"I'm a little bird, 'tis the fault of Rosseau."

~ Gavroche Outside, Les Miserables

"What are you doing?" As if this man isn't putting his own self in danger, too. They all are. Gavroche is one of them.

A grin. "I'm filling my basket, citizen." Doing something for this old country of ours.

"Don't you see the grapeshot?"

See it, hear it, smell it, perhaps feel it. It's nothing. A little fall of rain, that's all. "So it is raining. What then?" He inches toward the street.

"Come back!"

"Instanter." It won't take long, he'll be back before anyone knows he's out there. Anyone besides Citizen Courfeyrac.

Filling the basket is a sort of game, thrilling really, knowing that guns lie in wait not far from where Gavroche scampers, hunting for the ammunition they need like a robin pecking for worms.

One shot fires, and it misses, and this is amusing to Gavroche. "They are killing my dead men for me!"

The rain continues, but Gavroche is never touched by any drop. He isn't scared like his comrades are.

More rain is more worms for the robin.

Filling the basket is his mission. Gavroche enjoys a mission. Why should the guns stop him?

He is a little robin, and he sings as he flutters, laughing.

"Joy is my character, 'tis the fault of Voltaire…"

Verses, and laughter, and his comrades' palpable agony. His basket is almost filled.

The shot rings in his ears. He falls to the earth without a cry, his vision blurred with a different kind of rain.

There are shouts from around him. It's the soldiers' turn to laugh.

Gavroche won't stand for this. He pushes himself upright as far as he is able.

He raises his arms, his wings.

He sings one last verse, but has no chance to lay the final blame on Rousseau before the shot fires.

Gavroche sinks to the ground, and this time, it is his soul that is flying.