“Here, you little toad,” added she, “on your way home get a loaf of bread. Here is the money.”
Cosette had a little side pocket in her apron. She took the piece of silver without a word, and put it into the pocket. Then she stood quite still, the pail in her hand, and the open door before her.
“Get along with you!” cried the woman.
Cosette went out. The door was closed behind her.
Cosette went along the crooked and deserted streets on that side of the town. As long as there were houses or even high walls on both sides of her, she walked bravely enough. From time to time she caught sight of a lighted candle through a crack in the shutters; there were light, and life, and people, and this comforted her. However, the farther she went the more slowly she walked. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cosette stopped. To pass the last shop had been hard, but to pass the last house,—this was impossible. She turned firmly back. Scarcely had she walked a hundred steps when she stopped again. The thought of Madame Thénardier stopped her. Before her stood the picture of the angry woman; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the wood. Suddenly she turned again to the path to the spring, and started to run. Even while running she felt like crying. The chill of the night and of the forest encompassed her.
There were only seven or eight minutes from the edge of the woods to the spring. Cosette knew the path only too well, having been over it many times every day. She dared not glance either right or left for fear of seeing things in the branches or the bushes. At last she reached the spring.
Cosette did not stop to take breath. It was fearfully dark, but she was used to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the darkness for a young oak that hung over it, by which she used to support herself, found the branch, caught hold of it, and plunged the pail into the water. While doing this, she could not see that her pocket had emptied itself into the spring. The silver coin had fallen into the water; Cosette did not notice it. She drew up the pail almost full, and rested it on the grass. She shut her eyes, then opened them again, not knowing why. Then she counted aloud, one, two, three, and up to ten, and when she had finished she began again. Then she felt the cold in her hands, which she had wet in dipping the water. Suddenly she saw the pail before her. She seized the handle with both hands. It was hard to lift. She had to stop many times to rest, then she walked on with her head bent forward. The weight of the pail stiffened her little arms. All this was taking place in the heart of a wood, at night, in winter, far from every human eye, and this was a child only eight years old. Now and then she would cry aloud, “Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!”
Suddenly she felt that the pail was no longer heavy. A hand which seemed immense had seized the handle and lifted it with power. She looked up. A large form, dark and straight, was walking beside her in the gloom. It was a man who had come behind her, whom she had not heard. This man, without a word, had taken hold of the pail she was carrying.
There are instincts for all the meetings of life. The child felt no fear.
The man spoke to her. His voice was grave and almost a whisper.