The brandishing of a triggerless pistol, grasped in one's hand in the open street, is so much of a public function that Gavroche felt his fervor increasing with every moment. Amid the scraps of the Marseillaise which he was singing, he shouted:--
"All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I'm all broken up with rheumatism, but I'm satisfied, citizens. All that the bourgeois have to do is to bear themselves well, I'll sneeze them out subversive couplets. What are the police spies? Dogs. And I'd just like to have one of them at the end of my pistol. I'm just from the boulevard, my friends. It's getting hot there, it's getting into a little boil, it's simmering. It's time to skim the pot. Forward march, men! Let an impure blood inundate the furrows! I give my days to my country, I shall never see my concubine more, Nini, finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long live joy! Let's fight, crebleu! I've had enough of despotism."
At that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National Guard having fallen, Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, and picked up the man, then he assisted in raising the horse. After which he picked up his pistol and resumed his way. In the Rue de Thorigny, all was peace and silence. This apathy, peculiar to the Marais, presented a contrast with the vast surrounding uproar. Four gossips were chatting in a doorway.
Scotland has trios of witches, Paris has quartettes of old gossiping hags; and the "Thou shalt be King" could be quite as mournfully hurled at Bonaparte in the Carrefour Baudoyer as at Macbeth on the heath of Armuyr. The croak would be almost identical.
The gossips of the Rue de Thorigny busied themselves only with their own concerns. Three of them were portresses, and the fourth was a rag-picker with her basket on her back.
All four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age, which are decrepitude, decay, ruin, and sadness.
The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air society, it is the rag-picker who salutes and the portress who patronizes. This is caused by the corner for refuse, which is fat or lean, according to the will of the portresses, and after the fancy of the one who makes the heap. There may be kindness in the broom.
This rag-picker was a grateful creature, and she smiled, with what a smile! On the three portresses. Things of this nature were said:--
"Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross?"
"Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you know. It's the dogs who complain."
"And people also."
"But the fleas from a cat don't go after people."
"That's not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember one year when there were so many dogs that it was necessary to put it in the newspapers. That was at the time when there were at the Tuileries great sheep that drew the little carriage of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of Rome?"
"I liked the Duc de Bordeau better."
"I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII."
"Meat is awfully dear, isn't it, Mother Patagon?"
"Ah! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror. A horrible horror--one can't afford anything but the poor cuts nowadays."
Here the rag-picker interposed:--
"Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable. No one throws anything away any more. They eat everything."
"There are poorer people than you, la Vargouleme."
"Ah, that's true," replied the rag-picker, with deference, "I have a profession."
A pause succeeded, and the rag-picker, yielding to that necessity for boasting which lies at the bottom of man, added:--
"In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my basket, I sort my things. This makes heaps in my room. I put the rags in a basket, the cores and stalks in a bucket, the linen in my cupboard, the woollen stuff in my commode, the old papers in the corner of the window, the things that are good to eat in my bowl, the bits of glass in my fireplace, the old shoes behind my door, and the bones under my bed."
Gavroche had stopped behind her and was listening.
"Old ladies," said he, "what do you mean by talking politics?"
He was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple howl.
"Here's another rascal."
"What's that he's got in his paddle? A pistol?"
"Well, I'd like to know what sort of a beggar's brat this is?"
"That sort of animal is never easy unless he's overturning the authorities."
Gavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, with elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his hand wide.
The rag-picker cried:--
"You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch!"
The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands together in horror.
"There's going to be evil doings, that's certain. The errand-boy next door has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day with a young person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass, and he had a gun on his arm. Mame Bacheux says, that last week there was a revolution at--at--at--where's the calf!--at Pontoise. And then, there you see him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol! It seems that the Celestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose the Government can do with good-for-nothings who don't know how to do anything but contrive ways of upsetting the world, when we had just begun to get a little quiet after all the misfortunes that have happened, good Lord! To that poor queen whom I saw pass in the tumbril! And all this is going to make tobacco dearer. It's infamous! And I shall certainly go to see him beheaded on the guillotine, the wretch!"
