He turned to Hiéne, where he stood before the door of the sleeping girl:
“And you,” said he—“unlock that door, carefully.”
Hiéne scowled sullenly, standing pale in the candle’s guttering light; and they saw that he held a revolver in his hand:
“Comrades,” said he—“I am the last to go—and this door remains locked.”
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders:
“It does not matter overmuch,” he said.
Hiéne smiled grimly.
Gavroche moved towards the open door:
“Come, comrades,” he said airily, putting aside a scowl that had threatened—“we must be going. That jabbering moralist over the water must be nearing the end of his garrulous harangue. We had better all be seen there.”
When they had all gone, Hiéne let himself out of the door into the courtyard, and stealthily closed the gate into the street.