Meanwhile, the man, having left his bundle and stick on a bench, had taken his seat at a table, where Cosette had hurried to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The peddler who had asked for the water had gone himself to take it to the horse. Cosette had taken her place under the kitchen table with her knitting.
The stranger, who had hardly touched the wine that he had poured out, was looking at the child with strange attention.
Cosette was homely. Happy, she might have been pretty. Now, she was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but one would have guessed her hardly six. The whole figure of this child—her manner, her way of moving, the sound of her voice, the stammering speech, her look, her silence, her least gesture—expressed one single idea, fear.
This fear was so great that on reaching the inn, wet as she was, Cosette had not dared to dry herself at the fire, but had gone quietly to work.
The stranger did not take his eyes away from Cosette.
Suddenly Madame Thénardier cried, “Well now, where is the bread?”
Cosette, as she always did when her mistress raised her voice, came quickly from under the table.
She had entirely forgotten the bread. She did, alas! what many children do when frightened; she lied.
“Madame, the baker shop was closed.”
“I will find out to-morrow if this is so,” said the woman, “and if you are lying I will make you pay for it. Meanwhile, give me the money.” Cosette put her hand into her apron pocket. The money was not there.