still flooded with tears, but her eyes began to fill, like the sky at daybreak, with strange beams of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if she had been abruptly told, little one, you are the queen of France. It seemed to her that if she touched that doll, lightning would dart from it. This was true up to a certain point, for she said to herself that the Tenardier would scold and beat her. Nevertheless, the attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing near and murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame Tenardier. May I, madame? No words can render that air at once despairing, terrified, and ecstatic. Party! cried the Tenardier. It is yours, the gentleman has given it to you. Truly, sir, said Cosette, is it true? Is the lady mine? The stranger's eyes seemed to be full of tears. He appeared to have reached that point of emotion where a man does not speak for fear lest he should weep. He nodded to Cosette and placed the lady's hand in her tiny hand. Cosette hastily withdrew her hand, as though that of the lady scorched her, and began to stare at the floor. We are forced to add that at that moment she stuck out her tongue immoderately. All at once she wheeled round and seized the doll in a transport. I shall call her Catherine, she said. It was an odd moment when Cosette's rags met and clasped the ribbons and fresh pink muslins of the doll. Madame, she resumed, may I put her on a chair? Yes, my child, replied the Tenardier. It was now the turn of Eponine and Zelma to gaze at Cosette with envy. Cosette placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in front of her, and remained motionless without uttering a word in an attitude of contemplation. Play, Cosette, said the stranger. Oh, I am playing! returned the child. This stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a visit which Providence was making on Cosette, was the person whom the Tenardier hated worse than anyone in the world at that moment. However, it was necessary to control herself. Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavouring to copy her husband in all his actions, these emotions were more than she could endure. She made haste to send her daughters to bed. Then she asked the man's permission to send Cosette off also, for she has worked hard all day, she added, with a maternal air. Cosette went off to bed, carrying Catherine in her arms. From time to time the Tenardier went to the other end of the room where her husband was, to relieve her soul, as she said. She exchanged with her husband words which were all the more furious, because she dared not utter them aloud. Old beast, what has he got in his belly to come and upset us in this manner, to want that little monster to play, to give away forty frank dolls, to a jade that I would sell for forty sews, so I would, a little more, and he will be saying your majesty to her, as though to the duchess to belly. Is there any sense in it? Is he mad then, that mysterious old fellow? Why, it is perfectly simple, replied Tenardier, if that amuses him. It amuses you to have the little one work. It amuses him to have her play. He's all right. A traveller can do what he pleases when he pays for it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist, what is that to you? If he is an imbecile, it does not concern you. What are you worrying for so long as he has money? The language of a master and the reasoning of an innkeeper, neither of which admitted of any reply. The man had placed his elbows on the table and resumed his thoughtful attitude. All the other travellers, both peddlers and carters, had withdrawn a little and had ceased singing. They were staring at him from a distance with a sort of respectful awe. This poorly dressed man, who drew hind wheels from his pocket with so much ease, and who lavished gigantic dolls on dirty little brats in wooden shoes, was certainly a magnificent fellow, and one to be feared. Many hours passed. The midnight mass was over. The chimes had ceased. The drinkers had taken their departure. The drinking-shop was closed. The public-room was deserted. The fire extinct. The stranger still remained in the same place and the same attitude. From time to time he changed the elbow on which he leaned. That was all. But he had not said a word since Cozette had left the room. The Tarnardiers alone, out of politeness and curiosity, had remained in the room. Is he going to pass the night in that fashion? grumbled the Tarnardiers. When two o'clock in the morning struck, she declared herself vanquished and said to her husband, I'm going to bed, do as you like. The husband seated himself at a table in the corner, lighted a candle, and began to read the courier français. A good hour passed thus. The worthy innkeeper had perused the courier français at least three times from the date of the number to the printer's name. The stranger did not stir. Tarnardiers fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked his chair. Not a movement on the man's part. Is he asleep? thought Tarnardiers. The man was not asleep, but nothing could arouse him. At last Tarnardiers took off his cap, stepped gently up to him, and ventured to say, is not, monsieur, going to his repose? Not going to bed would have seemed to him excessive and familiar, to repose smacked of luxury and respect. These words possess the mysterious