In the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure.
Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue du Chaume, entered the Rue des Vielles-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 medit dans les charmilles, Et pretend qu'hier Atala Avec un Russe s'en alla. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles, Parce que l'autre jour Mila Cogna sa vitre et m'appela, Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Les drolesses sont fort gentilles, Leur poison qui m'ensorcela Griserait Monsieur Orfila. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"J'aime l'amour et les bisbilles, J'aime Agnes, j'aime Pamela, Lisa en m'allumant se brula. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles De Suzette et de Zeila, Mon ame aleurs plis se mela, Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Amour, quand dans l'ombre ou tu brilles, Tu coiffes de roses Lola, Je me damnerais pour cela. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Jeanne a ton miroir tu t'habilles! Mon coeur un beau jour s'envola. Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui l'a. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la. "Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles, Je montre aux etoiles Stella, Et je leur dis: 'Regardez-la.' Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la."[56]
[56]"The bird slanders in the elms, And pretends that yesterday, Atala Went off with a Russian, Where fair maids go. Lon la.
My friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her pane the other day and called me. The jades are very charming, their poison which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila. I'm fond of love and its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela, Lise burned herself in setting me aflame. In former days when I saw the mantillas of Suzette and of Zeila, my soul mingled with their folds. Love, when thou gleamest in the dark thou crownest Lola with roses, I would lose my soul for that. Jeanne, at thy mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine day, my heart flew forth. I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At night, when I come from the quadrilles, I show Stella to the stars, and I say to them: "Behold her." Where fair maids go, lon la.
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 Vielles-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 hola Dans l'orde public que voila. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Quelqu'un veut-il jouer aux quilles? Tout l'ancien monde s'ecroula Quand la grosse boule roula. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Vieux bon peuple, a coups de bequilles, Cassons ce Louvre ou s'etala La monarchie en falbala. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la.
"Nous en avons force les grilles, Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour la, Tenait mal et se decolla. Ou vont les belles filles, Lon la."[57]
[57] But some prisons still remain, and I am going to put a stop to this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at skittles? The whole ancient world fell in ruin, when the big ball rolled. Good old folks, let us smash with our crutches that Louvre where the monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its gates. On that day, King Charles X. did not stick well and came unglued.
