“Poor girl!” said Gavroche. “She hasn’t even trousers. Hold on, take this.”

And unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had around his neck, he flung it on the thin and purple shoulders of the beggar-girl, where the scarf became a shawl once more.

The child stared at him in astonishment, and received the shawl in silence. When a certain stage of distress has been reached in his misery, the poor man no longer groans over evil, no longer returns thanks for good.

That done: “ Brrr! ” said Gavroche, who was shivering more than Saint Martin, for the latter retained one-half of his cloak.

At this brr! the downpour of rain, redoubled in its spite, became furious. The wicked skies punish good deeds.