And he laid his head again on the mat. The rats, which were really by thousands in the elephant's carcass, and were the live black spots to which we have alluded, had been held in check by the flame of the link so long as it was alight; but as soon as this cavern, which was, so to speak, their city, had been restored to night, sniffing what that famous story-teller, Perrault, calls "fresh meat," they rushed in bands to Gavroche's tent, climbed to the top, and were biting the meshes, as if trying to enter this novel sort of trap. In the mean while the little one did not sleep.
"Sir?" he began again.
"Well?" Gavroche asked.
"What are rats?"
"They're mice."
This explanation slightly reassured the child, for he had seen white mice in his life, and had not been afraid of them; still, he raised his voice again.
"Sir?"
"Well?" Gavroche repeated.
"Why don't you keep a cat?"
"I had one," Gavroche answered; "I brought it here, but they ate it for me."