Part 29 out of 36
"Well," returned Jean Valjean, "keep the money for your mother!"
Gavroche was touched. Moreover, he had just noticed that the man
who was addressing him had no hat, and this inspired him with confidence.
"Truly," said he, "so it wasn't to keep me from breaking the lanterns?"
"Break whatever you please."
"You're a fine man," said Gavroche.
And he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets.
His confidence having increased, he added:--
"Do you belong in this street?"
"Can you tell me where No. 7 is?"
"What do you want with No. 7?"
Here the child paused, he feared that he had said too much;
he thrust his nails energetically into his hair and contented
himself with replying:--
"Ah! Here it is."
An idea flashed through Jean Valjean's mind. Anguish does have
these gleams. He said to the lad:--
"Are you the person who is bringing a letter that I am expecting?"
"You?" said Gavroche. "You are not a woman."
"The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?"
"Cosette," muttered Gavroche. "Yes, I believe that is the queer name."
"Well," resumed Jean Valjean, "I am the person to whom you are
to deliver the letter. Give it here."
"In that case, you must know that I was sent from the barricade."
"Of course," said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and drew
out a paper folded in four.
Then he made the military salute.
for despatches," said he. "It comes from the Provisional Government."
"Give it to me," said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche held the paper elevated above his head.
"Don't go and fancy it's a love letter. It is for a woman,
but it's for the people. We men fight and we respect the fair sex.
We are not as they are in fine society, where there are lions who send
chickens to camels."
 Love letters.
"Give it to me."
"After all," continued Gavroche, "you have the air of an honest man."
"Give it to me quick."
"Catch hold of it."
And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean.
"And make haste, Monsieur What's-your-name, for Mamselle Cosette
Gavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced this remark.
Jean Valjean began again:--
"Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent?"
"There you are making some of those bits of pastry vulgarly called
brioches [blunders]. This letter comes from the barricade of the Rue
de la Chanvrerie, and I'm going back there. Good evening, citizen."
That said, Gavroche took himself off, or, to describe it more exactly,
fluttered away in the direction whence he had come with a flight
like that of an escaped bird. He plunged back into the gloom as
though he made a hole in it, with the rigid rapidity of a projectile;
the alley of l'Homme Arme became silent and solitary once more;
in a twinkling, that strange child, who had about him something
of the shadow and of the dream, had buried himself in the mists of
the rows of black houses, and was lost there, like smoke in the dark;
and one might have thought that he had dissipated and vanished,
had there not taken place, a few minutes after his disappearance,
a startling shiver of glass, and had not the magnificent crash of a
lantern rattling down on the pavement once more abruptly awakened
the indignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche upon his way through the Rue
WHILE COSETTE AND TOUSSAINT ARE ASLEEP
Jean Valjean went into the house with Marius' letter.
He groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the darkness
as an owl who grips his prey, opened and shut his door softly,
listened to see whether he could hear any noise,--made sure that,
to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were asleep, and plunged
three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter
before he could evoke a spark, so greatly did his hand tremble.
What he had just done smacked of theft. At last the candle
was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the table, unfolded the paper,
In violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the earth,
so to speak, the paper which one holds, one clutches it like a victim,
one crushes it, one digs into it the nails of one's wrath,
or of one's joy; one hastens to the end, one leaps to the beginning;
attention is at fever heat; it takes up in the gross, as it were,
the essential points; it seizes on one point, and the rest disappears.
In Marius' note to Cosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words:--
"I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee."
In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled;
he remained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the change
of emotion which was taking place within him, he stared at Marius'
note with a sort of intoxicated amazement, he had before his eyes
that splendor, the death of a hated individual.
He uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over.
The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope.
The being who obstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man
had taken himself off of his own accord, freely, willingly. This man
was going to his death, and he, Jean Valjean, had had no hand
in the matter, and it was through no fault of his. Perhaps, even,
he is already dead. Here his fever entered into calculations.
