"Never kick a dog because he's just a pup! We'll fight like twenty armies..."
Bahorel drummed his fingers on the barrel of his gun, not wanting to say anything in the gravity of the moment, but wishing the sadness in the air to leave. They would honor the old veteran better by fighting than by standing, but for now, Bahorel let the low voices talk. The first death on this side of the barricade was something to contemplate, after all, even for a man like Bahorel who was not much inclined to contemplation.
Not the first death, Bahorel privately corrected himself. There had been the porter who would not open his doors, and the murderer, Le Cabuc… Bahorel's eyes traveled to Enjolras. He didn't blame his friend for the execution. No one did. And yet… Bahorel sighed grimly. You carry so much, Enjolras.
Bahorel nearly bolted to his feet before he realized he was already standing. Gavroche!
As he ran from the cafe, the others behind him, Bahorel cursed himself, his thoughts flying as fast as his feet. Fool thing to do, letting the boy take the watch by himself- what were we thinking?
There was a fire in Bahorel as he saw the bayonets raised against the child. Gavroche did not back down.
"What does 'Hercle' mean?"
"Cursed name of a dog, in Latin."
He didn't fear bayonets.
He didn't fear killing, either. Not when it protected another.
Bahorel threw himself into the approaching enemy, his anger roaring within him, barely seeing when the first guard fell under his gun.
It happened so quickly.
Bahorel's chest exploded in pain and he tasted blood, and he knew he was dead.
His weapon dropped, and he grabbed at the arm of the man whose bayonet bled with Bahorel's blood. Even as the last of his strength slipped away, Bahorel looked the soldier in the eyes and whispered through gritted teeth, "Don't touch him."
And blackness descended as heavily as a shroud.
. . .
They laughed as they took turns firing at the boy.
One soldier refused.
Don't touch him.