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Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Sixth: Little Gavroche, Chapter 2: In which Little Gavroche extracts Profit from Napoleon the Great<br />
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(Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre sixi&egrave;me:  Le petit Gavroche, Chapitre 2: O&ugrave; le petit Gavroche tire parti de Napol&eacute;on le Grand)
 
 
 
==General notes on this chapter==
 
 
 
==French text==
 
 
 
 
Le printemps &agrave; Paris est assez souvent travers&eacute; par des bises aigres et
 
dures dont on est, non pas pr&eacute;cis&eacute;ment glac&eacute;, mais gel&eacute;; ces bises, qui
 
attristent les plus belles journ&eacute;es, font exactement l'effet de ces
 
souffles d'air froid qui entrent dans une chambre chaude par les fentes
 
d'une fen&ecirc;tre ou d'une porte mal ferm&eacute;e. Il semble que la sombre porte
 
de l'hiver soit rest&eacute;e entreb&acirc;ill&eacute;e et qu'il vienne du vent par l&agrave;. Au
 
printemps de 1832, &eacute;poque o&ugrave; &eacute;clata la premi&egrave;re grande &eacute;pid&eacute;mie de ce
 
si&egrave;cle en Europe, ces bises &eacute;taient plus &acirc;pres et plus poignantes que
 
jamais. C'&eacute;tait une porte plus glaciale encore que celle de l'hiver qui
 
&eacute;tait entr'ouverte. C'&eacute;tait la porte du s&eacute;pulcre. On sentait dans ces
 
bises le souffle du chol&eacute;ra.
 
 
 
 
Au point de vue m&eacute;t&eacute;orologique, ces vents froids avaient cela de
 
particulier qu'ils n'excluaient point une forte tension &eacute;lectrique. De
 
fr&eacute;quents orages, accompagn&eacute;s d'&eacute;clairs et de tonnerres, &eacute;clat&egrave;rent &agrave;
 
cette &eacute;poque.
 
 
 
 
Un soir que ces bises soufflaient rudement, au point que janvier
 
semblait revenu et que les bourgeois avaient repris les manteaux, le
 
petit Gavroche, toujours grelottant ga&icirc;ment sous ses loques, se tenait
 
debout et comme en extase devant la boutique d'un perruquier des
 
environs de l'Orme-Saint-Gervais. Il &eacute;tait orn&eacute; d'un ch&acirc;le de femme en
 
laine, cueilli on ne sait o&ugrave;, dont il s'&eacute;tait fait un cache-nez. Le
 
petit Gavroche avait l'air d'admirer profond&eacute;ment une mari&eacute;e en cire,
 
d&eacute;collet&eacute;e et coiff&eacute;e de fleurs d'oranger, qui tournait derri&egrave;re la
 
vitre, montrant, entre deux quinquets, son sourire aux passants; mais en
 
r&eacute;alit&eacute; il observait la boutique afin de voir s'il ne pourrait pas
 
&laquo;chiper&raquo; dans la devanture un pain de savon, qu'il irait ensuite
 
revendre un sou &agrave; un &laquo;coiffeur&raquo; de la banlieue. Il lui arrivait souvent
 
de d&eacute;jeuner d'un de ces pains-l&agrave;. Il appelait ce genre de travail, pour
 
lequel il avait du talent, &laquo;faire la barbe aux barbiers&raquo;.
 
 
 
 
Tout en contemplant la mari&eacute;e et tout en lorgnant le pain de savon, il
 
grommelait entre ces dents ceci:&mdash;Mardi.&mdash;Ce n'est pas mardi.&mdash;Est-ce
 
mardi?&mdash;C'est peut-&ecirc;tre mardi.&mdash;Oui, c'est mardi.
 
 
 
 
On n'a jamais su &agrave; quoi avait trait ce monologue.
 
 
 
 
Si, par hasard, ce monologue se rapportait &agrave; la derni&egrave;re fois o&ugrave; il
 
avait d&icirc;n&eacute;, il y avait trois jours, car on &eacute;tait au vendredi.
 
 
 
 
Le barbier, dans sa boutique chauff&eacute;e d'un bon po&ecirc;le, rasait une
 
pratique et jetait de temps en temps un regard de c&ocirc;t&eacute; &agrave; cet ennemi, &agrave;
 
ce gamin gel&eacute; et effront&eacute; qui avait les deux mains dans ses poches, mais
 
l'esprit &eacute;videmment hors du fourreau.
 
 
 
 
Pendant que Gavroche examinait la mari&eacute;e, le vitrage et les
 
Windsor-soaps, deux enfants de taille in&eacute;gale, assez proprement v&ecirc;tus,
 
et encore plus petits que lui, paraissant l'un sept ans, l'autre cinq,
 
tourn&egrave;rent timidement le bec-de-cane et entr&egrave;rent dans la boutique en
 
demandant on ne sait quoi, la charit&eacute; peut-&ecirc;tre, dans un murmure
 
plaintif et qui ressemblait plut&ocirc;t &agrave; un g&eacute;missement qu'&agrave; une pri&egrave;re. Ils
 
parlaient tous deux &agrave; la fois, et leurs paroles &eacute;taient inintelligibles
 
parce que les sanglots coupaient la voix du plus jeune et que le froid
 
faisait claquer les dents de l'a&icirc;n&eacute;. Le barbier se tourna avec un visage
 
furieux, et sans quitter son rasoir, refoulant l'a&icirc;n&eacute; de la main gauche
 
et le petit du genou, les poussa tous deux dans la rue, et referma sa
 
porte en disant:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Venir refroidir le monde pour rien!
 
 
 
 
Les deux enfants se remirent en marche en pleurant. Cependant une nu&eacute;e
 
&eacute;tait venue; il commen&ccedil;ait &agrave; pleuvoir.
 
 
 
 
Le petit Gavroche courut apr&egrave;s eux et les aborda:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, moutards?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Nous ne savons pas o&ugrave; coucher, r&eacute;pondit l'a&icirc;n&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est &ccedil;a? dit Gavroche. Voil&agrave; grand'chose. Est-ce qu'on pleure pour
 
&ccedil;a? Sont-ils serins donc!
 
 
 
 
Et prenant, &agrave; travers sa sup&eacute;riorit&eacute; un peu goguenarde, un accent
 
d'autorit&eacute; attendrie et de protection douce:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Momacques, venez avec moi.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui, monsieur, fit l'a&icirc;n&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
Et les deux enfants le suivirent comme ils auraient suivi un archev&ecirc;que.
 
Ils avaient cess&eacute; de pleurer.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche leur fit monter la rue Saint-Antoine dans la direction de la
 
Bastille.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche, tout en cheminant, jeta un coup d'&oelig;il indign&eacute; et r&eacute;trospectif
 
&agrave; la boutique du barbier.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a n'a pas de c&oelig;ur, ce merlan-l&agrave;, grommela-t-il. C'est un angliche.
 
 
 
 
Une fille, les voyant marcher &agrave; la file tous les trois, Gavroche en
 
t&ecirc;te, partit d'un rire bruyant. Ce rire manquait de respect au groupe.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Bonjour, mamselle Omnibus, lui dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Un instant apr&egrave;s, le perruquier lui revenant, il ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je me trompe de b&ecirc;te; ce n'est pas un merlan, c'est un serpent.
 
Perruquier, j'irai chercher un serrurier, et je te ferai mettre une
 
sonnette &agrave; la queue.
 
 
 
 
Ce perruquier l'avait rendu agressif. Il apostropha, en enjambant un
 
ruisseau, une porti&egrave;re barbue et digne de rencontrer Faust sur le
 
Brocken, laquelle avait son balai &agrave; la main.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Madame, lui dit-il, vous sortez donc avec votre cheval?
 
 
 
 
Et sur ce, il &eacute;claboussa les bottes vernies d'un passant.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Dr&ocirc;le! cria le passant furieux.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche leva le nez par-dessus son ch&acirc;le.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur se plaint?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;De toi! fit le passant.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Le bureau est ferm&eacute;, dit Gavroche, je ne re&ccedil;ois plus de plaintes.
 
 
 
 
Cependant, en continuant de monter la rue, il avisa, toute glac&eacute;e sous
 
une porte coch&egrave;re, une mendiante de treize ou quatorze ans, si
 
court-v&ecirc;tue qu'on voyait ses genoux. La petite commen&ccedil;ait &agrave; &ecirc;tre trop
 
grande fille pour cela. La croissance vous joue de ces tours. La jupe
 
devient courte au moment o&ugrave; la nudit&eacute; devient ind&eacute;cente.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pauvre fille! dit Gavroche. &Ccedil;a n'a m&ecirc;me pas de culotte. Tiens, prends
 
toujours &ccedil;a.
 
 
 
 
Et, d&eacute;faisant toute cette bonne laine qu'il avait autour du cou, il la
 
jeta sur les &eacute;paules maigres et violettes de la mendiante, o&ugrave; le
 
cache-nez redevint ch&acirc;le.
 
 
 
 
La petite le consid&eacute;ra d'un air &eacute;tonn&eacute; et re&ccedil;ut le ch&acirc;le en silence. &Agrave;
 
un certain degr&eacute; de d&eacute;tresse, le pauvre, dans sa stupeur, ne g&eacute;mit plus
 
du mal et ne remercie plus du bien.
 
 
 
 
Cela fait:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Brrr! dit Gavroche, plus frissonnant que saint Martin, qui, lui du
 
moins, avait gard&eacute; la moiti&eacute; de son manteau.
 
 
 
 
Sur ce brrr! l'averse, redoublant d'humeur, fit rage. Ces mauvais
 
ciels-l&agrave; punissent les bonnes actions.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;! s'&eacute;cria Gavroche, qu'est-ce que cela signifie? Il repleut! Bon
 
Dieu, si cela continue, je me d&eacute;sabonne.
 
 
 
 
Et il se remit en marche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est &eacute;gal, reprit-il en jetant un coup d'&oelig;il &agrave; la mendiante qui se
 
pelotonnait sous le ch&acirc;le, en voil&agrave; une qui a une fameuse pelure.
 
 
 
 
Et, regardant la nu&eacute;e, il cria:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Attrap&eacute;!
 
 
 
 
Les deux enfants embo&icirc;taient le pas derri&egrave;re lui.
 
 
 
 
Comme ils passaient devant un de ces &eacute;pais treillis grill&eacute;s qui
 
indiquent la boutique d'un boulanger, car on met le pain comme l'or
 
derri&egrave;re des grillages de fer, Gavroche se tourna:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, m&ocirc;mes, avons-nous d&icirc;n&eacute;?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur, r&eacute;pondit l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, nous n'avons pas mang&eacute; depuis tant&ocirc;t ce
 
matin.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Vous &ecirc;tes donc sans p&egrave;re ni m&egrave;re? reprit majestueusement Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Faites excuse, monsieur, nous avons papa et maman, mais nous ne savons
 
pas o&ugrave; ils sont.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Des fois, cela vaut mieux que de le savoir, dit Gavroche qui &eacute;tait un
 
penseur.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Voil&agrave;, continua l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, deux heures que nous marchons, nous avons
 
cherch&eacute; des choses au coin des bornes, mais nous ne trouvons rien.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je sais, fit Gavroche. C'est les chiens qui mangent tout.
 
 
 
 
Il reprit apr&egrave;s un silence:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah! nous avons perdu nos auteurs. Nous ne savons plus ce que nous en
 
avons fait. &Ccedil;a ne se doit pas, gamins. C'est b&ecirc;te d'&eacute;garer comme &ccedil;a des
 
gens d'&acirc;ge. Ah &ccedil;&agrave;! il faut licher pourtant.
 
 
 
 
Du reste il ne leur fit pas de questions. &Ecirc;tre sans domicile, quoi de
 
plus simple?
 
 
 
 
L'a&icirc;n&eacute; des deux m&ocirc;mes, presque enti&egrave;rement revenu &agrave; la prompte
 
insouciance de l'enfance, fit cette exclamation:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est dr&ocirc;le tout de m&ecirc;me. Maman qui avait dit qu'elle nous m&egrave;nerait
 
chercher du buis b&eacute;nit le dimanche des rameaux.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Neurs, r&eacute;pondit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Maman, reprit l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, est une dame qui demeure avec mamselle Miss.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tanfl&ucirc;te, repartit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Cependant il s'&eacute;tait arr&ecirc;t&eacute;, et depuis quelques minutes il t&acirc;tait et
 
fouillait toutes sortes de recoins qu'il avait dans ses haillons.
 
 
 
 
Enfin il releva la t&ecirc;te d'un air qui ne voulait qu'&ecirc;tre satisfait, mais
 
qui &eacute;tait en r&eacute;alit&eacute; triomphant.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Calmons-nous, les momignards. Voici de quoi souper pour trois.
 
 
 
 
Et il tira d'une de ses poches un sou.
 
 
 
 
Sans laisser aux deux petits le temps de s'&eacute;bahir, il les poussa tous
 
deux devant lui dans la boutique du boulanger, et mit son sou sur le
 
comptoir en criant:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Gar&ccedil;on! cinque centimes de pain.
 
 
 
 
Le boulanger, qui &eacute;tait le ma&icirc;tre en personne, prit un pain et un
 
couteau.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;En trois morceaux, gar&ccedil;on! reprit Gavroche, et il ajouta avec dignit&eacute;:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Nous sommes trois.
 
 
 
 
Et voyant que le boulanger, apr&egrave;s avoir examin&eacute; les trois soupeurs,
 
avait pris un pain bis, il plongea profond&eacute;ment son doigt dans son nez
 
avec une aspiration aussi imp&eacute;rieuse que s'il e&ucirc;t eu au bout du pouce la
 
prise de tabac du grand Fr&eacute;d&eacute;ric, et jeta au boulanger en plein visage
 
cette apostrophe indign&eacute;e:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Keksek&ccedil;a?
 
 
 
 
Ceux de nos lecteurs qui seraient tent&eacute;s de voir dans cette
 
interpellation de Gavroche au boulanger un mot russe ou polonais, ou
 
l'un de ces cris sauvages que les Yoways et les Botocudos se lancent du
 
bord d'un fleuve &agrave; l'autre &agrave; travers les solitudes, sont pr&eacute;venus que
 
c'est un mot qu'ils disent tous les jours (eux nos lecteurs) et qui
 
tient lieu de cette phrase: qu'est-ce que c'est que cela? Le boulanger
 
comprit parfaitement et r&eacute;pondit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Eh mais! c'est du pain, du tr&egrave;s bon pain de deuxi&egrave;me qualit&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Vous voulez dire du larton brutal, reprit Gavroche, calme et
 
froidement d&eacute;daigneux. Du pain blanc, gar&ccedil;on! du larton savonn&eacute;! je
 
r&eacute;gale.
 