No, he is not dead yet. The letter had evidently been intended
for Cosette to read on the following morning; after the two
discharges that were heard between eleven o'clock and midnight,
nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked
seriously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from the
moment when "that man" is concerned in this war, he is lost;
he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered.
So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette once more.
The rivalry would cease; the future was beginning again. He had
but to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know
what had become of that man. All that there requires to be done
is to let things take their own course. This man cannot escape.
If he is not already dead, it is certain that he is about to die.
What good fortune!
Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy.
Then he went down stairs and woke up the porter.
About an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the complete costume
of a National Guard, and with his arms. The porter had easily found
in the neighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment.
He had a loaded gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.
He strode off in the direction of the markets.
GAVROCHE'S EXCESS OF ZEAL
In the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure.
Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue
du Chaume, entered the Rue des Vielles-Haudriettes, and not seeing
"even a cat" there, he thought the opportunity a good one to strike
up all the song of which he was capable. His march, far from being
retarded by his singing, was accelerated by it. He began to sow
along the sleeping or terrified houses these incendiary couplets:--
"L'oiseau medit dans les charmilles,
Et pretend qu'hier Atala
Avec un Russe s'en alla.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles,
Parce que l'autre jour Mila
Cogna sa vitre et m'appela,
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Les drolesses sont fort gentilles,
Leur poison qui m'ensorcela
Griserait Monsieur Orfila.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"J'aime l'amour et les bisbilles,
J'aime Agnes, j'aime Pamela,
Lisa en m'allumant se brula.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles
De Suzette et de Zeila,
Mon ame aleurs plis se mela,
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Amour, quand dans l'ombre ou tu brilles,
Tu coiffes de roses Lola,
Je me damnerais pour cela.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Jeanne a ton miroir tu t'habilles!
Mon coeur un beau jour s'envola.
Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui l'a.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles,
Je montre aux etoiles Stella,
Et je leur dis: 'Regardez-la.'
Ou vont les belles filles,
"The bird slanders in the elms,
And pretends that yesterday, Atala
Went off with a Russian,
Where fair maids go.
My friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her
pane the other day and called me. The jades are very charming,
their poison which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila.
I'm fond of love and its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela,
Lise burned herself in setting me aflame. In former days when I
saw the mantillas of Suzette and of Zeila, my soul mingled with
their folds. Love, when thou gleamest in the dark thou crownest
Lola with roses, I would lose my soul for that. Jeanne, at thy
mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine day, my heart flew forth.
I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At night, when I come from
the quadrilles, I show Stella to the stars, and I say to them:
"Behold her." Where fair maids go, lon la.
Gavroche, as he sang, was lavish of his pantomime. Gesture is the strong
point of the refrain. His face, an inexhaustible repertory of masks,
produced grimaces more convulsing and more fantastic than the rents
of a cloth torn in a high gale. Unfortunately, as he was alone,
and as it was night, this was neither seen nor even visible.
Such wastes of riches do occur.
All at once, he stopped short.
"Let us interrupt the romance," said he.
His feline eye had just descried, in the recess of a carriage door,
what is called in painting, an ensemble, that is to say, a person
and a thing; the thing was a hand-cart, the person was a man from
Auvergene who was sleeping therein.
The shafts of the cart rested on the pavement, and the Auvergnat's
head was supported against the front of the cart. His body was
coiled up on this inclined plane and his feet touched the ground.
Gavroche, with his experience of the things of this world,
recognized a drunken man. He was some corner errand-man who had
drunk too much and was sleeping too much.
"There now," thought Gavroche, "that's what the summer nights
are good for. We'll take the cart for the Republic, and leave
the Auvergnat for the Monarchy."
His mind had just been illuminated by this flash of light:--
"How bully that cart would look on our barricade!"
The Auvergnat was snoring.
Gavroche gently tugged at the cart from behind, and at the Auvergnat
from the front, that is to say, by the feet, and at the expiration
of another minute the imperturbable Auvergnat was reposing flat
on the pavement.
