“I tell you he’s nabbed!” retorted Brujon.
“At the present moment, the inn-keeper ain’t worth a ha’penny.
We can’t do nothing for him.
Let’s be off.
Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist.”
Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance; the fact is, that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who never abandon each other, had prowled all night long about La Force, great as was their peril, in the hope of seeing Thenardier make his appearance on the top of some wall.
But the night, which was really growing too fine,—for the downpour was such as to render all the streets deserted,—the cold which was overpowering them, their soaked garments, their hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise which had just burst forth in the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the patrol which they had encountered, the hope which was vanishing, all urged them to beat a retreat.
Montparnasse himself, who was, perhaps, almost Thenardier’s son-in-law, yielded.
A moment more, and they would be gone.
Thenardier was panting on his wall like the shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they beheld the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon.
He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything. An idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration; he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon’s rope, which he had detached from the chimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space enclosed by the fence.
This rope fell at their feet.
“A widow," said Babet.
“My tortouse!” said Brujon.
“The tavern-keeper is there,” said Montparnasse.
They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.
“Quick!” said Montparnasse, “have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?”
“Yes.”
“Knot the two pieces together, we’ll fling him the rope, he can fasten it to the wall, and he’ll have enough of it to get down with.”
Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke:—
“I am paralyzed with cold.”
“We’ll warm you up.”
“I can’t budge.”
“Let yourself slide, we’ll catch you.”
“My hands are benumbed.”
“Only fasten the rope to the wall.”
“I can’t.”
“Then one of us must climb up,” said Montparnasse.
“Three stories!” ejaculated Brujon.
An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had been used in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and mounted almost to the very spot where they could see Thenardier.
This flue, then much damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen, but the marks of it are still visible.
It was very narrow.
“One might get up by the help of that,” said Montparnasse.
“By that flue?” exclaimed Babet, “a grown-up cove, never! it would take a brat.”
“A brat must be got,” resumed Brujon.
“Where are we to find a young ‘un?” said Guelemer.
“Wait,” said Montparnasse.
“I’ve got the very article.”
He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier; Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed by Gavroche.
The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.
Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these ruffians with a tranquil air.
The water was dripping from his hair.
Guelemer addressed him:— “Are you a man, young ‘un?”
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:— “A young ‘un like me’s a man, and men like you are babes.”
“The brat’s tongue’s well hung!” exclaimed Babet.
“The Paris brat ain’t made of straw,” added Brujon.
“What do you want?” asked Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:— “Climb up that flue.”
“With this rope,” said Babet.