Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 15 Gavroche Outside

Courfeyrac suddenly caught sight of some one at the base of the barricade, outside in the street, amid the bullets.

Gavroche had taken a bottle basket from the wine-shop, had made his way out through the cut, and was quietly engaged in emptying the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guardsmen who had been killed on the slope of the redoubt, into his basket.

"What are you doing there?" asked Courfeyrac.

Gavroche raised his face:--

"I'm filling my basket, citizen."

"Don't you see the grape-shot?"

Gavroche replied:

"Well, it is raining. What then?"

Courfeyrac shouted:--"Come in!"

"Instanter," said Gavroche.

And with a single bound he plunged into the street.

It will be remembered that Fannicot's company had left behind it a trail of bodies. Twenty corpses lay scattered here and there on the pavement, through the whole length of the street. Twenty cartouches for Gavroche meant a provision of cartridges for the barricade.

The smoke in the street was like a fog. Whoever has beheld a cloud which has fallen into a mountain gorge between two peaked escarpments can imagine this smoke rendered denser and thicker by two gloomy rows of lofty houses. It rose gradually and was incessantly renewed; hence a twilight which made even the broad daylight turn pale. The combatants could hardly see each other from one end of the street to the other, short as it was.

This obscurity, which had probably been desired and calculated on by the commanders who were to direct the assault on the barricade, was useful to Gavroche.

Beneath the folds of this veil of smoke, and thanks to his small size, he could advance tolerably far into the street without being seen. He rifled the first seven or eight cartridge-boxes without much danger.

He crawled flat on his belly, galloped on all fours, took his basket in his teeth, twisted, glided, undulated, wound from one dead body to another, and emptied the cartridge-box or cartouche as a monkey opens a nut.

They did not dare to shout to him to return from the barricade, which was quite near, for fear of attracting attention to him.

On one body, that of a corporal, he found a powder-flask.

"For thirst," said he, putting it in his pocket.

By dint of advancing, he reached a point where the fog of the fusillade became transparent. So that the sharpshooters of the line ranged on the outlook behind their paving-stone dike and the sharpshooters of the banlieue massed at the corner of the street suddenly pointed out to each other something moving through the smoke.

At the moment when Gavroche was relieving a sergeant, who was lying near a stone door-post, of his cartridges, a bullet struck the body.

"Fichtre!" ejaculated Gavroche. "They are killing my dead men for me."

A second bullet struck a spark from the pavement beside him.-- A third overturned his basket.

Gavroche looked and saw that this came from the men of the banlieue.

He sprang to his feet, stood erect, with his hair flying in the wind, his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the National Guardsmen who were firing, and sang:

"On est laid a Nanterre, "Men are ugly at Nanterre, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Et bete a Palaiseau, And dull at Palaiseau, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."

Then he picked up his basket, replaced the cartridges which had fallen from it, without missing a single one, and, advancing towards the fusillade, set about plundering another cartridge-box. There a fourth bullet missed him, again. Gavroche sang:

"Je ne suis pas notaire, "I am not a notary, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Je suis un petit oiseau, I'm a little bird, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."

A fifth bullet only succeeded in drawing from him a third couplet.

"Joie est mon caractere, "Joy is my character, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Misere est mon trousseau, Misery is my trousseau, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of 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, re-appeared, scampered away, returned, replied to the grape-shot 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 eyes. The barricade trembled; he sang. He was not a child, he was not a man; he was a strange gamin-fairy. He might have been called the invulnerable dwarf of the fray. The bullets flew after him, he was more nimble than they. He played a fearful game of hide and seek with death; every time that the flat-nosed face of the spectre approached, the urchin administered to it a fillip.

One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the rest, finally struck the will-o'-the-wisp of a child. Gavroche was seen

to stagger, then he sank to the earth. The whole barricade gave vent to a cry; but there was something of Antaeus in that pygmy; for the gamin to touch the pavement is the same as for the giant to touch the earth; Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he remained in a sitting posture, a long thread of blood streaked his face, he raised both arms in the air, glanced in the direction whence the shot had come, and began to sing:

"Je suis tombe par terre, "I have fallen to the earth, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Le nez dans le ruisseau, With my nose in the gutter, C'est la faute a . . . " 'Tis the fault of . . . "

He did not finish. A second bullet from the same marksman stopped him short. This time he fell face downward on the pavement, and moved no more. This grand little soul had taken its flight.

