At almost the very moment Gavroche fell on the cobbles, two children were walking hand in hand in the Luxembourg Gardens. One looked about seven, the other about five. Because of the rising, every gate was locked and the gardens stood empty, and the keepers, their ears caught by the noise outside, were not looking in. The older boy led his brother by the left hand and carried a stick in his right. Now and then the little one said quietly that he was hungry.
They were the same two brothers Gavroche had put to bed inside the elephant. Since leaving Magnon’s hands they had drifted through the streets, and clothes that were once clean had turned to rags. On an ordinary day, children dressed like that would never have got a foot inside the garden gates. It was only because the gates were shut that they had been able to slip in and hide.
By the great pond, a gentleman of about fifty was watching the swans with his son of six by the hand. The gentleman noticed the two ragged children hiding behind the swans’ little house and remarked, as if to himself, that disorder was getting into the gardens now. Just then the boy bit into a big brioche, spat it out again, announced he was full, and burst into tears. Telling him one must take pity on animals, the father threw the cake into the pond.