An old broken lantern, which I saw just now at a bric-à-brac dealer's, suggests a reflection to me, 'it is high time to enlighten the human race.' Yes, I am sad again, and it has come from swallowing an oyster and a revolution the wrong way. I am growing lugubrious again. Oh, frightful old world! On your surface people strive, are destitute, prostitute themselves, kill themselves, and grow accustomed to it!" And after this burst of eloquence Grantaire had a burst of coughing, which was well deserved. "Talking of a revolution," said Joly, "it seebs that Barius is certaidly in love." "Do you know with whom?" Laigle asked. "Do." "No?" "Do, I tell you." "The loves of Marius!" Grantaire exclaimed, "I can see them from here. Marius is a fog and will have found a vapor. Marius is of the poetic race. Who says poet says madman. _Tymbræus Apollo_. Marius and his Marie, or his Maria, or his Mariette, or his Marion, must be a funny brace of lovers. I can fancy what it is: ecstasies in which kissing is forgotten. Chaste on earth but connected in the infinitude. They are souls that have feelings, and they sleep together in the stars." Grantaire was attacking his second bottle, and perhaps his second harangue, when a new head emerged from the staircase hatchway. It was a boy under ten years of age, ragged, very short and yellow, with a bull-dog face, a quick eye, and an enormous head of hair; he was dripping with wet, but seemed happy. The lad choosing without hesitating among the three, though he knew none of them, addressed Laigle of Meaux. "Are you Monsieur Bossuet?" he asked. "I am called so," Laigle replied; "what do you want?" "A big blonde on the boulevard said to me, 'Do you know Mother Hucheloup's?' I said,' Yes, Rue Chanvrerie, the widow of the old buffer,' He says to me, 'Go there; you will find Monsieur Bossuet there, and say to him from me, A--B--C.' I suppose it's a trick played you, eh? He gave me ten sous." "Joly, lend me ten sous," said Laigle; and turning to Grantaire, "Grantaire, lend me ten sous." This made twenty sous, which Laigle gave the lad. "Thank you, sir," he said. "What is your name?" Laigle asked. "Navet, Gavroche's friend." "Stay with us," Laigle said. "Breakfast with us," Grantaire added. The lad replied, "I can't, for I belong to the procession, and have to cry, 'Down with Polignac!'" And, drawing his foot slowly after him, which is the most respectful of bows possible, he went away. When he was gone, Grantaire remarked,--