What was he to do?
Interfere?
One weakness coming to the aid of another!
It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse.
Gavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man, in the first place, and the child in the second, would make but two mouthfuls for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age.
While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and hideously.
The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the spider on the fly.
Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream.
A moment later one of these men was underneath the other, groaning, struggling, with a knee of marble upon his breast.
Only, it was not just what Gavroche had expected.
The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who was on top was the old man.
All this took place a few paces distant from Gavroche.
The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that in such a terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant and the assailed had exchanged roles.
“Here’s a hearty veteran!” thought Gavroche. He could not refrain from clapping his hands.
But it was applause wasted.
It did not reach the combatants, absorbed and deafened as they were, each by the other, as their breath mingled in the struggle.
Silence ensued.
Montparnasse ceased his struggles.
Gavroche indulged in this aside:
“Can he be dead!”
The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry.
He rose to his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse:—
“Get up.”
Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast.
Montparnasse’s attitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of the wolf who has been caught by a sheep.
Gavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to reinforce his eyes with his ears.
He was enjoying himself immensely.
He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character of a spectator.
He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue which borrowed from the darkness an indescribably tragic accent.
The goodman questioned, Montparnasse replied.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“You are strong and healthy.
Why do you not work?”
“It bores me.”
“What is your trade?”
“An idler.”
“Speak seriously.
Can anything be done for you?
What would you like to be?”
“A thief.”
A pause ensued.
The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought.
He stood motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse.
Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged in the twitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare.
He gave a jerk, tried a crook of the knee, twisted his limbs desperately, and made efforts to escape.
The old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his arms with one hand, with the sovereign indifference of absolute force.
The old man’s reverie lasted for some time, then, looking steadily at Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the midst of the darkness where they stood, a solemn harangue, of which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable:—
“My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most laborious of lives.
Ah! You declare yourself to be an idler! prepare to toil.