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 license, 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 in which there lingered a tremor:—
“What if one were to rid you of her?”
“Who?
Cosette?”
“Yes.”
The landlady’s red and violent face brightened up hideously.
“Ah! sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her away, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the blessings of the good holy Virgin 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 Thenardier.
“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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier 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 Thenardier, 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 Thenardier 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, uttered not a word in reply, and left the room.
As soon as they were alone, Thenardier offered the traveller a chair.
The traveller seated himself; Thenardier remained standing, and his face 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.”