The cart was free.
Gavroche, habituated to facing the unexpected in all quarters,
had everything about him. He fumbled in one of his pockets,
and pulled from it a scrap of paper and a bit of red pencil filched
from some carpenter.
"Received thy cart."
And he signed it: "GAVROCHE."
That done, he put the paper in the pocket of the still snoring
Auvergnat's velvet vest, seized the cart shafts in both hands,
and set off in the direction of the Halles, pushing the cart before
him at a hard gallop with a glorious and triumphant uproar.
This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing Establishment.
Gavroche did not think of this. This post was occupied by the
National Guards of the suburbs. The squad began to wake up,
and heads were raised from camp beds. Two street lanterns
broken in succession, that ditty sung at the top of the lungs.
This was a great deal for those cowardly streets, which desire
to go to sleep at sunset, and which put the extinguisher on their
candles at such an early hour. For the last hour, that boy had been
creating an uproar in that peaceable arrondissement, the uproar
of a fly in a bottle. The sergeant of the banlieue lent an ear.
He waited. He was a prudent man.
The mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible
measure of waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.
"There's a whole band of them there!" said he, "let us proceed gently."
It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box
and that it was stalking abroad through the quarter.
And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.
All at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him,
and at the very moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des
Vielles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a uniform,
a shako, a plume, and a gun.
For the second time, he stopped short.
"Hullo," said he, "it's him. Good day, public order."
Gavroche's amazement was always brief and speedily thawed.
"Where are you going, you rascal?" shouted the sergeant.
"Citizen," retorted Gavroche, "I haven't called you `bourgeois' yet.
Why do you insult me?"
"Where are you going, you rogue?"
"Monsieur," retorted Gavroche, "perhaps you were a man of wit yesterday,
but you have degenerated this morning."
"I ask you where are you going, you villain?"
"You speak prettily. Really, no one would suppose you as old as
you are. You ought to sell all your hair at a hundred francs apiece.
That would yield you five hundred francs."
"Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going, bandit?"
Gavroche retorted again:--
"What villainous words! You must wipe your mouth better the first
time that they give you suck."
The sergeant lowered his bayonet.
"Will you tell me where you are going, you wretch?"
"General," said Gavroche "I'm on my way to look for a doctor
for my wife who is in labor."
"To arms!" shouted the sergeant.
The master-stroke of strong men consists in saving themselves
by the very means that have ruined them; Gavroche took in the whole
situation at a glance. It was the cart which had told against him,
it was the cart's place to protect him.
At the moment when the sergeant was on the point of making his descent
on Gavroche, the cart, converted into a projectile and launched
with all the latter's might, rolled down upon him furiously,
and the sergeant, struck full in the stomach, tumbled over backwards
into the gutter while his gun went off in the air.
The men of the post had rushed out pell-mell at the sergeant's shout;
the shot brought on a general random discharge, after which they
reloaded their weapons and began again.
This blind-man's-buff musketry lasted for a quarter of an hour
and killed several panes of glass.
In the meanwhile, Gavroche, who had retraced his steps at full speed,
halted five or six streets distant and seated himself, panting,
on the stone post which forms the corner of the Enfants-Rouges.
After panting for a few minutes, he turned in the direction
where the fusillade was raging, lifted his left hand to a level
with his nose and thrust it forward three times, as he slapped
the back of his head with his right hand; an imperious gesture
in which Parisian street-urchindom has condensed French irony,
and which is evidently efficacious, since it has already lasted
half a century.
This gayety was troubled by one bitter reflection.
"Yes," said he, "I'm splitting with laughter, I'm twisting
with delight, I abound in joy, but I'm losing my way, I shall have
to take a roundabout way. If I only reach the barricade in season!"
Thereupon he set out again on a run.
And as he ran:--
"Ah, by the way, where was I?" said he.
And he resumed his ditty, as he plunged rapidly through the streets,
and this is what died away in the gloom:--
"Mais il reste encore des bastilles,
Et je vais mettre le hola
Dans l'orde public que voila.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Quelqu'un veut-il jouer aux quilles?
