The stranger gazed intently at him.
“What child?”
Thenardier continued:— “How strange it is, one grows attached.
What money is that?
Take back your hundred-sou piece.
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 bread 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 on Thenardier.
The latter continued:— “Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one’s child to a passer-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 Thenardier, 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, Thenardier 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 great-coat had escaped him.
Even before the stranger had so clearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Thenardier had divined 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?