Marius, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of descending from the hole when a sound attracted his attention and caused him to remain at his post. The door of the attic had just burst open. The eldest girl made her appearance on the threshold, in large coarse men's shoes bespattered with mud, wrapped in an old mantle Marius had not seen on her an hour previously. She had probably deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the more pity, and had picked it up again on emerging. She paused to take breath, then exclaimed with an expression of triumph and joy: He is coming! The father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned her head, the little sister did not stir. The philanthropist? From the church of Saint-Jacques? That old fellow? He is following me. He is coming in a fiacre. In a fiacre. He is Rothschild. The father rose and galloped through questions. She would not let him. She had entered the church, found the man in his usual place, handed him the letter. He asked where they lived. His daughter had some purchases to make; he would take a carriage and reach the house at the same time. When she mentioned the house he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then said: Never mind, I will come. She had just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. She had taken notice of the number: 440. Good, you are a clever girl, said the father. She stared at him and showed the shoes. She would not put them on again, for her health and for cleanliness. They squelched. She preferred to go barefoot. You are right, he said, in a sweet tone which contrasted with her rudeness, but then you will not be allowed to enter churches. One cannot go barefoot to the good God.
A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance. Wife! he exclaimed. Here is the philanthropist. Extinguish the fire. The stupefied mother did not stir. The father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken-nosed jug and flung the water on the brands. He seized the chair and with one kick rendered it seatless. Is it cold? Very cold. It is snowing. He turned towards the younger girl who sat on the bed near the window and shouted: Quick! get off that bed, you lazy thing! Break a pane of glass! The child stood still in bewilderment. He repeated the order. Then, with a sort of terrified obedience, she rose on tiptoe and struck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with a loud clatter. He was grave and abrupt. His glance swept the garret as though he were a general making the final preparation. The mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and asked what he meant to do. Get into bed. She threw herself heavily on one of the pallets.
A sob became audible in one corner. The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without quitting the corner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself while breaking the window. The mother started up. Just see there! She has cut herself breaking that pane for you! So much the better! said the man. I foresaw that. Then tearing the woman's chemise which he was wearing, he hastily swathed the little girl's bleeding wrist. That done, his eye fell with a satisfied expression on his torn chemise. And the chemise too, said he, this has a good appearance. An icy breeze whistled through the window. Through the broken pane the snow could be seen falling. The snow promised by the Candlemas sun of the preceding day had actually come. He spread ashes over the wet brands so as to conceal them entirely. Then drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney-piece: Now, we can receive the philanthropist.
Coming Up in Chapter 208
The big girl laid her hand in her father's. Feel how cold I am, she said. Bah, he replied, I am much colder than that. Then the fear: what if the man should not come? At that moment there came a light tap at the door.
