The sergeant of the banlieue lent an ear. He waited.
He was a prudent man.
The mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible measure of waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.
"There''s a whole band of them there!" said he, "let us proceed gently."
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box and that it was stalking abroad through the quarter.
And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.
All at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him, and at the very moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des Vielles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a uniform, a shako, a plume, and a gun.
For the second time, he stopped short.
"Hullo," said he, "it''s him.
Good day, public order."
Gavroche''s amazement was always brief and speedily thawed.
"Where are you going, you rascal?" shouted the sergeant.
"Citizen," retorted Gavroche, "I haven''t called you `bourgeois'' yet. Why do you insult me?"
"Where are you going, you rogue?"
"Monsieur," retorted Gavroche, "perhaps you were a man of wit yesterday, but you have degenerated this morning."
"I ask you where are you going, you villain?"
Gavroche replied:--
"You speak prettily.
Really, no one would suppose you as old as you are.
You ought to sell all your hair at a hundred francs apiece. That would yield you five hundred francs."