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Thenardier retreated in tolerably good order.
‘This signature is fairly well imitated,’ he growled be-
tween his teeth; ‘however, let it go!’
Then he essayed a desperate effort.
‘It is well, sir,’ he said, ‘since you are the person, but I
must be paid for all those little things. A great deal is ow-
ing to me.’
The man rose to his feet, filliping the dust from his
thread-bare sleeve:—
‘Monsieur Thenardier, in January last, the mother reck-
oned that she owed you one hundred and twenty francs.
In February, you sent her a bill of five hundred francs; you
received three hundred francs at the end of February, and
three hundred francs at the beginning of March. Since then
nine months have elapsed, at fifteen francs a month, the
price agreed upon, which makes one hundred and thirty-
five francs. You had received one hundred francs too much;
that makes thirty-five still owing you. I have just given you
fifteen hundred francs.’
Thenardier’s sensations were those of the wolf at the mo-
ment when he feels himself nipped and seized by the steel
jaw of the trap.
‘Who is this devil of a man?’ he thought.
He did what the wolf does: he shook himself. Audacity
had succeeded with him once.
‘Monsieur-I-don’t-know-your-name,’ he said resolute-
ly, and this time casting aside all respectful ceremony, ‘I
shall take back Cosette if you do not give me a thousand
crow ns.’