 
 
 
Le boulanger ne put s'emp&ecirc;cher de sourire, et tout en coupant le pain
 
blanc, il les consid&eacute;rait d'une fa&ccedil;on compatissante qui choqua Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, mitron! dit-il, qu'est-ce que vous avez donc &agrave; nous toiser
 
comme &ccedil;a?
 
 
 
 
Mis tous trois bout &agrave; bout, ils auraient fait &agrave; peine une toise.
 
 
 
 
Quand le pain fut coup&eacute;, le boulanger encaissa le sou, et Gavroche dit
 
aux deux enfants:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Morfilez.
 
 
 
 
Les petits gar&ccedil;ons le regard&egrave;rent interdits.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche se mit &agrave; rire:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah! tiens, c'est vrai, &ccedil;a ne sait pas encore, c'est si petit.
 
 
 
 
Et il reprit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Mangez.
 
 
 
 
En m&ecirc;me temps, il leur tendait &agrave; chacun un morceau de pain.
 
 
 
 
Et, pensant que l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, qui lui paraissait plus digne de sa
 
conversation, m&eacute;ritait quelque encouragement sp&eacute;cial et devait &ecirc;tre
 
d&eacute;barrass&eacute; de toute h&eacute;sitation &agrave; satisfaire son app&eacute;tit, il ajouta en
 
lui donnant la plus grosse part:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Colle-toi &ccedil;a dans le fusil.
 
 
 
 
Il y avait un morceau plus petit que les deux autres; il le prit pour
 
lui.
 
 
 
 
Les pauvres enfants &eacute;taient affam&eacute;s, y compris Gavroche. Tout en
 
arrachant leur pain &agrave; belles dents, ils encombraient la boutique du
 
boulanger qui, maintenant qu'il &eacute;tait pay&eacute;, les regardait avec humeur.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Rentrons dans la rue, dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Ils reprirent la direction de la Bastille.
 
 
 
 
De temps en temps, quand ils passaient devant les devantures de
 
boutiques &eacute;clair&eacute;es, le plus petit s'arr&ecirc;tait pour regarder l'heure &agrave;
 
une montre en plomb suspendue &agrave; son cou par une ficelle.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Voil&agrave; d&eacute;cid&eacute;ment un fort serin, disait Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Puis, pensif, il grommelait entre ses dents:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est &eacute;gal, si j'avais des m&ocirc;mes, je les serrerais mieux que &ccedil;a.
 
 
 
 
Comme ils achevaient leur morceau de pain et atteignaient l'angle de
 
cette morose rue des Ballets au fond de laquelle on aper&ccedil;oit le guichet
 
bas et hostile de la Force:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tiens, c'est toi, Gavroche? dit quelqu'un.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tiens, c'est toi, Montparnasse? dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
C'&eacute;tait un homme qui venait d'aborder le gamin, et cet homme n'&eacute;tait
 
autre que Montparnasse d&eacute;guis&eacute;, avec des besicles bleues, mais
 
reconnaissable pour Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;M&acirc;tin, poursuivit Gavroche, tu as une pelure couleur cataplasme de
 
graine de lin et des lunettes bleues comme un m&eacute;decin. Tu as du style,
 
parole de vieux!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Chut, fit Montparnasse, pas si haut!
 
 
 
 
Et il entra&icirc;na vivement Gavroche hors de la lumi&egrave;re des boutiques.
 
 
 
 
Les deux petits suivaient machinalement en se tenant par la main.
 
 
 
 
Quand ils furent sous l'archivolte noire d'une porte coch&egrave;re, &agrave; l'abri
 
des regards et de la pluie:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Sais-tu o&ugrave; je vas? demanda Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Agrave; l'abbaye de Monte-&agrave;-Regret, dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Farceur!
 
 
 
 
Et Montparnasse reprit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je vas retrouver Babet.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah! fit Gavroche, elle s'appelle Babet.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse baissa la voix.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pas elle, lui.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah! Babet!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui, Babet.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je le croyais boucl&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Il a d&eacute;fait la boucle, r&eacute;pondit Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
Et il conta rapidement au gamin que, le matin de ce m&ecirc;me jour o&ugrave; ils
 
&eacute;taient, Babet, ayant &eacute;t&eacute; transf&eacute;r&eacute; &agrave; la Conciergerie, s'&eacute;tait &eacute;vad&eacute; en
 
prenant &agrave; gauche au lieu de prendre &agrave; droite dans &laquo;le corridor de
 
l'instruction&raquo;.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche admira l'habilet&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Quel dentiste! dit-il.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse ajouta quelques d&eacute;tails sur l'&eacute;vasion de Babet, et termina
 
par:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oh! ce n'est pas tout.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche, tout en &eacute;coutant, s'&eacute;tait saisi d'une canne que Montparnasse
 
tenait &agrave; la main; il en avait machinalement tir&eacute; la partie sup&eacute;rieure,
 
et la lame d'un poignard avait apparu.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah! fit-il en repoussant vivement le poignard, tu as emmen&eacute; ton
 
gendarme d&eacute;guis&eacute; en bourgeois.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse cligna de l'&oelig;il.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Fichtre! reprit Gavroche, tu vas donc te colleter avec les cognes?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;On ne sait pas, r&eacute;pondit Montparnasse d'un air indiff&eacute;rent. Il est
 
toujours bon d'avoir une &eacute;pingle sur soi.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche insista:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que tu vas donc faire cette nuit?
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse prit de nouveau la corde grave et dit en mangeant les
 
syllabes:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Des choses.
 
 
 
 
Et, changeant brusquement de conversation:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Agrave; propos!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Quoi?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Une histoire de l'autre jour. Figure-toi. Je rencontre un bourgeois.
 
Il me fait cadeau d'un sermon et de sa bourse. Je mets &ccedil;a dans ma poche.
 
Une minute apr&egrave;s, je fouille dans ma poche. Il n'y avait plus rien.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Que le sermon, fit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Mais toi, reprit Montparnasse, o&ugrave; vas-tu donc maintenant?
 
 
 
 
Gavroche montra ses deux prot&eacute;g&eacute;s et dit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je vas coucher ces enfants-l&agrave;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;O&ugrave; &ccedil;a, coucher?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Chez moi.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;O&ugrave; &ccedil;a chez toi?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Chez moi.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tu loges donc?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui, je loge.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Et o&ugrave; loges-tu?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Dans l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse, quoique de sa nature peu &eacute;tonn&eacute;, ne put retenir une
 
exclamation:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Dans l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Eh bien oui, dans l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant! repartit Gavroche. Kek&ccedil;aa?
 
 
 
 
Ceci est encore un mot de la langue que personne n'&eacute;crit et que tout le
 
monde parle. Kek&ccedil;aa signifie: qu'est-ce que cela a?
 
 
 
 
L'observation profonde du gamin ramena Montparnasse au calme et au bon
 
sens. Il parut revenir &agrave; de meilleurs sentiments pour le logis de
 
Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Au fait! dit-il, oui, l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant. Y est-on bien?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tr&egrave;s bien, fit Gavroche. L&agrave;, vrai, chen&ucirc;ment. Il n'y a pas de vents
 
coulis comme sous les ponts.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Comment y entres-tu?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;J'entre.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;E y a donc un trou? demanda Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Parbleu! Mais il ne faut pas le dire. C'est entre les jambes de
 
devant. Les coqueurs ne l'ont pas vu.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Et tu grimpes? Oui, je comprends.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Un tour de main, cric, crac, c'est fait, plus personne.
 
 
 
 
Apr&egrave;s un silence, Gavroche ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pour ces petits j'aurai une &eacute;chelle.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse se mit &agrave; rire.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;O&ugrave; diable as-tu pris ces m&ocirc;mes-l&agrave;?
 
 
 
 
Gavroche r&eacute;pondit avec simplicit&eacute;:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est des momichards dont un perruquier m'a fait cadeau.
 
 
 
 
Cependant Montparnasse &eacute;tait devenu pensif.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Tu m'as reconnu bien ais&eacute;ment, murmura-t-il.
 
 
 
 
Il prit dans sa poche deux petits objets qui n'&eacute;taient autre chose que
 
deux tuyaux de plume envelopp&eacute;s de coton et s'en introduisit un dans
 
chaque narine. Ceci lui faisait un autre nez.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a te change, dit Gavroche, tu es moins laid, tu devrais garder
 
toujours &ccedil;a.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse &eacute;tait joli gar&ccedil;on, mais Gavroche &eacute;tait railleur.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Sans rire, demanda Montparnasse, comment me trouves-tu?
 
 
 
 
C'&eacute;tait aussi un autre son de voix. En un clin d'&oelig;il, Montparnasse
 
&eacute;tait devenu m&eacute;connaissable.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oh! fais-nous Porrichinelle! s'&eacute;cria Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Les deux petits, qui n'avaient rien &eacute;cout&eacute; jusque-l&agrave;, occup&eacute;s qu'ils
 
&eacute;taient eux-m&ecirc;mes &agrave; fourrer leurs doigts dans leur nez, s'approch&egrave;rent &agrave;
 
ce nom et regard&egrave;rent Montparnasse avec un commencement de joie et
 
d'admiration.
 
 
 
 
Malheureusement Montparnasse &eacute;tait soucieux.
 
 
 
 
Il posa la main sur l'&eacute;paule de Gavroche et lui dit en appuyant sur les
 
mots:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Eacute;coute ce que je te dis, gar&ccedil;on, si j'&eacute;tais sur la place, avec mon
 
dogue, ma dague et ma digue, et si vous me prodiguiez dix gros sous, je
 
ne refuserais pas d'y goupiner, mais nous ne sommes pas le mardi gras.
 
 
 
 
Cette phrase bizarre produisit sur le gamin un effet singulier. Il se
 
tourna vivement, promena avec une attention profonde ses petits yeux
 
brillants autour de lui, et aper&ccedil;ut, &agrave; quelques pas, un sergent de ville
 
qui leur tournait le dos. Gavroche laissa &eacute;chapper un: ah, bon! qu'il
 
r&eacute;prima sur-le-champ, et, secouant la main de Montparnasse:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Eh bien, bonsoir, fit-il, je m'en vas &agrave; mon &eacute;l&eacute;phant avec mes m&ocirc;mes.
 
Une supposition que tu aurais besoin de moi une nuit, tu viendrais me
 
trouver l&agrave;. Je loge &agrave; l'entresol. Il n'y a pas de portier. Tu
 
demanderais monsieur Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est bon, dit Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
Et ils se s&eacute;par&egrave;rent, Montparnasse cheminant vers la Gr&egrave;ve et Gavroche
 
vers la Bastille. Le petit de cinq ans, tra&icirc;n&eacute; par son fr&egrave;re que
 
tra&icirc;nait Gavroche, tourna plusieurs fois la t&ecirc;te en arri&egrave;re pour voir
 
s'en aller &laquo;Porrichinelle&raquo;.
 
 
 
 
La phrase amphigourique par laquelle Montparnasse avait averti Gavroche
 
de la pr&eacute;sence du sergent de ville ne contenait pas d'autre talisman que
 
l'assonance ''dig'' r&eacute;p&eacute;t&eacute;e cinq ou six fois sous des formes vari&eacute;es.
 
Cette syllabe ''dig'', non prononc&eacute;e isol&eacute;ment, mais artistement m&ecirc;l&eacute;e aux
 
mots d'une phrase, veut dire:&mdash;''Prenons garde, on ne peut pas parler
 
librement''.&mdash;Il y avait en outre dans la phrase de Montparnasse une
 
beaut&eacute; litt&eacute;raire qui &eacute;chappa &agrave; Gavroche, ''c'est mon dogue, ma dague et,
 
ma digue'', locution de l'argot du Temple qui signifie, ''mon chien, mon
 
couteau et ma femme,'' fort usit&eacute; parmi les pitres et les queues-rouges
 
du grand si&egrave;cle o&ugrave; Moli&egrave;re &eacute;crivait et o&ugrave; Callot dessinait.
 
 
 
 
Il y a vingt ans, on voyait encore dans l'angle sud-est de la place de
 
la Bastille pr&egrave;s de la gare du canal creus&eacute;e dans l'ancien foss&eacute; de la
 
prison-citadelle, un monument bizarre qui s'est effac&eacute; d&eacute;j&agrave; de la
 
m&eacute;moire des Parisiens, et qui m&eacute;ritait d'y laisser quelque trace, car
 
c'&eacute;tait une pens&eacute;e du &laquo;membre de l'Institut, g&eacute;n&eacute;ral en chef de l'arm&eacute;e
 
d'&Eacute;gypte&raquo;.
 
 
 
 
Nous disons monument, quoique ce ne f&ucirc;t qu'une maquette. Mais cette
 
maquette elle-m&ecirc;me, &eacute;bauche prodigieuse, cadavre grandiose d'une id&eacute;e de
 
Napol&eacute;on que deux ou trois coups de vent successifs avaient emport&eacute;e et
 
jet&eacute;e &agrave; chaque fois plus loin de nous, &eacute;tait devenue historique, et
 
avait pris je ne sais quoi de d&eacute;finitif qui contrastait avec son aspect
 
provisoire. C'&eacute;tait un &eacute;l&eacute;phant de quarante pieds de haut, construit en
 
charpente et en ma&ccedil;onnerie, portant sur son dos sa tour qui ressemblait
 
&agrave; une maison, jadis peint en vert par un badigeonneur quelconque,
 
maintenant peint en noir par le ciel, la pluie et le temps. Dans cet
 
angle d&eacute;sert et d&eacute;couvert de la place, le large front du colosse, sa
 
trompe, ses d&eacute;fenses, sa tour, sa croupe &eacute;norme, ses quatre pieds
 
pareils &agrave; des colonnes faisaient, la nuit, sur le ciel &eacute;toil&eacute;, une
 
silhouette surprenante et terrible. On ne savait ce que cela voulait
 
dire. C'&eacute;tait une sorte de symbole de la force populaire. C'&eacute;tait
 
sombre, &eacute;nigmatique et immense. C'&eacute;tait on ne sait quel fant&ocirc;me
 
puissant, visible et debout &agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; du spectre invisible de la Bastille.
 
