Chương Chương 274 · JUST INDIGNATION OF A HAIR-DRESSER

The worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two little

fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior of the

elephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving an old

soldier of the legion who had served under the Empire. They were

talking. The hair-dresser had, naturally, spoken to the veteran of the

riot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to

the Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation between barber and soldier

which Prudhomme, had he been present, would have enriched with

arabesques, and which he would have entitled: “Dialogue between the

razor and the sword.”

“How did the Emperor ride, sir?” said the barber.

“Badly. He did not know how to fall—so he never fell.”

“Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses!”

“On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast. It was a

racing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very wide apart, her saddle

deep, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, strongly

articulated knees, prominent ribs, oblique shoulders and a powerful

crupper. A little more than fifteen hands in height.”

“A pretty horse,” remarked the hair-dresser.

“It was His Majesty’s beast.”

The hair-dresser felt, that after this observation, a short silence

would be fitting, so he conformed himself to it, and then went on:—

“The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir?”

The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of a man who

had been there:—

“In the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on that

day. He was as neat as a new sou.”

“And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often wounded?”

“I?” said the soldier, “ah! not to amount to anything. At Marengo, I

received two sabre-blows on the back of my neck, a bullet in the right

arm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena. At Friedland, a

thrust from a bayonet, there,—at the Moskowa seven or eight

lance-thrusts, no matter where, at Lutzen a splinter of a shell crushed

one of my fingers. Ah! and then at Waterloo, a ball from a biscaïen in

the thigh, that’s all.”

“How fine that is!” exclaimed the hair-dresser, in Pindaric accents,

“to die on the field of battle! On my word of honor, rather than die in

bed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each day, with drugs,

cataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should prefer to receive a

cannon-ball in my belly!”

“You’re not over fastidious,” said the soldier.

He had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop. The

show-window had suddenly been fractured.

The wig-maker turned pale.

“Ah, good God!” he exclaimed, “it’s one of them!”

“What?”

“A cannon-ball.”

“Here it is,” said the soldier.

And he picked up something that was rolling about the floor. It was a

pebble.

The hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing

at the full speed, towards the Marché Saint-Jean. As he passed the

hair-dresser’s shop Gavroche, who had the two brats still in his mind,

had not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had

flung a stone through his panes.

“You see!” shrieked the hair-dresser, who from white had turned blue,

“that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it.

What has any one done to that gamin?”