The wig-maker turned pale.

“Ah, good God!” he exclaimed, “it’s one of them!”

“What?”

“A cannonball.”

“Here it is,” said the soldier.

And he picked up something that was rolling about the floor. It was a pebble.

The hairdresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing at the full speed, towards the Marché Saint-Jean. As he passed the hairdresser’s shop Gavroche, who had the two brats still in his mind, had not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had flung a stone through his panes.

“You see!” shrieked the hairdresser, who from white had turned blue, “that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it. What has anyone done to that gamin?”