 
 
 
Peu d'&eacute;trangers visitaient cet &eacute;difice, aucun passant ne le regardait.
 
Il tombait en ruine; &agrave; chaque saison, des pl&acirc;tras qui se d&eacute;tachaient de
 
ses flancs lui faisaient des plaies hideuses. Les &laquo;&eacute;diles&raquo;, comme on dit
 
en patois &eacute;l&eacute;gant, l'avaient oubli&eacute; depuis 1814. Il &eacute;tait l&agrave; dans son
 
coin, morne, malade, croulant, entour&eacute; d'une palissade pourrie, souill&eacute;e
 
&agrave; chaque instant par des cochers ivres; des crevasses lui l&eacute;zardaient le
 
ventre, une latte lui sortait de la queue, les hautes herbes lui
 
poussaient entre les jambes; et comme le niveau de la place s'&eacute;levait
 
depuis trente ans tout autour par ce mouvement lent et continu qui
 
exhausse insensiblement le sol des grandes villes, il &eacute;tait dans un
 
creux et il semblait que la terre s'enfon&ccedil;&acirc;t sous lui. Il &eacute;tait immonde,
 
m&eacute;pris&eacute;, repoussant et superbe, laid aux yeux du bourgeois, m&eacute;lancolique
 
aux yeux du penseur. Il avait quelque chose d'une ordure qu'on va
 
balayer et quelque chose d'une majest&eacute; qu'on va d&eacute;capiter.
 
 
 
 
Comme nous l'avons dit, la nuit l'aspect changeait. La nuit est le
 
v&eacute;ritable milieu de tout ce qui est ombre. D&egrave;s que tombait le
 
cr&eacute;puscule, le vieil &eacute;l&eacute;phant se transfigurait; il prenait une figure
 
tranquille et redoutable dans la formidable s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute; des t&eacute;n&egrave;bres. &Eacute;tant
 
du pass&eacute;, il &eacute;tait de la nuit; et cette obscurit&eacute; allait &agrave; sa grandeur.
 
 
 
 
Ce monument, rude, trapu, pesant, &acirc;pre, aust&egrave;re, presque difforme, mais
 
&agrave; coup s&ucirc;r majestueux et empreint d'une sorte de gravit&eacute; magnifique et
 
sauvage, a disparu pour laisser r&eacute;gner en paix l'esp&egrave;ce de po&ecirc;le
 
gigantesque, orn&eacute; de son tuyau, qui a remplac&eacute; la sombre forteresse &agrave;
 
neuf tours, &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s comme la bourgeoisie remplace la f&eacute;odalit&eacute;. Il
 
est tout simple qu'un po&ecirc;le soit le symbole d'une &eacute;poque dont une
 
marmite contient la puissance. Cette &eacute;poque passera, elle passe d&eacute;j&agrave;; on
 
commence &agrave; comprendre que, s'il peut y avoir de la force dans une
 
chaudi&egrave;re, il ne peut y avoir de puissance que dans un cerveau; en
 
d'autres termes, que ce qui m&egrave;ne et entra&icirc;ne le monde, ce ne sont pas
 
les locomotives, ce sont les id&eacute;es. Attelez les locomotives aux id&eacute;es,
 
c'est bien; mais ne prenez pas le cheval pour le cavalier.
 
 
 
 
Quoi qu'il en soit, pour revenir &agrave; la place de la Bastille, l'architecte
 
de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant avec du pl&acirc;tre &eacute;tait parvenu &agrave; faire du grand;
 
l'architecte du tuyau de po&ecirc;le a r&eacute;ussi &agrave; faire du petit avec du bronze.
 
 
 
 
Ce tuyau de po&ecirc;le, qu'on a baptis&eacute; d'un nom sonore et nomm&eacute; la colonne
 
de Juillet, ce monument manqu&eacute; d'une r&eacute;volution avort&eacute;e, &eacute;tait encore
 
envelopp&eacute; en 1832 d'une immense chemise en charpente que nous regrettons
 
pour notre part, et d'un vaste enclos en planches, qui achevait d'isoler
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant.
 
 
 
 
Ce fut vers ce coin de la place, &agrave; peine &eacute;clair&eacute; du reflet d'un
 
r&eacute;verb&egrave;re &eacute;loign&eacute;, que le gamin dirigea les deux &laquo;m&ocirc;mes&raquo;.
 
 
 
 
Qu'on nous permette de nous interrompre ici et de rappeler que nous
 
sommes dans la simple r&eacute;alit&eacute;, et qu'il y a vingt ans les tribunaux
 
correctionnels eurent &agrave; juger, sous pr&eacute;vention de vagabondage et de bris
 
d'un monument public, un enfant qui avait &eacute;t&eacute; surpris couch&eacute; dans
 
l'int&eacute;rieur m&ecirc;me de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant de la Bastille.
 
 
 
 
Ce fait constat&eacute;, nous continuons.
 
 
 
 
En arrivant pr&egrave;s du colosse, Gavroche comprit l'effet que l'infiniment
 
grand peut produire sur l'infiniment petit, et dit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Moutards! n'ayez pas peur.
 
 
 
 
Puis il entra par une lacune de la palissade dans l'enceinte de
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant et aida les m&ocirc;mes &agrave; enjamber la br&egrave;che. Les deux enfants, un
 
peu effray&eacute;s, suivaient sans dire mot Gavroche et se confiaient &agrave; cette
 
petite providence en guenilles qui leur avait donn&eacute; du pain et leur
 
avait promis un g&icirc;te.
 
 
 
 
Il y avait l&agrave;, couch&eacute;e le long de la palissade, une &eacute;chelle qui servait
 
le jour aux ouvriers du chantier voisin. Gavroche la souleva avec une
 
singuli&egrave;re vigueur, et l'appliqua contre une des jambes de devant de
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant. Vers le point o&ugrave; l'&eacute;chelle allait aboutir, on distinguait
 
une esp&egrave;ce de trou noir dans le ventre du colosse.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche montra l'&eacute;chelle et le trou &agrave; ses h&ocirc;tes et leur dit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Montez et entrez.
 
 
 
 
Les deux petits gar&ccedil;ons se regard&egrave;rent terrifi&eacute;s.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Vous avez peur, m&ocirc;mes! s'&eacute;cria Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Et il ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Vous allez voir.
 
 
 
 
Il &eacute;treignit le pied rugueux de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, et en un clin d'&oelig;il, sans
 
daigner se servir de l'&eacute;chelle, il arriva &agrave; la crevasse. Il y entra
 
comme une couleuvre qui se glisse dans une fente, il s'y enfon&ccedil;a, et un
 
moment apr&egrave;s les deux enfants virent vaguement appara&icirc;tre, comme une
 
forme blanch&acirc;tre et blafarde, sa t&ecirc;te p&acirc;le au bord du trou plein de
 
t&eacute;n&egrave;bres.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Eh bien, cria-t-il, montez donc, les momignards! vous allez voir comme
 
on est bien!&mdash;Monte, toi! dit-il &agrave; l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, je te tends la main.
 
 
 
 
Les petits se pouss&egrave;rent de l'&eacute;paule, le gamin leur faisait peur et les
 
rassurait &agrave; la fois, et puis il pleuvait bien fort. L'a&icirc;n&eacute; se risqua. Le
 
plus jeune, en voyant monter son fr&egrave;re et lui rest&eacute; tout seul entre les
 
pattes de cette grosse b&ecirc;te, avait bien envie de pleurer, mais il
 
n'osait.
 
 
 
 
L'a&icirc;n&eacute; gravissait, tout en chancelant, les barreaux de l'&eacute;chelle;
 
Gavroche, chemin faisant, l'encourageait par des exclamations de ma&icirc;tre
 
d'armes &agrave; ses &eacute;coliers ou de muletier &agrave; ses mules:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Aye pas peur!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est &ccedil;a!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Va toujours!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Mets ton pied l&agrave;!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ta main ici.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hardi!
 
 
 
 
Et quand il fut &agrave; sa port&eacute;e, il l'empoigna brusquement et vigoureusement
 
par le bras et le tira &agrave; lui.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Gob&eacute;! dit-il.
 
 
 
 
Le m&ocirc;me avait franchi la crevasse.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Maintenant, fit Gavroche, attends-moi. Monsieur, prenez la peine de
 
vous asseoir.
 
 
 
 
Et, sortant de la crevasse comme il y &eacute;tait entr&eacute;, il se laissa glisser
 
avec l'agilit&eacute; d'un ouistiti le long de la jambe de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, il tomba
 
debout sur ses pieds dans l'herbe, saisit le petit de cinq ans &agrave;
 
bras-le-corps et le planta au beau milieu de l'&eacute;chelle, puis il se mit &agrave;
 
monter derri&egrave;re lui en criant &agrave; l'a&icirc;n&eacute;:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Je vas le pousser, tu vas le tirer.
 
 
 
 
En un instant le petit fut mont&eacute;, pouss&eacute;, tra&icirc;n&eacute;, tir&eacute;, bourr&eacute;, fourr&eacute;
 
dans le trou sans avoir eu le temps de se reconna&icirc;tre, et Gavroche,
 
entrant apr&egrave;s lui, repoussant d'un coup de talon l'&eacute;chelle qui tomba sur
 
le gazon, se mit &agrave; battre des mains et cria:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Nous y v'l&agrave;! Vive le g&eacute;n&eacute;ral Lafayette!
 
 
 
 
Cette explosion pass&eacute;e, il ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Les mioches, vous &ecirc;tes chez moi.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche &eacute;tait en effet chez lui.
 
 
 
 
&Ocirc; utilit&eacute; inattendue de l'inutile! charit&eacute; des grandes choses! bont&eacute; des
 
g&eacute;ants! Ce monument d&eacute;mesur&eacute; qui avait contenu une pens&eacute;e de l'Empereur
 
&eacute;tait devenu la bo&icirc;te d'un gamin. Le m&ocirc;me avait &eacute;t&eacute; accept&eacute; et abrit&eacute;
 
par le colosse. Les bourgeois endimanch&eacute;s qui passaient devant
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant de la Bastille disaient volontiers en le toisant d'un air de
 
m&eacute;pris avec leurs yeux &agrave; fleur de t&ecirc;te:&mdash;&Agrave; quoi cela sert-il?&mdash;Cela
 
servait &agrave; sauver du froid, du givre, de la gr&ecirc;le, de la pluie, &agrave;
 
garantir du vent d'hiver, &agrave; pr&eacute;server du sommeil dans la boue qui donne
 
la fi&egrave;vre et du sommeil dans la neige qui donne la mort, un petit &ecirc;tre
 
sans p&egrave;re ni m&egrave;re, sans pain, sans v&ecirc;tements, sans asile. Cela servait &agrave;
 
recueillir l'innocent que la soci&eacute;t&eacute; repoussait. Cela servait &agrave; diminuer
 
la faute publique. C'&eacute;tait une tani&egrave;re ouverte &agrave; celui auquel toutes les
 
portes &eacute;taient ferm&eacute;es. Il semblait que le vieux mastodonte mis&eacute;rable,
 
envahi par la vermine et par l'oubli, couvert de verrues, de moisissures
 
et d'ulc&egrave;res, chancelant, vermoulu, abandonn&eacute;, condamn&eacute;, esp&egrave;ce de
 
mendiant colossal demandant en vain l'aum&ocirc;ne d'un regard bienveillant au
 
milieu du carrefour, avait eu piti&eacute;, lui, de cet autre mendiant, du
 
pauvre pygm&eacute;e qui s'en allait sans souliers aux pieds, sans plafond sur
 
la t&ecirc;te, soufflant dans ses doigts, v&ecirc;tu de chiffons, nourri de ce qu'on
 
jette. Voil&agrave; &agrave; quoi servait l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant de la Bastille. Cette id&eacute;e de
 
Napol&eacute;on, d&eacute;daign&eacute;e par les hommes, avait &eacute;t&eacute; reprise par Dieu. Ce qui
 
n'e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; qu'illustre &eacute;tait devenu auguste. Il e&ucirc;t fallu &agrave; l'Empereur,
 
pour r&eacute;aliser ce qu'il m&eacute;ditait, le porphyre, l'airain, le fer, l'or, le
 
marbre; &agrave; Dieu le vieil assemblage de planches, de solives et de pl&acirc;tras
 
suffisait. L'Empereur avait eu un r&ecirc;ve de g&eacute;nie; dans cet &eacute;l&eacute;phant
 
titanique, arm&eacute;, prodigieux, dressant sa trompe, portant sa tour, et
 
faisant jaillir de toutes parts autour de lui des eaux joyeuses et
 
vivifiantes, il voulait incarner le peuple; Dieu en avait fait une chose
 
plus grande, il y logeait un enfant.
 
 
 
 
Le trou par o&ugrave; Gavroche &eacute;tait entr&eacute; &eacute;tait une br&egrave;che &agrave; peine visible du
 
dehors, cach&eacute;e qu'elle &eacute;tait, nous l'avons dit, sous le ventre de
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, et si &eacute;troite qu'il n'y avait gu&egrave;re que des chats et des
 
m&ocirc;mes qui pussent y passer.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Commen&ccedil;ons, dit Gavroche, par dire au portier que nous n'y sommes pas.
 
 
 
 
Et plongeant dans l'obscurit&eacute; avec certitude comme quelqu'un qui conna&icirc;t
 
son appartement, il prit une planche et en boucha le trou.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche replongea dans l'obscurit&eacute;. Les enfants entendirent le
 
reniflement de l'allumette enfonc&eacute;e dans la bouteille phosphorique.
 
L'allumette chimique n'existait pas encore; le briquet Fumade
 
repr&eacute;sentait &agrave; cette &eacute;poque le progr&egrave;s.
 
 
 
 
Une clart&eacute; subite leur fit cligner les yeux; Gavroche venait d'allumer
 
un de ces bouts de ficelle tremp&eacute;s dans la r&eacute;sine qu'on appelle rats de
 
cave. Le rat de cave, qui fumait plus qu'il n'&eacute;clairait, rendait
 
confus&eacute;ment visible le dedans de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant.
 