Tout l'ancien monde s'ecroula
Quand la grosse boule roula.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Vieux bon peuple, a coups de bequilles,
Cassons ce Louvre ou s'etala
La monarchie en falbala.
Ou vont les belles filles,
"Nous en avons force les grilles,
Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour la,
Tenait mal et se decolla.
Ou vont les belles filles,
 But some prisons still remain, and I am going to put a stop
to this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at skittles?
The whole ancient world fell in ruin, when the big ball rolled.
Good old folks, let us smash with our crutches that Louvre where the
monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its gates.
On that day, King Charles X. did not stick well and came unglued.
The post's recourse to arms was not without result. The cart
was conquered, the drunken man was taken prisoner. The first
was put in the pound, the second was later on somewhat harassed
before the councils of war as an accomplice. The public ministry
of the day proved its indefatigable zeal in the defence of society,
in this instance.
Gavroche's adventure, which has lingered as a tradition in the quarters
of the Temple, is one of the most terrible souvenirs of the elderly
bourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in their memories:
"The nocturnal attack by the post of the Royal Printing Establishment."
[The end of Volume IV. "Saint Denis"]
BOOK FIRST.--THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS
THE CHARYBDIS OF THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE AND THE SCYLLA OF THE
FAUBOURG DU TEMPLE
The two most memorable barricades which the observer of social
maladies can name do not belong to the period in which the action
of this work is laid. These two barricades, both of them symbols,
under two different aspects, of a redoubtable situation, sprang from
the earth at the time of the fatal insurrection of June, 1848,
the greatest war of the streets that history has ever beheld.
It sometimes happens that, even contrary to principles, even contrary
to liberty, equality, and fraternity, even contrary to the universal vote,
even contrary to the government, by all for all, from the depths
of its anguish, of its discouragements and its destitutions,
of its fevers, of its distresses, of its miasmas, of its ignorances,
of its darkness, that great and despairing body, the rabble,
protests against, and that the populace wages battle against,
Beggars attack the common right; the ochlocracy rises against demos.
These are melancholy days; for there is always a certain
amount of night even in this madness, there is suicide in
this duel, and those words which are intended to be insults--
beggars, canaille, ochlocracy, populace--exhibit, alas! rather
the fault of those who reign than the fault of those who suffer;
rather the fault of the privileged than the fault of the disinherited.
For our own part, we never pronounce those words without pain
and without respect, for when philosophy fathoms the facts to which
they correspond, it often finds many a grandeur beside these miseries.
Athens was an ochlocracy; the beggars were the making of Holland;
the populace saved Rome more than once; and the rabble followed
There is no thinker who has not at times contemplated the magnificences
of the lower classes.
It was of this rabble that Saint Jerome was thinking, no doubt,
and of all these poor people and all these vagabonds and all
these miserable people whence sprang the apostles and the martyrs,
when he uttered this mysterious saying: "Fex urbis, lex orbis,"--
the dregs of the city, the law of the earth.
The exasperations of this crowd which suffers and bleeds,
its violences contrary to all sense, directed against the principles
which are its life, its masterful deeds against the right, are its
popular coups d'etat and should be repressed. The man of probity
sacrifices himself, and out of his very love for this crowd,
he combats it. But how excusable he feels it even while holding
out against it! How he venerates it even while resisting it!
This is one of those rare moments when, while doing that which it
is one's duty to do, one feels something which disconcerts one,
and which would dissuade one from proceeding further; one persists,
it is necessary, but conscience, though satisfied, is sad, and the
accomplishment of duty is complicated with a pain at the heart.
June, 1848, let us hasten to say, was an exceptional fact, and almost
impossible of classification, in the philosophy of history.
All the words which we have just uttered, must be discarded, when it
becomes a question of this extraordinary revolt, in which one feels
the holy anxiety of toil claiming its rights. It was necessary
to combat it, and this was a duty, for it attacked the republic.
