When they were alone Thénardier invited the stranger to be seated but himself remained standing. His expression was now one of singular gentleness and simplicity.
‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I must tell you at once that I adore that child.’
The stranger stared at him.
‘What child?’
‘It is strange how attached one can become,’ Thénardier proceeded. ‘What does money matter after all? Take back your hundred-sou pieces, monsieur. The child is what I care about.’
‘What child are you talking about?’ asked the stranger.
‘Why, our little Cosette – aren’t you proposing to take her away from us? Let me speak frankly, as between honourable men. I can’t allow it, I should miss her too much. I’ve known her since she was a baby. It is true that she costs money and that she has her faults; it is true that we are not rich, and that I had to pay more than four hundred francs for medicine for one of her illnesses. But we all have to do something in the service of God. She has neither father nor mother. I brought her up. I have food enough to feed her. I can’t do without her. You know how it is with the affections. I’m a stupid fellow, I dare say, no sense at all, but I love the child and so does my wife, although she’s a bit sharp-spoken at moments. It’s just the same as if she were our own. I need to see her running about the house.’
The stranger was still gazing fixedly at him. He went on:
‘You must forgive me, monsieur, but one does not hand over one’s child to a passer-by. Am I not right? Although, of course, I’m not saying – you appear to be rich and have the look of an honest man – I’m not saying that if it were in her best interests … But I need to be certain as I am sure you will understand. Suppose, for instance, that I were to sacrifice my feelings and let her go, I wouldn’t want to lose sight of her entirely. I should want to know where she was, so that I could visit her from time to time, just so that she’d know that her loving foster-father was still watching over her. There are things that are really not possible. I do not even know your name. If you were to take her off like this I should be left saying, “Where is she? What has happened to our dear Cosette, our little lark?” I must at least ask to see a scrap of paper, a passport or something.’
The stranger, without ceasing to regard him with eyes that seemed to pierce to his heart, said in a firm, incisive voice:
‘Monsieur Thénardier, one does not need a passport to travel five leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette with me that will conclude the matter. You will not be told my name or my dwelling or where she will be. My intention is that she shall never again set eyes on you. I mean to break every connection with her present life. Do you agree to that – yes or no?’
Just as demons and evil spirits recognize by certain signs the presence of a higher God, so Thénardier realized that he had to do with a man of great moral strength. It was a matter of intuition; he understood it instantly and finally. Throughout the previous evening, while he had been drinking with the other customers, smoking, joining in the choruses, he had had his eye on the stranger, watching him like a cat and summing him up like a mathematician, spying on him both on principle and for the pleasure of doing so. Not a movement, not the least gesture on the part of the man in the yellow coat had escaped him. Even before the stranger had shown that he was interested in Cosette, Thénardier had guessed it. He had seen his gaze constantly return to her. What was the reason for his interest? Who was the man, and why, with a purse filled with money, was he so wretchedly clad? Exasperating questions to which Thénardier could find no answer, although he had pondered them throughout the night. The man could hardly be Cosette’s father – was he perhaps her grandfather? But in that case why did he not say so? If one has a rightful claim one produces it. Evidently the man had no claim to Cosette. Then what was he? Thénardier had racked his brains, guessing at everything and understanding nothing. Nevertheless, when he had embarked on this interview, being persuaded that there was a secret which the stranger had reason for concealing, he had felt that he was in a strong position. The plain and forthright answer, showing the man of mystery to be so uncompromisingly mysterious, had taken the wind out of his sails. It was a quite unexpected development which threw his whole strategy in ruins. Summoning his wits, he hastily revised it. Thénardier was one of those men who can size up a situation at a glance. He felt that this was the moment for the straightforward approach, and like a great captain seizing the decisive instant that he alone has perceived, he promptly unmasked his batteries.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I need fifteen hundred francs.’
The stranger got an old black leather wallet out of an inside pocket, extracted three banknotes and laid them on the table. He then pressed his large thumb on them and said:
‘Fetch Cosette.’