 
 
 
Les deux h&ocirc;tes de Gavroche regard&egrave;rent autour d'eux et &eacute;prouv&egrave;rent
 
quelque chose de pareil &agrave; ce qu'&eacute;prouverait quelqu'un qui serait enferm&eacute;
 
dans la grosse tonne de Heidelberg, ou mieux encore &agrave; ce que dut
 
&eacute;prouver Jonas dans le ventre biblique de la baleine. Tout un squelette
 
gigantesque leur apparaissait et les enveloppait. En haut, une longue
 
poutre brune d'o&ugrave; partaient de distance en distance de massives
 
membrures cintr&eacute;es figurait la colonne vert&eacute;brale avec les c&ocirc;tes, des
 
stalactites de pl&acirc;tre y pendaient comme des visc&egrave;res, et d'un c&ocirc;t&eacute; &agrave;
 
l'autre de vastes toiles d'araign&eacute;e faisaient des diaphragmes poudreux.
 
On voyait &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave; dans les coins de grosses taches noir&acirc;tres qui
 
avaient l'air de vivre et qui se d&eacute;pla&ccedil;aient rapidement avec un
 
mouvement brusque et effar&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
Les d&eacute;bris tomb&eacute;s du dos de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant sur son ventre en avaient combl&eacute;
 
la concavit&eacute;, de sorte qu'on pouvait y marcher comme sur un plancher.
 
 
 
 
Le plus petit se rencogna contre son fr&egrave;re et dit &agrave; demi-voix:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est noir.
 
 
 
 
Ce mot fit exclamer Gavroche. L'air p&eacute;trifi&eacute; des deux m&ocirc;mes rendait une
 
secousse n&eacute;cessaire.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que vous me fichez? s'&eacute;cria-t-il. Blaguons-nous?
 
faisons-nous les d&eacute;go&ucirc;t&eacute;s? vous faut-il pas les Tuileries? Seriez-vous
 
des brutes? Dites-le. Je vous pr&eacute;viens que je ne suis pas du r&eacute;giment
 
des godiches. Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, est-ce que vous &ecirc;tes les moutards du moutardier du
 
pape?
 
 
 
 
Un peu de rudoiement est bon dans l'&eacute;pouvante. Cela rassure. Les deux
 
enfants se rapproch&egrave;rent de Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche, paternellement attendri de cette confiance, passa &laquo;du grave au
 
doux&raquo; et s'adressant au plus petit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;B&ecirc;ta, lui dit-il en accentuant l'injure d'une nuance caressante, c'est
 
dehors que c'est noir. Dehors il pleut, ici il ne pleut pas; dehors il
 
fait froid, ici il n'y a pas une miette de vent; dehors il y a des tas
 
de monde, ici il n'y a personne; dehors il n'y a pas m&ecirc;me la lune, ici
 
il y a ma chandelle, nom d'unch!
 
 
 
 
Les deux enfants commen&ccedil;aient &agrave; regarder l'appartement avec moins
 
d'effroi; mais Gavroche ne leur laissa pas plus longtemps le loisir de
 
la contemplation.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Vite, dit-il.
 
 
 
 
Et il les poussa vers ce que nous sommes tr&egrave;s heureux de pouvoir appeler
 
le fond de la chambre.
 
 
 
 
L&agrave; &eacute;tait son lit.
 
 
 
 
Le lit de Gavroche &eacute;tait complet. C'est-&agrave;-dire qu'il y avait un matelas,
 
une couverture et une alc&ocirc;ve avec rideaux.
 
 
 
 
Le matelas &eacute;tait une natte de paille, la couverture un assez vaste pagne
 
de grosse laine grise fort chaud et presque neuf. Voici ce que c'&eacute;tait
 
que l'alc&ocirc;ve:
 
 
 
 
Trois &eacute;chalas assez longs enfonc&eacute;s et consolid&eacute;s dans les gravois du
 
sol, c'est-&agrave;-dire du ventre de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, deux en avant, un en arri&egrave;re,
 
et r&eacute;unis par une corde &agrave; leur sommet, de mani&egrave;re &agrave; former un faisceau
 
pyramidal. Ce faisceau supportait un treillage de fil de laiton qui
 
&eacute;tait simplement pos&eacute; dessus, mais artistement appliqu&eacute; et maintenu par
 
des attaches de fil de fer, de sorte qu'il enveloppait enti&egrave;rement les
 
trois &eacute;chalas. Un cordon de grosses pierres fixait tout autour ce
 
treillage sur le sol, de mani&egrave;re &agrave; ne rien laisser passer. Ce treillage
 
n'&eacute;tait autre chose qu'un morceau de ces grillages de cuivre dont on
 
rev&ecirc;t les voli&egrave;res dans les m&eacute;nageries. Le lit de Gavroche &eacute;tait sous ce
 
grillage comme dans une cage. L'ensemble ressemblait &agrave; une tente
 
d'Esquimau.
 
 
 
 
C'est ce grillage qui tenait lieu de rideaux.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche d&eacute;rangea un peu les pierres qui assujettissaient le grillage
 
par devant; les deux pans du treillage qui retombaient l'un sur l'autre
 
s'&eacute;cart&egrave;rent.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;M&ocirc;mes, &agrave; quatre pattes! dit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Il fit entrer avec pr&eacute;caution ses h&ocirc;tes dans la cage, puis il y entra
 
apr&egrave;s eux, en rampant, rapprocha les pierres et referma herm&eacute;tiquement
 
l'ouverture.
 
 
 
 
Ils s'&eacute;taient &eacute;tendus tous trois sur la natte.
 
 
 
 
Si petits qu'ils fussent, aucun d'eux n'e&ucirc;t pu se tenir debout dans
 
l'alc&ocirc;ve. Gavroche avait toujours le rat de cave &agrave; sa main.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Maintenant, dit-il, pioncez! Je vas supprimer le cand&eacute;labre.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur, demanda l'a&icirc;n&eacute; des deux fr&egrave;res &agrave; Gavroche en montrant le
 
grillage, qu'est-ce que c'est donc que &ccedil;a?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a, dit Gavroche gravement, c'est pour les rats.&mdash;Pioncez!
 
 
 
 
Cependant il se crut oblig&eacute; d'ajouter quelques paroles pour
 
l'instruction de ces &ecirc;tres en bas &acirc;ge, et il continua:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est des choses du Jardin des plantes. &Ccedil;a sert aux animaux f&eacute;roces.
 
''Gniena'' (il y en a) plein un magasin. ''Gnia'' (il n'y a) qu'&agrave; monter
 
par-dessus un mur, qu'&agrave; grimper par une fen&ecirc;tre et qu'&agrave; passer sous une
 
porte. On en a tant qu'on veut.
 
 
 
 
Tout en parlant, il enveloppait d'un pan de la couverture le tout petit
 
qui murmura:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oh! c'est bon! c'est chaud!
 
 
 
 
Gavroche fixa un &oelig;il satisfait sur la couverture.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est encore du Jardin des plantes, dit-il. J'ai pris &ccedil;a aux singes.
 
 
 
 
Et montrant &agrave; l'a&icirc;n&eacute; la natte sur laquelle il &eacute;tait couch&eacute;, natte fort
 
&eacute;paisse et admirablement travaill&eacute;e, il ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Ccedil;a, c'&eacute;tait &agrave; la girafe.
 
 
 
 
Apr&egrave;s une pause, il poursuivit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Les b&ecirc;tes avaient tout &ccedil;a. Je le leur ai pris. &Ccedil;a ne les a pas
 
f&acirc;ch&eacute;es. Je leur ai dit: C'est pour l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant.
 
 
 
 
Il fit encore un silence et reprit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;On passe par-dessus les murs et on se fiche du gouvernement. V'l&agrave;.
 
 
 
 
Les deux enfants consid&eacute;raient avec un respect craintif et stup&eacute;fait cet
 
&ecirc;tre intr&eacute;pide et inventif, vagabond comme eux, isol&eacute; comme eux, ch&eacute;tif
 
comme eux, qui avait quelque chose d'admirable et de tout-puissant, qui
 
leur semblait surnaturel, et dont la physionomie se composait de toutes
 
les grimaces d'un vieux saltimbanque m&ecirc;l&eacute;es au plus na&iuml;f et au plus
 
charmant sourire.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur, fit timidement l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, vous n'avez donc pas peur des
 
sergents de ville?
 
 
 
 
Gavroche se borna &agrave; r&eacute;pondre:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;M&ocirc;me! on ne dit pas les sergents de ville, on dit les cognes.
 
 
 
 
Le tout petit avait les yeux ouverts, mais il ne disait rien. Comme il
 
&eacute;tait au bord de la natte, l'a&icirc;n&eacute; &eacute;tant au milieu, Gavroche lui borda la
 
couverture comme e&ucirc;t fait une m&egrave;re et exhaussa la natte sous sa t&ecirc;te
 
avec de vieux chiffons de mani&egrave;re &agrave; faire au m&ocirc;me un oreiller. Puis il
 
se tourna vers l'a&icirc;n&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hein? on est joliment bien, ici!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah oui! r&eacute;pondit l'a&icirc;n&eacute; en regardant Gavroche avec une expression
 
d'ange sauv&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
Les deux pauvres petits enfants tout mouill&eacute;s commen&ccedil;aient &agrave; se
 
r&eacute;chauffer.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;, continua Gavroche, pourquoi donc est-ce que vous pleuriez?
 
 
 
 
Et montrant le petit &agrave; son fr&egrave;re:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Un mioche comme &ccedil;a, je ne dis pas; mais un grand comme toi, pleurer,
 
c'est cr&eacute;tin; on a l'air d'un veau.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Dame, fit l'enfant, nous n'avions plus du tout de logement o&ugrave; aller.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Moutard! reprit Gavroche, on ne dit pas un logement, on dit une
 
piolle.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Et puis nous avions peur d'&ecirc;tre tout seuls comme &ccedil;a la nuit.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;On ne dit pas la nuit, on dit la sorgue.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Merci, monsieur, dit l'enfant.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;&Eacute;coute, repartit Gavroche, il ne faut plus geindre jamais pour rien.
 
J'aurai soin de vous. Tu verras comme on s'amuse. L'&eacute;t&eacute;, nous irons &agrave; la
 
Glaci&egrave;re avec Navet, un camarade &agrave; moi, nous nous baignerons &agrave; la Gare,
 
nous courrons tout nus sur les trains devant le pont d'Austerlitz, &ccedil;a
 
fait rager les blanchisseuses. Elles crient, elles bisquent, si tu
 
savais comme elles sont farces! Nous irons voir l'homme squelette. Il
 
est en vie. Aux Champs-&Eacute;lys&eacute;es. Il est maigre comme tout, ce
 
paroissien-l&agrave;. Et puis je vous conduirai au spectacle. Je vous m&egrave;nerai &agrave;
 
Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick-Lema&icirc;tre. J'ai des billets, je connais des acteurs, j'ai m&ecirc;me
 
jou&eacute; une fois dans une pi&egrave;ce. Nous &eacute;tions des m&ocirc;mes comme &ccedil;a, on courait
 
sous une toile, &ccedil;a faisait la mer. Je vous ferai engager &agrave; mon th&eacute;&acirc;tre.
 
Nous irons voir les sauvages. Ce n'est pas vrai, ces sauvages-l&agrave;. Ils
 
ont des maillots roses qui font des plis, et on leur voit aux coudes des
 
reprises en fil blanc. Apr&egrave;s &ccedil;a, nous irons &agrave; l'Op&eacute;ra. Nous entrerons
 
avec les claqueurs. La claque &agrave; l'Op&eacute;ra est tr&egrave;s bien compos&eacute;e. Je
 
n'irais pas avec la claque sur les boulevards. &Agrave; l'Op&eacute;ra, figure-toi, il
 
y en a qui payent vingt sous, mais c'est des b&ecirc;tas. On les appelle des
 
lavettes.&mdash;Et puis nous irons voir guillotiner. Je vous ferai voir le
 
bourreau. Il demeure rue des Marais. Monsieur Sanson. Il y a une bo&icirc;te
 
aux lettres &agrave; la porte. Ah! on s'amuse fameusement!
 
 
 
 
En ce moment, une goutte de cire tomba sur le doigt de Gavroche et le
 
rappela aux r&eacute;alit&eacute;s de la vie.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Bigre! dit-il, v'l&agrave; la m&egrave;che qui s'use. Attention! je ne peux pas
 
mettre plus d'un sou par mois &agrave; mon &eacute;clairage. Quand on se couche, il
 
faut dormir. Nous n'avons pas le temps de lire des romans de monsieur
 
Paul de Kock. Avec &ccedil;a que la lumi&egrave;re pourrait passer par les fentes de
 
la porte coch&egrave;re, et les cognes n'auraient qu'&agrave; voir.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Et puis, observa timidement l'a&icirc;n&eacute; qui seul osait causer avec Gavroche
 
et lui donner la r&eacute;plique, un fumeron pourrait tomber dans la paille, il
 
faut prendre garde de br&ucirc;ler la maison.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;On ne dit pas br&ucirc;ler la maison, fit Gavroche, on dit riffauder le
 
bocard.
 
 
 
 
L'orage redoublait. On entendait, &agrave; travers des roulements de tonnerre,
 
l'averse battre le dos du colosse.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Enfonc&eacute;, la pluie! dit Gavroche. &Ccedil;a m'amuse d'entendre couler la
 
carafe le long des jambes de la maison. L'hiver est une b&ecirc;te; il perd sa
 
marchandise, il perd sa peine, il ne peut pas nous mouiller, et &ccedil;a le
 
fait bougonner, ce vieux porteur d'eau-l&agrave;.
 
 
 
 
Cette allusion au tonnerre, dont Gavroche, en sa qualit&eacute; de philosophe
 
du dix-neuvi&egrave;me si&egrave;cle, acceptait toutes les cons&eacute;quences, fut suivie
 
d'un large &eacute;clair, si &eacute;blouissant que quelque chose en entra par la
 
crevasse dans le ventre de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant. Presque en m&ecirc;me temps la foudre
 
gronda, et tr&egrave;s furieusement. Les deux petits pouss&egrave;rent un cri, et se
 
soulev&egrave;rent si vivement que le treillage en fut presque &eacute;cart&eacute;; mais
 
Gavroche tourna vers eux sa face hardie et profita du coup de tonnerre
 
pour &eacute;clater de rire.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Du calme, enfants. Ne bousculons pas l'&eacute;difice. Voil&agrave; du beau
 
tonnerre, &agrave; la bonne heure! Ce n'est pas l&agrave; de la gnognotte d'&eacute;clair.
 
