As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D—— A path which intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush. In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible. He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his back. One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers. Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand—his whole fortune, probably. Among this money there was one forty-sou piece. 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 rolling 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 confidence 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 silver!” It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure. “I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!”