harpshooters 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."