"One of us must go up," said Montparnasse.
"Three stories!" Brujon ejaculated.
An old plaster conduit pipe, which had served for a stove formerly, lit in the hut, ran along the wall almost to the spot where Thénardier was lying. This pipe, which at that day was full of cracks and holes, has since fallen down, but its traces may be seen. It was very narrow.
"It would be possible to mount by that," said Montparnasse.
"By that pipe?" Babet exclaimed. "A man? Oh no, a boy is required."
"Yes, a boy," Brujon said in affirmative.
"Where can we find one?" Gueulemer said.
"Wait a minute," Montparnasse said; "I have it."
He gently opened the door of the paling, assured himself that there was no passer-by in the street, went out, shut the gate cautiously after him, and ran off in the direction of the Bastille. Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries for Thénardier; Babet, Brujon, and Gueulemer did not open their lips; the door opened again, and Montparnasse came in, panting and leading Gavroche. The rain continued to make the street completely deserted. Little Gavroche stepped into the enclosure and looked calmly at the faces of the bandits. The rain was dripping from his hair, and Gueulemer said to him,—
"Brat, are you a man?"