CHAPTER II.
GAVROCHE ON THE MARCH.
Holding a pistol without a cock in the streets is such a publicfunction, that Gavroche felt his humor increase at every step. He criedbetween the scraps of the Marseillaise which he sang,--
"All goes well. I suffer considerably in my left paw. I have broken myrheumatism, but I am happy, citizens. The bourgeois have only to holdfirm, and I am going to sing them some subversive couplets. What arethe police? Dogs. Holy Moses! we must not lack respect for the dogs.Besides, I should be quite willing to have one[1] for my pistol. I havejust come from the boulevard, my friends, where it's getting warm, andthe soup is simmering; it is time to skim the pot. Forward, my men,and let an impure blood inundate the furrows! I give my days for mycountry. I shall not see my concubine again; it's all over. Well, nomatter! Long live joy! Let us fight, crebleu! I have had enough ofdespotism!"
At this moment the horse of a lancer in the National Guard, who waspassing, fell. Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, helped theman up, and then helped to raise the horse, after which he pickedup his pistol and went his way again. In the Rue de Thorigny all waspeace and silence; and this apathy, peculiar to the Marais, contrastedwith the vast surrounding turmoil. Four gossips were conversing onthe step of a door; Scotland has trios of witches, but Paris hasquartettes of gossips, and the "Thou shalt be king" would be aslugubriously cast at Bonaparte at the Baudoyer crossway, as to Macbethon the Highland heath,--it would be much the same croak. The gossipsin the Rue Thorigny only troubled themselves about their own affairs;they were three portresses, and a rag-picker with her dorser and herhook. They seemed to be standing all four at the four corners of oldage, which are decay, decrepitude, ruin, and sorrow. The rag-pickerwas humble, for in this open-air world the rag-picker bows, and theportress protects. The things thrown into the street are fat and lean,according to the fancy of the person who makes the pile, and theremay be kindness in the broom. This rag-picker was grateful, and shesmiled,--what a smile!--at the three portresses. They were makingremarks like the following,--
"So your cat is as ill-tempered as ever?"
"Well, good gracious! you know that cats are naturally the enemy ofdogs. It's the dogs that complain."
"And people too."
"And yet cats' fleas do not run after people."
"Dogs are really dangerous. I remember one year when there were so manydogs that they were obliged to put it in the papers. It was at thattime when there were large sheep at the Tuileries to drag the littlecarriage of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of Rome?"
"I preferred the Duc de Bordeaux."
"Well, I know Louis XVII., and I prefer him."
"How dear meat is, Mame Patagon!"
"Oh, dont talk about it! Butcher's meat is a horror,--a horriblehorror. It is only possible to buy bones now."
Here the rag-picker interposed,--
"Ladies, trade does not go on well at all, and the rubbish isabominable. People do not throw away anything now, but eat it all."
"There are poorer folk than you, Vargoulême."
"Ah, that's true," the rag-picker replied deferentially, "for I have aprofession."
There was a pause, and the rag-picker, yielding to that need of displaywhich is at the bottom of the human heart, added,--
"When I go home in the morning I empty out my basket and sort thearticles; that makes piles in my room. I put the rags in a box, thecabbage-stalks in a tub, the pieces of linen in my cupboard, thewoollen rags in my chest of drawers, old papers on the corner of thewindow, things good to eat in my porringer, pieces of glass in thefire-place, old shoes behind the door, and bones under my bed."
Gavroche had stopped, and was listening.
"Aged dames," he said, "what right have you to talk politics?"
A broadside, composed of a quadruple yell, assailed him.
"There's another of the villains."
"What's that he has in his hand,--a pistol?"
"Just think, that rogue of a boy!"
"They are never quiet unless when they are overthrowing theauthorities."
Gavroche disdainfully limited his reprisals to lifting the tip of hisnose with his thumb, and opening his hand to the full extent. Therag-picker exclaimed,--
"The barefooted scamp!"
The one who answered to the name of Mame Patagon struck her handstogether with scandal.
"There are going to be misfortunes, that's sure. The young fellowwith the beard round the corner, I used to see him pass every morningwith a girl in a pink bonnet on his arm; but this morning I saw himpass, and he was giving his arm to a gun. Mame Bacheux says therewas a revolution last week at, at, at, at,--where do the calves comefrom?--at Pontoise. And then, just look at this atrocious youngvillain's pistol. It seems that the Célestins are full of cannon. Whatwould you have the Government do with these vagabonds who can onlyinvent ways to upset the world, after we were beginning to get over allthe misfortunes which fell--good gracious!--on that poor Queen whom Isaw pass in a cart! And all this will raise the price of snuff. It isinfamous, and I will certainly go and see you guillotined, malefactor."
"You snuffle, my aged friend," said Gavroche; "blow your promontory."
And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavée his thoughts revertedto the rag-picker, and he had this soliloquy,--
"You are wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother Cornerpost. Thispistol is on your behalf, and it is for you to have in your basketsmore things good to eat."
All at once he heard a noise behind; it was the portress Patagon, whohad followed him, and now shook her fist at him, crying,--
"You are nothing but a bastard."
"At that I scoff with all my heart," said Gavroche.
A little later he passed the Hôtel Lamoignon, where he burst into thisappeal,--
"Go on to the battle."
And he was attacked by a fit of melancholy; he regarded his pistolreproachfully, and said to it,--
"I am going off, but you will not go off."
One dog may distract another;[2] a very thin whelp passed, and Gavrochefelt pity for it.
"My poor little creature," he said to it, "you must have swallowed abarrel, as you show all the hoops."
Then he proceeded toward the Orme St. Gervais.
[1] The hammer of a pistol is called a dog in France.
[2] Another allusion to the hammer (chien) of the pistol.