Bravo le bon Dieu! nom d'unch! c'est presque aussi bien qu'&agrave; l'Ambigu.
 
 
 
 
Cela dit, il refit l'ordre dans le treillage, poussa doucement les deux
 
enfants sur le chevet du lit, pressa leurs genoux pour les bien &eacute;tendre
 
tout de leur long et s'&eacute;cria:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Puisque le bon Dieu allume sa chandelle, je peux souffler la mienne.
 
Les enfants, il faut dormir, mes jeunes humains. C'est tr&egrave;s mauvais de
 
ne pas dormir. &Ccedil;a vous ferait schlinguer du couloir, ou, comme on dit
 
dans le grand monde, puer de la gueule. Entortillez-vous bien de la
 
pelure! je vas &eacute;teindre. Y &ecirc;tes-vous?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui, murmura l'a&icirc;n&eacute;, je suis bien. J'ai comme de la plume sous la
 
t&ecirc;te.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;On ne dit pas la t&ecirc;te, cria Gavroche, on dit la tronche.
 
 
 
 
Les deux enfants se serr&egrave;rent l'un contre l'autre. Gavroche acheva de
 
les arranger sur la natte et leur monta la couverture jusqu'aux
 
oreilles, puis r&eacute;p&eacute;ta pour la troisi&egrave;me fois l'injonction en langue
 
hi&eacute;ratique:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pioncez!
 
 
 
 
Et il souffla le lumignon.
 
 
 
 
&Agrave; peine la lumi&egrave;re &eacute;tait-elle &eacute;teinte qu'un tremblement singulier
 
commen&ccedil;a &agrave; &eacute;branler le treillage sous lequel les trois enfants &eacute;taient
 
couch&eacute;s. C'&eacute;tait une multitude de frottements sourds qui rendaient un
 
son m&eacute;tallique, comme si des griffes et des dents grin&ccedil;aient sur le fil
 
de cuivre. Cela &eacute;tait accompagn&eacute; de toutes sortes de petits cris aigus.
 
 
 
 
Le petit gar&ccedil;on de cinq ans, entendant ce vacarme au-dessus de sa t&ecirc;te
 
et glac&eacute; d'&eacute;pouvante, poussa du coude son fr&egrave;re a&icirc;n&eacute;, mais le fr&egrave;re a&icirc;n&eacute;
 
&laquo;pion&ccedil;ait&raquo; d&eacute;j&agrave;, comme Gavroche le lui avait ordonn&eacute;. Alors le petit,
 
n'en pouvant plus de peur, osa interpeller Gavroche, mais tout bas, en
 
retenant son haleine:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hein? fit Gavroche qui venait de fermer les paupi&egrave;res.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que c'est donc que &ccedil;a?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est les rats, r&eacute;pondit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Et il remit sa t&ecirc;te sur la natte.
 
 
 
 
Les rats en effet, qui pullulaient par milliers dans la carcasse de
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant et qui &eacute;taient ces taches noires vivantes dont nous avons
 
parl&eacute;, avaient &eacute;t&eacute; tenus en respect par la flamme de la bougie tant
 
qu'elle avait brill&eacute;, mais d&egrave;s que cette caverne, qui &eacute;tait comme leur
 
cit&eacute;, avait &eacute;t&eacute; rendue &agrave; la nuit, sentant l&agrave; ce que le bon conteur
 
Perrault appelle &laquo;de la chair fra&icirc;che&raquo;, ils s'&eacute;taient ru&eacute;s en foule sur
 
la tente de Gavroche, avaient grimp&eacute; jusqu'au sommet, et en mordaient
 
les mailles comme s'ils cherchaient &agrave; percer cette zinzeli&egrave;re d'un
 
nouveau genre.
 
 
 
 
Cependant le petit ne s'endormait pas.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur! reprit-il.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hein? fit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qu'est-ce que c'est donc que les rats?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;C'est des souris.
 
 
 
 
Cette explication rassura un peu l'enfant. Il avait vu dans sa vie des
 
souris blanches et il n'en avait pas eu peur. Pourtant il &eacute;leva encore
 
la voix:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hein? refit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas un chat?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;J'en ai eu un, r&eacute;pondit Gavroche, j'en ai apport&eacute; un, mais ils me
 
l'ont mang&eacute;.
 
 
 
 
Cette seconde explication d&eacute;fit l'&oelig;uvre de la premi&egrave;re, et le petit
 
recommen&ccedil;a &agrave; trembler. Le dialogue entre lui et Gavroche reprit pour la
 
quatri&egrave;me fois.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur!
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Hein?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qui &ccedil;a qui a &eacute;t&eacute; mang&eacute;?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Le chat.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Qui &ccedil;a qui a mang&eacute; le chat?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Les rats.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Les souris?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui, les rats.
 
 
 
 
L'enfant, constern&eacute; de ces souris qui mangent les chats, poursuivit:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Monsieur, est-ce qu'elles nous mangeraient, ces souris-l&agrave;?
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pardi! fit Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
La terreur de l'enfant &eacute;tait au comble. Mais Gavroche ajouta:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;N'e&iuml;lle pas peur! ils ne peuvent pas entrer. Et puis je suis l&agrave;!
 
Tiens, prends ma main. Tais-toi, et pionce!
 
 
 
 
Gavroche en m&ecirc;me temps prit la main du petit par-dessus son fr&egrave;re.
 
L'enfant serra cette main contre lui et se sentit rassur&eacute;. Le courage et
 
la force ont de ces communications myst&eacute;rieuses. Le silence s'&eacute;tait
 
refait autour d'eux, le bruit des voix avait effray&eacute; et &eacute;loign&eacute; les
 
rats; au bout de quelques minutes ils eurent beau revenir et faire rage,
 
les trois m&ocirc;mes, plong&eacute;s dans le sommeil, n'entendaient plus rien.
 
 
 
 
Les heures de la nuit s'&eacute;coul&egrave;rent. L'ombre couvrait l'immense place de
 
la Bastille, un vent d'hiver qui se m&ecirc;lait &agrave; la pluie soufflait par
 
bouff&eacute;es, les patrouilles furetaient les portes, les all&eacute;es, les enclos,
 
les coins obscurs, et, cherchant les vagabonds nocturnes, passaient
 
silencieusement devant l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant; le monstre, debout, immobile, les
 
yeux ouverts dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, avait l'air de r&ecirc;ver comme satisfait de
 
sa bonne action, et abritait du ciel et des hommes les trois pauvres
 
enfants endormis.
 
 
 
 
Pour comprendre ce qui va suivre, il faut se souvenir qu'&agrave; cette &eacute;poque
 
le corps de garde de la Bastille &eacute;tait situ&eacute; &agrave; l'autre extr&eacute;mit&eacute; de la
 
place, et que ce qui se passait pr&egrave;s de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant ne pouvait &ecirc;tre ni
 
aper&ccedil;u, ni entendu par la sentinelle.
 
 
 
 
Vers la fin de cette heure qui pr&eacute;c&egrave;de imm&eacute;diatement le point du jour,
 
un homme d&eacute;boucha de la rue Saint-Antoine en courant, traversa la place,
 
tourna le grand enclos de la colonne de Juillet, et se glissa entre les
 
palissades jusque sous le ventre de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant. Si une lumi&egrave;re
 
quelconque e&ucirc;t &eacute;clair&eacute; cet homme, &agrave; la mani&egrave;re profonde dont il &eacute;tait
 
mouill&eacute;, on e&ucirc;t devin&eacute; qu'il avait pass&eacute; la nuit sous la pluie. Arriv&eacute;
 
sous l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant, il fit entendre un cri bizarre qui n'appartient &agrave;
 
aucune langue humaine et qu'une perruche seule pourrait reproduire. Il
 
r&eacute;p&eacute;ta deux fois ce cri dont l'orthographe que voici donne &agrave; peine
 
quelque id&eacute;e:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Kirikikiou!
 
 
 
 
Au second cri, une voix claire, gaie et jeune, r&eacute;pondit du ventre de
 
l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Oui.
 
 
 
 
Presque imm&eacute;diatement, la planche qui fermait le trou se d&eacute;rangea et
 
donna passage &agrave; un enfant qui descendit le long du pied de l'&eacute;l&eacute;phant et
 
vint lestement tomber pr&egrave;s de l'homme. C'&eacute;tait Gavroche. L'homme &eacute;tait
 
Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
Quant &agrave; ce cri, ''kirikikiou'', c'&eacute;tait l&agrave; sans doute ce que l'enfant
 
voulait dire par: ''Tu demanderas monsieur Gavroche''.
 
 
 
 
En l'entendant, il s'&eacute;tait r&eacute;veill&eacute; en sursaut, avait ramp&eacute; hors de son
 
&laquo;alc&ocirc;ve&raquo;, en &eacute;cartant un peu le grillage qu'il avait ensuite referm&eacute;
 
soigneusement, puis il avait ouvert la trappe et &eacute;tait descendu.
 
 
 
 
L'homme et l'enfant se reconnurent silencieusement dans la nuit;
 
Montparnasse se borna &agrave; dire:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Nous avons besoin de toi. Viens nous donner un coup de main.
 
 
 
 
Le gamin ne demanda pas d'autre &eacute;claircissement.
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Me v'l&agrave;, dit-il.
 
 
 
 
Et tous deux se dirig&egrave;rent vers la rue Saint-Antoine, d'o&ugrave; sortait
 
Montparnasse, serpentant rapidement &agrave; travers la longue file des
 
charrettes de mara&icirc;chers qui descendent &agrave; cette heure-l&agrave; vers la halle.
 
 
 
 
Les mara&icirc;chers accroupis dans leurs voitures parmi les salades et les
 
l&eacute;gumes, &agrave; demi assoupis, enfouis jusqu'aux yeux dans leurs rouli&egrave;res &agrave;
 
cause de la pluie battante, ne regardaient m&ecirc;me pas ces &eacute;tranges
 
passants.
 
 
 
==English text==
 
 
 
Spring in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing breezes which do
 
not precisely chill but freeze one; these north winds which sadden the
 
most beautiful days produce exactly the effect of those puffs of cold air
 
which enter a warm room through the cracks of a badly fitting door or
 
window. It seems as though the gloomy door of winter had remained ajar,
 
and as though the wind were pouring through it. In the spring of 1832, the
 
epoch when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Europe,
 
these north gales were more harsh and piercing than ever. It was a door
 
even more glacial than that of winter which was ajar. It was the door of
 
the sepulchre. In these winds one felt the breath of the cholera.
 
 
 
 
From a meteorological point of view, these cold winds possessed this
 
peculiarity, that they did not preclude a strong electric tension.
 
Frequent storms, accompanied by thunder and lightning, burst forth at this
 
epoch.
 
 
 
 
One evening, when these gales were blowing rudely, to such a degree that
 
January seemed to have returned and that the bourgeois had resumed their
 
cloaks, Little Gavroche, who was always shivering gayly under his rags,
 
was standing as though in ecstasy before a wig-maker's shop in the
 
vicinity of the Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman's woollen
 
shawl, picked up no one knows where, and which he had converted into a
 
neck comforter. Little Gavroche appeared to be engaged in intent
 
admiration of a wax bride, in a low-necked dress, and crowned with
 
orange-flowers, who was revolving in the window, and displaying her smile
 
to passers-by, between two argand lamps; but in reality, he was taking an
 
observation of the shop, in order to discover whether he could not "prig"
 
from the shop-front a cake of soap, which he would then proceed to sell
 
for a sou to a "hair-dresser" in the suburbs. He had often managed to
 
breakfast off of such a roll. He called his species of work, for which he
 
possessed special aptitude, "shaving barbers."
 
 
 
 
While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered
 
between his teeth: "Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Perhaps
 
it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday."
 
 
 
 
No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred.
 
 
 
 
Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last occasion
 
on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday.
 
 
 
 
The barber in his shop, which was warmed by a good stove, was shaving a
 
customer and casting a glance from time to time at the enemy, that
 
freezing and impudent street urchin both of whose hands were in his
 
pockets, but whose mind was evidently unsheathed.
 
 
 
 
While Gavroche was scrutinizing the shop-window and the cakes of windsor
 
soap, two children of unequal stature, very neatly dressed, and still
 
smaller than himself, one apparently about seven years of age, the other
 
five, timidly turned the handle and entered the shop, with a request for
 
something or other, alms possibly, in a plaintive murmur which resembled a
 
groan rather than a prayer. They both spoke at once, and their words were
 
unintelligible because sobs broke the voice of the younger, and the teeth
 
of the elder were chattering with cold. The barber wheeled round with a
 
furious look, and without abandoning his razor, thrust back the elder with
 
his left hand and the younger with his knee, and slammed his door, saying:
 
"The idea of coming in and freezing everybody for nothing!"
 
 
 
 
The two children resumed their march in tears. In the meantime, a cloud
 
had risen; it had begun to rain.
 
 
 
 
Little Gavroche ran after them and accosted them:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"What's the matter with you, brats?"
 
 
 
 
"We don't know where we are to sleep," replied the elder.
 
 
 
 
"Is that all?" said Gavroche. "A great matter, truly. The idea of bawling
 
about that. They must be greenies!"
 
 
 
 
And adopting, in addition to his superiority, which was rather bantering,
 
an accent of tender authority and gentle patronage:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Come along with me, young 'uns!"
 
 
 
 
"Yes, sir," said the elder.
 
 
 
 
And the two children followed him as they would have followed an
 
archbishop. They had stopped crying.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine in the direction of the
 
Bastille.
 
 
 
 
As Gavroche walked along, he cast an indignant backward glance at the
 
barber's shop.
 
 
 
 
"That fellow has no heart, the whiting," he muttered. "He's an
 
Englishman."
 
 
 
 
A woman who caught sight of these three marching in a file, with Gavroche
 
at their head, burst into noisy laughter. This laugh was wanting in
 
respect towards the group.
 
 
 
 
"Good day, Mamselle Omnibus," said Gavroche to her.
 
 
 
 
An instant later, the wig-maker occurred to his mind once more, and he
 
added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"I am making a mistake in the beast; he's not a whiting, he's a serpent.
 
