For the second time, he stopped short.
“Hullo,” said he, “it’s him. Good day, public order.”
Gavroche’s amazement was always brief and speedily thawed.
“Where are you going, you rascal?” shouted the sergeant.
“Citizen,” retorted Gavroche, “I haven’t called you ‘bourgeois’ yet. Why do you insult me?”
“Where are you going, you rogue?”
“Monsieur,” retorted Gavroche, “perhaps you were a man of wit yesterday, but you have degenerated this morning.”
“I ask you where are you going, you villain?”
Gavroche replied:—
“You speak prettily. Really, no one would suppose you as old as you are. You ought to sell all your hair at a hundred francs apiece. That would yield you five hundred francs.”