Meanwhile: Cosette had been able to trade her dress to a seamstress shop for a mere twenty francs and a simple muslin. Not much else had been accomplished. Since she was seven years old Cosette hadn't had a care in the world. She had never imagined a different future than the one she shared with her papa in their quaint country mansion seldom leaving the gates of her wild garden paradise.
Now she was desperate. She had no other plan than to go knocking on every door she saw, asking for work. Despite her naivety Cosette was determined. Her papa had saved her once, and now she must repay the favor. She gritted her teeth and rapped at the next door. She would not let him down.
"Excuse me Monsieur," Cosette spoke and stood as gracefully as a queen, "but are you in need of any services-"
"Wot do you tyke me for eh? Git out o' 'ere!"
"My apologies,"
Next door. Nothing. Next door. Can't afford another maid. Next door. Find yourself a husband, he'll take care of you. Next door. "Please-" Slam. Next door. Not home. Next door. Not tonight.
It was beginning to rain, and Cosette was cold. The Cafe Musain lured her like a trap. She could hear the laughter from down the street, and the glowing windows beckoned her with one word: Heat. She splashed through the street, as fast as she could. The cafe was bound to want someone extra around to run errands, clean, serve customers. Things Cosette had once been accustomed to.
She threw the door open, twisted some water out of her long hair, pinched her cheeks, plastered on a smile, and marched up to the front counter.
"Raining is it?" asked the rosey bartender.
"Yes monsieur," Cosette blushed.
"Well what do you want then?" he asked, leaning over the counter.
Cosette cleared her throat, praying silently the way papa had taught her. "I want a job monsieur. Please, I'll do anything you like."
"Oh really... Anything?" his dirty fingers reached for her cheek.
She turned away,"No. Not that. I'm not that desperate." This bartender had asked of her the one thing she was not prepared to do. She knew if it was her father's choice he would rather be guillotined a thousand times than allow her to sell herself that way.
The bartender scoffed, "Well come back when you are then. Out with ya!"
The words were wasted because Cosette had already bolted for the door. Had she really been taken for a woman of the street? Compared to this man, the rain seemed extremely inviting. At least it would hide her tears.
"Mademuaselle wait!" It was not the bartender's voice. This voice belonged to someone kind and gentle. Someone not unlike her papa. The second she heard it she knew she could trust its owner. "Wait." he said again, although she had already stopped.
"Yes Monsieur?" she asked.
"What is your name?"
"Cosette,"
"My name is Marius Pontmercy."