“Old ladies,” said he, “what do you mean by talking politics?”
He was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple howl.
“Here’s another rascal.”
“What’s that he’s got in his paddle?
A pistol?”
“Well, I’d like to know what sort of a beggar’s brat this is?”
“That sort of animal is never easy unless he’s overturning the authorities.”
Gavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, with elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his hand wide.
The rag-picker cried:— “You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch!”
The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands together in horror.
“There’s going to be evil doings, that’s certain.
The errand-boy next door has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day with a young person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass, and he had a gun on his arm.
Mame Bacheux says, that last week there was a revolution at—at—at—where’s the calf!—at Pontoise.
And then, there you see him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol!
It seems that the Celestins are full of pistols.
What do you suppose the Government can do with good-for-nothings who don’t know how to do anything but contrive ways of upsetting the world, when we had just begun to get a little quiet after all the misfortunes that have happened, good Lord! to that poor queen whom I saw pass in the tumbril!
And all this is going to make tobacco dearer.
It’s infamous!
And I shall certainly go to see him beheaded on the guillotine, the wretch!”
“You’ve got the sniffles, old lady,” said Gavroche.
“Blow your promontory.”
And he passed on.
When he was in the Rue Pavee, the rag-picker occurred to his mind, and he indulged in this soliloquy:—
“You’re in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother Dust-Heap-Corner.
This pistol is in your interests.
It’s so that you may have more good things to eat in your basket.”
All at once, he heard a shout behind him; it was the portress Patagon who had followed him, and who was shaking her fist at him in the distance and crying:—
“You’re nothing but a bastard.”
“Oh! Come now,” said Gavroche, “I don’t care a brass farthing for that!”
Shortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon.
There he uttered this appeal:—
“Forward march to the battle!”
And he was seized with a fit of melancholy.
He gazed at his pistol with an air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it:—
“I’m going off,” said he, “but you won’t go off!”
One dog may distract the attention from another dog. A very gaunt poodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him.
“My poor doggy,” said he, “you must have gone and swallowed a cask, for all the hoops are visible.”
Then he directed his course towards l’Orme-Saint-Gervais.
CHAPTER III—JUST INDIGNATION OF A HAIR-DRESSER
The worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two little fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior of the elephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving an old soldier of the legion who had served under the Empire.
They were talking.
The hair-dresser had, naturally, spoken to the veteran of the riot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to the Emperor.
Thence sprang up a conversation between barber and soldier which Prudhomme, had he been present, would have enriched with arabesques, and which he would have entitled:
“Dialogue between the razor and the sword.”
“How did the Emperor ride, sir?” said the barber.
“Badly.
He did not know how to fall—so he never fell.”
“Did he have fine horses?
He must have had fine horses!”
“On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast.