Je ne suis pas notaire, C’est la faute à Voltaire; Je suis un petit oiseau, C’est la faute à Rousseau.
A fifth bullet only succeeded in drawing from him a third couplet.
Joie est mon caractère, C’est la faute à Voltaire; Misère est mon trousseau, C’est la faute à Rousseau.
Thus it went on for some time.
It was a charming and terrible sight. Gavroche, though shot at, was teasing the fusillade. He had the air of being greatly diverted. It was the sparrow pecking at the sportsmen. To each discharge he retorted with a couplet. They aimed at him constantly, and always missed him. The National Guardsmen and the soldiers laughed as they took aim at him. He lay down, sprang to his feet, hid in the corner of a doorway, then made a bound, disappeared, reappeared, scampered away, returned, replied to the grapeshot with his thumb at his nose, and, all the while, went on pillaging the cartouches, emptying the cartridge-boxes, and filling his basket. The insurgents, panting with anxiety, followed him with their