What of Cosette meanwhile?
When she awoke that morning she had gone at once to look in her sabot and had found the gold coin. It was not a napoléon but one of the new twenty-franc pieces issued under the Restoration, with the imperial laurels replaced by a Prussian pigtail Cosette was dazed, bemused by her changed fortunes. Although she did not know that this was a gold piece, never having seen one before, she stuffed it hastily in her pocket as though she had stolen it. But she knew very well that it was hers, she guessed where it had come from, and she had a feeling of delight that was also fear. She was delighted, but even more, she was bewildered. These lavish and beautiful gifts seemed to her not real. The doll and the gold piece both filled her with alarm; she trembled instinctively at so much splendour. Only the stranger did not frighten her, but, on the contrary, reassured her. Since the previous evening, amid all the surprises, even in her sleep her child’s thoughts had been preoccupied with this man who looked old and poor and sad, and still was rich and kind. From the moment of their meeting in the wood, everything had changed for her. Less fortunate than the least of hedge-sparrows, Cosette had never known what it was to take refuge under a mother’s wing. For five years, as far back as she could remember, she had shivered and trembled. She had been naked to the bitter wind of misfortune, but now it seemed to her that she was clothed. Her spirit had been chilled and now was warm. She was less frightened than she had been of her mistress. She was no longer alone; there was someone there.
She busied herself with her customary morning tasks, but the golden louis, hidden in the apron-pocket out of which the fifteen-sou piece had fallen the night before, was very much in her mind. She was afraid to touch it, but she spent whole minutes thinking about it, with, it must be said, her tongue sticking out. In the middle of sweeping the stairs she stood suddenly motionless, forgetful of the broom and the whole world, while she pictured that star shining in her pocket.
It was during one of these moments that Mme Thénardier came up to her, having been sent by her husband to fetch her. Strangely, she did not hit or even scold her.
‘Cosette,’ she said almost gently, ‘you’re to come at once.’
When Cosette appeared in the downstairs room the stranger undid his bundle. It contained a woollen dress, an apron, a camisole, a petticoat, a shawl, woollen stockings, a pair of shoes – all the clothing needed for an eight-year-old girl. Every article was black.
‘Take these, child,’ the stranger said, ‘and get dressed as quickly as you can.’
Day was breaking when the people of Montfermeil, engaged in opening their shutters, saw a poorly clad man go along the Rue de Paris hand-in-hand with a little girl dressed in mourning who was carrying a large doll. They were walking in the direction of Livry. No one knew the man, and since she was no longer in rags a good many did not recognize Cosette.
Cosette was going away, she did not know with whom or whither. All she knew was that she was leaving the Thénardiers’ house for good. No one had troubled to say good-bye to her, nor had she said good-bye to anyone. She left that place both hated and hating, a small, gentle creature in whom every natural instinct until that moment had been suppressed.
She walked gravely, gazing wide-eyed at the sky. She had put the golden louis in the pocket of her new apron, and now and then she peeped at it, afterwards looking up at the man beside her. She had a queer feeling, as though she had drawn close to God.
X
Who looks for better may find worse
Mme Thénardier, as her habit was, had left matters to her husband, expecting great things. After the stranger and Cosette had left he allowed a quarter of an hour to elapse before taking her aside and showing her the fifteen hundred francs.
‘Is that all?’ she said.
It was the first time in their association that she had ventured to criticize any of her lord’s acts.
The blow went home.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘and I’m an idiot. Where’s my hat?’
He folded the three banknotes, put them in his pocket and hurried out of the house, but he made the mistake of turning right instead of left. It was only after he had been told that the man and child had been seen going in the direction of Livry that he turned back that way, pressing on at his best speed and discoursing to himself as he went.
‘The man must be a millionaire, yellow coat and all, and I’m a half-wit. First he handed over twenty sous, then five francs, then twenty-five and then fifteen hundred, all without a murmur. He’d have paid fifteen thousand! But I’ll catch up with him.’