Barber, I'll go and fetch a locksmith, and I'll have a bell hung to your
 
tail."
 
 
 
 
This wig-maker had rendered him aggressive. As he strode over a gutter, he
 
apostrophized a bearded portress who was worthy to meet Faust on the
 
Brocken, and who had a broom in her hand.
 
 
 
 
"Madam," said he, "so you are going out with your horse?"
 
 
 
 
And thereupon, he spattered the polished boots of a pedestrian.
 
 
 
 
"You scamp!" shouted the furious pedestrian.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche elevated his nose above his shawl.
 
 
 
 
"Is Monsieur complaining?"
 
 
 
 
"Of you!" ejaculated the man.
 
 
 
 
"The office is closed," said Gavroche, "I do not receive any more
 
complaints."
 
 
 
 
In the meanwhile, as he went on up the street, he perceived a beggar-girl,
 
thirteen or fourteen years old, and clad in so short a gown that her knees
 
were visible, lying thoroughly chilled under a porte-cochère. The little
 
girl was getting to be too old for such a thing. Growth does play these
 
tricks. The petticoat becomes short at the moment when nudity becomes
 
indecent.
 
 
 
 
"Poor girl!" said Gavroche. "She hasn't even trousers. Hold on, take
 
this."
 
 
 
 
And unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had around his neck, he
 
flung it on the thin and purple shoulders of the beggar-girl, where the
 
scarf became a shawl once more.
 
 
 
 
The child stared at him in astonishment, and received the shawl in
 
silence. When a certain stage of distress has been reached in his misery,
 
the poor man no longer groans over evil, no longer returns thanks for
 
good.
 
 
 
 
That done: "Brrr!" said Gavroche, who was shivering more than Saint
 
Martin, for the latter retained one-half of his cloak.
 
 
 
 
At this brrr! the downpour of rain, redoubled in its spite, became
 
furious. The wicked skies punish good deeds.
 
 
 
 
"Ah, come now!" exclaimed Gavroche, "what's the meaning of this? It's
 
re-raining! Good Heavens, if it goes on like this, I shall stop my
 
subscription."
 
 
 
 
And he set out on the march once more.
 
 
 
 
"It's all right," he resumed, casting a glance at the beggar-girl, as she
 
coiled up under the shawl, "she's got a famous peel."
 
 
 
 
And looking up at the clouds he exclaimed:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Caught!"
 
 
 
 
The two children followed close on his heels.
 
 
 
 
As they were passing one of these heavy grated lattices, which indicate a
 
baker's shop, for bread is put behind bars like gold, Gavroche turned
 
round:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Ah, by the way, brats, have we dined?"
 
 
 
 
"Monsieur," replied the elder, "we have had nothing to eat since this
 
morning."
 
 
 
 
"So you have neither father nor mother?" resumed Gavroche majestically.
 
 
 
 
"Excuse us, sir, we have a papa and a mamma, but we don't know where they
 
are."
 
 
 
 
"Sometimes that's better than knowing where they are," said Gavroche, who
 
was a thinker.
 
 
 
 
"We have been wandering about these two hours," continued the elder, "we
 
have hunted for things at the corners of the streets, but we have found
 
nothing."
 
 
 
 
"I know," ejaculated Gavroche, "it's the dogs who eat everything."
 
 
 
 
He went on, after a pause:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Ah! we have lost our authors. We don't know what we have done with them.
 
This should not be, gamins. It's stupid to let old people stray off like
 
that. Come now! we must have a snooze all the same."
 
 
 
 
However, he asked them no questions. What was more simple than that they
 
should have no dwelling place!
 
 
 
 
The elder of the two children, who had almost entirely recovered the
 
prompt heedlessness of childhood, uttered this exclamation:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"It's queer, all the same. Mamma told us that she would take us to get a
 
blessed spray on Palm Sunday."
 
 
 
 
"Bosh," said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"Mamma," resumed the elder, "is a lady who lives with Mamselle Miss."
 
 
 
 
"Tanflute!" retorted Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Meanwhile he had halted, and for the last two minutes he had been feeling
 
and fumbling in all sorts of nooks which his rags contained.
 
 
 
 
At last he tossed his head with an air intended to be merely satisfied,
 
but which was triumphant, in reality.
 
 
 
 
"Let us be calm, young 'uns. Here's supper for three."
 
 
 
 
And from one of his pockets he drew forth a sou.
 
 
 
 
Without allowing the two urchins time for amazement, he pushed both of
 
them before him into the baker's shop, and flung his sou on the counter,
 
crying:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Boy! five centimes' worth of bread."
 
 
 
 
The baker, who was the proprietor in person, took up a loaf and a knife.
 
 
 
 
"In three pieces, my boy!" went on Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
And he added with dignity:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"There are three of us."
 
 
 
 
And seeing that the baker, after scrutinizing the three customers, had
 
taken down a black loaf, he thrust his finger far up his nose with an
 
inhalation as imperious as though he had had a pinch of the great
 
Frederick's snuff on the tip of his thumb, and hurled this indignant
 
apostrophe full in the baker's face:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Keksekca?"
 
 
 
 
Those of our readers who might be tempted to espy in this interpellation
 
of Gavroche's to the baker a Russian or a Polish word, or one of those
 
savage cries which the Yoways and the Botocudos hurl at each other from
 
bank to bank of a river, athwart the solitudes, are warned that it is a
 
word which they [our readers] utter every day, and which takes the place
 
of the phrase: "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?" The baker understood
 
perfectly, and replied:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Well! It's bread, and very good bread of the second quality."
 
 
 
 
"You mean larton brutal [black bread]!" retorted Gavroche, calmly and
 
coldly disdainful. "White bread, boy! white bread [larton savonne]! I'm
 
standing treat."
 
 
 
 
The baker could not repress a smile, and as he cut the white bread he
 
surveyed them in a compassionate way which shocked Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"Come, now, baker's boy!" said he, "what are you taking our measure like
 
that for?"
 
 
 
 
All three of them placed end to end would have hardly made a measure.
 
 
 
 
When the bread was cut, the baker threw the sou into his drawer, and
 
Gavroche said to the two children:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Grub away."
 
 
 
 
The little boys stared at him in surprise.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche began to laugh.
 
 
 
 
"Ah! hullo, that's so! they don't understand yet, they're too small."
 
 
 
 
And he repeated:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Eat away."
 
 
 
 
At the same time, he held out a piece of bread to each of them.
 
 
 
 
And thinking that the elder, who seemed to him the more worthy of his
 
conversation, deserved some special encouragement and ought to be relieved
 
from all hesitation to satisfy his appetite, he added, as be handed him
 
the largest share:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Ram that into your muzzle."
 
 
 
 
One piece was smaller than the others; he kept this for himself.
 
 
 
 
The poor children, including Gavroche, were famished. As they tore their
 
bread apart in big mouthfuls, they blocked up the shop of the baker, who,
 
now that they had paid their money, looked angrily at them.
 
 
 
 
"Let's go into the street again," said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
They set off once more in the direction of the Bastille.
 
 
 
 
From time to time, as they passed the lighted shop-windows, the smallest
 
halted to look at the time on a leaden watch which was suspended from his
 
neck by a cord.
 
 
 
 
"Well, he is a very green 'un," said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Then, becoming thoughtful, he muttered between his teeth:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"All the same, if I had charge of the babes I'd lock 'em up better than
 
that."
 
 
 
 
Just as they were finishing their morsel of bread, and had reached the
 
angle of that gloomy Rue des Ballets, at the other end of which the low
 
and threatening wicket of La Force was visible:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Hullo, is that you, Gavroche?" said some one.
 
 
 
 
"Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse?" said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
A man had just accosted the street urchin, and the man was no other than
 
Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, but recognizable to
 
Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"The bow-wows!" went on Gavroche, "you've got a hide the color of a
 
linseed plaster, and blue specs like a doctor. You're putting on style,
 
'pon my word!"
 
 
 
 
"Hush!" ejaculated Montparnasse, "not so loud."
 
 
 
 
And he drew Gavroche hastily out of range of the lighted shops.
 
 
 
 
The two little ones followed mechanically, holding each other by the hand.
 
 
 
 
When they were ensconced under the arch of a portecochere, sheltered from
 
the rain and from all eyes:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Do you know where I'm going?" demanded Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
"To the Abbéy of Ascend-with-Regret," replied Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"Joker!"
 
 
 
 
And Montparnasse went on:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"I'm going to find Babet."
 
 
 
 
"Ah!" exclaimed Gavroche, "so her name is Babet."
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse lowered his voice:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Not she, he."
 
 
 
 
"Ah! Babet."
 
 
 
 
"Yes, Babet."
 
 
 
 
"I thought he was buckled."
 
 
 
 
"He has undone the buckle," replied Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
And he rapidly related to the gamin how, on the morning of that very day,
 
Babet, having been transferred to La Conciergerie, had made his escape, by
 
turning to the left instead of to the right in "the police office."
 
 
 
 
Gavroche expressed his admiration for this skill.
 
 
 
 
"What a dentist!" he cried.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse added a few details as to Babet's flight, and ended with:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Oh! That's not all."
 
 
 
 
Gavroche, as he listened, had seized a cane that Montparnasse held in his
 
hand, and mechanically pulled at the upper part, and the blade of a dagger
 
made its appearance.
 
 
 
 
"Ah!" he exclaimed, pushing the dagger back in haste, "you have brought
 
along your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois."
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse winked.
 
 
 
 
"The deuce!" resumed Gavroche, "so you're going to have a bout with the
 
bobbies?"
 
 
 
 
"You can't tell," replied Montparnasse with an indifferent air. "It's
 
always a good thing to have a pin about one."
 
 
 
 
Gavroche persisted:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"What are you up to to-night?"
 
 
 
 
Again Montparnasse took a grave tone, and said, mouthing every syllable:
 
"Things."
 
 
 
 
And abruptly changing the conversation:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"By the way!"
 
 
 
 
"What?"
 
 
 
 
"Something happened t'other day. Fancy. I meet a bourgeois. He makes me a
 
present of a sermon and his purse. I put it in my pocket. A minute later,
 
I feel in my pocket. There's nothing there."
 
 
 
 
"Except the sermon," said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"But you," went on Montparnasse, "where are you bound for now?"
 
 
 
 
Gavroche pointed to his two proteges, and said:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"I'm going to put these infants to bed."
 
 
 
 
"Whereabouts is the bed?"
 
 
 
 
"At my house."
 
 
 
 
"Where's your house?"
 
 
 
 
"At my house."
 
 
 
 
"So you have a lodging?"
 
 
 
 
"Yes, I have."
 
 
 
 
"And where is your lodging?"
 
 
 
 
"In the elephant," said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment, could not
 
restrain an exclamation.
 
 
 
 
"In the elephant!"
 
 
 
 
"Well, yes, in the elephant!" retorted Gavroche. "Kekcaa?"
 
 
 
 
This is another word of the language which no one writes, and which every
 
one speaks.
 
 
 
 
Kekcaa signifies: Quest que c'est que cela a? [What's the matter with
 
that?]
 
 
 
 
The urchin's profound remark recalled Montparnasse to calmness and good
 
sense. He appeared to return to better sentiments with regard to
 
Gavroche's lodging.
 
 
 
 
"Of course," said he, "yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there?"
 
 
 
 
"Very," said Gavroche. "It's really bully there. There ain't any draughts,
 
as there are under the bridges."
 
 
 
 
"How do you get in?"
 
 
 
 
"Oh, I get in."
 
 
 
 
"So there is a hole?" demanded Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
"Parbleu! I should say so. But you mustn't tell. It's between the fore
 
legs. The bobbies haven't seen it."
 
 
 
 
"And you climb up? Yes, I understand."
 
 
 
 
"A turn of the hand, cric, crac, and it's all over, no one there."
 
 
 
 
After a pause, Gavroche added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"I shall have a ladder for these children."
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse burst out laughing:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Where the devil did you pick up those young 'uns?"
 
 
 
 
Gavroche replied with great simplicity:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of."
 
 
 
 
Meanwhile, Montparnasse had fallen to thinking:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"You recognized me very readily," he muttered.
 
 
 
 
He took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing more than two
 
quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one up each of his nostrils. This
 
gave him a different nose.
 
 
 
 
"That changes you," remarked Gavroche, "you are less homely so, you ought
 
to keep them on all the time."
 
 
 
 
Montparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a tease.
 
 
 
 
"Seriously," demanded Montparnasse, "how do you like me so?"
 
 
 
 
The sound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling, Montparnasse
 
had become unrecognizable.
 
 
 
 
"Oh! Do play Porrichinelle for us!" exclaimed Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
The two children, who had not been listening up to this point, being
 
occupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses, drew near
 
at this name, and stared at Montparnasse with dawning joy and admiration.
 
 
 
 
Unfortunately, Montparnasse was troubled.
 
 
 
 
He laid his hand on Gavroche's shoulder, and said to him, emphasizing his
 
words: "Listen to what I tell you, boy! if I were on the square with my
 
dog, my knife, and my wife, and if you were to squander ten sous on me, I
 
wouldn't refuse to work, but this isn't Shrove Tuesday."
 
 
 
 
This odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin. He wheeled round
 
hastily, darted his little sparkling eyes about him with profound
 
attention, and perceived a police sergeant standing with his back to them
 
a few paces off. Gavroche allowed an: "Ah! good!" to escape him, but
 
immediately suppressed it, and shaking Montparnasse's hand:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Well, good evening," said he, "I'm going off to my elephant with my
 
brats. Supposing that you should need me some night, you can come and hunt
 
me up there. I lodge on the entresol. There is no porter. You will inquire
 
for Monsieur Gavroche."
 
 
 
 
"Very good," said Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
And they parted, Montparnasse betaking himself in the direction of the
 
Greve, and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The little one of five, dragged
 
along by his brother who was dragged by Gavroche, turned his head back
 
several times to watch "Porrichinelle" as he went.
 
 
 
 
The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche of
 
the presence of the policeman, contained no other talisman than the
 
assonance dig repeated five or six times in different forms. This
 
syllable, dig, uttered alone or artistically mingled with the words of a
 
phrase, means: "Take care, we can no longer talk freely." There was
 
besides, in Montparnasse's sentence, a literary beauty which was lost upon
 
Gavroche, that is mon dogue, ma dague et ma digue, a slang expression of
 
the Temple, which signifies my dog, my knife, and my wife, greatly in
 
vogue among clowns and the red-tails in the great century when Moliere
 
wrote and Callot drew.
 