"You've got the sniffles, old lady," said Gavroche. "Blow your promontory."
And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavee, the rag-picker occurred to his mind, and he indulged in this soliloquy:--
"You're in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother Dust-Heap-Corner.This pistol is in your interests. It's so that you may have more good things to eat in your basket."
All at once, he heard a shout behind him; it was the portress Patagon who had followed him, and who was shaking her fist at him in the distance and crying:--
"You're nothing but a bastard."
"Oh! Come now," said Gavroche, "I don't care a brass farthing for that!"
Shortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There he uttered this appeal:--
"Forward march to the battle!"
And he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at his pistol with an air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it:--
"I'm going off, said he, "but you won't go off!"
One dog may distract the attention from another dog.[45] A very gaunt poodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him.
[45] Chien, dog, trigger.
"My poor doggy," said he, "you must have gone and swallowed a cask, for all the hoops are visible."
Then he directed his course towards l'Orme-Saint-Gervais.
捏着一支手枪，一路招摇过市，尽管它没有撞针，这对官家来说总还是件大事，因此伽弗洛什越走越带劲。他大喊大叫，同时还支离破碎地唱着《马赛曲》：
“全都好。我的左蹄痛得惨。我的风湿毁了我，但是，公民们，我高兴。资产阶级只要稳得住，我来替他们哼点拆台歌。特务是什么？是群狗。狗杂种！我们对狗一定要恭敬。如果我这枪也有一条狗①，那又多么好。我的朋友们，我从大路来，锅子已烧烫，肉汤已翻滚，就要沸腾了，清除渣滓的时候已来到。前进，好样的！让那肮脏的血浇灌我们的田亩！为祖国，我献出我的生命，我不会再见我的小老婆了，呢，呢，完蛋了，是的，妮妮！这算什么，欢乐万岁！战斗，他妈的！专制主义，我够了。”
①法语中，狗和撞针是同一个字（chien）。
这时，国民自卫军的一个长矛兵骑着马走来，马摔倒了，伽弗洛什把手枪放在地上，扶起那人，继又帮他扶起那匹马。
这之后他拾起手枪往前走。
托里尼街，一切平静。这种麻痹状态是沼泽区所特有的，和四周一大片喧杂人声恰成对比。四个老婆子聚在一家大门口聊天。苏格兰有巫婆三重唱，巴黎却有老妈妈四重唱。在阿尔木伊的荒原上，有人向麦克白①说：“你将做国王。”这句话也许又有人在博多瓦耶岔路口阴森森地向波拿巴②说过了。
