Editing Volume 4/Book 11/Chapter 2

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Eleventh: The Atom Fraternizes with the Hurricane, Chapter 2: Gavroche on the March<br />
(Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre onzi&egrave;me: L'atome fraternise avec l'ouragan, Chapitre 2: Gavroche en marche)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
L'agitation d'un pistolet sans chien qu'on tient &agrave; la main en pleine rue
est une telle fonction publique que Gavroche sentait cro&icirc;tre sa verve &agrave;
chaque pas. Il criait, parmi des bribes de la Marseillaise qu'il
chantait:

 
&mdash;Tout va bien. Je souffre beaucoup de la patte gauche, je me suis cass&eacute;
mon rhumatisme, mais je suis content, citoyens. Les bourgeois n'ont qu'&agrave;
se bien tenir, je vas leur &eacute;ternuer des couplets subversifs. Qu'est-ce
que c'est que les mouchards? c'est des chiens. Nom d'unch! ne manquons
pas de respect aux chiens. Avec &ccedil;a que je voudrais bien en avoir un &agrave;
mon pistolet. Je viens du boulevard, mes amis, &ccedil;a chauffe, &ccedil;a jette un
petit bouillon, &ccedil;a mijote. Il est temps d'&eacute;cumer le pot. En avant les
hommes! qu'un sang impur inonde les sillons! Je donne mes jours pour la
patrie, je ne reverrai plus ma concubine, n-i-ni, fini, oui, Nini! mais
c'est &eacute;gal, vive la joie! Battons-nous, crebleu! j'en ai assez du
despotisme.

 
En cet instant, le cheval d'un garde national lancier qui passait
s'&eacute;tant abattu, Gavroche posa son pistolet sur le pav&eacute;, et releva
l'homme, puis il aida &agrave; relever le cheval. Apr&egrave;s quoi il ramassa son
pistolet et reprit son chemin.

 
Rue de Thorigny, tout &eacute;tait paix et silence. Cette apathie, propre au
Marais, contrastait avec la vaste rumeur environnante. Quatre comm&egrave;res
causaient sur le pas d'une porte. L'&Eacute;cosse a des trios de sorci&egrave;res,
mais Paris a des quatuor de comm&egrave;res; et le &laquo;tu seras roi&raquo; serait tout
aussi lugubrement jet&eacute; &agrave; Bonaparte dans le carrefour Baudoyer qu'&agrave;
Macbeth dans la bruy&egrave;re d'Armuyr. Ce serait &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s le m&ecirc;me
croassement.

 
Les comm&egrave;res de la rue de Thorigny ne s'occupaient que de leurs
affaires. C'&eacute;taient trois porti&egrave;res et une chiffonni&egrave;re avec sa hotte et
son crochet.

 
Elles semblaient debout toutes les quatre aux quatre coins de la
vieillesse qui sont la caducit&eacute;, la d&eacute;cr&eacute;pitude, la ruine et la
tristesse.

 
La chiffonni&egrave;re &eacute;tait humble. Dans ce monde en plein vent, la
chiffonni&egrave;re salue, la porti&egrave;re prot&egrave;ge. Cela tient au coin de la borne
qui est ce que veulent les concierges, gras ou maigre, selon la
fantaisie de celui qui fait le tas. Il peut y avoir de la bont&eacute; dans le
balai.

 
Cette chiffonni&egrave;re &eacute;tait une hotte reconnaissante, et elle souriait,
quel sourire! aux trois porti&egrave;res. Il se disait des choses comme ceci:

 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, votre chat est donc toujours m&eacute;chant?

 
&mdash;Mon Dieu, les chats, vous le savez, naturellement sont l'ennemi des
chiens. C'est les chiens qui se plaignent.

 
&mdash;Et le monde aussi.

 
&mdash;Pourtant les puces de chat ne vont pas apr&egrave;s le monde.

