第 一百五十 章 · HE IS AGREEABLE

In the evening, thanks to a few sous, which he always finds means to

procure, the _homuncio_ enters a theatre. On crossing that magic

threshold, he becomes transfigured; he was the street Arab, he becomes

the titi.18 Theatres are a sort of ship turned upside down with the

keel in the air. It is in that keel that the titi huddle together. The

titi is to the gamin what the moth is to the larva; the same being

endowed with wings and soaring. It suffices for him to be there, with

his radiance of happiness, with his power of enthusiasm and joy, with

his hand-clapping, which resembles a clapping of wings, to confer on

that narrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous, abominable keel,

the name of Paradise.

Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the necessary,

and you have the gamin.

The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. His tendency, and we say

it with the proper amount of regret, would not constitute classic

taste. He is not very academic by nature. Thus, to give an example, the

popularity of Mademoiselle Mars among that little audience of stormy

children was seasoned with a touch of irony. The gamin called her

_Mademoiselle Muche_—“hide yourself.”

This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has rags like a

baby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the sewer, hunts in the

cesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whips up the squares with his

wit, grins and bites, whistles and sings, shouts, and shrieks, tempers

Alleluia with Matanturlurette, chants every rhythm from the De

Profundis to the Jack-pudding, finds without seeking, knows what he is

ignorant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving, is mad to wisdom,

is lyrical to filth, would crouch down on Olympus, wallows in the

dunghill and emerges from it covered with stars. The gamin of Paris is

Rabelais in this youth.

He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch-pocket.

He is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified, he

makes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exaggerations,

he twits mysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts, he takes the

poetry out of stilted things, he introduces caricature into epic

extravaganzas. It is not that he is prosaic; far from that; but he

replaces the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor

were to appear to him, the street Arab would say: “Hi there! The

bugaboo!”