"There are going to be misfortunes, that's sure. The young fellow with the beard round the corner, I used to see him pass every morning with a girl in a pink bonnet on his arm; but this morning I saw him pass, and he was giving his arm to a gun. Mame Bacheux says there was a revolution last week at, at, at, at,—where do the calves come from?—at Pontoise. And then, just look at this atrocious young villain's pistol. It seems that the Célestins are full of cannon. What would you have the Government do with these vagabonds who can only invent ways to upset the world, after we were beginning to get over all the misfortunes which fell—good gracious!—on that poor Queen whom I saw pass in a cart! And all this will raise the price of snuff. It is infamous, and I will certainly go and see you guillotined, malefactor."
"You snuffle, my aged friend," said Gavroche; "blow your promontory."
And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavée his thoughts reverted to the rag-picker, and he had this soliloquy,—
"You are wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother Cornerpost. This pistol is on your behalf, and it is for you to have in your baskets more things good to eat."
All at once he heard a noise behind; it was the portress Patagon, who had followed him, and now shook her fist at him, crying,—
"You are nothing but a bastard."
"At that I scoff with all my heart," said Gavroche.
A little later he passed the Hôtel Lamoignon, where he burst into this appeal,—
"Go on to the battle."
And he was attacked by a fit of melancholy; he regarded his pistol reproachfully, and said to it,—