(原版)澳大利亞語文第四冊 LESSON 22

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LESSON 22 LITTLE COSETTE

LITTLE COSETTE

I

VICTOR HUGO (1802-1885), great French poet, dramatist, and novelist. His best known works are Les Mis’erables, Notre Dame, The Toilers of the Sea, Hernani , &c.

COSETTE was in her usual place, seated on the crosspiece of the kitchen table, near the fire-place. She was dressed in rags; her bare feet were in wooden shoes, and by the light of the fire she was knitting woollen stockings for the family. In the next room the fresh voices of two children were heard laughing and prattling.

On this Christmas evening several men were seated at table in the low room of the inn. Four new guests had just come in. Cosette was thinking sadly that it was evening, late in the evening, that the bowls and pitchers [1] in the rooms must be filled, and that there was no more water in the cistern [2] . From time to time one of the travellers would look out into the street and say, “It is as dark as an oven!” or, “It would take a cat to go along the streets to-night!” and Cosette shuddered.

All at once a man came in from the yard and said in a harsh voice, “You have not watered my horse.”

Cosette came out from under the table.

“Oh, yes, sir!” said she; “the horse did drink. He drank from the bucket, and I carried the bucket to him and talked to him.”

This was not true. Cosette was afraid, and she told a lie.

“Here is a girl as big as my fist who can tell a lie as big as a house,” said the man. “I say he has not had any water.”

Cosette went back under the table.

Madame threw the street door open.

“Well,” she said angrily, “what has become of that girl? Go and carry some drink to this horse.”

“But, Madame,” said Cosette feebly, “there is no water.”

“Go after some!” Madame went back to the stove as she spoke. “There is plenty at the spring. She is the laziest girl that ever was. Here, Miss, get a loaf of bread at the baker’s when you come back. Here is a sixpence.”

Cosette had gone for an empty bucket that was by the fireplace. The bucket was so large that she could have sat down in it with comfort. The child had a little pocket in the side of her apron. She took the money without saying a word and dropped it into this pocket, but she did not seem to see the open door. her head down like an old woman. The iron handle was freezing her little wet hands. The cold water splashed over her bare knees. Sobs choked her, but she did not dare to cry, so great was her fear of Madame, even at this distance.

“SHE DREW OUT THE BUCKET AND SET IT ON THE GRASS.”

At that moment she felt all at once that the weight of the bucket was gone. She raised her head. A large dark figure was walking beside her. It was a man who had come up behind her. Without saying a word, this man had grasped the handle of the bucket she was carrying.

Cosette was not afraid. The man spoke to her.

“My child,” he said, “this is very heavy for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cosette.

“How old are you, little girl?” said he.

“Eight years, sir.”

“You have no mother, then?”

“I don’t know,” said the child.

“Who was it sent you out into the woods after water at this time of night?”

“Madame,” said Cosette.

“What does she do, your Madame?” asked the man.

“She is my mistress,” said the child; “and she keeps the inn.”

“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going there. Show me the way.”

Cosette walked beside him. She no longer felt tired or afraid. Soon the man spoke again—

“Is there no servant at the inn?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, sir. Only there are two little girls.”

“Who are they and what do they do?” asked the man.

“Oh!” said the child; “they are Madame’s daughters, and they have beautiful playthings. They play all day long.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I work.”

“All day long?”

The child raised her face and said softly, “Yes, sir, though sometimes I play a little. I have a lead sword as long as that.” The child showed her little finger.

“And which does not cut?” said the man.

“Oh, yes,” said Cosette; “it cuts lettuce.”

crape: A thin crimped stuff made of raw silk.

IT is easy enough to be pleasant

When life flows like a song;

But the man worth while

Is the one who will smile

When everything goes wrong.

—ANON

* * *

[1] pitcher: Jug.

[2] cistern: Tank.