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Two minutes later, a flood of frightened bourgeois who were fleeing through the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basse, encountered the lad brandishing his pistol and singing: La nuit on ne voit rien, Le jour on voit tres bien, D'un ecrit apocrypha Le bourgeois s'ebouriffe, Pratiquez la vertu, Tutu, chapeau pointu! It was little Gavroche on his way to the wars.
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