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"]
四 伽弗洛什的过度兴奋
这时伽弗洛什遇到一件意外的事。
伽弗洛什在认认真真砸烂了麦茬街的那盏路灯以后，他转向了老奥德烈特街，没有遇见一只“老猫”，觉得这是个好机会可以把他能唱的歌曲尽情地全部唱起来。他的脚步，远没有被歌子拉慢，反而加快了。他顺着那些睡着了或是吓坏了的房子，一路散播着这种有煽动性的歌词：
小鸟们在树林子里骂，
说阿达拉昨天
跟着个俄国佬走了。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
我的朋友比埃罗，你的闲话多，
因为那天小米拉
敲着她的玻璃窗子，又叫了我。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
骚女人，多么乖，
她们的毒坑了我，
又要害奥菲拉①先生迷心窍。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
我爱爱神，她打情骂俏，
我爱阿涅斯，我爱巴美拉，
莉丝要对我玩火，把她自己烧毁了。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
从前，我见了苏珊特
和泽以拉的遮头巾，
我的灵魂和它们的皱褶混在一起了。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
爱神，当你在你发光的阴影里，
戴上罗拉玫瑰花，
我堕地狱也愿意。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
让娜你对着镜子穿衣裳！
我的心有一天飞跑了，
我想是让娜把它收起了。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
晚上跳完四人舞走出来，
我把斯代拉指给星星看，
并对星星说，你们看看她。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
①奥菲拉（MathieuOrfila，1787?853），巴黎医科学校的化学教授和毒物学家。
伽弗洛什一面唱，一面还做着丰富多采的表演。姿态是叠句的支点。他的脸有着千变万化、层出不穷的脸谱，在大风里飞扬的破被单上的窟窿眼儿也比不上他那张脸的滑稽突兀、变幻莫测。可惜他只是一个人，并且是在黑夜里，没人看见，有人也看不见。这是被埋没了的财富。
他突然一下停住不唱了。
“把浪漫曲暂停一下。”他说。
他那双猫眼睛发现在一扇大车门的门洞里有一幅所谓的构图，也就是说，一幅人物画：物是一辆手推小车，人是一个睡在车子里的奥弗涅人。
那小车的车杆着地，奥弗涅人的头靠着车箱的边。他的身体蜷曲在斜着的车板上，两只脚垂到地上。
伽弗洛什富有经验，一眼看出那人喝醉了。
那是一个在那一带推送货物的工人，他喝得太多，也睡得太死。
“是这样，”伽弗洛什想道，“夏天的夜晚，大有好处。这奥弗涅人在他的小车里睡着了。让我来把这车子送给共和国，把奥弗涅人留给王朝。”
他心里一亮，有了个闪光的主张。他想道：
“这辆小车，把它放在我们的街垒上，那才好呢。”
那奥弗涅人正在打鼾。
伽弗洛什轻轻地从后面拖动那小车，又从前面，就是说，抓着他的脚，拖动那奥弗涅人，一分钟过后，奥弗涅人便安安逸逸地直躺在地上。
小车没有挂碍了。
伽弗洛什已习惯于处处预防不测，因而他身上什么都有。他从衣袋里掏出一张破纸和一小段从一个木工那里摸来的红铅笔。
他写道：
法兰西共和国
收到你的小车一辆
他还签上自己的名字：“伽弗洛什。”
写完以后，他把这张纸塞进仍在打鼾的奥弗涅人的灯芯绒背心的袋子里，两手抓住车杆，推起小车，朝着菜市场的方向飞跑走了，把那辆欢腾得意的小车一路上推得咯登咯登震天价响。
他这样干是危险的。在王家印刷局有个哨所。伽弗洛什没有想到，那哨所是由郊区的国民自卫军驻守的。那一班的人已经有些被惊醒了，好几个人的头已从行军床上抬起来。连续两盏路灯被砸烂，加上那一阵怪吼怪叫的歌声，这已足够了，那几条街上的人原是胆小怕事的，太阳落山便想睡，老早便用盖子罩上蜡烛。一个钟头以来，这野孩象个玻璃瓶里的苍蝇似的，在这一带闹得天翻地覆。郊区的那个班长已经注意了。他在等着。他是个小心谨慎的人。
那辆小车的狂奔乱滚使班长忍无可忍，不能再等了，他决定出去巡查。
“他们是一大伙人！”他说，“我得慢慢儿上。”
很明显，那条无政府主义七头蛇已经钻出笼子，在那一带兴妖作怪。
班长捏着一把汗，蹑手蹑脚，从哨所里钻出来。
伽弗洛什推着小车，正要走出老奥德烈特街时，忽然面对面地碰上了一身军服、一顶军帽、一绺帽缨和一支步枪。
他急忙停下来。这是他第二次停步。
“呵，”他说，“是他。您好，公共秩序。”
伽弗洛什的惊慌是短暂的，很快就消失了。
“你去什么地方，流氓？”那班长大声说。
“公民，”伽弗洛什说，“我还没有叫您做资产阶级，您为什么要侮辱我？”
“你去什么地方，坏蛋？”
“先生，”伽弗洛什又说，“您昨天也许还是个聪明人，今天早上您却已经被砸了饭碗。”
“我问你去什么地方，无赖？”
伽弗洛什回答说：
“您说起话来很惹人爱。的确，我看不出您有多大年纪。您应当把您的头发卖了，每根卖一百法郎。这样，您就可以赚五百法郎。”
“你去哪儿？你去哪儿？你去哪儿？土匪！”
伽弗洛什接着说：
“这是些粗话。下次，人家喂您吃奶时，得好好把您的嘴揩揩干净。”
那班长端起了刺刀。
“你到底说不说你要去什么地方，穷光蛋？”
“我的将军，”伽弗洛什说，“我要去找医生，替我的太太接生。”
“你找死！”班长吼着说。
用害你的东西救你自己，这才是高明人的高招，伽弗洛什一眼便认清了形势。给他带来麻烦的是那辆小车，应当用小车来保护他。
当班长正要向伽弗洛什扑上去时，那辆小车突然变成了炮弹，顺手一送，便狂暴地向那班长滚了过去，正冲在他的肚子上，把他撞了个仰面朝天，落在街旁的臭水沟里，步枪也朝天打了一枪。
哨所里的人听到班长叫喊，一窝蜂似的涌了出来，跟在那第一枪后面，漫无目标地乱放一气，放过以后，又装上子弹再放。
这一场捉迷藏似的射击足足延续了一刻钟，并且打死了几块玻璃窗。
伽弗洛什这时正疯狂地往后跑，跑过了五六条街才停下来，坐在红孩子商店转角处的护墙石上喘气。
他张着耳朵听。
喘过一阵气以后，他转向枪声紧密的地方，把左手举到鼻子的高度，向前连送三次，同时用右手敲着自己的后脑勺，这是巴黎的野孩们从法国式的讽刺中提炼出来的藐视一切的姿势，并且效果显然是良好的，因为它迄今已风行了半个世纪。
这场高兴被一个苦恼的念头搅乱了。
“对呀，”他说，“我只顾咕咕咕地笑，笑痛了肚皮，笑了个痛快，却迷了路，非得绕个弯儿不成。我得赶快回街垒，不要耽误了时间！”
说了这话，他便起步赶路。
在跑着的时候，他说：
“唉，我刚才唱到哪一段了？”
他又唱起了他的那首歌，边唱边向小街里跑，歌声在黑暗中逐渐减弱：
但是还剩下不少的巴士底监狱，
我要捣烂砸碎
现在的所谓公共秩序。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
大家来玩九柱戏哟！
让一个大球滚上去，
把旧世界冲得稀巴烂。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
历史悠久的好人民，
举起你们的拐杖，
砸烂卢浮宫中镶着花边的烂王朝。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
我们攻破过它的铁栏门，
国王查理十世在那天，
担惊害怕失了魂。
这是美丽姑娘走的路，
咙啦。
哨所的这次战斗远不是没有成果的。那辆小车被占领了，那个醉汉也被俘虏了。车子被没收，人后来被军事法庭当作同谋犯交付审讯。当时的检察机关也围绕这件案子，对社会的防护表现了不懈的忠诚。
在大庙地区，伽弗洛什的这次非常事件成了家喻户晓的传说，在沼泽区的那些资产阶级老朽们的回忆里，也是一件最骇人听闻的巨案：夜袭王家印刷局哨所。
