This takes place right after Gavroche leaves Rue de l’Homme Armé, but before he goes back to the barricades (and for those who have read the unabridged, before he does that cool cart scene. ^_^)

“L'oiseau medit dans les charmilles,

Et pretend qu'hier Atala

Avec un Russe s'en alla.

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles,

Parce que l'autre jour Mila

Cogna sa vitre et m'appela,

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Les drolesses sont fort gentilles,

Leur poison qui m'ensorcela

Griserait Monsieur Orfila.

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

J'aime l'amour et les bisbilles,

J'aime Agnes, j'aime Pamela—”

“Do you really?”

Gavroche started—he had thought he was all alone in the streets, for sure everyone had locked up at the sound of gunfire (if not that, at least night would’ve done them in)—and looked in the direction of the quiet voice that beckoned him. He finally saw, shy in the shadow of the street, a poor, standoffish urchin girl. He thought she looked familiar. Her hair was long and gold, but hard to tell underneath the dirt that covered her from head to toe, and her rags reminded Gavroche of Eponine, as well as her size and weight (or rather, lack thereof). She had nice, soft eyes, like the sky, but she looked sad. Prolly the street’s fault. She was a barefoot imp like him. She was interesting. Gavroche laughed because of it.

“What? What’re talking about?”

“Love Pamela. Do you love Pamela?” The girl said, barely above a whisper.

“Dear girl, I was just singing nonsense. But, I suppose so.”

The girl smiled.

“That’s good. You should, you know.”

“Should what?”

“Love Pamela. She loves you.”

“Sorry?”

“Ah no! Don’t be sorry at all. Really, I must be the sorry one. I’ve gone and confused you!”

“It’s no importance. Where I’m going, words like that don’t matter.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the barricades! Of course!”

At this, the girl’s face fell.

“But you, I like you. And you shall surely die!”

“So much the better. VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE!”

“You’re silly. What’s your name?”

“I have none; people call me Gavroche.”

“Ah. Gavroche.” The girl smiled. “Do you have anyone, Gavroche?”

“Have? I am not a slaver! I own the streets, yes, but not people.”

“But no child should be alone in the world.”

“I am not a mere child!”

“Right then, are you alone?”

“I have my streets.”

“Right,” the girl smiled. “Then, my fears and worries are now diminished. Je suppose. Well then, good evening, Monsieur Gavroche. I fare thee well at the barricades!”

“Ah, you! You care to dismiss me so? I do not see a bourgeois! What do you call yourself, gamine?”

The girl giggled behind her hand.

“I do not call myself anything, dear Gavroche! For I am truly nothing.”

“Bah! You stand before me there!”

“True, true. Fine then, I am something.”

“Your name? Qui es-toi? Why do you worry ‘bout me?”

“Do not worry about who I am. What importance is that? You shall die at the barricades. Names do not matter, not even who people are!”

“Fine then, forget who am I as well! You’re a strange.”

“No stranger than the rest of us here.”

“I suppose so.”

“Au revoir, mon Gavroche.” 

“Dear No Name, I am not your Gavroche, I am my own.”

“I suppose so.”

“What do others call you?”

“I shan’t tell you.”

“Pourquoi pas? I’ll take it to my grave.”

“You’ll make fun. You tease. You might not even have a grave.”

“So?”

“Go away! Die on your barricades for all I care!”

“Why do you care? I’m prolly just another street gamin to you. We just chanced on each other!”

“And but briefly for a second, till the street do us part.”

“You tryin’ to be a poet? Talk to Jehan! While you can. Get good advice from him on that.”

“No, I’d rather be with you.”

“You’ve gone beyond your wits!”

“’Tis only proper!”

“Ah, No Name, leave me alone, I’ve much more ‘portant things to do than fool with the likes of you!”

“You prolly do. Fine then. Go, finish your song. Goodbye, Gavroche.”

“You speak as if we knew each other!”

“Goodbye, Gav.”

“Simply bonkers, you.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right. Go; your friends wait.”

“They are waiting, aren’t they?”

The strange girl smiled.

“I’ll be waiting too… Perhaps for you, perhaps for your death, or mine own, perhaps for the sun to rise! Perhaps simply for God to remember that we all share the same red blood…”

Gavroche looked at this girl oddly, who reminded him of his late Eponine. She suddenly stepped away, her footsteps fading fast, along with her shadow.

After a moment, Gavroche continued gallantly marching to his fate, continuing his song:

“J'aime Agnes, j'aime Pamela,

Lisa en m'allumant se brula.

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles

De Suzette et de Zeila,

Mon âme aleurs plis se mela,

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Amour, quand dans l'ombre ou tu brilles,

Tu coiffes de roses Lola,

Je me damnerais pour cela.

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Jeanne a ton miroir tu t'habilles!

Mon coeur un beau jour s'envola.

Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui l'a.

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.

Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles,

Je montre aux etoiles Stella,

Et je leur dis: 'Regardez-la.'

Où vont les belles filles,

Lon la.”

The bird slanders in the elms,

And pretends that yesterday, Atala

Went off with a Russian,

Where fair maids go.

Lon la.

My friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her pane the other day and called me. The jades are very charming, their poison which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila. I'm fond of love and its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela, Lise burned herself in setting me aflame. In former days when I saw the mantillas of Suzette and of Zeila, my soul mingled with their folds. Love, when thou gleamest in the dark thou crownest Lola with roses, I would lose my soul for that. Jeanne, at thy mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine day, my heart flew forth. I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At night, when I come from the quadrilles, I show Stella to the stars, and I say to them: “Behold her.” Where fair maids go, lon la.

“On est laid à Nanterre, c'est la faute à Voltaire

Et bête à Palaiseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau.

Je ne suis pas notaire, c'est la faute à Voltaire

Je suis petit oiseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau.”

Gavroche dodged the bullets merrily, picking up his own for the barricade.

“Joie est mon caractère, c'est la faute à Voltaire

Misère est ton trousseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau!”

Suddenly the fairy child was struck. He sank to the pavement, but that did not shut his muzzle.

“Je suis tombé par terre, c'est la faute à Voltaire...”

Suddenly he saw her. No Name from the street. In all the excitement from the barricades, he had forgotten about her. But there she stood, to the side of the troops, in the corner of his eye. She held a bayonet loosely in her hands. Her tricolor sash was torn and bloody; she herself had been wounded by stray bullets. She was crying.

‘Pamela…’ he thought to himself. ‘That’s your name. You coulda just told me…’

But no. He needed to finish his song. He couldn’t pause to think. Couldn’t pause to speak.

A brief glance her way had done the trick. They spoke everything with their eyes. The unsaid words of past memories and future hopes, of dreams and miracles, of demons, both old and new, of shadows of light and darkness, and that place between them all in which they both and everyone like them existed… All that expressed in less than a moment.

Besides, she cried for him.

“Le nez dans le ruisseau, c'est la faute à—”

The girl watched Marius carry Gavroche’s body away hurriedly.

“—Rousseau!” She whispered, then fell to the ground as well as the bullets pummeled through her.