But what was June, 1848, at bottom? A revolt of the people
Where the subject is not lost sight of, there is no digression;
may we, then, be permitted to arrest the reader's attention for a
moment on the two absolutely unique barricades of which we have
just spoken and which characterized this insurrection.
One blocked the entrance to the Faubourg Saint Antoine; the other
defended the approach to the Faubourg du Temple; those before whom
these two fearful masterpieces of civil war reared themselves
beneath the brilliant blue sky of June, will never forget them.
The Saint-Antoine barricade was tremendous; it was three stories high,
and seven hundred feet wide. It barred the vast opening of
the faubourg, that is to say, three streets, from angle to angle;
ravined, jagged, cut up, divided, crenelated, with an immense rent,
buttressed with piles that were bastions in themselves throwing out
capes here and there, powerfully backed up by two great promontories
of houses of the faubourg, it reared itself like a cyclopean dike
at the end of the formidable place which had seen the 14th of July.
Nineteen barricades were ranged, one behind the other, in the depths
of the streets behind this principal barricade. At the very sight
of it, one felt the agonizing suffering in the immense faubourg,
which had reached that point of extremity when a distress may
become a catastrophe. Of what was that barricade made? Of the
ruins of three six-story houses demolished expressly, said some.
Of the prodigy of all wraths, said others. It wore the lamentable
aspect of all constructions of hatred, ruin. It might be asked:
Who built this? It might also be said: Who destroyed this?
It was the improvisation of the ebullition. Hold! take this
door! this grating! this penthouse! this chimney-piece! this
broken brazier! this cracked pot! Give all! cast away all!
Push this roll, dig, dismantle, overturn, ruin everything!
It was the collaboration of the pavement, the block of stone,
the beam, the bar of iron, the rag, the scrap, the broken pane,
the unseated chair, the cabbage-stalk, the tatter, the rag,
and the malediction. It was grand and it was petty. It was the abyss
parodied on the public place by hubbub. The mass beside the atom;
the strip of ruined wall and the broken bowl,--threatening fraternization
of every sort of rubbish. Sisyphus had thrown his rock there
and Job his potsherd. Terrible, in short. It was the acropolis
of the barefooted. Overturned carts broke the uniformity of
the slope; an immense dray was spread out there crossways, its axle
pointing heavenward, and seemed a scar on that tumultuous facade;
an omnibus hoisted gayly, by main force, to the very summit
of the heap, as though the architects of this bit of savagery had
wished to add a touch of the street urchin humor to their terror,
presented its horseless, unharnessed pole to no one knows what
horses of the air. This gigantic heap, the alluvium of the revolt,
figured to the mind an Ossa on Pelion of all revolutions; '93 on '89,
the 9th of Thermidor on the 10th of August, the 18th of Brumaire
on the 11th of January, Vendemiaire on Prairial, 1848 on 1830.
The situation deserved the trouble and this barricade was worthy
to figure on the very spot whence the Bastille had disappeared.
If the ocean made dikes, it is thus that it would build.
The fury of the flood was stamped upon this shapeless mass.
What flood? The crowd. One thought one beheld hubbub petrified.
One thought one heard humming above this barricade as though there
had been over their hive, enormous, dark bees of violent progress.
Was it a thicket? Was it a bacchanalia? Was it a fortress?
Vertigo seemed to have constructed it with blows of its wings.
