It was joy, splendor, 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 Thenardier’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 are doing there!
Get along, you little monster!” The Thenardier had cast a glance into the street, and had caught sight of Cosette in her ecstasy.
Cosette fled, dragging her pail, and taking the longest strides of which she was capable.
CHAPTER V—THE LITTLE ONE ALL ALONE
As the Thenardier 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 Chelles 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 Boulanger 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 overcame 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 tortuous and deserted streets which terminate in the village of Montfermeil on the side of Chelles.
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 and 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 Montfermeil; it was the open fields.
Black and desert space was before her.
She gazed in despair at that darkness, where there was no longer any one, where there were beasts, where there were spectres, possibly.
She took a good look, and heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she distinctly saw spectres 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 Montfermeil.
Hardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to scratch her head again.
Now it was the Thenardier 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?