 
 
 
Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southwest corner of
 
the Place de la Bastille, near the basin of the canal, excavated in the
 
ancient ditch of the fortress-prison, a singular monument, which has
 
already been effaced from the memories of Parisians, and which deserved to
 
leave some trace, for it was the idea of a "member of the Institute, the
 
General-in-chief of the army of Egypt."
 
 
 
 
We say monument, although it was only a rough model. But this model
 
itself, a marvellous sketch, the grandiose skeleton of an idea of
 
Napoleon's, which successive gusts of wind have carried away and thrown,
 
on each occasion, still further from us, had become historical and had
 
acquired a certain definiteness which contrasted with its provisional
 
aspect. It was an elephant forty feet high, constructed of timber and
 
masonry, bearing on its back a tower which resembled a house, formerly
 
painted green by some dauber, and now painted black by heaven, the wind,
 
and time. In this deserted and unprotected corner of the place, the broad
 
brow of the colossus, his trunk, his tusks, his tower, his enormous
 
crupper, his four feet, like columns produced, at night, under the starry
 
heavens, a surprising and terrible form. It was a sort of symbol of
 
popular force. It was sombre, mysterious, and immense. It was some mighty,
 
visible phantom, one knew not what, standing erect beside the invisible
 
spectre of the Bastille.
 
 
 
 
Few strangers visited this edifice, no passer-by looked at it. It was
 
falling into ruins; every season the plaster which detached itself from
 
its sides formed hideous wounds upon it. "The aediles," as the expression
 
ran in elegant dialect, had forgotten it ever since 1814. There it stood
 
in its corner, melancholy, sick, crumbling, surrounded by a rotten
 
palisade, soiled continually by drunken coachmen; cracks meandered athwart
 
its belly, a lath projected from its tail, tall grass flourished between
 
its legs; and, as the level of the place had been rising all around it for
 
a space of thirty years, by that slow and continuous movement which
 
insensibly elevates the soil of large towns, it stood in a hollow, and it
 
looked as though the ground were giving way beneath it. It was unclean,
 
despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois,
 
melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. There was something about it of the
 
dirt which is on the point of being swept out, and something of the
 
majesty which is on the point of being decapitated. As we have said, at
 
night, its aspect changed. Night is the real element of everything that is
 
dark. As soon as twilight descended, the old elephant became transfigured;
 
he assumed a tranquil and redoubtable appearance in the formidable
 
serenity of the shadows. Being of the past, he belonged to night; and
 
obscurity was in keeping with his grandeur.
 
 
 
 
This rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost misshapen, but assuredly
 
majestic monument, stamped with a sort of magnificent and savage gravity,
 
has disappeared, and left to reign in peace, a sort of gigantic stove,
 
ornamented with its pipe, which has replaced the sombre fortress with its
 
nine towers, very much as the bourgeoisie replaces the feudal classes. It
 
is quite natural that a stove should be the symbol of an epoch in which a
 
pot contains power. This epoch will pass away, people have already begun
 
to understand that, if there can be force in a boiler, there can be no
 
force except in the brain; in other words, that which leads and drags on
 
the world, is not locomotives, but ideas. Harness locomotives to ideas,&mdash;that
 
is well done; but do not mistake the horse for the rider.
 
 
 
 
At all events, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect of
 
this elephant succeeded in making a grand thing out of plaster; the
 
architect of the stove has succeeded in making a pretty thing out of
 
bronze.
 
 
 
 
This stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous name, and called
 
the column of July, this monument of a revolution that miscarried, was
 
still enveloped in 1832, in an immense shirt of woodwork, which we regret,
 
for our part, and by a vast plank enclosure, which completed the task of
 
isolating the elephant.
 
 
 
 
It was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by the reflection
 
of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two "brats."
 
 
 
 
The reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and to remind him
 
that we are dealing with simple reality, and that twenty years ago, the
 
tribunals were called upon to judge, under the charge of vagabondage, and
 
mutilation of a public monument, a child who had been caught asleep in
 
this very elephant of the Bastille. This fact noted, we proceed.
 
 
 
 
On arriving in the vicinity of the colossus, Gavroche comprehended the
 
effect which the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely small,
 
and said:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Don't be scared, infants."
 
 
 
 
Then he entered through a gap in the fence into the elephant's enclosure
 
and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach. The two children,
 
somewhat frightened, followed Gavroche without uttering a word, and
 
confided themselves to this little Providence in rags which had given them
 
bread and had promised them a shelter.
 
 
 
 
There, extended along the fence, lay a ladder which by day served the
 
laborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gavroche raised it with
 
remarkable vigor, and placed it against one of the elephant's forelegs.
 
Near the point where the ladder ended, a sort of black hole in the belly
 
of the colossus could be distinguished.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests, and said to
 
them:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Climb up and go in."
 
 
 
 
The two little boys exchanged terrified glances.
 
 
 
 
"You're afraid, brats!" exclaimed Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
And he added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"You shall see!"
 
 
 
 
He clasped the rough leg of the elephant, and in a twinkling, without
 
deigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached the aperture. He
 
entered it as an adder slips through a crevice, and disappeared within,
 
and an instant later, the two children saw his head, which looked pale,
 
appear vaguely, on the edge of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish
 
spectre.
 
 
 
 
"Well!" he exclaimed, "climb up, young 'uns! You'll see how snug it is
 
here! Come up, you!" he said to the elder, "I'll lend you a hand."
 
 
 
 
The little fellows nudged each other, the gamin frightened and inspired
 
them with confidence at one and the same time, and then, it was raining
 
very hard. The elder one undertook the risk. The younger, on seeing his
 
brother climbing up, and himself left alone between the paws of this huge
 
beast, felt greatly inclined to cry, but he did not dare.
 
 
 
 
The elder lad climbed, with uncertain steps, up the rungs of the ladder;
 
Gavroche, in the meanwhile, encouraging him with exclamations like a
 
fencing-master to his pupils, or a muleteer to his mules.
 
 
 
 
"Don't be afraid!&mdash;That's it!&mdash;Come on!&mdash;Put your feet
 
there!&mdash;Give us your hand here!&mdash;Boldly!"
 
 
 
 
And when the child was within reach, he seized him suddenly and vigorously
 
by the arm, and pulled him towards him.
 
 
 
 
"Nabbed!" said he.
 
 
 
 
The brat had passed through the crack.
 
 
 
 
"Now," said Gavroche, "wait for me. Be so good as to take a seat,
 
Monsieur."
 
 
 
 
And making his way out of the hole as he had entered it, he slipped down
 
the elephant's leg with the agility of a monkey, landed on his feet in the
 
grass, grasped the child of five round the body, and planted him fairly in
 
the middle of the ladder, then he began to climb up behind him, shouting
 
to the elder:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"I'm going to boost him, do you tug."
 
 
 
 
And in another instant, the small lad was pushed, dragged, pulled, thrust,
 
stuffed into the hole, before he had time to recover himself, and
 
Gavroche, entering behind him, and repulsing the ladder with a kick which
 
sent it flat on the grass, began to clap his hands and to cry:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Here we are! Long live General Lafayette!"
 
 
 
 
This explosion over, he added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Now, young 'uns, you are in my house."
 
 
 
 
Gavroche was at home, in fact.
 
 
 
 
Oh, unforeseen utility of the useless! Charity of great things! Goodness
 
of giants! This huge monument, which had embodied an idea of the
 
Emperor's, had become the box of a street urchin. The brat had been
 
accepted and sheltered by the colossus. The bourgeois decked out in their
 
Sunday finery who passed the elephant of the Bastille, were fond of saying
 
as they scanned it disdainfully with their prominent eyes: "What's the
 
good of that?" It served to save from the cold, the frost, the hail, and
 
rain, to shelter from the winds of winter, to preserve from slumber in the
 
mud which produces fever, and from slumber in the snow which produces
 
death, a little being who had no father, no mother, no bread, no clothes,
 
no refuge. It served to receive the innocent whom society repulsed. It
 
served to diminish public crime. It was a lair open to one against whom
 
all doors were shut. It seemed as though the miserable old mastodon,
 
invaded by vermin and oblivion, covered with warts, with mould, and
 
ulcers, tottering, worm-eaten, abandoned, condemned, a sort of mendicant
 
colossus, asking alms in vain with a benevolent look in the midst of the
 
cross-roads, had taken pity on that other mendicant, the poor pygmy, who
 
roamed without shoes to his feet, without a roof over his head, blowing on
 
his fingers, clad in rags, fed on rejected scraps. That was what the
 
elephant of the Bastille was good for. This idea of Napoleon, disdained by
 
men, had been taken back by God. That which had been merely illustrious,
 
had become august. In order to realize his thought, the Emperor should
 
have had porphyry, brass, iron, gold, marble; the old collection of
 
planks, beams and plaster sufficed for God. The Emperor had had the dream
 
of a genius; in that Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, with trunk
 
uplifted, bearing its tower and scattering on all sides its merry and
 
vivifying waters, he wished to incarnate the people. God had done a
 
grander thing with it, he had lodged a child there.
 
 
 
 
The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach which was hardly
 
visible from the outside, being concealed, as we have stated, beneath the
 
elephant's belly, and so narrow that it was only cats and homeless
 
children who could pass through it.
 
 
 
 
"Let's begin," said Gavroche, "by telling the porter that we are not at
 
home."
 
 
 
 
And plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a person who is well
 
acquainted with his apartments, he took a plank and stopped up the
 
aperture.
 
 
 
 
Again Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children heard the
 
crackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric bottle. The chemical
 
match was not yet in existence; at that epoch the Fumade steel represented
 
progress.
 
 
 
 
A sudden light made them blink; Gavroche had just managed to ignite one of
 
those bits of cord dipped in resin which are called cellar rats. The
 
cellar rat, which emitted more smoke than light, rendered the interior of
 
the elephant confusedly visible.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche's two guests glanced about them, and the sensation which they
 
experienced was something like that which one would feel if shut up in the
 
great tun of Heidelberg, or, better still, like what Jonah must have felt
 
in the biblical belly of the whale. An entire and gigantic skeleton
 
appeared enveloping them. Above, a long brown beam, whence started at
 
regular distances, massive, arching ribs, represented the vertebral column
 
with its sides, stalactites of plaster depended from them like entrails,
 
and vast spiders' webs stretching from side to side, formed dirty
 
diaphragms. Here and there, in the corners, were visible large blackish
 
spots which had the appearance of being alive, and which changed places
 
rapidly with an abrupt and frightened movement.
 
 
 
 
Fragments which had fallen from the elephant's back into his belly had
 
filled up the cavity, so that it was possible to walk upon it as on a
 
floor.
 
 
 
 
The smaller child nestled up against his brother, and whispèred to him:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"It's black."
 
 
 
 
This remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The petrified air of the
 
two brats rendered some shock necessary.
 
 
 
 
"What's that you are gabbling about there?" he exclaimed. "Are you
 
scoffing at me? Are you turning up your noses? Do you want the tuileries?
 
Are you brutes? Come, say! I warn you that I don't belong to the regiment
 
of simpletons. Ah, come now, are you brats from the Pope's establishment?"
 
 
 
 
A little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring. The two
 
children drew close to Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche, paternally touched by this confidence, passed from grave to
 
gentle, and addressing the smaller:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Stupid," said he, accenting the insulting word, with a caressing
 
intonation, "it's outside that it is black. Outside it's raining, here it
 
does not rain; outside it's cold, here there's not an atom of wind;
 
outside there are heaps of people, here there's no one; outside there
 
ain't even the moon, here there's my candle, confound it!"
 
 
 
 
The two children began to look upon the apartment with less terror; but
 
Gavroche allowed them no more time for contemplation.
 
 
 
 
"Quick," said he.
 
 
 
 
And he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be able to call the
 
end of the room.
 
 
 
 
There stood his bed.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche's bed was complete; that is to say, it had a mattress, a blanket,
 
and an alcove with curtains.
 
 
 
 
The mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large strip of gray
 
woollen stuff, very warm and almost new. This is what the alcove consisted
 
of:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
Three rather long poles, thrust into and consolidated, with the rubbish
 
which formed the floor, that is to say, the belly of the elephant, two in
 
front and one behind, and united by a rope at their summits, so as to form
 
a pyramidal bundle. This cluster supported a trellis-work of brass wire
 
which was simply placed upon it, but artistically applied, and held by
 
fastenings of iron wire, so that it enveloped all three holes. A row of
 
very heavy stones kept this network down to the floor so that nothing
 
could pass under it. This grating was nothing else than a piece of the
 
brass screens with which aviaries are covered in menageries. Gavroche's
 
bed stood as in a cage, behind this net. The whole resembled an Esquimaux
 
tent.
 
 
 
 
This trellis-work took the place of curtains.
 
 
 
 
Gavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net down in front, and
 
the two folds of the net which lapped over each other fell apart.
 
 
 
 
"Down on all fours, brats!" said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
He made his guests enter the cage with great precaution, then he crawled
 
in after them, pulled the stones together, and closed the opening
 
hermetically again.
 
 
 
 
All three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had the cellar rat
 
in his hand.
 
 
 
 
"Now," said he, "go to sleep! I'm going to suppress the candelabra."
 
 
 
 
"Monsieur," the elder of the brothers asked Gavroche, pointing to the
 
netting, "what's that for?"
 
 
 
 
"That," answered Gavroche gravely, "is for the rats. Go to sleep!"
 
 
 
 
Nevertheless, he felt obliged to add a few words of instruction for the
 
benefit of these young creatures, and he continued:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"It's a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It's used for fierce animals.
 
There's a whole shopful of them there. All you've got to do is to climb
 
over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass through a door. You can get
 
as much as you want."
 
 
 
 
As he spoke, he wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold of the
 
blanket, and the little one murmured:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Oh! how good that is! It's warm!"
 
 
 
 
Gavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket.
 
 
 
 
"That's from the Jardin des Plantes, too," said he. "I took that from the
 
monkeys."
 
 
 
 
And, pointing out to the eldest the mat on which he was lying, a very
 
thick and admirably made mat, he added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"That belonged to the giraffe."
 
 
 
 
After a pause he went on:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them. It didn't
 
trouble them. I told them: 'It's for the elephant.'"
 
