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The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean
Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that
time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the
back of his hand.
This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went roll-
ing towards the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean set his foot upon it.
In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and
had caught sight of him.
He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to
the man.
The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could
see there was not a person on the plain or on the path. The
only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of
passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense
height. The child was standing with his back to the sun,
which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with
its blood-red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean.
‘Sir,’ said the little Savoyard, with that childish confi-
dence which is composed of ignorance and innocence, ‘my
money.’
‘What is your name?’ said Jean Valjean.
‘Little Gervais, sir.’
‘Go away,’ said Jean Valjean.
‘Sir,’ resumed the child, ‘give me back my money.’
Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply.
The child began again, ‘My money, sir.’
Jean Valjean’s eyes remained fixed on the earth.
‘My piece of money!’ cried the child, ‘my white piece! my