“By that flue?” exclaimed Babet, “a grown-up cove, never! it would take a brat.”
“A brat must be got,” resumed Brujon.
“Where are we to find a young ’un?” said Guelemer.
“Wait,” said Montparnasse. “I’ve got the very article.”
He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thénardier; Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed by Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.
Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair. Guelemer addressed him:—
“Are you a man, young ’un?”
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:—
“A young ’un like me’s a man, and men like you are babes.”
“The brat’s tongue’s well hung!” exclaimed Babet.
“The Paris brat ain’t made of straw,” added Brujon.
“What do you want?” asked Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:—
“Climb up that flue.”