Gavroche turned at the sound of the voice, not recognizing the accent and frowning in confusion.
"Bonjour?" His own greeting was in French, his accent showing the crude heritage he had, the street kid of Paris. Stepping out from behind a crumbled gravestone, he took in the sight of the man in front of him, such strange clothes, fashions and fabrics unlike anything the boy had seen before.
"Who are you? Where am I? Where's Paris gone?"
Maybe it was weird of him, asking questions so abruptly, but Gavroche was not a child who felt fear often. What would be the point? Adults usually ignored him, letting him sneak around and listen and learn. Besides, if this man turned out to be with the army, Gavroche could easily kick him in the shins and run away, use his speed to his advantage and find some other way to get back to Enjolras. So it was with confidence that he stood in front of the adult, looking up and squinting slightly in the sunlight, his arms folded with some defiance.