This infallible passage of the king at the same hour was, therefore, the daily event of the Boulevard de l'Hopital.

  The promenader in the yellow coat evidently did not belong in the quarter, and probably did not belong in Paris, for he was ignorant as to this detail. When, at two o'clock, the royal carriage, surrounded by a squadron of the body-guard all covered with silver lace, debouched on the boulevard, after having made the turn of the Salpetriere, he appeared surprised and almost alarmed. There was no one but himself in this cross-lane. He drew up hastily behind the corner of the wall of an enclosure, though this did not prevent M. le Duc de Havre from spying him out.

  M. le Duc de Havre, as captain of the guard on duty that day, was seated in the carriage, opposite the king. He said to his Majesty, "Yonder is an evil-looking man." Members of the police, who were clearing the king's route, took equal note of him: one of them received an order to follow him. But the man plunged into the deserted little streets of the faubourg, and as twilight was beginning to fall, the agent lost trace of him, as is stated in a report addressed that same evening to M. le Comte d'Angles, Minister of State, Prefect of Police.

  When the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off his track, he redoubled his pace, not without turning round many a time to assure himself that he was not being followed. At a quarter-past four, that is to say, when night was fully come, he passed in front of the theatre of the Porte Saint-Martin, where The Two Convicts was being played that day. This poster, illuminated by the theatre lanterns, struck him; for, although he was walking rapidly, he halted to read it. An instant later he was in the blind alley of La Planchette, and he entered the Plat d'Etain [the Pewter Platter], where the office of the coach for Lagny was then situated. This coach set out at half-past four. The horses were harnessed, and the travellers, summoned by the coachman, were hastily climbing the lofty iron ladder of the vehicle.

  The man inquired:—

  "Have you a place?"

  "Only one—beside me on the box," said the coachman.

  "I will take it."

  "Climb up."

  Nevertheless, before setting out, the coachman cast a glance at the traveller's shabby dress, at the diminutive size of his bundle, and made him pay his fare.

  "Are you going as far as Lagny?" demanded the coachman.

  "Yes," said the man.

  The traveller paid to Lagny.

  They started. When they had passed the barrier, the coachman tried to enter into conversation, but the traveller only replied in monosyllables. The coachman took to whistling and swearing at his horses.

  The coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did not appear to be thinking of that. Thus they passed Gournay and Neuilly-sur-Marne.

  Towards six o'clock in the evening they reached Chelles. The coachman drew up in front of the carters' inn installed in the ancient buildings of the Royal Abbéy, to give his horses a breathing spell.

  "I get down here," said the man.

  He took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down from the vehicle.

  An instant later he had disappeared.

  He did not enter the inn.

  When the coach set out for Lagny a few minutes later, it did not encounter him in the principal street of Chelles.

  The coachman turned to the inside travellers.

  "There," said he, "is a man who does not belong here, for I do not know him. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he does not consider money; he pays to Lagny, and he goes only as far as Chelles. It is night; all the houses are shut; he does not enter the inn, and he is not to be found. So he has dived through the earth."

  The man had not plunged into the earth, but he had gone with great strides through the dark, down the principal street of Chelles, then he had turned to the right before reaching the church, into the cross-road leading to Montfermeil, like a person who was acquainted with the country and had been there before.

  He followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it is intersected by the ancient tree-bordered road which runs from Gagny to Lagny, he heard people coming. He concealed himself precipitately in a ditch, and there waited until the passers-by were at a distance. The precaution was nearly superfluous, however; for, as we have already said, it was a very dark December night. Not more than two or three stars were visible in the sky.

  It is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not return to the road to Montfermeil; he struck across the fields to the right, and entered the forest with long strides.

  Once in the forest he slackened his pace, and began a careful examination of all the trees, advancing, step by step, as though seeking and following a mysterious road known to himself alone. There came a moment when he appeared to lose himself, and he paused in indecision. At last he arrived, by dint of feeling his way inch by inch, at a clearing where there was a great heap of whitish stones. He stepped up briskly to these stones, and examined them attentively through the mists of night, as though he were passing them in review. A large tree, covered with those excrescences which are the warts of vegetation, stood a few paces distant from the pile of stones. He went up to this tree and passed his hand over the bark of the trunk, as though seeking to recognize and count all the warts.

  Opposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut-tree, suffering from a peeling of the bark, to which a band of zinc had been nailed by way of dressing. He raised himself on tiptoe and touched this band of zinc.

  Then he trod about for awhile on the ground comprised in the space between the tree and the heap of stones, like a person who is trying to assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed.

  That done, he took his bearings, and resumed his march through the forest.

  It was the man who had just met Cosette.

  As he walked through the thicket in the direction of Montfermeil, he had espied that tiny shadow moving with a groan, depositing a burden on the ground, then taking it up and setting out again. He drew near, and perceived that it was a very young child, laden with an enormous bucket of water. Then he approached the child, and silently grasped the handle of the bucket.

  CHAPTER VII—COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE STRANGER IN THE DARK

  Cosette, as we have said, was not frightened.

  The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost bass.

