Whilst this was going on, back in the cells of the police post Gavroche sat quietly in a corner. This was very unusual, as he was rarely quiet while performing any activity, including sleeping. The reason for his silence was at the moment Gavroche was thinking, and truthfully, he was deeply confused. The fact he had managed to find his way to a police post was in itself a bit of mystery. The agent to whom he had been entrusted had found he was required elsewhere and had hastily deposited the gamin in the nearest secure location, leaving instructions to get word to Javert as to the change of plan. Au result, the urchin had been there ever since.
At this particular moment Gavroche was thinking about the scene in the Place. He'd been quite close to the action and therefore had got an excellent view of proceedings. That's all he had been doing; watching. He wasn't doing nothing, why'd they think they could bang him up for just watching? What did he do? He'd jeered the crowd on and bit a copper when they tried to nab him, but that weren't bad, was it? Can't be banged up for that, can you?
It did not for a moment occur to him that this time the police actually wanted to talk to him, and his excellent vantage point, not his actions at all, was the reason for his being detained.
Gavroche rubbed the hair under his grubby cap thoughtfully. He wasn't exactly sure what it was he'd seen back in the square, but whatever it was he'd definitely seen it. What's more it puzzled him. He didn't really understand politics beyond vox populi, despite his time spent hanging around the ABCs; but even with his limited knowledge he could sense that somehow this was Political. Badly Political. That meant if the police thought he was involved he would be in serious trouble, and having already narrowly escaped the clutches of the Petite rue St. Anne, the measure of how much trouble was not lost on him.
The underground room containing the cells wasn't that large. It housed about four cells measuring about 3'x4'; two on either side of the room facing each other for symmetry's sake, with a large communal cell one end, steps leading up to the main office the other. Just to the left of these steps there was a small pot-bellied stove attached to the wall and, next to it, almost directly in front of the cell Gavroche was occupying sat a gendarme on a wooden chair; a musket across his lap.
On the other side of the room was a rather pasty-looking figure sitting huddled on a chair. He looked like one of the petit bourgeoisie that could be seen walking in the more fashionable areas of the city, only slightly scruffier, and definitely more threadbare. For a moment Gavroche frowned, wondering what he was being held for, then smiled as he both recognised the man and realised why he had been in the Place. Beginning to feel a little more at home, the gamin then turned the attention of his increasing boredom on the gendarme, who was at this moment taking a sip of wine from his mug.
"Hey, flat-head!" he shouted at the gendarme. "I'm a political prisoner, ain't I?"
The gendarme started slightly, nearly choking on his wine. Once he'd managed to compose himself again he turned and looked at the gamin incredulously.
"You what?"
"The scuffle was political, weren't it?" continued Gavroche, arms folded across his chest, chin stuck out defiantly. "If I'm a political prisoner, then I want a lawyer."
"Oh shut it, you little twerp," grumbled the gendarme, settling back into his chair again. But Gavroche was not to be deterred.
"I mean it, I want a lawyer!" Gavroche pointed to the scruffy bourgeoisie sitting huddled across the room. "See, he's a lawyer; that one over there! You'll be my lawyer, won't you M. Pontmercy?"
The unsettled Marius jumped at having been addressed. On seeing the grinning gamin he turned a shade paler, gripping his fingers tighter around his books and turned to gaze at the floor.
"Cheer up, monsieur! With your legal skill you'll be out in no time! Failing that, I'll sweet-talk the judge for you!"
"I said shut it!" snapped the guard, flinging the mug so it clattered against the bars. Having temporarily
silenced the gamin, the policeman, seeming to remember his manners, turned to Marius.
"Sorry 'bout that, monsieur," he said, apologetically. "Little brat's got a right mouth on him; can't do anything to help 'em."
Seeing Marius' continued unrest the gendarme paused for a moment, then said in an attempt to console the young man;
"The Inspector shouldn't be long now, monsieur."
Slightly ruffled, Gavroche settled back down in the corner, pulling his cap low over his eyes and glaring at the gendarme from underneath the brim. 'The Inspector'… three guesses as to who that would be! Oh, this was not going to be fun at all; old thatched-face would have it in for him from the start. Well, he wasn't going down without a fight. He wouldn't talk; let the cops figure it out for themselves. That was their job, weren't it? They're paid to sort stuff out, well let them do it! Why should he care? Besides, it'd be funny to watch them struggle with this one; not knowing what Gavroche had seen. He'd seen it. They'd never guess; not in a million years.
With that, Gavroche leaned back against the cell wall, folding his arms behind his head, and started to whistle. Outside, the gendarme swore.