That bundle of clothes bought in readiness for the child, that was extraordinary. There was more than one secret here, and a man of sense does not let go of a mystery when he has caught sight of one. The secrets of the rich are like sponges steeped in gold: one has to know how to squeeze them. These thoughts were tumbling over in his mind – ‘I’m a half-wit,’ he said.
When, after leaving Montfermeil, you come to the bend in the road to Livry you can see it stretching for a great distance across the plain. Thénardier had reckoned that at this point he should be able to see the man and child ahead of him, but although he strained his eyes he could see nothing. Again he had to seek help, wasting more time, and was eventually told that they had gone in the direction of the woods near Gagny. He hurried that way. They had a good start, but the child must slow them up; besides, he knew the country well.
Suddenly he stopped and clapped a hand to his forehead like a man who has overlooked an essential detail and is ready to turn back.
‘I should have brought my gun,’ he said.
Thénardier was one of those two-sided men who may pass in a crowd and vanish without being recognized because chance has brought only one of their sides to light. It is the lot of many men to live in this half-submerged state. In normal, uneventful circumstances he had everything required to make him appear (we do not say, to be) what is commonly known as an honest tradesman, a good citizen. But at the same time, given the requisite conditions, the stimulus to his lower nature, he had all the makings of a thoroughpaced villain. He was a tradesman harbouring a monster, and Satan must at times have crouched in a corner of whatever place he inhabited and admired his odious handiwork.
After a moment of reflection he concluded that to turn back now would only give them time to get away; so he pressed on with speed and with a purposefulness not far short of certainty, the keenness of a fox scenting a covey of partridges.
And when, after passing the ponds and obliquely crossing the large meadow to the right of the Avenue de Bellevue, he came to the grass walk which almost encircles the hill and skirts the vaulting of the old aqueduct of the Abbaye de Chelles, he saw, emerging from above a bush, a hat which had already given him much food for thought. The bush was a low one, and Thénardier surmised that the man and Cosette were seated just beyond it; although the child was too small to be seen he could see the head of her doll.
He had guessed rightly. They had sat down to allow Cosette to rest. Thénardier rounded the bush and suddenly confronted them.
‘I beg your pardon, monsieur,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I am returning your fifteen hundred francs.’ And he held out the three banknotes.
The man looked up.
‘What does this mean?’
‘It means, monsieur,’ Thénardier said in a respectful tone, ‘that I am taking Cosette back.’
Cosette shuddered and pressed herself against the man. He was looking Thénardier straight in the eyes. He repeated slowly, stressing every syllable:
‘You are taking Cosette back?’
‘Yes, monsieur. I’ve been thinking. I have no right to let you have her. I am a man of honour, monsieur. The child is not mine, she belongs to her mother. She was entrusted to my care by her mother and I can only return her to her mother. You will say, “But her mother is dead.” That may be so. But in that case I can only hand the child over to a person bringing me a document signed by the mother saying that I am to hand the child over to that person. That is clearly essential.’
Without speaking the man put a hand in his pocket and Thénardier witnessed the reappearance of the wallet stuffed with banknotes. He quivered with delight. ‘Stick to your guns, lad,’ he thought. ‘You’re going to be bribed.’
Before opening the wallet the stranger glanced about him. The place was quite deserted, not a soul in sight. He opened the wallet, but instead of bringing out the sheaf of notes which Thénardier was looking for, he produced nothing but a sheet of paper which he unfolded and handed to him.
‘You were right to ask for this,’ he said. ‘Please read it.’
Thénardier read:
Montreuil-sur-mer
25 March 1823.
Monsieur Thénardier,
You will hand Cosette over to the bearer.
Everything owing will be paid.
I send you my regards,
Fantine.
‘You recognize the signature?’ the stranger said.
