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‘A propos of revolution,’ said Joly, ‘it is decidedly abber-
ent that Barius is in lub.’
‘Does any one know with whom?’ demanded Laigle.
‘Do.’
‘No?’
‘Do! I tell you.’
‘Marius’ love affairs!’ exclaimed Grantaire. ‘I can imagine
it. Marius is a fog, and he must have found a vapor. Marius
is of the race of poets. He who says poet, says fool, madman,
Tymbraeus Apollo. Marius and his Marie, or his Marion,
or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must make a queer pair
of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies in which they
forget to kiss. Pure on earth, but joined in heaven. They are
souls possessed of senses. They lie among the stars.’
Grantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly,
his second harangue, when a new personage emerged from
the square aperture of the stairs. It was a boy less than ten
years of age, ragged, very small, yellow, with an odd phiz, a
vivacious eye, an enormous amount of hair drenched with
rain, and wearing a contented air.
The child unhesitatingly making his choice among the
three, addressed himself to Laigle de Meaux.
‘Are you Monsieur Bossuet?’
‘That is my nickname,’ replied Laigle. ‘What do you want
with me?’
‘This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me:
‘Do you know Mother Hucheloup?’ I said: ‘Yes, Rue Chan-
vrerie, the old man’s widow;’ he said to me: ‘Go there. There
you will find M. Bossuet. Tell him from me: ‘A B C”.’ It’s