 
&mdash;Ce n'est pas l'embarras, les chiens, c'est dangereux. Je me rappelle
une ann&eacute;e o&ugrave; il y avait tant de chiens qu'on a &eacute;t&eacute; oblig&eacute; de le mettre
dans les journaux. C'&eacute;tait du temps qu'il y avait aux Tuileries de
grands moutons qui tra&icirc;naient la petite voiture du roi de Rome. Vous
rappelez-vous le roi de Rome?

 
&mdash;Moi, j'aimais bien le duc de Bordeaux.

 
&mdash;Moi, j'ai connu Louis XVII. J'aime mieux Louis XVII.

 
&mdash;C'est la viande qui est ch&egrave;re, mame Patagon!

 
&mdash;Ah! ne m'en parlez pas, la boucherie est une horreur. Une horreur
horrible. On n'a plus que de la r&eacute;jouissance.

 
Ici la chiffonni&egrave;re intervint:

 
&mdash;Mesdames, le commerce ne va pas. Les tas d'ordures sont minables. On
ne jette plus rien. On mange tout.

 
&mdash;Il y en a de plus pauvres que vous, la Vargoul&ecirc;me.

 
&mdash;Ah, &Ccedil;a C'est vrai, r&eacute;pondit la chiffonni&egrave;re avec d&eacute;f&eacute;rence, moi j'ai
un &eacute;tat.

 
Il y eut une pause, et la chiffonni&egrave;re, c&eacute;dant &agrave; ce besoin d'&eacute;talage qui
est le fond de l'homme, ajouta:

 
&mdash;Le matin en rentrant, j'&eacute;pluche l'hotte, je fais mon treillage
(probablement triage). &Ccedil;a fait des tas dans ma chambre. Je mets les
chiffons dans un panier, les trognons dans un baquet, les linges dans
mon placard, les lainages dans ma commode, les vieux papiers dans le
coin de la fen&ecirc;tre, les choses bonnes &agrave; manger dans mon &eacute;cuelle, les
morceaux de verre dans la chemin&eacute;e, les savates derri&egrave;re la porte, et
les os sous mon lit.

 
Gavroche, arr&ecirc;t&eacute; derri&egrave;re, &eacute;coutait:

 
&mdash;Les vieilles, dit-il, qu'est-ce que vous avez donc &agrave; parler politique?

 
Une bord&eacute;e l'assaillit, compos&eacute;e d'une hu&eacute;e quadruple.

 
&mdash;En voil&agrave; encore un sc&eacute;l&eacute;rat!

 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce qu'il a donc &agrave; son moignon? Un pistolet?

 
&mdash;Je vous demande un peu, ce gueux de m&ocirc;me!

 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a n'est pas tranquille si &ccedil;a ne renverse pas l'autorit&eacute;.

 
Gavroche, d&eacute;daigneux, se borna, pour toute repr&eacute;saille, &agrave; soulever le
bout de son nez avec son pouce en ouvrant sa main toute grande.

 
La chiffonni&egrave;re cria:

 
&mdash;M&eacute;chant va-nu-pattes!

 
Celle qui r&eacute;pondait au nom de mame Patagon frappa ses deux mains l'une
contre l'autre avec scandale:

 
&mdash;Il va y avoir des malheurs, c'est s&ucirc;r. Le galopin d'&agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; qui a une
barbiche, je le voyais passer tous les matins avec une jeunesse en
bonnet rose sous le bras, aujourd'hui je l'ai vu passer, il donnait le
bras &agrave; un fusil. Mame Bacheux dit qu'il y a eu la semaine pass&eacute;e une
r&eacute;volution &agrave;... &agrave;... &agrave;...&mdash;o&ugrave; est le veau!&mdash;&agrave; Pontoise. Et puis le
voyez-vous l&agrave; avec un pistolet, cette horreur de polisson! Il para&icirc;t
qu'il y a des canons tout plein les C&eacute;lestins. Comment voulez-vous que
fasse le gouvernement avec des garnements qui ne savent qu'inventer pour
d&eacute;ranger le monde, quand on commen&ccedil;ait &agrave; &ecirc;tre un peu tranquille apr&egrave;s
tous les malheurs qu'il y a eu, bon Dieu Seigneur, cette pauvre reine
que j'ai vue passer dans la charrette! Et tout &ccedil;a va encore faire
rench&eacute;rir le tabac. C'est une infamie! Et certainement, j'irai te voir
guillotiner, malfaiteur!

