"I ask you where you are going, villain?"
Gavroche answered,—
"You speak politely. Really, no one would fancy you that age. You ought to sell your hair at one hundred francs apiece, and that would bring you in five hundred francs."
"Where are you going, where are you going, where are you going, bandit?"
Gavroche retorted,—
"Those are ugly words. The first time they give you the breast they ought to wash your mouth out better."
The sergeant levelled his bayonet.
"Will you tell me where you are going or not, wretch?"
"My general," said Gavroche, "I am going to fetch the doctor for my wife, who is taken in labor."
"To arms!" the sergeant shouted.