Spring in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing breezes which do not precisely chill but freeze one. In the spring of 1832, the epoch when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Europe, these north gales were more harsh and piercing than ever. It was a door even more glacial than that of winter which was ajar. It was the door of the sepulchre. In these winds one felt the breath of the cholera. One evening, when these gales were blowing rudely, to such a degree that January seemed to have returned, little Gavroche, always shivering gaily under his rags, was standing as though in ecstasy before a wig-maker's shop near the Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman's woollen shawl, picked up no one knows where, and converted into a neck comforter. He appeared to be admiring a wax bride, but in reality he was taking an observation of a cake of soap, which he would then proceed to sell for a sou. He called this species of work shaving barbers. Tuesday, he muttered. It was not Tuesday. Perhaps it was Tuesday. No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred. Yes, perchance, to the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday. While he was scrutinizing the shop-window, two children of unequal stature, very neatly dressed, and still smaller than himself, one about seven, the other five, timidly turned the handle and entered the shop, with a request that resembled a groan. The barber, without abandoning his razor, thrust back the elder with his left hand and the younger with his knee, and slammed his door. The idea of coming in and freezing everybody for nothing. The two children resumed their march in tears. A cloud had risen; it had begun to rain. Little Gavroche ran after them. What's the matter with you, brats? We don't know where we are to sleep. Is that all? The idea of bawling about that. Come along with me, young uns. Yes, sir, said the elder. And the two children followed him as they would have followed an archbishop. They had stopped crying. He led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine toward the Bastille. On the way he gave his shawl to a beggar-girl lying chilled under a porte-cochere, and kept for himself the brrr of a Saint Martin who had not retained even half the cloak. The wicked skies punish good deeds. At a baker's grating he asked if they had dined. They had had nothing since morning. They had a papa and a mamma, but they did not know where they were. Sometimes that's better than knowing where they are, said Gavroche, who was a thinker. From one of his pockets he drew forth a sou. Boy, five centimes' worth of bread. There are three of us. When the baker took down a black loaf, Gavroche demanded white bread; he was standing treat. He held out a piece to each of them, the largest share to the elder, and kept the smaller piece for himself. The poor children, including Gavroche, were famished. Let's go into the street again, said Gavroche.
Just as they were finishing their morsel, at the angle of the Rue des Ballets, with the wicket of La Force visible at the other end, a man accosted the street urchin. Hullo, is that you, Gavroche? Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse? The man was Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, but recognizable to Gavroche. Hush, not so loud. Under an arch, sheltered from the rain and from all eyes, Montparnasse said he was going to find Babet. Gavroche had thought Babet was buckled. He has undone the buckle. On the morning of that very day, Babet, transferred to La Conciergerie, had made his escape by turning to the left instead of to the right in the police office. Something happened the other day, Montparnasse added. A bourgeois made me a present of a sermon and his purse. A minute later I feel in my pocket. There's nothing there. Except the sermon, said Gavroche. And you, where are you bound for now? I'm going to put these infants to bed. Whereabouts is the bed? At my house. In the elephant. Montparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment, could not restrain an exclamation. How do you get in? A hole between the fore legs. The bobbies haven't seen it. They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of, said Gavroche with great simplicity. Montparnasse thrust a quill up each nostril, and in a twinkling became unrecognizable. Then, mouthing every syllable, he said an odd phrase about his dog, his knife, and his wife. Gavroche wheeled round, perceived a police sergeant a few paces off, and shook Montparnasse's hand. Well, good evening. I'm going off to my elephant with my brats. If you should need me some night, you can come and hunt me up there. You will inquire for Monsieur Gavroche. They parted, Montparnasse toward the Greve, Gavroche toward the Bastille. Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southwest corner of the Place de la Bastille a singular monument: an elephant forty feet high, constructed of timber and masonry, Napoleon's idea, a marvellous sketch, now painted black by heaven, the wind, and time. It was unclean, despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois, melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. Night is the real element of everything that is dark. Beside it, in 1832, the column of July still stood in a shirt of woodwork. It was towards this corner, dimly lighted by the reflection of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two brats.
