When the family first arrived at the inn, Cosette was standing by the fireplace, prodding at the dying flames with the long iron poker. Opening the door brought in a burst of wind, which swirled through the broad room and, though it gave the ragged little serving-girl a chill, ruffled the ashes on the hearth, bringing the fading embers back to flickering life.
The boy entered first, his mother just behind with an ivory hand gripping his shoulder. It seemed at the time a protective move, but later Cosette would realise that without the boy's support she would have fallen. The mother was breathtakingly elegant, with white skin and ebony hair falling in perfect curls around her delicate face; the son was nearly identical but for a sharpness that did not exist in his mother's features. His dark hair was pulled back severely, secured with a narrow scarlet ribbon. Both had proud, black eyes that flashed haughtily from above their high cheekbones, taking in the inn and its inhabitants with one searing glance. The boy could not have been more than ten years old.
Once the mother was seated at the nearest table, her posture razor-straight, the boy's piercing gaze rested on Cosette, who had shrunk into the shadows near the hearth in hopes of watching these majestic newcomers undetected. His black eyes fell upon her at once, and he strode across the room with long, purposeful steps until he stood before her.
"Hello," he said. The tone was not inquisitive or even really friendly; in fact, he sounded more like a businessman keeping an appointment with a colleague.
Afraid to respond, Cosette lowered her eyes. The boy was dressed in a fine little black suit and white chemise. A carefully-tied red cravat and the matching hair ribbon were the only spots of colour in his wardrobe, close matches to the colour of his lips.
"Not much of a babbler, hm?" he said knowledgeably, dark little brows lifted. His voice was soft and sharp all at once; Cosette wanted him to keep speaking as much as she wanted him to let her retreat to the safety of the crossbar under the table.
Cosette was spared from answering when the sound of a large crash came from outside, followed by an equally loud but good-natured curse. Most of the inn's patrons craned their neck toward the door as the last member of the little family staggered into the tavern.
Nothing could have made him any more different from his wife and son. They had long, dark hair; he was bald. They had deep black eyes; his were rheumy. They were beautiful; he was ugly. The father reeled toward the table where his carefully-composed wife sat and plopped into a chair, tilting it back on two legs and proclaiming in a loud voice that he was ready for a good meal and a room.
Cosette, meanwhile, was staring at this newcomer, mouth agape. Her eyes went back to the boy, whose jaw was clenched and nostrils flared in clear annoyance.
"My father," he muttered, slowly regaining his poise.
"Has he been here before?"
The words came out as a squeak, for the little girl had been taught not to address customers (and this was a particularly intimidating one), but something about the gentleman who had entered so unceremoniously was familiar to her.
The boy's eyes flashed; for a moment Cosette was afraid she had angered him, but when he responded she sensed that he was actually amused, or perhaps even glad that the little girl had spoken. "We've no way of knowing. He studies and keeps a job in Paris and is gone most of the time. He spent years there, only coming home to Toulouse for a week here and a week there. But if you recognise him, it's likely you've seen him before. Someone like that is not easily forgotten."
Cosette nodded meekly.
"We're on our way to Paris now. My mother wants to be closer to him now that she's… not well. I don't know what it is, but she cares for the old fool." The boy stepped back, murmured "I should go to her," and retreated.
Once he was gone, Cosette went back to poking at the fire, occasionally glancing over her shoulder and watching the strange guests. At length, when the Thénardiers came into the room, she noticed that the boy refused to answer anything Éponine or little Azelma whispered to him.