"So you have no mother."
"I don't know," answered the child.
Before the man had time to speak again, she added:--
"I don't think so.
Other people have mothers.
I have none."
And after a silence she went on:--
"I think that I never had any."
The man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hands on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark.
Cosette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky.
"What is your name?" said the man.
"Cosette."
The man seemed to have received an electric shock.
He looked at her once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette's shoulders, seized the bucket, and set out again.
After a moment he inquired:--
"Where do you live, little one?"
"At Montfermeil, if you know where that is."
"That is where we are going?"
"Yes, sir."
He paused; then began again:--