There was something of the cess-pool in that redoubt and something
Olympian in that confusion. One there beheld in a pell-mell
full of despair, the rafters of roofs, bits of garret windows
with their figured paper, window sashes with their glass planted
there in the ruins awaiting the cannon, wrecks of chimneys,
cupboards, tables, benches, howling topsyturveydom, and those
thousand poverty-stricken things, the very refuse of the mendicant,
which contain at the same time fury and nothingness. One would have
said that it was the tatters of a people, rags of wood, of iron,
of bronze, of stone, and that the Faubourg Saint Antoine had thrust
it there at its door, with a colossal flourish of the broom making
of its misery its barricade. Blocks resembling headsman's blocks,
dislocated chains, pieces of woodwork with brackets having the
form of gibbets, horizontal wheels projecting from the rubbish,
amalgamated with this edifice of anarchy the sombre figure of the
old tortures endured by the people. The barricade Saint Antoine
converted everything into a weapon; everything that civil war could
throw at the head of society proceeded thence; it was not combat,
it was a paroxysm; the carbines which defended this redoubt,
among which there were some blunderbusses, sent bits of earthenware
bones, coat-buttons, even the casters from night-stands, dangerous
projectiles on account of the brass. This barricade was furious;
it hurled to the clouds an inexpressible clamor; at certain moments,
when provoking the army, it was covered with throngs and tempest;
a tumultuous crowd of flaming heads crowned it; a swarm filled it;
it had a thorny crest of guns, of sabres, of cudgels, of axes,
of pikes and of bayonets; a vast red flag flapped in the wind;
shouts of command, songs of attack, the roll of drums, the sobs
of women and bursts of gloomy laughter from the starving were to
be heard there. It was huge and living, and, like the back of an
electric beast, there proceeded from it little flashes of lightning.
The spirit of revolution covered with its cloud this summit where
rumbled that voice of the people which resembles the voice of God;
a strange majesty was emitted by this titanic basket of rubbish.
It was a heap of filth and it was Sinai.
As we have said previously, it attacked in the name of
the revolution--what? The revolution. It--that barricade,
chance, hazard, disorder, terror, misunderstanding, the unknown--
had facing it the Constituent Assembly, the sovereignty
of the people, universal suffrage, the nation, the republic;
and it was the Carmagnole bidding defiance to the Marseillaise.
Immense but heroic defiance, for the old faubourg is a hero.
The faubourg and its redoubt lent each other assistance. The faubourg
shouldered the redoubt, the redoubt took its stand under cover
of the faubourg. The vast barricade spread out like a cliff against
which the strategy of the African generals dashed itself. Its caverns,
its excrescences, its warts, its gibbosities, grimaced, so to speak,
and grinned beneath the smoke. The mitraille vanished in shapelessness;
the bombs plunged into it; bullets only succeeded in making holes
in it; what was the use of cannonading chaos? and the regiments,
accustomed to the fiercest visions of war, gazed with uneasy eyes
on that species of redoubt, a wild beast in its boar-like bristling
and a mountain by its enormous size.
A quarter of a league away, from the corner of the Rue du Temple
which debouches on the boulevard near the Chateaud'Eau, if one
thrust one's head bodily beyond the point formed by the front of the
Dallemagne shop, one perceived in the distance, beyond the canal,
in the street which mounts the slopes of Belleville at the culminating
point of the rise, a strange wall reaching to the second story of
the house fronts, a sort of hyphen between the houses on the right
and the houses on the left, as though the street had folded back
on itself its loftiest wall in order to close itself abruptly.
This wall was built of paving-stones. It was straight, correct, cold,
perpendicular, levelled with the square, laid out by rule and line.
Cement was lacking, of course, but, as in the case of certain
Roman walls, without interfering with its rigid architecture.
The entablature was mathematically parallel with the base.
From distance to distance, one could distinguish on the gray surface,
almost invisible loopholes which resembled black threads.
These loopholes were separated from each other by equal spaces.
The street was deserted as far as the eye could reach. All windows
and doors were closed. In the background rose this barrier, which made
a blind thoroughfare of the street, a motionless and tranquil wall;
no one was visible, nothing was audible; not a cry, not a sound,
not a breath. A sepulchre.
The dazzling sun of June inundated this terrible thing with light.
It was the barricade of the Faubourg of the Temple.
As soon as one arrived on the spot, and caught sight of it,
it was impossible, even for the boldest, not to become thoughtful
before this mysterious apparition. It was adjusted, jointed,
imbricated, rectilinear, symmetrical and funereal. Science and
gloom met there. One felt that the chief of this barricade
was a geometrician or a spectre. One looked at it and spoke low.
