Forests are apocalypses，and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault.
Without understanding her sensations，Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by that black enormity of nature；it was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her；it was something more terrible even than terror；she shivered.There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver which chilled her to the very bottom of her heart；her eye grew wild；she thought she felt that she should not be able to refrain from returning there at the same hour on the morrow.
Then，by a sort of instinct，she began to count aloud，one，two，three，four，and so on up to ten，in order to escape from that singular state which she did not understand，but which terrified her，and，when she had finished，she began again；this restored her to a true perception of the things about her.Her hands，which she had wet in drawing the water，felt cold；she rose；her terror，a natural and unconquerable terror，had returned：
she had but one thought now，——to flee at full speed through the forest，across the fields to the houses，to the windows，to the lighted candles.
Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her；such was the fright which the Thenardier inspired in her，that she dared not flee without that bucket of water：she seized the handle with both hands；she could hardly lift the pail.
In this manner she advanced a dozen paces，but the bucket was full；it was heavy；she was forced to set it on the ground once more.She took breath for an instant，then lifted the handle of the bucket again，and resumed her march，proceeding a little further this time，but again she was obliged to pause.
After some seconds of repose she set out again.
She walked bent forward，with drooping head，like an old woman；the weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms.
The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands；she was forced to halt from time to time，and each time that she did so，the cold water which splashed from the pail fell on her bare legs.
This took place in the depths of a forest，at night，in winter，far from all human sight；she was a child of eight：
no one but God saw that sad thing at the moment.
And her mother，no doubt，alas！
For there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves.
She panted with a sort of painful rattle；sobs contracted her throat，but she dared not weep，so afraid was she of the Thenardier，even at a distance：
it was her custom to imagine the Thenardier always present.
However，she could not make much headway in that manner，and she went on very slowly.
In spite of diminishing the length of her stops，and of walking as long as possible between them，she reflected with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to Montfermeil in this manner，and that the Thenardier would beat her.This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woods at night；she was worn out with fatigue，and had not yet emerged from the forest.
On arriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she was acquainted，made a last halt，longer than the rest，in order that she might get well rested；then she summoned up all her strength，picked up her bucket again，and courageously resumed her march，but the poor little desperate creature could not refrain from crying，'O my God！my God！'
At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all：
a hand，which seemed to her enormous，had just seized the handle，and lifted it vigorously.
She raised her head.
A large black form，straight and erect，was walking beside her through the darkness；it was a man who had come up behind her，and whose approach she had not heard.
This man，without uttering a word，had seized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying.
There are instincts for all the encounters of life.
The child was not afraid.
BOOK THIRD.——ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN
Ⅵ WHICH POSSIBLY PROVES BOULATRUELLE'S INTELLIGENCE
On the afternoon of that same Christmas Day，1823，a man had walked for rather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard de l'Hopital in Paris.
This man had the air of a person who is seeking lodgings，and he seemed to halt，by preference，at the most modest houses on that dilapidated border of the faubourg Saint-Marceau.
We shall see further on that this man had，in fact，hired a chamber in that isolated quarter.
This man，in his attire，as in all his person，realized the type of what may be called the well-bred mendicant，——extreme wretchedness combined with extreme cleanliness.
This is a very rare mixture which inspires intelligent hearts with that double respect which one feels for the man who is very poor，and for the man who is very worthy.He wore a very old and very well brushed round hat；a coarse coat，worn perfectly threadbare，of an ochre yellow，a color that was not in the least eccentric at that epoch；a large waistcoat with pockets of a venerable cut；black breeches，worn gray at the knee，stockings of black worsted；and thick shoes with copper buckles.He would have been pronounced a preceptor in some good family，returned from the emigration.
He would have been taken for more than sixty years of age，from his perfectly white hair，his wrinkled brow，his livid lips，and his countenance，where everything breathed depression and weariness of life.
Judging from his firm tread，from the singular vigor which stamped all his movements，he would have hardly been thought fifty.
The wrinkles on his brow were well placed，and would have disposed in his favor any one who observed him attentively.
His lip contracted with a strange fold which seemed severe，and which was humble.