It is remarkable that Éponine did not speak slang; ever since she had known Marius that frightful language had become impossible to her. She pressed Gueulemer's great coarse fingers in her little bony hand, which was as weak as that of a skeleton, and continued,—"You know very well that I am no fool, and people generally believe me. I have done you a service now and then; well, I have made inquiries, and you would run a needless risk. I swear to you that there is nothing to be done in this house."
"There are lone women," said Gueulemer.
"No, they have moved away."
"Well, the candles haven't," Babet remarked; and he pointed over the trees to a light which was moving about the garret. It was Toussaint, who was up so late in order to hang up some linen to dry. Éponine made a final effort.
"Well," she said, "they are very poor people, and there isn't a penny piece in the house."
"Go to the devil," cried Thénardier; "when we have turned the house topsy-turvy, and placed the cellar at top and the attics at the bottom, we will tell you what there is inside, and whether they are balles, ronds, or broques [francs, sous, or liards]."
And he thrust her away that he might pass.
"My kind M. Montparnasse," Éponine said, "I ask you, who are a good fellow, not to go in."
"Take care, you'll cut yourself," Montparnasse replied.
Thénardier remarked, with that decisive accent of his,—