On the following morning, two hours at least before daybreak, Thenardier sits beside a candle in the public room, pen in hand, making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow coat. His wife stands beside him, half bent over him. They exchange not a word. On the one hand there is profound meditation, on the other the religious admiration with which one watches the birth of a marvel of the human mind. A noise is audible in the house. It is the Lark sweeping the stairs. After a good quarter of an hour, and some erasures, Thenardier produces his masterpiece: supper three francs, chamber ten, candle five, fire four, service one, total twenty-three francs. Service is written servisse. Twenty-three francs, cries the woman, with an enthusiasm mingled with some hesitation. Like all great artists, Thenardier is dissatisfied. Peuh, he exclaims. It is the accent of a man auditing a country's bill. The wife, thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette in the presence of her daughters, murmurs that he certainly owes that, that it is just, but that it is too much. He will not pay it. Thenardier laughs coldly. He will pay. A moment later he adds that he owes full fifteen hundred francs. He seats himself in the chimney-corner with his feet among the warm ashes. The wife reminds him that she is going to turn Cosette out of doors today. The monster. She breaks my heart with that doll of hers. Thenardier lights his pipe and replies between two puffs that she will hand that bill to the man. Then he goes out.
Hardly has he left the room when the traveller enters. Thenardier instantly reappears behind him and remains motionless in the half-open door, visible only to his wife. The yellow man carries his bundle and his cudgel. Up so early, said Madame Thenardier. Is Monsieur leaving us already? She twists the bill about in her hands. To present such a bill to a man who has so completely the air of a poor wretch seems difficult to her. The traveller appears preoccupied. Yes, Madame, I am going. What do I owe you? She silently hands him the folded paper. He glances at it, but his thoughts are elsewhere. He asks whether business is good in Montfermeil. So so, Monsieur, she replies, stupefied at not witnessing another sort of explosion. Times are so hard. If we had not, now and then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should not get along at all. Just see, that child is costing us our very eyes. What child? Cosette. The Lark, as she is called hereabouts. The man resumes, in that voice which he strives to render indifferent, and in which there lingers a tremor: What if one were to rid you of her? The landlady's red and violent face brightens up hideously. Take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her away, and the blessings of the saints of paradise be upon you. Agreed. Immediately. Call the child. In the meantime he will pay what he owes. He casts a glance on the bill and cannot restrain a start of surprise. Twenty-three francs. He lays five five-franc pieces on the table. Go and get the child. At that moment Thenardier advances to the middle of the room and says that Monsieur owes twenty-six sous. Twenty sous for the chamber, and six sous for his supper. As for the child, he must discuss that matter a little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife. Madame Thenardier is dazzled as with unexpected lightning flashes of talent. She leaves the room. As soon as they are alone, Thenardier offers the traveller a chair. His face assumes 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. How strange it is, one grows attached. Take back your hundred-sou piece. She costs us money. He has paid out over four hundred francs for drugs. But one must do something for the good God's sake. One does not give away one's child to a passer-by like that. Still, if it were for her happiness. He would like to know what becomes of her. One must, at least, see some petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport. The stranger, still surveying him with that gaze which penetrates to the very depths of the conscience, replies in a grave, firm voice. 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? Thenardier comprehends that he has to deal with a very strong person. He has watched the yellow coat all night like a cat and studied him like a mathematician. He has caught the old man's deep glances returning constantly to the child. This man evidently has no right over Cosette. He has felt himself strong in the secret. The clear retort makes him weak. He abruptly unmasks his batteries. Sir, said he, I am in need of fifteen hundred francs. The stranger takes from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black leather, draws out three bank-bills, lays them on the table, places his large thumb on the notes, and says: Go and fetch Cosette.
On waking, Cosette has run to get her shoe. In it she has found the gold piece. It is not a Napoleon. It is one of those perfectly new twenty-franc pieces of the Restoration. Cosette is dazzled. Her destiny begins to intoxicate her. She does not know what a gold piece is. She has never seen one. She hides it quickly in her pocket, as though she had stolen it. Still, she feels that it really is hers. She guesses whence her gift has come, but the joy which she experiences is full of fear. The doll frightened her. The gold piece frightens her. The stranger alone does not frighten her. Ever since the preceding evening she has been thinking of that man who seemed to be so poor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything has changed for her since she met that good man in the forest. For the last five years the poor child has shivered and trembled. She has always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity. Now it seems to her she is clothed. Cosette is no longer afraid of the Thenardier. She is no longer alone. There is some one there. She hastily sets about her regular morning duties. That louis, in the very apron pocket whence the fifteen-sou piece fell the night before, distracts her thoughts. As she sweeps the staircase she pauses, forgetful of her broom and of the entire universe, occupied in gazing at that star which is blazing at the bottom of her pocket. It is during one of these periods of contemplation that the Thenardier joins her. What is quite unprecedented, she neither strikes her nor says an insulting word. Cosette, she said, almost gently, come immediately. An instant later Cosette enters the public room. The stranger unties his bundle. It contains a little woollen gown, an apron, a fustian bodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woollen stockings, shoes: a complete outfit for a girl of seven years. All is black. My child, said the man, take these, and go and dress yourself quickly. Daylight is appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermeil who have begun to open their doors behold a poorly clad old man leading a little girl dressed in mourning, and carrying a pink doll in her arms, pass along the road to Paris. They are going in the direction of Livry. No one knows the man. As Cosette is no longer in rags, many do not recognise her. She does not know with whom she is going, nor whither. All that she understands is that she is leaving the Thenardier tavern behind her. No one has thought of bidding her farewell. Cosette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open, and gazing at the sky. She had put her louis in the pocket of her new apron. From time to time, she bent down and glanced at it, then she looked at the good man. She felt something as though she were beside the good God.
