One evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered that he had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming tiresome. He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper. He strolled out beyond the Salpêtrière into deserted regions; that is where windfalls are to be found; where there is no one, one always finds something. He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be the village of Austerlitz. In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old garden haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that garden, a passable apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house, which was not securely fastened, and where one might contrive to get an apple. One apple is a supper; one apple is life. That which was Adam's ruin might prove Gavroche's salvation. The garden abutted on a solitary, unpaved lane, bordered with brushwood while awaiting the arrival of houses; the garden was separated from it by a hedge. Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found the lane, he recognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit-house, he examined the hedge; a hedge means merely one stride. The day was declining, there was not even a cat in the lane, the hour was propitious. Gavroche began the operation of scaling the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was talking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of the breaks in the hedge. A couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the other side, exactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating would have been made, there was a sort of recumbent stone which formed a bench, and on this bench was seated the old man of the garden, while the old woman was standing in front of him. The old woman was grumbling. Gavroche, who was not very discreet, listened. Monsieur Mabeuf! said the old woman. Mabeuf! thought Gavroche, that name is a perfect farce. The old man who was thus addressed did not stir. The old woman repeated. The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made up his mind to answer: What is it, Mother Plutarque? Mother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced to accept the conversation. The landlord is not pleased. They owe three quarters rent. In three months, we shall owe him for four. He says that he will turn you out to sleep. I will go. The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer leave her fagots. What will you warm yourself with this winter? We shall have no wood. There is the sun. The butcher refuses to give credit. That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy. What shall we have for dinner? Bread. The baker demands a settlement, and says, no money, no bread. That is well. What will you eat? We have apples in the apple-room. But, Monsieur, we can't live like that without money. I have none. The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He fell into thought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It was almost dark. The first result of Gavroche's meditation was, that instead of scaling the hedge, he crouched down under it. Come, exclaimed Gavroche mentally, here's a nook! and he curled up in it. His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf's bench. He could hear the octogenarian breathe. Then, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep.
It was a cat-nap, with one eye open. The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes. All at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their appearance. One was in front, the other some distance in the rear. The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, bent and thoughtful, dressed more than plainly, walking slowly because of his age. The second was straight, firm, slender, an elegant, a rose in its mouth. This second form was well known to Gavroche; it was Montparnasse. He could have told nothing about the other, except that he was a respectable old man. Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place, betokened something threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin's heart moved with compassion for the old man. What was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming to the aid of another! It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse. The old man and the child would make but two mouthfuls for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age. While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and hideously. Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream. A moment later one of these men was underneath the other, groaning, struggling, with a knee of marble upon his breast. Only, it was not just what Gavroche had expected. The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who was on top was the old man. The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that in such a terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant and the assailed had exchanged roles. Here's a hearty veteran! thought Gavroche. He could not refrain from clapping his hands. Silence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry. He rose to his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse: Get up. Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. How old are you? Nineteen. You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work? It bores me. What is your trade? An idler. Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What would you like to be? A thief. A pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought. He stood motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse. Then, looking steadily at Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the midst of the darkness, a solemn harangue, of which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable. My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most laborious of lives. There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it? It is the rolling-mill. That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet time. Labor is the law; he who rejects it will find ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman, you will be a slave. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep on a plank with a fetter. You will enter there at the age of twenty. And you will come out at fifty, broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks. Ah! my poor child, you are on the wrong road; idleness is counselling you badly; the hardest of all work is thieving. It is less disagreeable to be an honest man. Now go, and ponder on what I have said to you. By the way, what did you want of me? My purse? Here it is. And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in the latter's hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, after which he allowed it to slide gently into the back pocket of his coat, with the same mechanical precaution as though he had stolen it.
All this having been said and done, the goodman turned his back and tranquilly resumed his stroll. The blockhead! muttered Montparnasse. Who was this goodman? The reader has, no doubt, already divined. Montparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disappeared in the dusk. This contemplation was fatal to him. While the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near. Gavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that Father Mabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound asleep. Then the gamin emerged from his thicket, and began to crawl after Montparnasse in the dark. In this manner he came up to Montparnasse without being seen or heard, gently insinuated his hand into the back pocket of that frock-coat of fine black cloth, seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and having recourse once more to his crawling, he slipped away like an adder through the shadows. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was engaged in thought for the first time in his life, perceived nothing. When Gavroche had once more attained the point where Father Mabeuf was, he flung the purse over the hedge, and fled as fast as his legs would carry him. The purse fell on Father Mabeuf's foot. This commotion roused him. He bent over and picked up the purse. He did not understand in the least, and opened it. The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some small change; in the other lay six napoleons. The old warden, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper. That has fallen from heaven, said Mother Plutarque.
