“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.
Cosette’s thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky.
“What is your name?” said the man.
“Cosette.”
The man seemed to have received an electric shock.
He looked at her once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette’s shoulders, seized the bucket, and set out again.
After a moment he inquired:—
“Where do you live, little one?”
“At Montfermeil, 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 Thenardier.”
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 Thenardier do?”
“She is my mistress,” said the child. “She keeps the inn.”
“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going to lodge there to-night.
Show me the way.”
“We are on the way there,” said the child.
The man walked tolerably fast.
Cosette 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 tranquillity 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 Thenardier’s house?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you alone there?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another pause ensued.
Cosette lifted up her voice:—
“That is to say, there are two little girls.”
“What little girls?”
“Ponine and Zelma.”
This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female Thenardier.
“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”
“They are Madame Thenardier’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.”