and admirable property of swelling the bill on the following day. A chamber where one sleeps costs twenty sews. A chamber in which one reposes costs twenty francs. Well, said the stranger, you are right. Where is your stable? Sir, exclaimed Tarnardiers with a smile, I will conduct you, sir. He took the candle, the man picked up his bundle and cudgel, and Tarnardiers conducted him to a chamber on the first floor, which was of rare splendor all furnished in mahogany, with a low bedstead, curtained with red calico. What is this? said the traveller. It is really our bridal chamber, said the tavernkeeper. My wife and I occupy another. This is only entered three or four times a year. I should have liked the stable quite as well, said the man abruptly. Tarnardiers pretended not to hear this unamiable remark. He lighted two perfectly fresh wax candles which figured on the chimney piece a very good fire was flickering on the hearth. On the chimney piece, under a glass globe, stood a woman's headdress in silver wire and orange flowers. And what is this? resumed the stranger. That, sir, said Tarnardiers, is my wife's wedding bonnet. The traveller surveyed the object with a glance which seemed to say, there really was a time then when that monster was a maiden. Tarnardiers lied, however. When he had leased this paltry building for the purpose of converting it into a tavern, he had found this chamber decorated in just this manner, and had purchased the furniture and obtained the orange flowers at second hand, with the idea that this would cast a graceful shadow on his spouse, and would result in what the English call respectability for his house. When the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared. Tarnardiers had withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish him a good night, as he did not wish to treat with disrespectful cordiality, a man whom he proposed to fleece royally the following morning. The innkeeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she was not asleep. When she heard her husband's step, she turned over and said to him, Do you know I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow? Tarnardiers replied coldly, How you do go on. They exchanged no further words, and a few moments later their candle was extinguished. As for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle in a corner. The landlord once gone, he threw himself into an arm chair, and remained for some time buried in thought. Then he removed his shoes, took one of the two candles, blew out the other, opened the door, and quitted the room, gazing about him like a person who is in search of something. He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he heard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built under the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself. This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps. There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potchards among dust and spider's webs, was a bed, if one can call by the name of bed, a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheets. This was placed on the floor. In this bed Cosette was sleeping. The man approached and scazed down upon her. Cosette was in a profound sleep. She was fully dressed. In the winter she did not undress in order that she might not be so cold. Against her breast was pressed the doll, whose large eyes wide open glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep sigh, as though she were on the point of waking, and she strained the doll almost convulsively in her arms. Beside her bed there was only one of her wooden shoes. A door which stood open near Cosette's pallet permitted a view of a rather large dark room. The stranger stepped into it. At the further extremity, through a glass door, he saw two small, very white beds. They belonged to Eponine and Zelma. Behind these beds and half-hidden stood an uncurtained wicker cradle, in which the little boy who had cried all the evening lay asleep. The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of the Tenardier pair. He was on the point of retreating when his eye fell upon the fireplace, one of those vast tavern chimneys, where there is always so little fire when there is any fire at all, and which are so cold to look at. There was no fire in this one, there was not even ashes. But there was something which attracted the stranger's gaze nevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes, coquettish in shape, and unequal in size. The traveller recalled the graceful and immemorial custom, in accordance with which children place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas Eve, there to await in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy. Eponine and Zelma had taken care not to omit this, and each of them had set one of her shoes on the hearth. The traveller bent over them. The fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit, and in each he saw a brand new and shining Ten Sioux piece. The man straightened himself up, and was on the point of withdrawing when far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight of another object. He looked at it, and recognized a wooden shoe, a frightful shoe of the coarsest description, half dilapidated, and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cozzette's Sabot. Cozzette, with that touching trust of childhood, which can always be deceived, yet never discouraged, had placed her shoe on the hearth stone also. Hope, in a child who has never known anything but despair, is a sweet and touching thing. There was nothing in this wooden shoe. The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat, bent over, and placed a louis d'or in Cozzette's shoe. Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf. End of Book Three, Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine, Book Three of Les Miserables, Volume Two, by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Eastman. Les Miserables, Volume Two, by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood. Book Three. Accomplishment of the Promise Made to the Dead Woman. Chapter Nine. T'Nardier and His Maneuvers. On the following morning, two hours at least before daybreak, T'Nardier, seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavern, pen in hand, was making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow coat. His wife, standing beside him and half bent over him, was following him with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand there was profound meditation. On the other the religious admiration with which one watches the birth and development of a marvel of the human mind. A noise was audible in the house. It was the lark sweeping the stairs. After the lapse of a good quarter of an hour and some erasures, T'Nardier produced the following masterpiece. Bill of the Gentlemen in Number One. Supper. Three Franks. Chamber. Ten Franks. Candle. Five Franks. Fire. Four Franks. Service. One Frank. Total. Twenty-three Franks. Service was written. Service. Twenty-three Franks, cried the woman, with an enthusiasm which was mingled with some hesitation. Like all great artists, T'Nardier was dissatisfied. He exclaimed. It was the accent of Castle Ray, auditing Francis Bill at the Congress of Vienna. Monsieur T'Nardier, you are right. He certainly owes that, murmured the wife, who was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette in the presence of her daughters. It is just, but it is too much. He will not pay it. T'Nardier laughed coldly, as usual, and said, He will pay. This laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and authority. That which was asserted in this manner must needs be so. His wife did not insist. She said about arranging the table. Her husband paced the room. A moment later he added, I owe full fifteen hundred Franks. He went and seated himself in the chimney corner, meditating with his feet among the warm ashes. Ah, by the way, resumed his wife, you don't forget that I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors today. The monster! She breaks my heart with that doll of hers. I'd rather marry Louis XVIII than keep her another day in the house. T'Nardier lighted his pipe and replied between two puffs. You will hand that bill to the man. Then he went out. Hardly had he left the room when the traveller entered. T'Nardier instantly reappeared behind him, and remained motionless in the half-open door, visible only to his wife. The yellow man carried his bundle and his cudgel in his hand. Up so early, said Madame T'Nardier, is Monsieur leaving us already? As she spoke thus, she was twisting the bill about in her hands with an embarrassed air and making creases in it with her nails. Her hard face presented a shade which was not habitual with it, timidity and scruples. To present such a bill to a man who had so completely the air of a poor wretch seemed difficult to her. The traveller appeared to be preoccupied and absent-minded. He replied, Yes, Madame, I am going. So Monsieur has no business in Montfermets? No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you, Madame? he added. The T'Nardier silently handed him the folded bill. The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it, but his thoughts were evidently elsewhere. Madame, he resumed, is business good here in Montfermets? So so, Monsieur, replied the T'Nardier, stupefied and not witnessing another sort of explosion. She continued in a dreary and lamentable tone. Oh, Monsieur, times are so hard, and then we have so few bourgeois in the neighbourhood, all the people are poor, you see, if we had not, now and then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should not get along at all. We have so many expenses, just see, that child is costing us our very eyes. What child? Why, the little one, you know, Cosette, the lark, as she is called hereabouts. Ah, said the man. She went on. How stupid these peasants are with their nicknames! She has more the air of a bat than of a lark. You see, sir, we do not ask charity, and we cannot bestow it. We earn nothing, and we have to pay out a great deal. The licence, the imposts, the door and window tax, the hundredths. Monsieur is aware that the government demands a terrible deal of money, and then I have my daughters. I have no need to bring up other people's children. The man resumed in that voice which he strove to render indifferent, and which there lingered a tremor. What if one were to rid you of her? Who, Cosette? Yes. The landlady's red and violent face frightened up hideously. Ah, sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, later off, carry her away, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the blessings of the good holy version