On the following morning, two hours at least before day-break, Thénardier, seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavern, pen in hand, was making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow coat.
His wife, standing beside him, and half bent over him, was following him with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand, there was profound meditation, on the other, the religious admiration with which one watches the birth and development of a marvel of the human mind.
A noise was audible in the house; it was the Lark sweeping the stairs. After the lapse of a good quarter of an hour, and some erasures, Thénardier produced the following masterpiece:— BILL OF THE GENTLEMAN IN No. 1. Service was written servisse. 'Twenty-three francs!
' cried the woman, with an enthusiasm which was mingled with some hesitation. Like all great artists, Thénardier was dissatisfied. 'Peuh! ' he exclaimed. It was the accent of Castlereagh auditing France’s bill at the Congress of Vienna.
'Monsieur Thénardier, you are right; he certainly owes that,' murmured the wife, who was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette in the presence of her daughters. 'It is just, but it is too much. He will not pay it.
' Thénardier laughed coldly, as usual, and said:— 'He will pay. ' This laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and authority. That which was asserted in this manner must needs be so. His wife did not insist. She set about arranging the table; her husband paced the room.
A moment later he added:— 'I owe full fifteen hundred francs! ' He went and seated himself in the chimney-corner, meditating, with his feet among the warm ashes. 'Ah! by the way,' resumed his wife, 'you don’t forget that I’m going to turn Cosette out of