:--

"I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!"

She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath,
and began to listen with rapture.

There was a child playing in the yard--the child of the portress or
of some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always
occurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious stage-setting
of mournful scenes. The child--a little girl--was going and coming,
running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice.
Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was this
little girl whom Fantine heard singing.

"Oh!" she resumed, "it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice."

The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine
listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M.
Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: "How wicked that doctor is not
to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that
he has."

But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She
continued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow: "How
happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first
thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the
garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell.
She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then
she will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first
communion?"

She began to reckon on her fingers.

"One, two, three, four--she is seven years old. In five years she will
have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little
woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I
think of my daughter's first communion!"

She began to laugh.

He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one listens
to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind
absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased
speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine
had become terrible.

She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to
a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her face,
which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she
seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something
alarming at the other extremity of the room.

"Good God!" he exclaimed; "what ails you, Fantine?"