There was something of that boy in Poquelin, the son of the
fish-market; Beaumarchais had something of it. Gaminerie is a shade of
the Gallic spirit. Mingled with good sense, it sometimes adds force to
the latter, as alcohol does to wine. Sometimes it is a defect. Homer
repeats himself eternally, granted; one may say that Voltaire plays the
gamin. Camille Desmoulins was a native of the faubourgs. Championnet,
who treated miracles brutally, rose from the pavements of Paris; he
had, when a small lad, inundated the porticos of Saint-Jean de
Beauvais, and of Saint-Étienne du Mont; he had addressed the shrine of
Sainte-Geneviève familiarly to give orders to the phial of Saint
Januarius.
The gamin of Paris is respectful, ironical, and insolent. He has
villainous teeth, because he is badly fed and his stomach suffers, and
handsome eyes because he has wit. If Jehovah himself were present, he
would go hopping up the steps of paradise on one foot. He is strong on
boxing. All beliefs are possible to him. He plays in the gutter, and
straightens himself up with a revolt; his effrontery persists even in
the presence of grape-shot; he was a scapegrace, he is a hero; like the
little Theban, he shakes the skin from the lion; Barra the drummer-boy
was a gamin of Paris; he Shouts: “Forward!” as the horse of Scripture
says “Vah!” and in a moment he has passed from the small brat to the
giant.
This child of the puddle is also the child of the ideal. Measure that
spread of wings which reaches from Molière to Barra.
To sum up the whole, and in one word, the gamin is a being who amuses
himself, because he is unhappy.