From time to time, if some soldier, an officer or representative
of the people, chanced to traverse the deserted highway, a faint,
sharp whistle was heard, and the passer-by fell dead or wounded, or,
if he escaped the bullet, sometimes a biscaien was seen to ensconce
itself in some closed shutter, in the interstice between two blocks
of stone, or in the plaster of a wall. For the men in the barricade
had made themselves two small cannons out of two cast-iron lengths
of gas-pipe, plugged up at one end with tow and fire-clay.
There was no waste of useless powder. Nearly every shot told.
There were corpses here and there, and pools of blood on the pavement.
I remember a white butterfly which went and came in the street.
Summer does not abdicate.
In the neighborhood, the spaces beneath the portes cocheres were
encumbered with wounded.
One felt oneself aimed at by some person whom one did not see,
and one understood that guns were levelled at the whole length
of the street.
Massed behind the sort of sloping ridge which the vaulted canal
forms at the entrance to the Faubourg du Temple, the soldiers
of the attacking column, gravely and thoughtfully, watched this
dismal redoubt, this immobility, this passivity, whence sprang death.
Some crawled flat on their faces as far as the crest of the curve
of the bridge, taking care that their shakos did not project beyond it.
The valiant Colonel Monteynard admired this barricade with a
shudder.--"How that is built!" he said to a Representative.
"Not one paving-stone projects beyond its neighbor. It is made
of porcelain."--At that moment, a bullet broke the cross on his breast,
and he fell.
"The cowards!" people said. "Let them show themselves. Let us
see them! They dare not! They are hiding!"
The barricade of the Faubourg du Temple, defended by eighty men,
attacked by ten thousand, held out for three days. On the fourth,
they did as at Zaatcha, as at Constantine, they pierced the houses,
they came over the roofs, the barricade was taken. Not one
of the eighty cowards thought of flight, all were killed there
with the exception of the leader, Barthelemy, of whom we shall
The Saint-Antoine barricade was the tumult of thunders; the barricade
of the Temple was silence. The difference between these two redoubts
was the difference between the formidable and the sinister.
One seemed a maw; the other a mask.
Admitting that the gigantic and gloomy insurrection of June was
composed of a wrath and of an enigma, one divined in the first
barricade the dragon, and behind the second the sphinx.
These two fortresses had been erected by two men named,
the one, Cournet, the other, Barthelemy. Cournet made the
Saint-Antoine barricade; Barthelemy the barricade of the Temple.
Each was the image of the man who had built it.
Cournet was a man of lofty stature; he had broad shoulders, a red face,
a crushing fist, a bold heart, a loyal soul, a sincere and terrible eye.
Intrepid, energetic, irascible, stormy; the most cordial of men,
the most formidable of combatants. War, strife, conflict, were the
very air he breathed and put him in a good humor. He had been an
officer in the navy, and, from his gestures and his voice, one divined
that he sprang from the ocean, and that he came from the tempest;
he carried the hurricane on into battle. With the exception
of the genius, there was in Cournet something of Danton, as, with
the exception of the divinity, there was in Danton something of Hercules.
Barthelemy, thin, feeble, pale, taciturn, was a sort of tragic
street urchin, who, having had his ears boxed by a policeman,
lay in wait for him, and killed him, and at seventeen was sent
to the galleys. He came out and made this barricade.
Later on, fatal circumstance, in London, proscribed by all,
Barthelemy slew Cournet. It was a funereal duel. Some time afterwards,
caught in the gearing of one of those mysterious adventures in
which passion plays a part, a catastrophe in which French justice
sees extenuating circumstances, and in which English justice sees
only death, Barthelemy was hanged. The sombre social construction
is so made that, thanks to material destitution, thanks to
moral obscurity, that unhappy being who possessed an intelligence,
certainly firm, possibly great, began in France with the galleys,
and ended in England with the gallows. Barthelemy, on occasion,
flew but one flag, the black flag.