①据莎士比亚的同名戏剧，苏格兰爵士麦克白在出征归国途中，遇见三个巫婆，说他将做国王。他便谋害国王，自立为王，但得不到臣民的拥护，死在战场上。
②指拿破仑第三。
这几乎是同样一种老鸦叫。
托里尼街的这伙老婆子只关心她们自己的事。其中的三个是看门的。另一个是拾破烂的，她背上背个筐，手里提着一根带钩的棍。
她们四个仿佛是在人生晚年的枯竭、凋残、衰颓、愁惨这四只角上，各占一角。
那拾破烂的妇人，态度谦恭，在这伙立在风中的妇人里，拾破烂的问安问好，看大门的关怀照顾。这是由于墙角里的破烂堆由门房支配，或肥或瘦，取决于堆积人一时的心情。扫帚下也大有出入。
那个背筐拾破烂的妇人识得好歹，她对那三个看门婆微笑，何等的微笑！她们谈着这样一些事：
“可了不得，您的猫儿还是那么凶吗？”
“我的天主，猫儿，您知道，生来就是狗的对头。叫苦的倒是那些狗呢。”
“人也一样叫苦呢。”
“可猫的跳蚤不跟人走。”
“这倒不用说它了。狗，总是危险的。我记得有一年，狗太多了。报纸上便不得不把这事报导出来。那时，杜伊勒里宫还有许多大绵羊拉着罗马王的小车子，您还记得罗马王吗？”
“我觉得波尔多公爵更讨人喜欢些。”
“我，我看见过路易十七。我比较喜欢路易十七。”
“肉又涨价了，巴塔贡妈！”
“啊！不用提了。提到肉，真是糟透了。糟到顶了。除了一点筋筋拉拉的肉渣以外，啥也买不到了。”
谈到这儿，那拾破烂的妇人抢着说：
“各位大姐，我这活计才不好干呢。垃圾堆也全是干巴巴的了。谁也不再丢什么，全吃下去了。”
“也还有比我们更穷的呢，瓦古莱姆妈。”
“是啊，这是真话，”那拾破烂的妇人谦卑地说，“我总算还有个职业。”
谈话停了一下。那拾破烂的妇人被想夸张的人类本性所驱使，接着又说：
“早上回家，我便理这筐子，我做经理工作（大概是想说清理工作）。我屋里摆满一堆又一堆的东西。我把碎布放在篮子里，水果心子、菜帮子放在木盆里，汗衣汗裤放在我的壁橱里，毛织品放在我的五斗柜里，废纸放在窗角上，那些能吃的东西放在我的瓢里，碎玻璃放在壁炉里，破鞋破袜放在门背后，骨头放在我的床底下。”
伽弗洛什正立在她们背后听。
“老婆子们，”他说，“你们为什么谈政治？”
四张嘴，象一阵排炮，齐向他射来。
“又来了一个短命鬼。”
“他那鬼爪子里抓个啥玩意儿？一支手枪！”
“真不象话，你这小化子！”
“这些家伙不推翻官府便安顿不下来。”
伽弗洛什满不在乎，作为反击，只用大拇指掀起鼻尖，并张开手掌。
拾破烂的妇人嚷起来：
“光着脚的坏蛋！”
刚才代表巴塔贡妈答话的那老婆子，没好气，拍着双手说：
“准出倒霉事，没错。那边那个留一撮小胡子的小坏种，我每天早上都看见他搂着一个戴粉红帽子的姑娘的胳膊打这儿走过，今天我又看见他走过，可他搂着一支步枪。巴舍妈说上星期发生了一场革命，在……在……在……一下想不起来了！在蓬图瓦兹。而这一下你们又瞧见这个叫人作呕的小鬼拿着一支手枪！我听人说，则肋斯定全架起大炮。我们已吃过许多苦头，现在总算能过稍微安顿一点的日子了，这些坏种却又要惹麻烦，您叫政府怎么办？慈悲的天主，那位可怜巴巴坐在囚车里打我面前走过的王后！这一切又得抬高烟叶的价钱。真不要脸！总有一天，我会看见你上断头台的，坏蛋！”
“你在用鼻子吸气，我的老相好，”伽弗洛什说，“擤擤你那烟囱管吧。”①他接着就走开了。
①擤鼻子，在法语中又解释为“少管闲事”。
走到铺石街，他又想起了那拾破烂的婆子，独自说了这样一段话：
“你侮辱革命的人，你想错了，扒墙角旮旯的妈妈。这手枪，对你是有好处的。是为了让你能在那背萝里多装点好吃的东西。”
他忽然听到背后有声音，那看门的妇人，巴塔贡，跟了上来，在远处举起一个拳头喊着说：
“你只是个杂种！”
“那，”伽弗洛什说，“我深深感到不用我操心。”
不久，他走过拉莫瓦尼翁公馆，在那门前发出了这一号召：
“出发去战斗！”
他随即又受到一阵凄切心情的侵扰。他带着惋惜的神情望着那支手枪，象要去打动它似的。他对它说：
“我已出发了，而你却发不出。”
这条狗可以使人忘掉那条狗。迎面走来一条皮包骨头的卷毛狗。伽弗洛什心里一阵难受。
“我可怜的嘟嘟，”他对那瘦狗说，“你吞了一个大酒桶吧？
你浑身是桶箍。”
随后，他向圣热尔韦榆树走去。