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and Azelma were bundling up the cat, Cosette, on her side,
had dressed up her sword. That done, she laid it in her arms,
and sang to it softly, to lull it to sleep.
The doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the
same time, one of the most charming instincts of feminine
childhood. To care for, to clothe, to deck, to dress, to un-
dress, to redress, to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandle,
to lull to sleep, to imagine that something is some one,—
therein lies the whole woman’s future. While dreaming and
chattering, making tiny outfits, and baby clothes, while
sewing little gowns, and corsages and bodices, the child
grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl, the
big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of
the last doll.
A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite
as impossible, as a woman without children.
So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword.
Madame Thenardier approached the yellow man; ‘My
husband is right,’ she thought; ‘perhaps it is M. Laffitte;
there are such queer rich men!’
She came and set her elbows on the table.
‘Monsieur,’ said she. At this word, Monsieur, the man
turned; up to that time, the Thenardier had addressed him
only as brave homme or bonhomme.
‘You see, sir,’ she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that
was even more repulsive to behold than her fierce mien, ‘I
am willing that the child should play; I do not oppose it, but
it is good for once, because you are generous. You see, she
has nothing; she must needs work.’