All at once she caught sight of the two others in the swing, stopped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration.
Mother Thenardier released her daughters, made them descend from the swing, and said:—
“Now amuse yourselves, all three of you.”
Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expiration of a minute the little Thenardiers were playing with the newcomer at making holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure.
The newcomer was very gay; the goodness of the mother is written in the gayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of wood which served her for a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly.
The grave-digger’s business becomes a subject for laughter when performed by a child.
The two women pursued their chat.
“What is your little one’s name?”
“Cosette.”
For Cosette, read Euphrasie.
The child’s name was Euphrasie.
But out of Euphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and graceful instinct of mothers and of the populace which changes Josepha into Pepita, and Francoise into Sillette.
It is a sort of derivative which disarranges and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists.
We have known a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon.
“How old is she?”
“She is going on three.”
“That is the age of my eldest.”
In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an attitude of profound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened; a big worm had emerged from the ground, and they were afraid; and they were in ecstasies over it.
Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have said that there were three heads in one aureole.
“How easily children get acquainted at once!” exclaimed Mother Thenardier; “one would swear that they were three sisters!”
This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been waiting for.
She seized the Thenardier’s hand, looked at her fixedly, and said:—
“Will you keep my child for me?”
The Thenardier made one of those movements of surprise which signify neither assent nor refusal.
Cosette’s mother continued:—
“You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country.
My work will not permit it.
With a child one can find no situation.
People are ridiculous in the country.
It was the good God who caused me to pass your inn.
When I caught sight of your little ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed me.
I said:
‘Here is a good mother. That is just the thing; that will make three sisters.’
And then, it will not be long before I return.
Will you keep my child for me?”
“I must see about it,” replied the Thenardier.
“I will give you six francs a month.”
Here a man’s voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:—
“Not for less than seven francs.
And six months paid in advance.”
“Six times seven makes forty-two,” said the Thenardier.
“I will give it,” said the mother.
“And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses,” added the man’s voice.
“Total, fifty-seven francs,” said Madame Thenardier. And she hummed vaguely, with these figures:—
“It must be, said a warrior.”
“I will pay it,” said the mother. “I have eighty francs.
I shall have enough left to reach the country, by travelling on foot.
I shall earn money there, and as soon as I have a little I will return for my darling.”
The man’s voice resumed:— “The little one has an outfit?”
“That is my husband,” said the Thenardier.