2.M.1.3. 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.
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!"