Javert walked along the line of bodies. They were all so young. Too young. A wave of regret washed over him and threatened to drown the man, but he steeled himself against it. He was not one to feel such things, much less express them. No, the law did not regret. These boys had revolted, killed Javert's fellow soldiers, and yet he felt only for the rebels. In a fleeting moment, he related to them. They had wanted a better life, less oppression – wasn't this man born in a jail? Couldn't he feel what they had felt? All they had wanted was a better life, but they had ended up dead for their cause.
The man continued to walk along. The bodies were lined up so neatly, each with at least a few bullet marks in his body. Christ, the oldest of these boys couldn't be over twenty years old or so. Soon, he came to the last boy, a boy who he instantly recognized. Little Gavroche was lying on the ground, his eyes staring vacantly into space but not seeing anything. His blondish hair was matted and dirty and there were dirt marks on his cheeks. Blood stained his shirt from three bullet wounds in his upper body. Tears welled up in Javert's eyes as a flashback overtook him.
The woman brought out the wailing baby, informing the man that it was a boy. "But your wife didn't make it, sir. I'm very sorry," she said quietly. Javert stared in horror as his wife's body was draped in a white sheet. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the memories, but another flashback overwhelmed him. His nine-year-old son was lying in bed, his face deathly pale, eyes bloodshot. His blond hair contrasted against the red in his eyes. Javert sat by his bedside, holding his hand as the little boy took his last breath.
A single tear trickled down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. This boy, Gavroche, was like his son in so many ways. They had both been brave and kind, not afraid to speak up. But now they were both dead. The boy lying in front of him couldn't be older than about eleven or twelve years old. Javert bent down, wiped the dirt off the boy's cheeks. He took one of his prized medals off and pinned it instead to the young boy's chest. His fingers lingered over where Gavroche's heart was, and then he straightened up. He gave a small salute and continued on down the road.