A flitting shadow darted beneath the burning streetlamp. There he stopped, glanced behind him, and, seeing that no one followed him, placed his hand upon the pole to rest, his eyes ever surveying his ominous surroundings. At last he drew a folded note from his pocket, scanned it, and quickly shoved the paper back into his worn trousers, as if embarrassed by its contents. Suddenly, perceiving his exposure, the shady figure hastily sprung back into the lurking darkness from whence he came, and ran through the deteriorating cobble-stone streets of Paris.
The lofty figure took no heed of the gamin shadowing his footsteps. Clad in a decrepit sepia-colored waistcoat, with an old black, loosely-tied cravat fitted around his collar, and crowned with a worn cap, this tall recruit from the Rue des Billettes entered the wine-shop quietly with the appearance of another student attempting to make himself useful to the present cause. It wasn't until Gavroche perceived the gray fringing the man's ebony hair that the gamin took note of him. The gleaming weapon handed to the man of the Rue des Billettes only magnified the boy's attraction; thus he followed the mysterious stranger into the tap room.
Though, perhaps, oblivious to the young lad on his heels, the man of lofty stature scrutinized the entire barricade with singular attention—no nook, cranny, cravat, hair, eyes, face, size of waistcoat, trousers, boots, amount of muskets, number of bullets—nothing escaped his piercing and penetrating gaze.
He was a spy.
Once his jacket and cap were adjusted, the young boy pushed open the door, left the darkness of the streets, and entered a world of Parisian merry-making: he was surrounded with boisterous laughter, the clinking of glasses, muddled singing; before his piercing eyes danced images of filthy ruffians, dishonest bourgeoisies, and charming prostitutes. The dark-haired gamin weaved in and out among the colorful crowd, careful to avoid collisions with frantic barmaids and choleric sans-culottes. An accident, though a frequent occurrence in every cabaret, was the last thing he needed.
Upon reaching the bar, the gamin seated himself (admittedly, he later said, with some difficulty) on the high stool.
'Citizen,' he said quietly, though assertively, 'some grog, please.'
The sans-culotte ensconced on the boy's right erupted in incredulous laughter (followed by wheezing); a small group of intellectuals in the far left corner had difficulty containing themselves as well.
With stoic calmness, the boy ignored the mockery; he had grown accustomed to the jeering by this point. He did not frequent the cabaret much, but when he did pay a midnight visit, the customers took care to greet him in the same manner each time.
Yet, the bartender consistently fulfilled his requests. A full purse often inspires enough motivation to obey the demands of any person, regardless of age.
'The brat wants some grog!' the sans-culotte cried, after he had finished wheezing. Tears slid down the man's cheeks, and the gamin began to wonder why a twelve-year old requesting alcohol was so amusing. The older man slapped his knee, still chuckling.
Suddenly, out of the corner of the boy's eye, he perceived a slight shuffling, and a pair of dark eyes gazing sternly in his direction. The stranger had seated himself at the table to the far left of the gamin, among the snickering intellectuals. Only a bustling barmaid could hinder the man's vision, for the gamin sat directly beneath the lights, fully exposed.
'Citizen,' the bartender said, arresting his thoughts, 'your grog.'
'Careful,' the boy responded almost inaudibly, as the burly man set the glass down with a loud clang.
'Of course, Citizen.'
The wheezing began again on his right. Taking the glass, the boy downed the drink in a few loud gulps, and set it down again; the wheezing stopped abruptly, and the old sans-culotte turned away.
His opportunity had arrived. The boy looked up to see that the stranger in the corner appeared to be engaged in conversation. He took the folded note from his trousers and quickly slid it beneath his glass.
'Citizen, some more grog, please.'
The bartender returned after indulging another customer. He slid the glass toward him, and, had one spied on him from behind, one could have seen the note fall from the counter into his left hand. A shout rang out from somewhere, followed by a loud snort and girlish giggling. The bartender stuffed the note in his apron pocket, adjusted his red cap, and went to appease the party.
'I'll be back with your drink in a moment, Citizen.'
The gamin nodded, and returned his attention to the stranger in the corner, who appeared to be fully occupied by his comrades. He tried to glean something from their discussion, but the raucous surrounding him grew too loud, eliminating any possibly of discerning a complete sentence. The dark-haired youth did, however, make out some words, such as 'Jefferson' and 'the people's revolution' and 'worthy sequel.' 'Hamilton' was mentioned, followed by a string of obscenities which cannot be penned here. Pamphlets lay strewn across the shoddy table, and, for the most part, it was clear that this group, with their heads close to the table, did not wish to be overheard.
Nevertheless, the youth continued to speculate why he was—at least for a moment—the focus of the stranger's attention. Perhaps his appearance was reason enough to stare. Admittedly, the boy did have a duskier skin tone, unlike most of his Parisian counterparts. His cap was also a bit large for his head, and his tattered clothes obviously did not accommodate his small physique. What a sight he must have been, he later exclaimed.
'Your grog, Citizen.'
The boy understood, and his eyes brightened. The bartender shook his head casually to the right, past the old sans-culotte, and towards a small flight of stairs shrouded in darkness. Tilting his cap in appreciation, the gamin slid off his seat, and scrambled in the direction of the stairs.
In fact, the stranger's eyes had never left the boy.