Part 192 (1/2)

As Gavroche walked along, he cast an indignant backward glance at the barber's shop.

”That fellow has no heart, the whiting,”[35] 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:--

”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!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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-cochere. 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 s.h.i.+vering 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:--

”Caught!”