And he signed, GAVROCHE.
This done, he placed the paper in the snoring porter's velvet waistcoat pocket, seized the handcart, and started in the direction of the markets, thrusting the truck before him at a gallop with a glorious triumphal row. This was dangerous, for there was a post at the Royal Printing Office, and Gavroche did not think of that. This post was held by suburban National Guards; a certain amount of alarm was beginning to arouse the squad, and heads were raised in the guard-beds. Two lamps broken so shortly after each other, and this singing at the pitch of the lungs, were a good deal for these cowardly streets, which like to go to bed at sunset, and put the extinguisher on their candle at so early an hour. For an hour past the gamin had been making in this peaceful district the noise of a fly in a bottle. The suburban sergeant listened and waited, for he was a prudent man. The wild rolling of the truck filled up the measure of possible awaiting, and determined the sergeant to attempt a reconnoisance.
"There must be a whole band of them," he said, "so we will advance gently."
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box, and was playing the deuce in the quarter, so the sergeant ventured out of the guard-house on tiptoe. All at once, Gavroche, pushing his truck, found himself, just as he was turning out of the Rue des Vieilles Haudriettes, face to face with a uniform, a shako, a pompon, and a musket. For the second time he stopped short.
"Hilloh!" he said, "it's he. Good-day, public order."
Gavroche's surprises were short and rapidly thawed.
"Where are you going, scamp?" the sergeant cried.
"Citizen," said Gavroche, "I have not yet called you bourgeois, so why do you insult me?"
"Where are you going, scoundrel?"
"Sir," Gavroche continued, "it is possible that you were a man of sense yesterday, but you must have sent in your resignation this morning."