d himself on one of the fence-posts; he waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him, then he put on his shoes again, and said:--
"Is that all?
You don''t want any more, my men?
Now you''re out of your scrape.
I''m off.
I must go and get my brats out of bed."
And off he went.
The five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.
When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Thenardier aside.
"Did you take a good look at that young ''un?" he asked.
"What young ''un?"
"The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope."
"Not particularly."
"Well, I don''t know, but it strikes me that it was your son."
"Bah!" said Thenardier, "do you think so?"
BOOK SEVENTH.-SLANG
CHAPTER I
ORIGIN
Pigritia is a terrible word.
It engenders a whole world, la pegre, for which read theft, and a hell, la pegrenne, for which read hunger.
Thus, idleness is the mother.
She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.
Where are we at this moment?
In the land of slang.
What is slang?
It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect; it is theft in its two kinds; people and language.
When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave and sombre history introduced into a work written with the same aim as this[39] a thief who talked argot, there arose amazement and clamor.--"What! How!