At the end of these three lines he broke off. He had reached No. 50-52, and finding the gate closed, he began giving it re-echoing and heroic kicks, which indicated rather the shoes of the man which he wore than the feet of the boy which he had. By this time the same old woman whom he had met at the corner of the Rue du Petit Banquier ran up after him, uttering shouts, and making the most extraordinary gestures.
"What's the matter? what's the matter? O Lord to God! the gate is being broken down, and the house broken into!"
The kicks continued, and the old woman puffed.
"Is that the way houses are treated at present?"
All at once she stopped, for she had recognized the gamin.
"Why, it is that Satan!"
"Hilloh! it's the old woman," said the boy. "Good evening, my dear Burgonmuche, I have come to see my ancestors."
The old woman answered with a composite grimace, an admirable improvisation of hatred deriving advantage from decrepitude and ugliness, which was unfortunately lost in the darkness,—"There's nobody here, scamp!"
"Nonsense," the boy said. "Where's father?"
"At La Force."