and of all the saints of paradise be upon you. Agreed. Really? You will take her away? I will take her away. Immediately? Immediately. Call the child. Cosette! screamed the Tarnardier. In the meantime, pursued the man, I will pay you what I owe you. How much is it? He cast a glance on the bill, and could not restrain a start of surprise. Twenty-three francs? He looked at the landlady and repeated. Twenty-three francs? There was in the enunciation of these words, thus repeated, an accent between an exclamation and an interrogation point. The Tarnardier had had time to prepare herself for the shock. She replied with assurance. Good gracious yes, sir, it is twenty-three francs. The stranger laid five, five franc pieces on the table. Go and get the child, said he. At that moment, Tarnardier advanced to the middle of the room and said, Monsieur owes twenty-six sous. Twenty-six sous? exclaimed his wife. Twenty-sous for the chamber, resumed Tarnardier coldly, and six sous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter a little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife. Madame Tarnardier was dazzled, as with the shock caused by unexpected lightning flashes of talent. She was conscious that a great actor was making his entrance on the stage. I heard not a word in reply, and left the room. As soon as they were alone, Tarnardier offered the traveller a chair. The traveller seated himself. Tarnardier remained standing, and his voice assumed a singular expression of good fellowship and simplicity. Sir, said he, what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that child. The stranger gazed intently at him. What child? Tarnardier continued. How strange it is, one gross attached. Oh, what money is that? Take back your hundred sous-pices. I adore the child. Whom do you mean? demanded the stranger. Eh, our little cosette, are you not intending to take her away from us? Well, I speak frankly. As true as you are an honest man, I will not consent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a tiny thing. It is true that she costs us money. It is true that she has her faults. It is true that we are not rich. It is true that I have paid out over four hundred francs for drugs for just one of her illnesses. But one must do something for the good God's sake. She has neither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bred enough for her and for myself. In truth, I think a great deal of that child. You understand, one conceives an affection for a person. I am a good sort of a beast I am. I do not reason. I love that little girl. My wife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just the same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the house. The stranger kept his eye intently fixed onto Nardier. The latter continued, Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one's child to pass her by like that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don't say. You are rich. You have the air of a very good man. If it were for her happiness. But one must find out that. You understand. Suppose that I were to let her go and to sacrifice myself. I should like to know what becomes of her. I should not wish to lose sight of her. I should like to know with whom she is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time. So that she may know that her good foster father is alive, that he is watching over her. In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not even know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say. Well, and the lark, what has become of her? One must at least see some petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know. The stranger, still surveying him with that gaze, which penetrates as the saying goes to the very depths of the conscience, replied in a grave, firm voice. Monsieur Tenardier, one does not require a passport to travel five leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and that is the end of the matter. You will not know my name. You will not know my residence. You will not know where she is. And my intention is that she shall never set eyes on you again so long as she lives. I break the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit you? Yes, or no? Since geniuses, like demons, recognize the presence of a superior god by certain signs, Tenardier comprehended that he had to deal with a very strong person. It was like an intuition. He comprehended it with his clear and sagacious promptitude. While drinking with the carters, smoking and singing coarse songs on the preceding evening, he had devoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger. Watching him like a cat, and studying him like a mathematician. He had watched him, both on his own account for the pleasure of the thing, and through instinct, and had spied upon him as though he had been paid for so doing. Not a movement, not a gesture on the part of the man in the yellow greatcoat had escaped him. Even before the stranger had so clearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Tenardier had devined his purpose. He had caught the old man's deep glances returning constantly to the child. Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideous costume when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put to himself without being able to solve them, and which irritated him. He had pondered it all night long. He could not be Cosette's father. Was he her grandfather? Then why not make himself known at once? When one has a right, one asserts it. This man evidently had no right over Cosette. What was it then? Tenardier lost himself in conjectures. He caught glimpses of everything, but he saw nothing. Be that as it may, on entering into conversation with the man, sure that there was some secret in the case, that the latter had some interest in remaining in the shadow, he felt himself strong. When he perceived from the stranger's clear and firm retort that this mysterious personage was mysterious in so simple a way, he became conscious that he was weak. He had expected nothing of the sort. His conjectures were put to the route. He rallied his ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second. Tenardier was one of those men who take in the situation at a glance. He decided that the moment had arrived for proceeding straightforward and quickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment, which they know that they alone recognize. He abruptly unmasked his batteries. Sir, said he, I am in need of fifteen hundred francs. The stranger took from his side pocket an old pocket-book of black leather, opened it, drew out three bank-bills which he laid on the table. Then he placed his large thumb on the notes and said to the innkeeper, go and fetch Cozzette. While this was taking place, what had Cozzette been doing? On waking up, Cozzette had run to get her shoe. In it she had found the gold-piece. It was not a Napoleon. It was one of those perfectly new twenty franc pieces of the restoration, on whose effigy the little Prussian queue had replaced the laurel wreath. Cozzette was dazzled. Her desk was full of gold. Cozzette began to intoxicate her. She did not know what a gold-piece was. She had never seen one. She hid it quickly in her pocket as though she had stolen it. Still, she felt that it really was hers. She guessed whence her gift had come, but the joy which she experienced was full of fear. She was happy. Above all, she was stupefied. Such magnificent and beautiful things did not appear real. The doll frightened her. The gold-piece frightened her. She trembled vaguely in the presence of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten her. On the contrary, he reassured her. Ever since the preceding evening, amid all her amazement, even in her sleep, she had been thinking, in her little childish mind, of that man who seemed so poor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything had changed for her since she had met that good man in the forest. Cozzette, less happy than the most insignificant swallow of heaven, had never known what it was to take refuge under a mother's shadow and under a wing. For the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her memory ran, the poor child had shivered and trembled. She had always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity. Now it seemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold. Now it was warm. Cozzette was no longer afraid of the tnardier. She was no longer alone. There was someone there. She hastily said about her regular morning duties. That Louis which she had about her, in the very apron pocket, whence the fifteen soupies had fallen on the night before, distracted her thoughts. She dared not touch it, but she spent five minutes engaging at it, with her tug hanging out if the truth must be told. As she swept the staircase, she paused, remained standing there motionless, forgetful of her broom, and of the entire universe, occupied and gazing at that star which was blazing at the bottom of her pocket. It was during one of these periods of contemplation that the tnardier joined her. She had gone in search of Cozzette at her husband's orders. What was quite unprecedented, she neither struck her nor said an insulting word to her. Cozzette, she said, almost gently, come immediately. An instant later, Cozzette entered the public room. The stranger took up the bundle which she had brought and untied it. This bundle contained a little woolen gown, an apron, a fustion bodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woolen stockings, shoes, a complete outfit for a girl of seven years. All was black. My child, said the man, take these and go and dress yourself quickly. Daylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermets who had begun to open their doors beheld a poorly clad old man, leading a little girl dressed in mourning and carrying a pink doll in her arms, pass along the road to Paris. They were going in the direction of Leverie. It was our man and Cozzette. No one knew the man. As Cozzette was no longer in rags, many did not recognize her. Cozzette was going away, with whom she did not know. With her she knew not. All that she understood was that she was leaving the Tarnardier tavern behind her. No one had thought of bidding her farewell, nor had she thought of taking leave of anyone. She was leaving that hated and hating house. Poor gentle creature, whose heart had been repressed up to that hour. Cozzette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open and gazing at the sky. She had put her Louis in the pocket of her new apron. From time to time she bent down and glanced at it. Then she looked at the good man. She felt something as though she were beside the good God.