 
&mdash;Tu renifles, mon ancienne, dit Gavroche. Mouche ton promontoire.

 
Et il passa outre.

 
Quand il fut rue Pav&eacute;e, la chiffonni&egrave;re lui revint &agrave; l'esprit, et il eut
ce soliloque:

 
&mdash;Tu as tort d'insulter les r&eacute;volutionnaires, m&egrave;re Coin-de-la-Borne. Ce
pistolet-l&agrave;, c'est dans ton int&eacute;r&ecirc;t. C'est pour que tu aies dans ta
hotte plus de choses bonnes &agrave; manger.

 
Tout &agrave; coup il entendit du bruit derri&egrave;re lui; c'&eacute;tait la porti&egrave;re
Patagon qui l'avait suivi, et qui, de loin, lui montrait le poing en
criant:

 
&mdash;Tu n'es qu'un b&acirc;tard!

 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a, dit Gavroche, je m'en fiche d'une mani&egrave;re profonde.

 
Peu apr&egrave;s, il passait devant l'h&ocirc;tel Lamoignon. L&agrave; il poussa cet appel:

 
&mdash;En route pour la bataille!

 
Et il fut pris d'un acc&egrave;s de m&eacute;lancolie. Il regarda son pistolet d'un
air de reproche qui semblait essayer de l'attendrir.

 
&mdash;Je pars, lui dit-il, mais toi tu ne pars pas.

 
Un chien peut distraire d'un autre. Un caniche tr&egrave;s maigre vint &agrave;
passer. Gavroche s'apitoya.

 
&mdash;Mon pauvre toutou, lui dit-il, tu as donc aval&eacute; un tonneau qu'on te
voit tous les cerceaux.

 
Puis il se dirigea vers l'Orme-Saint-Gervais.

 
==English text==

 
The brandishing of a triggerless pistol, grasped in one's hand in the open
street, is so much of a public function that Gavroche felt his fervor
increasing with every moment. Amid the scraps of the Marseillaise which he
was singing, he shouted:&mdash;

 
"All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I'm all broken up
with rheumatism, but I'm satisfied, citizens. All that the bourgeois have
to do is to bear themselves well, I'll sneeze them out subversive
couplets. What are the police spies? Dogs. And I'd just like to have one
of them at the end of my pistol. I'm just from the boulevard, my friends.
It's getting hot there, it's getting into a little boil, it's simmering.
It's time to skim the pot. Forward march, men! Let an impure blood
inundate the furrows! I give my days to my country, I shall never see my
concubine more, Nini, finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long live joy!
Let's fight, crebleu! I've had enough of despotism."

 
At that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National Guard having fallen,
Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, and picked up the man, then he
assisted in raising the horse. After which he picked up his pistol and
resumed his way. In the Rue de Thorigny, all was peace and silence. This
apathy, peculiar to the Marais, presented a contrast with the vast
surrounding uproar. Four gossips were chatting in a doorway.

 
Scotland has trios of witches, Paris has quartettes of old gossiping hags;
and the "Thou shalt be King" could be quite as mournfully hurled at
Bonaparte in the Carrefour Baudoyer as at Macbeth on the heath of Armuyr.
The croak would be almost identical.

 
The gossips of the Rue de Thorigny busied themselves only with their own
concerns. Three of them were portresses, and the fourth was a rag-picker
with her basket on her back.

 
All four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age,
which are decrepitude, decay, ruin, and sadness.

