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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier cast a glance of disdain on him.
“Thirty sous 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!”
Thenardier thought it 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 Thenardier, 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 Cosette.
“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 hastened up.
“But it’s true!” he cried, examining it. “A real hind wheel! and not counterfeit!”
Thenardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket.
The Thenardier had no reply to make.
She bit her lips, and her face assumed an expression of hatred.
In the meantime, Cosette was trembling.
She ventured to ask:—
“Is it true, Madame?
May I play?”
“Play!” said the Thenardier, in a terrible voice.
“Thanks, Madame,” said Cosette.
And while her mouth thanked the Thenardier, her whole little soul thanked the traveller.
Thenardier 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 Thenardier, in a sovereign manner.
Cosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat.
Cosette 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 essays 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.