Don't be scared, infants, said Gavroche, comprehending the effect which the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely small. He entered through a gap in the fence and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach. They confided themselves to this little Providence in rags which had given them bread and had promised them a shelter. There, extended along the fence, lay a ladder which by day served the labourers in the neighbouring timber-yard. Gavroche raised it with remarkable vigor and placed it against one of the elephant's forelegs. Near the point where the ladder ended, a sort of black hole in the belly of the colossus could be distinguished. Climb up and go in. The two little boys exchanged terrified glances. You're afraid, brats. You shall see. He clasped the rough leg, and in a twinkling, without deigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached the aperture and disappeared. An instant later his head appeared on the edge of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish spectre. Climb up, young uns. You'll see how snug it is here. The elder undertook the risk. Gavroche seized him by the arm. Nabbed. Then he slipped down, grasped the child of five, planted him on the ladder, and stuffed him into the hole before he had time to recover himself. He entered behind him, kicked the ladder flat on the grass, and began to clap his hands. Here we are. Long live General Lafayette. Now, young uns, you are in my house. Oh, unforeseen utility of the useless. Charity of great things. This huge monument, which had embodied an idea of the Emperor's, had become the box of a street urchin. The bourgeois who passed were fond of saying, What's the good of that? It served to save from the cold, the frost, the hail, and rain, a little being who had no father, no mother, no bread, no clothes, no refuge. It served to receive the innocent whom society repulsed. That which had been merely illustrious had become august. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius; he wished to incarnate the people. God had done a grander thing with it, he had lodged a child there. Gavroche stopped up the aperture with a plank, ignited a cellar rat, and the interior became confusedly visible: a gigantic skeleton, a vertebral column of beams, stalactites of plaster, vast spiders' webs, and large blackish spots which had the appearance of being alive. The smaller child nestled up against his brother. It's black. Gavroche passed from grave to gentle. Stupid, it's outside that it is black. Outside it's raining, here it does not rain; outside it's cold, here there's not an atom of wind; outside there are heaps of people, here there's no one; outside there ain't even the moon, here there's my candle, confound it. His bed was complete: a straw mat, a strip of gray woollen, and an alcove of poles and brass aviary screen, held down by stones, so that nothing could pass under it. Down on all fours, brats. That, said Gavroche gravely, is for the rats. The blanket was from the monkeys, the mat from the giraffe. The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them. I told them: It's for the elephant.
The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this intrepid and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves, who seemed supernatural to them. Monsieur, ventured the elder, you are not afraid of the police, then? Brat, nobody says police, they say bobbies. Gavroche tucked the blanket round the smaller as a mother might have done, and heightened the mat under his head with old rags. Ah, by the way, what were you bawling about? We have no lodging. You don't say lodgings, you say crib. And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night. You don't say night, you say darkmans. I'll take care of you. You shall see what fun we'll have. In summer we'll bathe, we'll go to the play, we'll get in with the hired applauders at the Opera, we'll go to see the guillotine work. At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's finger. There's the wick giving out. I can't spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. And besides, the light might pass through the cracks, and all the bobbies need to do is to see it. The storm increased. You're taken in, rain, said Gavroche. It amuses me to hear the decanter run down the legs of the house. A broad flash entered the belly through the crack, and the thunder rumbled. The two little creatures uttered a shriek. Calm down, children. Bravo for the good God. It's almost as good as it is at the Ambigu. Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine. Shut your peepers. Hardly had the light been extinguished when a peculiar trembling began to affect the netting: dull scratches, metallic sound, little piercing cries. The little five-year-old, chilled with terror, questioned Gavroche. What is that? It's the rats. What are rats? They are mice. Why don't you have a cat? I did have one. I brought one here, but they ate her. Sir, would those mice eat us? Wouldn't they just. Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here. Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers. Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand across his brother. The child pressed the hand close to him, and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these mysterious ways of communicating themselves. Silence reigned; the sound of their voices had frightened off the rats; at the expiration of a few minutes they came raging back, but in vain, the three little fellows were fast asleep. The hours of the night fled away. A patrol searched the doorways and obscure nooks, and passed in silence before the elephant; the monster, erect, motionless, staring open-eyed into the shadows, had the appearance of dreaming happily over his good deed, and sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor sleeping children. Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn, a man turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, glided between the palings, and uttered a peculiar cry: Kirikikiou. At the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded from the belly of the elephant. Yes. The plank was drawn aside, and Gavroche descended the elephant's leg. The man was Montparnasse. We need you. Come, lend us a hand. The lad asked for no further enlightenment. I'm with you. And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, winding rapidly through the long file of market-gardeners' carts which descend towards the markets at that hour. The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, amid the salads and vegetables, did not even glance at these strange pedestrians.
