"Out with you!"
Thump.
In the mean time the unhappy object of these objurgations and blows had been rapidly propelled towards the open door, and was with a final thump knocked into the street.
A stray dog? Oh, no; a dog is never abused in this way in Paris. It would probably cause a riot.
It was only a wee bit of a child,—dirty, clothed in rags, with tangled blonde hair that had never, apparently, seen a comb, and whose little bare feet and thin ankles were incrusted with the dried filth of the gutters.
Being only a child, the few neighbors who were abroad at that early hour merely grinned at her as she picked herself up and limped away without a cry or a word.
"She's a tough one," muttered a witness.
"She's got to be mighty tough to stand the Podvin," responded another.
In the rapidly increasing distance the child seemed to justify these remarks; for she began to step out nimbly towards the town of Charenton without wasting time over her grievances.
"All the same, I'm hungry," she said to herself, "and the streets of Charenton will be mighty poor picking half an hour hence."