 
The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air society, it is the rag-picker
who salutes and the portress who patronizes. This is caused by the corner
for refuse, which is fat or lean, according to the will of the portresses,
and after the fancy of the one who makes the heap. There may be kindness
in the broom.

 
This rag-picker was a grateful creature, and she smiled, with what a
smile! on the three portresses. Things of this nature were said:&mdash;

 
"Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross?"

 
"Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you know. It's the
dogs who complain."

 
"And people also."

 
"But the fleas from a cat don't go after people."

 
"That's not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember one year when
there were so many dogs that it was necessary to put it in the newspapers.
That was at the time when there were at the Tuileries great sheep that
drew the little carriage of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of
Rome?"

 
"I liked the Duc de Bordeau better."

 
"I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII."

 
"Meat is awfully dear, isn't it, Mother Patagon?"

 
"Ah! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror. A horrible horror&mdash;one
can't afford anything but the poor cuts nowadays."

 
Here the rag-picker interposed:&mdash;

 
"Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable. No one throws
anything away any more. They eat everything."

 
"There are poorer people than you, la Vargouleme."

 
"Ah, that's true," replied the rag-picker, with deference, "I have a
profession."

 
A pause succeeded, and the rag-picker, yielding to that necessity for
boasting which lies at the bottom of man, added:&mdash;

 
"In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my basket, I sort my
things. This makes heaps in my room. I put the rags in a basket, the cores
and stalks in a bucket, the linen in my cupboard, the woollen stuff in my
commode, the old papers in the corner of the window, the things that are
good to eat in my bowl, the bits of glass in my fireplace, the old shoes
behind my door, and the bones under my bed."

 
Gavroche had stopped behind her and was listening.

 
"Old ladies," said he, "what do you mean by talking politics?"

 
He was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple howl.

 
"Here's another rascal."

 
"What's that he's got in his paddle? A pistol?"

 
"Well, I'd like to know what sort of a beggar's brat this is?"

 
"That sort of animal is never easy unless he's overturning the
authorities."

 
Gavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, with
elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his hand wide.

 
The rag-picker cried:&mdash;

 
"You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch!"

 
The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands together in
horror.

 
"There's going to be evil doings, that's certain. The errand-boy next door
has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day with a young
person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass, and he had a
gun on his arm. Mame Bacheux says, that last week there was a revolution
at&mdash;at&mdash;at&mdash;where's the calf!&mdash;at Pontoise. And then,
there you see him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol! It seems that the
Celestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose the Government can do
with good-for-nothings who don't know how to do anything but contrive ways
of upsetting the world, when we had just begun to get a little quiet after
all the misfortunes that have happened, good Lord! to that poor queen whom
I saw pass in the tumbril! And all this is going to make tobacco dearer.
It's infamous! And I shall certainly go to see him beheaded on the
guillotine, the wretch!"

 
"You've got the sniffles, old lady," said Gavroche. "Blow your
promontory."

 
And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavee, the rag-picker occurred to
his mind, and he indulged in this soliloquy:&mdash;

 
"You're in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother
Dust-Heap-Corner. This pistol is in your interests. It's so that you may
have more good things to eat in your basket."

 
All at once, he heard a shout behind him; it was the portress Patagon who
had followed him, and who was shaking her fist at him in the distance and
crying:&mdash;

 
"You're nothing but a bastard."

 
"Oh! Come now," said Gavroche, "I don't care a brass farthing for that!"

 
Shortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There he uttered this
appeal:&mdash;

 
"Forward march to the battle!"

 
And he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at his pistol with an
air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it:&mdash;

 
"I'm going off," said he, "but you won't go off!"

 
One dog may distract the attention from another dog.[[45]] A very gaunt poodle came
along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him.

 
"My poor doggy," said he, "you must have gone and swallowed a cask, for
all the hoops are visible."

 
Then he directed his course towards l'Orme-Saint-Gervais.


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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