Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER IV—GAVROCHE’S EXCESS OF ZEAL
1609 words | Chapter 377
In the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure.
Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue du
Chaume, entered the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, and not seeing “even
a cat” there, he thought the opportunity a good one to strike up all
the song of which he was capable. His march, far from being retarded by
his singing, was accelerated by it. He began to sow along the sleeping
or terrified houses these incendiary couplets:—
“L’oiseau médit dans les charmilles,
Et prétend qu’hier Atala
Avec un Russe s’en alla.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles,
Parce que l’autre jour Mila
Cogna sa vitre et m’appela,
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Les drôlesses sont fort gentilles,
Leur poison qui m’ensorcela
Griserait Monsieur Orfila.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“J’aime l’amour et les bisbilles,
J’aime Agnès, j’aime Paméla,
Lise en m’allumant se brûla.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles
De Suzette et de Zéila,
Mon âme à leurs plis se mêla,
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Amour, quand dans l’ombre où tu brilles,
Tu coiffes de roses Lola,
Je me damnerais pour cela.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Jeanne à ton miroir tu t’habilles!
Mon cœur un beau jour s’envola.
Je crois que c’est Jeanne qui l’a.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles,
Je montre aux étoiles Stella,
Et je leur dis: ‘Regardez-la.’
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.”56
Gavroche, as he sang, was lavish of his pantomime. Gesture is the
strong point of the refrain. His face, an inexhaustible repertory of
masks, produced grimaces more convulsing and more fantastic than the
rents of a cloth torn in a high gale. Unfortunately, as he was alone,
and as it was night, this was neither seen nor even visible. Such
wastes of riches do occur.
All at once, he stopped short.
“Let us interrupt the romance,” said he.
His feline eye had just descried, in the recess of a carriage door,
what is called in painting, an _ensemble_, that is to say, a person and
a thing; the thing was a hand-cart, the person was a man from Auvergene
who was sleeping therein.
The shafts of the cart rested on the pavement, and the Auvergnat’s head
was supported against the front of the cart. His body was coiled up on
this inclined plane and his feet touched the ground.
Gavroche, with his experience of the things of this world, recognized a
drunken man. He was some corner errand-man who had drunk too much and
was sleeping too much.
“There now,” thought Gavroche, “that’s what the summer nights are good
for. We’ll take the cart for the Republic, and leave the Auvergnat for
the Monarchy.”
His mind had just been illuminated by this flash of light:—
“How bully that cart would look on our barricade!”
The Auvergnat was snoring.
Gavroche gently tugged at the cart from behind, and at the Auvergnat
from the front, that is to say, by the feet, and at the expiration of
another minute the imperturbable Auvergnat was reposing flat on the
pavement.
The cart was free.
Gavroche, habituated to facing the unexpected in all quarters, had
everything about him. He fumbled in one of his pockets, and pulled from
it a scrap of paper and a bit of red pencil filched from some
carpenter.
He wrote:—
_“French Republic.”_
“Received thy cart.”
And he signed it: “GAVROCHE.”
That done, he put the paper in the pocket of the still snoring
Auvergnat’s velvet vest, seized the cart shafts in both hands, and set
off in the direction of the Halles, pushing the cart before him at a
hard gallop with a glorious and triumphant uproar.
This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing
Establishment. Gavroche did not think of this. This post was occupied
by the National Guards of the suburbs. The squad began to wake up, and
heads were raised from camp beds. Two street lanterns broken in
succession, that ditty sung at the top of the lungs. This was a great
deal for those cowardly streets, which desire to go to sleep at sunset,
and which put the extinguisher on their candles at such an early hour.
For the last hour, that boy had been creating an uproar in that
peaceable arrondissement, the uproar of a fly in a bottle. The sergeant
of the banlieue lent an ear. He waited. He was a prudent man.
The mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible measure
of waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.
“There’s a whole band of them there!” said he, “let us proceed gently.”
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box and
that it was stalking abroad through the quarter.
And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.
All at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him, and at the
very moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des
Vieilles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a uniform, a
shako, a plume, and a gun.
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.”
“Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going,
bandit?”
Gavroche retorted again:—
“What villainous words! You must wipe your mouth better the first time
that they give you suck.”
The sergeant lowered his bayonet.
“Will you tell me where you are going, you wretch?”
“General,” said Gavroche “I’m on my way to look for a doctor for my
wife who is in labor.”
“To arms!” shouted the sergeant.
The master-stroke of strong men consists in saving themselves by the
very means that have ruined them; Gavroche took in the whole situation
at a glance. It was the cart which had told against him, it was the
cart’s place to protect him.
At the moment when the sergeant was on the point of making his descent
on Gavroche, the cart, converted into a projectile and launched with
all the latter’s might, rolled down upon him furiously, and the
sergeant, struck full in the stomach, tumbled over backwards into the
gutter while his gun went off in the air.
The men of the post had rushed out pell-mell at the sergeant’s shout;
the shot brought on a general random discharge, after which they
reloaded their weapons and began again.
This blind-man’s-buff musketry lasted for a quarter of an hour and
killed several panes of glass.
In the meanwhile, Gavroche, who had retraced his steps at full speed,
halted five or six streets distant and seated himself, panting, on the
stone post which forms the corner of the Enfants-Rouges.
He listened.
After panting for a few minutes, he turned in the direction where the
fusillade was raging, lifted his left hand to a level with his nose and
thrust it forward three times, as he slapped the back of his head with
his right hand; an imperious gesture in which Parisian street-urchindom
has condensed French irony, and which is evidently efficacious, since
it has already lasted half a century.
This gayety was troubled by one bitter reflection.
“Yes,” said he, “I’m splitting with laughter, I’m twisting with
delight, I abound in joy, but I’m losing my way, I shall have to take a
roundabout way. If I only reach the barricade in season!”
Thereupon he set out again on a run.
And as he ran:—
“Ah, by the way, where was I?” said he.
And he resumed his ditty, as he plunged rapidly through the streets,
and this is what died away in the gloom:—
“Mais il reste encore des bastilles,
Et je vais mettre le holà
Dans l’ordre public que voilà.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Quelqu’un veut-il jouer aux quilles?
Tout l’ancien monde s’écroula
Quand la grosse boule roula.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Vieux bon peuple, à coups de béquilles,
Cassons ce Louvre où s’étala
La monarchie en falbala.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.
“Nous en avons forcé les grilles,
Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour-là,
Tenait mal et se décolla.
Où vont les belles filles,
Lon la.”57
The post’s recourse to arms was not without result. The cart was
conquered, the drunken man was taken prisoner. The first was put in the
pound, the second was later on somewhat harassed before the councils of
war as an accomplice. The public ministry of the day proved its
indefatigable zeal in the defence of society, in this instance.
Gavroche’s adventure, which has lingered as a tradition in the quarters
of the Temple, is one of the most terrible souvenirs of the elderly
bourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in their memories: “The
nocturnal attack by the post of the Royal Printing Establishment.”
[THE END OF VOLUME IV “SAINT DENIS”]
VOLUME V
JEAN VALJEAN
[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Five]
[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Five]
BOOK FIRST—THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS
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