 
 
 
He paused, and then resumed:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"You crawl over the walls and you don't care a straw for the government.
 
So there now!"
 
 
 
 
The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this intrepid
 
and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves, isolated like themselves,
 
frail like themselves, who had something admirable and all-powerful about
 
him, who seemed supernatural to them, and whose physiognomy was composed
 
of all the grimaces of an old mountebank, mingled with the most ingenuous
 
and charming smiles.
 
 
 
 
"Monsieur," ventured the elder timidly, "you are not afraid of the police,
 
then?"
 
 
 
 
Gavroche contented himself with replying:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Brat! Nobody says 'police,' they say 'bobbies.'"
 
 
 
 
The smaller had his eyes wide open, but he said nothing. As he was on the
 
edge of the mat, the elder being in the middle, Gavroche tucked the
 
blanket round him as a mother might have done, and heightened the mat
 
under his head with old rags, in such a way as to form a pillow for the
 
child. Then he turned to the elder:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Hey! We're jolly comfortable here, ain't we?"
 
 
 
 
"Ah, yes!" replied the elder, gazing at Gavroche with the expression of a
 
saved angel.
 
 
 
 
The two poor little children who had been soaked through, began to grow
 
warm once more.
 
 
 
 
"Ah, by the way," continued Gavroche, "what were you bawling about?"
 
 
 
 
And pointing out the little one to his brother:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"A mite like that, I've nothing to say about, but the idea of a big fellow
 
like you crying! It's idiotic; you looked like a calf."
 
 
 
 
"Gracious," replied the child, "we have no lodging."
 
 
 
 
"Bother!" retorted Gavroche, "you don't say 'lodgings,' you say 'crib.'"
 
 
 
 
"And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night."
 
 
 
 
"You don't say 'night,' you say 'darkmans.'"
 
 
 
 
"Thank you, sir," said the child.
 
 
 
 
"Listen," went on Gavroche, "you must never bawl again over anything. I'll
 
take care of you. You shall see what fun we'll have. In summer, we'll go
 
to the Glaciere with Navet, one of my pals, we'll bathe in the Gare, we'll
 
run stark naked in front of the rafts on the bridge at Austerlitz,&mdash;that
 
makes the laundresses raging. They scream, they get mad, and if you only
 
knew how ridiculous they are! We'll go and see the man-skeleton. And then
 
I'll take you to the play. I'll take you to see Frederick Lemaitre. I have
 
tickets, I know some of the actors, I even played in a piece once. There
 
were a lot of us fellers, and we ran under a cloth, and that made the sea.
 
I'll get you an engagement at my theatre. We'll go to see the savages.
 
They ain't real, those savages ain't. They wear pink tights that go all in
 
wrinkles, and you can see where their elbows have been darned with white.
 
Then, we'll go to the Opera. We'll get in with the hired applauders. The
 
Opera claque is well managed. I wouldn't associate with the claque on the
 
boulevard. At the Opera, just fancy! some of them pay twenty sous, but
 
they're ninnies. They're called dishclouts. And then we'll go to see the
 
guillotine work. I'll show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue des
 
Marais. Monsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah! we'll have
 
famous fun!"
 
 
 
 
At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's finger, and recalled him
 
to the realities of life.
 
 
 
 
"The deuce!" said he, "there's the wick giving out. Attention! I can't
 
spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. When a body goes to bed, he
 
must sleep. We haven't the time to read M. Paul de Kock's romances. And
 
besides, the light might pass through the cracks of the porte-cochère, and
 
all the bobbies need to do is to see it."
 
 
 
 
"And then," remarked the elder timidly,&mdash;he alone dared talk to
 
Gavroche, and reply to him, "a spark might fall in the straw, and we must
 
look out and not burn the house down."
 
 
 
 
"People don't say 'burn the house down,'" remarked Gavroche, "they say
 
'blaze the crib.'"
 
 
 
 
The storm increased in violence, and the heavy downpour beat upon the back
 
of the colossus amid claps of thunder. "You're taken in, rain!" said
 
Gavroche. "It amuses me to hear the decanter run down the legs of the
 
house. Winter is a stupid; it wastes its merchandise, it loses its labor,
 
it can't wet us, and that makes it kick up a row, old water-carrier that
 
it is."
 
 
 
 
This allusion to the thunder, all the consequences of which Gavroche, in
 
his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth century, accepted, was
 
followed by a broad flash of lightning, so dazzling that a hint of it
 
entered the belly of the elephant through the crack. Almost at the same
 
instant, the thunder rumbled with great fury. The two little creatures
 
uttered a shriek, and started up so eagerly that the network came near
 
being displaced, but Gavroche turned his bold face to them, and took
 
advantage of the clap of thunder to burst into a laugh.
 
 
 
 
"Calm down, children. Don't topple over the edifice. That's fine,
 
first-class thunder; all right. That's no slouch of a streak of lightning.
 
Bravo for the good God! Deuce take it! It's almost as good as it is at the
 
Ambigu."
 
 
 
 
That said, he restored order in the netting, pushed the two children
 
gently down on the bed, pressed their knees, in order to stretch them out
 
at full length, and exclaimed:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine. Now,
 
babes, now, my young humans, you must shut your peepers. It's very bad not
 
to sleep. It'll make you swallow the strainer, or, as they say, in
 
fashionable society, stink in the gullet. Wrap yourself up well in the
 
hide! I'm going to put out the light. Are you ready?"
 
 
 
 
"Yes," murmured the elder, "I'm all right. I seem to have feathers under
 
my head."
 
 
 
 
"People don't say 'head,'" cried Gavroche, "they say 'nut'."
 
 
 
 
The two children nestled close to each other, Gavroche finished arranging
 
them on the mat, drew the blanket up to their very ears, then repeated,
 
for the third time, his injunction in the hieratical tongue:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Shut your peepers!"
 
 
 
 
And he snuffed out his tiny light.
 
 
 
 
Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling began to
 
affect the netting under which the three children lay.
 
 
 
 
It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallic
 
sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This was
 
accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.
 
 
 
 
The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, and chilled
 
with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brother had already
 
shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the little one, who could
 
no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone,
 
and with bated breath:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Sir?"
 
 
 
 
"Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes.
 
 
 
 
"What is that?"
 
 
 
 
"It's the rats," replied Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
And he laid his head down on the mat again.
 
 
 
 
The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the
 
elephant, and who were the living black spots which we have already
 
mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long as it
 
had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the same as their
 
city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the good story-teller
 
Perrault calls "fresh meat," they had hurled themselves in throngs on
 
Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the
 
meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.
 
 
 
 
Still the little one could not sleep.
 
 
 
 
"Sir?" he began again.
 
 
 
 
"Hey?" said Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
"What are rats?"
 
 
 
 
"They are mice."
 
 
 
 
This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice in
 
the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, he
 
lifted up his voice once more.
 
 
 
 
"Sir?"
 
 
 
 
"Hey?" said Gavroche again.
 
 
 
 
"Why don't you have a cat?"
 
 
 
 
"I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, but they ate
 
her."
 
 
 
 
This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little fellow
 
began to tremble again.
 
 
 
 
The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Monsieur?"
 
 
 
 
"Hey?"
 
 
 
 
"Who was it that was eaten?"
 
 
 
 
"The cat."
 
 
 
 
"And who ate the cat?"
 
 
 
 
"The rats."
 
 
 
 
"The mice?"
 
 
 
 
"Yes, the rats."
 
 
 
 
The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which ate
 
cats, pursued:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Sir, would those mice eat us?"
 
 
 
 
"Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche.
 
 
 
 
The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catch
 
hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!"
 
 
 
 
At the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand across his
 
brother. The child pressed the hand close to him, and felt reassured.
 
Courage and strength have these mysterious ways of communicating
 
themselves. Silence reigned round them once more, the sound of their
 
voices had frightened off the rats; at the expiration of a few minutes,
 
they came raging back, but in vain, the three little fellows were fast
 
asleep and heard nothing more.
 
 
 
 
The hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the vast Place de la
 
Bastille. A wintry gale, which mingled with the rain, blew in gusts, the
 
patrol searched all the doorways, alleys, enclosures, and obscure nooks,
 
and in their search for nocturnal vagabonds they passed in silence before
 
the elephant; the monster, erect, motionless, staring open-eyed into the
 
shadows, had the appearance of dreaming happily over his good deed; and
 
sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor sleeping children.
 
 
 
 
In order to understand what is about to follow, the reader must remember,
 
that, at that epoch, the Bastille guard-house was situated at the other
 
end of the square, and that what took place in the vicinity of the
 
elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentinel.
 
 
 
 
Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn, a man
 
turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, made the circuit of the
 
enclosure of the column of July, and glided between the palings until he
 
was underneath the belly of the elephant. If any light had illuminated
 
that man, it might have been divined from the thorough manner in which he
 
was soaked that he had passed the night in the rain. Arrived beneath the
 
elephant, he uttered a peculiar cry, which did not belong to any human
 
tongue, and which a paroquet alone could have imitated. Twice he repeated
 
this cry, of whose orthography the following barely conveys an idea:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Kirikikiou!"
 
 
 
 
At the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded from the belly of
 
the elephant:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Yes!"
 
 
 
 
Almost immediately, the plank which closed the hole was drawn aside, and
 
gave passage to a child who descended the elephant's leg, and fell briskly
 
near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse.
 
 
 
 
As for his cry of Kirikikiou,&mdash;that was, doubtless, what the child
 
had meant, when he said:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche."
 
 
 
 
On hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out of his "alcove,"
 
pushing apart the netting a little, and carefully drawing it together
 
again, then he had opened the trap, and descended.
 
 
 
 
The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom:
 
Montparnasse confined himself to the remark:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"We need you. Come, lend us a hand."
 
 
 
 
The lad asked for no further enlightenment.
 
 
 
 
"I'm with you," said he.
 
 
 
 
And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, whence Montparnasse
 
had emerged, winding rapidly through the long file of market-gardeners'
 
carts which descend towards the markets at that hour.
 
 
 
 
The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their wagons, amid the
 
salads and vegetables, enveloped to their very eyes in their mufflers on
 
account of the beating rain, did not even glance at these strange
 
pedestrians.
 
 
 
==Translation notes==
 
 
 
===''Keksekça?'' et/and ''Kekçaa?''===
 
 
 
The plausibility that Hugo's direct-from-speech transliteration was avant-garde is suggested by its treatment by translators.  The 19th century English translators didn't translate Hugo's direct-to-speech transliterations. Neither "Keksekça?" nor its meaning "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?" are translated into English in either the 1862 Wraxall or the 1887 Hapgood English translations.<ref>Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables, Volume 2''. Trans. Sir Frederick Charles Lascelles Wraxall (3rd Baronet).  London: Hurst and Blackett, Publisher, 1862.  Digitized by Google, original from Oxford University's Bibliotheca Bodleiana.  https://books.google.com/books?id=TuQBAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false </ref><ref>Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables''. Trans. Isabel F. Hapgood.  New York:  Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 1887.  A Project Gutenberg Ebook.  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/135/135-h/135-h.htm#link2HCH0148 </ref>  The other transliteration, "Kekçaa?", and its formal explication, "qu'est-ce que cela a?", also remain as is.  An 1876 translation cited by Google Books as by C. E. Wilbour, omits Hugo's direct-from-speech transliterations, making a smoother reading experience, but losing Hugo's "but wait I haven't told you everything yet" style that makes Hugo's local-world-epoch story so delicious.<ref>Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables: Jean Valjean''. Trans. Charles Edwin Wilbour.    London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler, Warwick House, Paternoster Row, 1876.  Digitized by Google, originally from Oxford University's Bodleian Library. https://books.google.com/books?id=qhwGAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false </ref>
 
 
 
Fahnestock and MacAfee translate the direct-from-speech transliterations the way Wright translates Queneau's (see textual note, below). 
 
 
 
''Keksekça?'' becomes ''Whazzachuaver''
 
 
 
and
 
 
 
''Kekçaa?'' becomes ''Whazzematruthat''<ref>Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables''. Trans. Lee Fahnestock and Norman MacAfee. New York: Signet Classics, Penguin Group, 2013, p. 948, 951. </ref>
 
 
 
==Textual notes==
 
 
 
===Merlan (whiting)===
 
A sobriquet given to hairdressers because they are white with powder. <ref name="hapgood">Hugo, Victor. ''Les Misérables. Complete in Five Volumes.'' Trans. Isabel F Hapgood. Project Gutenberg eBook, 2008.</ref>
 
 
 
===The Abbéy of Ascend-with-Regret===
 
The scaffold. <ref name="hapgood"></ref>
 
 
 
===''Keksekça?'' and ''Kekçaa?'' (direct-from-speech transliteration)===
 
"Doukipudonkton, se demanda Gabriel excédé" opens Raymond Queneau's dazzling 1959 novel ''Zazie dans le métro''.<ref>Queneau, Raymond. ''Zazie dans le métro''. Folio, Editions Gallimard, 1959. p. 11.</ref>  Barbara Wright translates Queneau's direct-from-speech transliteration of Gabriel's question as "Howcanyastinksotho."<ref>Queneau, Raymond. ''Zazie''. Trans. Barbara Wright. Bantam Books: Toronto, 1968. p. 1</ref>  This direct-from-speech transliteration, made famous more recently by Irvine Welsh with ''Train Spotting'', shows up a century before ''Zazie dans le métro'' in ''Les Misérables''. 
 
 
 
Having read almost none of ''Les Misérables'' in French I am uncertain if the direct-from-speech transliterations appear only in the second half, but the two interrogatives of Gavroche the street kid, only pages apart (in Vol. 4, Bk. 6, Ch. 2), are
 
 
 
''Keksekça?''
 
 
 
and
 
 
 
''Kekçaa?''
 
 
 
Using Fahnestock and MacAfee's English translation as a guide, ''Keksekça?'' and ''Kekçaa?'' seem to be the first instances in the novel, as if Hugo discovered this new dialogic method well into the writing.
 
 
 
''Les Misérables'''s narrator explains this dialogic method after the second transliteration:
 
 
 
''Ceci est encore un mot de la langue que personne n'écrit et que tout le monde parle.'' 
 
 
 
That is, ''This is another word of the language no one writes but everyone speaks.''
 
 
 
The need for in-text explanation suggests a new literary method.
 
 
 
==Citations==
 
<references />
 

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