Each molecule of the gutter bore away a molecule of heat radiating from Gringoire's loins, and the equilibrium between the temperature of his body and the temperature of the brook, began to be established in rough fashion.
Quite a different annoyance suddenly assailed him.

A group of children, those little bare-footed savages who have always roamed the pavements of Paris under the eternal name of _gamins_, and who, when we were also children ourselves, threw stones at all of us in the afternoon, when we came out of school, because our trousers were not torn--a swarm of these young scamps rushed towards the square where Gringoire lay, with shouts and laughter which seemed to pay but little heed to the sleep of the neighbors.

They were dragging after them some sort of hideous sack; and the noise of their wooden shoes alone would have roused the dead.
Gringoire who was not quite dead yet, half raised himself.
"Ohe, Hennequin Dandeche! Ohe, Jehan Pincebourde!" they shouted in deafening tones, "old Eustache Moubon, the merchant at the corner, has just died.

We've got his straw pallet, we're going to have a bonfire out of it.

It's the turn of the Flemish to-day!" And behold, they flung the pallet directly upon Gringoire, beside whom they had arrived, without espying him.