"Let's have Gringalet, and I'll go and eat my soup," said the turnkey.
The Skeleton exchanged a look of savage satisfaction with the Gros-Boiteux.
"Amongst the children to whom Cut-in-Half distributed his animals," continued Pique-Vinaigre, "was a poor little devil named Gringalet. Without father or mother, brother or sister, without fire, food, or shelter, he was alone in the world,—quite alone in a world which he had not asked to enter, and which he might leave without attracting any one's attention. He was not called Gringalet for any pleasure he had in the name, for he was meagre, lean, and pallid; he did not look above seven or eight years old, but was really thirteen. If he did not seem more than half his name, it was not because of his own will, but because he only fed perhaps every other day, and then so scantily, so poorly, that it was really an exertion to make him pass for seven years old."
"Poor little brat! I think I see him!" said the prisoner in the blue cotton nightcap; "there are so many children like him on the streets of Paris dying of hunger!"
"They must begin to learn that way of living very young in order to get accustomed to it," said Pique-Vinaigre, with a bitter smile.
"Come, get on!" said the Skeleton, suddenly; "the turnkey is getting impatient—his soup is getting cold."
"Oh, never mind that!" said the surveillant. "I wish to know something more of Gringalet; it is very amusing!"
"Yes, it is really very interesting!" added Germain, who was very attentive to the story.
"Ah, thank ye for saying that, my capitalist," said Pique-Vinaigre; "that gives me more satisfaction than your ten-sous' piece."
"Tonnerre!" exclaimed the Skeleton, "will you have done with your delays?"