古费拉克忽然发现有个人在街垒的下面，外边，街上，火线下。

伽弗洛什从小酒店里取了一个盛玻璃瓶的篮子，穿过缺口走出去，安闲自在地只顾把那些倒毙在街垒斜沿上的国民自卫军装满子弹的弹药包倒进篮子。

“你在干什么？”古费拉克说。

伽弗洛什翘起鼻子：

“公民，我在装篮子。”

“难道你没看见霰弹？”

伽弗洛什回答说：

“是啊，在下雨。又怎样呢？”

古费拉克吼了起来：

“进来！”

“回头就来。”伽弗洛什说。

于是，他一跃跳到街心。

我们记得法尼各连在退却时，留下了一大串尸体。

整条街的路面上，这儿那儿，躺着将近二十具尸体。对伽弗洛什来说，这是二十来个弹药包，对街垒来说，是大批的子弹。

街上的烟就象迷雾一样。凡是见过一朵云落在峡谷中两座峭壁之间的人都能想象这种被压缩在棗并且好象浓化了的棗阴森森的两列高房子中间的烟。它缓缓上升，还不断得到补充，以致光线越来越矇眬，甚至使白昼也变得阴暗起来。这条街，从一头到另一头，并不怎么长，可是交战的人，几乎彼此望不见。

这种矇眬的状态，也许是指挥攻打街垒的官长们所需要、所筹划的，却也给伽弗洛什带来了方便。

在这层烟幕的萦回下，由于伽弗洛什个子小，便能在这条街上走得相当远而不被人察觉。他倒空了最初七八个弹药包，冒的危险还不算大。

他紧贴地面往前爬，四肢快速行动着，用牙咬住篮子，身体扭着，溜着，波浪似的行动着，象蛇一样爬行，从一个死尸到另一个死尸，把一个个的弹药包或子弹盒都倒干净，就象一只剥核桃的猴子。

他离街垒还相当近，里面的人可不敢叫他回来，恐怕引起对方的注意。

在一具尸首---是个排长---的身上，他找到一个打猎用的火药瓶。

“以备不时之需。”他一面塞进口袋一面说。

他不断往前移动，终于到了烟雾稀薄的地方。

于是埋伏在石堆后面的一排前线狙击兵和聚集在街角上的郊区狙击兵，忽然不约而同地相互指点烟雾里有个东西在活动。

正当伽弗洛什在解一个倒在界石附近的中士身上的弹药包时，一颗子弹打中了那尸体。

“好家伙！”伽弗洛什说，“他们竟来杀我的这些死人了。”

第二颗子弹打在他身边，把路面上的石块打得直冒火星。

第三颗打翻了他的篮子。

伽弗洛什打量了一下，看见这是从郊区方面射过来的。他笔直地立起来，站着，头发随风飘扬，两手叉在腰上，眼睛盯着那些开枪射击的国民自卫军，唱道：

楠泰尔人丑八怪，

这只能怨伏尔泰；

帕莱索人大脓包，

这也只能怨卢梭。

随后他拾起他的篮子，把翻了出家的子弹全捡回去，一颗不剩，然后继续向开枪的地方前进，去解另一个弹药包；到了那里，第四颗子弹仍旧没有射中他。伽弗洛什唱道：

公证人我做不来，

这只能怨伏尔泰；

我只是只小雀儿，

这也只能怨卢梭。

第五颗子弹打出了他的第三段歌词：

欢乐是我的本态，

这只能怨伏尔泰；

贫穷是我的格调，

这也只能怨卢梭。

这样延续了一些时候。

这景象真骇人，也真动人。伽弗洛什被别人射击，他却和射击的人逗乐。他的神气好象觉得很好玩。这是小麻雀在追啄猎人。他用一段唱词回答一次射击。人们不断地瞄准他，却始终打他不着。那些国民自卫军和士兵一面对他瞄准一面笑。他伏下身去，又站起来，躲在一个门角里，继而又跳出来，藏起来不见了，随即又出现，跑了又回来，对着枪弹做鬼脸，同时还捞子弹，掏弹药包，充实他的篮子。那些起义者急得喘不过气来，眼睛盯住他不放，街垒在发抖。而他，在歌唱。他不是个孩子，也不是个大人，而是个小精灵似的顽童。可以说，他是混战中的一个无懈可击的侏儒。枪弹紧跟着他，但他比枪弹更灵活。他跟死亡玩着骇人的捉迷藏游戏。每一次当索命的鬼魂来到他跟前时，这顽皮的孩子总是“啪”的一下给它来个弹指。

可是有一颗子弹，比其余的都来得准些，或者说，比其余的都更为奸诈，终于射中了这磷火似的孩子。大家看见伽弗洛什东倒西歪地走了几步，便软下去了，街垒里的人发出一声叫喊，但在这小孩的体内，有安泰的神力；孩子一触及路面，就象那巨人接触大地一样。伽弗洛什倒下去，很快就又直起身子。他坐了起来，脸上流着一长条鲜血，举起他的两只手臂，望着打枪的方向，又开始唱起来：

我是倒了下来，

这只能怨伏尔泰；

鼻子栽进了小溪，

这也只能怨……

他没有唱完。第二颗子弹，由原先的那个枪手射出的，一下使他停了下来。这一次，他脸朝地倒下去，不再动弹了。这个伟大的小灵魂飞逝了。

相关推荐：

Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 14 What he thought

Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 9 The Old Soul of Gaul

Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 5 A Providential Peep-Hole

Part 4 Book 4 Chapter 1 A Wound without, Healing within

Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 1 Pity for the Unhappy, but Indulgence