  "My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you."

  Cosette raised her head and replied:—

  "Yes, sir."

  "Give it to me," said the man; "I will carry it for you."

  Cosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her.

  "It really is very heavy," he muttered between his teeth. Then he added:—

  "How old are you, little one?"

  "Eight, sir."

  "And have you come from far like this?"

  "From the spring in the forest."

  "Are you going far?"

  "A good quarter of an hour's walk from here."

  The man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly:—

  "So you have no mother."

  "I don't know," answered the child.

  Before the man had time to speak again, she added:—

  "I don't think so. Other people have mothers. I have none."

  And after a silence she went on:—

  "I think that I never had any."

  The man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hands on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark.

  Cosette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky.

  "What is your name?" said the man.

  "Cosette."

  The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette's shoulders, seized the bucket, and set out again.

  After a moment he inquired:—

  "Where do you live, little one?"

  "At Montfermeil, if you know where that is."

  "That is where we are going?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He paused; then began again:—

  "Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?"

  "It was Madame Thenardier."

  The man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor:—

  "What does your Madame Thenardier do?"

  "She is my mistress," said the child. "She keeps the inn."

  "The inn?" said the man. "Well, I am going to lodge there to-night. Show me the way."

  "We are on the way there," said the child.

  The man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty. She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes towards the man, with a sort of tranquillity and an indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to pray; nevertheless, she felt within her something which resembled hope and joy, and which mounted towards heaven.

  Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed:—

  "Is there no servant in Madame Thenardier's house?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you alone there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Another pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice:—

  "That is to say, there are two little girls."

  "What little girls?"

  "Ponine and Zelma."

  This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female Thenardier.

  "Who are Ponine and Zelma?"

  "They are Madame Thenardier's young ladies; her daughters, as you would say."

  "And what do those girls do?"

  "Oh!" said the child, "they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves."

  "All day long?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you?"

  "I? I work."

  "All day long?"

  The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not visible because of the darkness, and replied gently:—

  "Yes, sir."

  After an interval of silence she went on:—

  "Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself, too."

  "How do you amuse yourself?"

  "In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many playthings. Ponine and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that."

  The child held up her tiny finger.

  "And it will not cut?"

  "Yes, sir," said the child; "it cuts salad and the heads of flies."

  They reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply her with questions, and now preserved a gloomy silence.

  When they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all the open-air booths, asked Cosette:—

  "So there is a fair going on here?"

  "No, sir; it is Christmas."

  As they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm:—

  "Monsieur?"

  "What, my child?"

  "We are quite near the house."

  "Well?"

  "Will you let me take my bucket now?"

  "Why?"

  "If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me."

  The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern door.

  CHAPTER VIII—THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE'S HOUSE A POOR MAN WHO MAY BE A RICH MAN

  Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big doll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant's; then she knocked. The door opened. The Thenardier appeared with a candle in her hand.

  "Ah! so it's you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you've taken your time! The hussy has been amusing herself!"

  "Madame," said Cosette, trembling all over, "here's a gentleman who wants a lodging."

  The Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the new-comer with her eyes.

  "This is the gentleman?" said she.

  "Yes, Madame," replied the man, raising his hand to his hat.

  Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection of the stranger's costume and baggage, which the Thenardier passed in review with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the gruff mien to reappear. She resumed dryly:—

  "Enter, my good man."

  The "good man" entered. The Thenardier cast a second glance at him, paid particular attention to his frock-coat, which was absolutely threadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and, tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular beggar. Thereupon, the Thenardier exclaimed:—

  "Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left."

  "Put me where you like," said the man; "in the attic, in the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room."

  "Forty sous."

  "Forty sous; agreed."

  "Very well, then!"

  "Forty sous!" said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thenardier woman; "why, the charge is only twenty sous!"

  "It is forty in his case," retorted the Thenardier, in the same tone. "I don't lodge poor folks for less."

  "That's true," added her husband, gently; "it ruins a house to have such people in it."

  In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench, had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting.

  The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention.

  Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people. Her hands were, as her mother had divined, "ruined with chilblains." The fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully apparent. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of pressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired horror in winter. All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a scrap of woollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywhere black and blue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the Thenardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child's whole person, her mien, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals which she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance, her silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole idea,—fear.

  Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak; fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her petticoat, made her occupy as little space as possible, allowed her only the breath that was absolutely necessary, and had become what might be called the habit of her body, admitting of no possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an astonished nook where terror lurked.

  Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not dare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her work again.

  The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain moments as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a demon.

  As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had never set foot in a church. "Have I the time?" said the Thenardier.

  The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.

  All at once, the Thenardier exclaimed:—

  "By the way, where's that bread?"

  Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thenardier uplifted her voice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table.

  She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of children who live in a constant state of fear. She lied.

  "Madame, the baker's shop was shut."

  "You should have knocked."

  "I did knock, Madame."

  "Well?"

  "He did not open the door."

  "I'll find out to-morrow whether that is true," said the Thenardier; "and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece."

  Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, and turned green. The fifteen-sou piece was not there.