A group of ill-looking fellows that whispered on the kerb under a wall-lamp showed shadowy dark and nearly as intangible and dim in the murky gloom as the ghostly shadows that the few flickering lamps sent stealthily creeping across the narrow cobbled way to join other shadows where lurked the vindictive gusts about the edges of the moaning blackness.
A lilt of song and the clack of brisk footsteps came down the alley.
The muttering group under the lamp turned towards the sound; their anxious ears caught the refrain of one of Aristide Bruant’s obscene prison songs; relief showed on the coarse faces.
“Here comes Gavroche,” said one.
And Gavroche came.
He glanced sharply at them all.
His was the master spirit; yet none of these men were easily given to obedience.
He laughed:
“It is as I thought,” said he. “Comrade Hiéne is pale—his hand perspires—hold out your hand, Hiéne.”
The sullen young giant put out his great hand, palm upwards, and it smoked in the keen air of the night.