It was unmistakably Fantine’s handwriting. Thénardier had no reply. He was filled with a violent, twofold resentment, at losing the handsome bribe he had been hoping for, and at having been defeated.
‘You can keep the letter as your quittance,’ the stranger said.
Thénardier retreated in good order.
‘It’s a well-forged signature,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘However … ’ He made a last, despairing effort. ‘Very well, monsieur, since you are the bearer of this letter. But it says that every-thing owing will be paid. That’ll come to a great deal.’
The stranger got to his feet and said while he brushed the dust off his shabby sleeve:
‘Monsieur Thénardier, the child’s mother reckoned in January that she owed you a hundred and twenty francs. In February you sent her a bill for five hundred. You received three hundred at the end of February and another three hundred at the beginning of March. Nine months have passed since then, which at the agreed price of fifteen francs a month makes a total of one hundred and thirty-five francs. You had received a hundred francs in advance, leaving thirty-five still to be paid. I have today paid you fifteen hundred francs.’
Thénardier felt like a wolf with the jaws of a trap closing on him. ‘Who is this devilish fellow?’ he wondered. And he did what the wolf does. He made a spring. Brazen audacity had served him once already.
‘Mister Don’t-know-your-name,’ he said, casting civility aside. ‘Either you pay me another thousand crowns or I take Cosette back.’
The stranger said calmly:
‘Come here, Cosette.’
He reached out his left hand to the child and with his right picked up the stick which was lying beside him on the grass. Thénardier became aware of the formidable nature of this cudgel with its heavy knob, and also of the loneliness of the spot. Without another word the stranger turned and, clasping Cosette by the hand, led her away into the wood, leaving the innkeeper, motionless and thunderstruck, to stare at his slightly bowed but massive shoulders and the size of his fists. From this he went on to consider his own puny frame – ‘I was an utter dolt not to bring my gun,’ he reflected, ‘seeing that I was hunting.’
But stil
l he did not give up. ‘At least I’ll find out where they’re going,’ he thought, and he began to follow them, the richer by two things – the letter signed ‘Fantine’, which was a joke against himself, and a consolation prize, the fifteen hundred francs.
The man was leading Cosette in the direction of Livry and Bondy. He was walking slowly with his head bowed in an attitude of pensive melancholy. The time of year, robbing the trees of their foliage, made it easy for Thénardier to keep them in sight while following at a safe distance. Nevertheless the man, looking round from time to time, presently noticed him. He at once drew Cosette into a coppice where they were less visible. ‘The devil!’ muttered Thénardier, and quickened his pace.
The density of the coppice obliged pursuer and pursued to draw closer together. At its thickest part the man again turned, and although Thénardier made what use he could of the undergrowth he could not prevent himself from being seen. The man looked uncertainly at him, then shook his head and went on. Thénardier continued to follow. After they had gone another two or three hundred paces the man again suddenly turned and again saw him. This time his gaze was so formidable that Thénardier decided it would be unwise to follow him further. He turned back.
XI
Reappearance of No. 9430
Jean Valjean had not died.
As we know, when he had fallen, or rather flung himself, into the sea he had been released from his shackles. He had swum under water to a moored vessel to which a boat was tied, and had hidden in the boat until nightfall. After dark he had taken to the sea again and swum along the coast to a place a short distance from Cap Brun. Here, since he did not lack money, he was able to buy clothes. There was a small drinking-place near Balaguier which specialized in supplying the needs of escaped convicts, a highly profitable sideline. Thereafter, like all fugitives seeking to escape the vigilance of the law and social mischance, Valjean had travelled a dark and circuitous road. He first found shelter in Les Pradeaux, near Beausset, and thence went to a village near Briançon in the Hautes-Alpes. It was a furtive, mole-like journey of which all the twists and turns are not known. Traces of him were later picked up at a village in the Pyrenees and in the neighbourhood of Périgueux. Eventually he reached Paris and thence had gone to Montfermeil.
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