WHAT IS TO BE DONE IN THE ABYSS IF ONE DOES NOT CONVERSE
Sixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection,
and June, 1848, knew a great deal more about it than June, 1832.
So the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline,
and an embryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have
just sketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.
The insurgents under the eye of Enjolras, for Marius no longer looked
after anything, had made good use of the night. The barricade had
been not only repaired, but augmented. They had raised it two feet.
Bars of iron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest.
All sorts of rubbish brought and added from all directions complicated
the external confusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over,
into a wall on the inside and a thicket on the outside.
The staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it
like the wall of a citadel had been reconstructed.
The barricade had been put in order, the tap-room disencumbered,
the kitchen appropriated for the ambulance, the dressing of the
wounded completed, the powder scattered on the ground and on the
tables had been gathered up, bullets run, cartridges manufactured,
lint scraped, the fallen weapons re-distributed, the interior
of the redoubt cleaned, the rubbish swept up, corpses removed.
They laid the dead in a heap in the Mondetour lane, of which they were
still the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot.
Among the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs.
Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.
Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras
was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.
Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription
on the wall which faced the tavern:--
LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!
These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail,
could be still read on the wall in 1848.
The three women had profited by the respite of the night to
vanish definitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.
They had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.
The greater part of the wounded were able, and wished, to fight still.
On a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen,
which had been converted into an ambulance, there were five men
gravely wounded, two of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal
guardsmen were attended to first.
In the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth
and Javert bound to his post.
"This is the hall of the dead," said Enjolras.
In the interior of this hall, barely lighted by a candle at one end,
the mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar,
a sort of vast, vague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf
The pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade,
was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag
Enjolras, who possessed that quality of a leader, of always doing
what he said, attached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody
coat of the old man's.
No repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat.
The fifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty
provisions of the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had
passed there. At a given moment, every barricade inevitably becomes
the raft of la Meduse. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger.
They had then reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th
of June when, in the barricade Saint-Merry, Jeanne, surrounded by the
insurgents who demanded bread, replied to all combatants crying:
"Something to eat!" with: "Why? It is three o'clock; at four we
shall be dead."
As they could no longer eat, Enjolras forbade them to drink.
He interdicted wine, and portioned out the brandy.
They had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed.
Enjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he
came up again said:--"It's the old stock of Father Hucheloup,
who began business as a grocer."--"It must be real wine,"
observed Bossuet. "It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he
were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving
those bottles."--Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs, placed his veto
on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might touch them,
he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.
About two o'clock in the morning, they reckoned up their strength.
There were still thirty-seven of them.
The day began to dawn. The torch, which had been replaced in its
cavity in the pavement, had just been extinguished. The interior
of the barricade, that species of tiny courtyard appropriated from
the street, was bathed in shadows, and resembled, athwart the vague,
twilight horror, the deck of a disabled ship. The combatants,
as they went and came, moved about there like black forms.
Above that terrible nesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute
houses were lividly outlined; at the very top, the chimneys
stood palely out. The sky was of that charming, undecided hue,
which may be white and may be blue. Birds flew about in it with cries
of joy. The lofty house which formed the back of the barricade,
being turned to the East, had upon its roof a rosy reflection.
The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head of the dead man
at the third-story window.
"I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished," said Courfeyrac
to Feuilly. "That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me.
It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles
the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles."
Dawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.
Joly, perceiving a cat prowling on a gutter, extracted philosophy
"What is the cat?" he exclaimed. "It is a corrective. The good God,
having made the mouse, said: `Hullo! I have committed a blunder.'
And so he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse.
The mouse, plus the cat, is the proof of creation revised
Combeferre, surrounded by students and artisans, was speaking
of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even
of Cabuc, and of Enjolras' sad severity. He said:--
"Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell,
Charlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it
was too late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a
mystery that, even in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder
for liberation, if there be such a thing, the remorse for having
struck a man surpasses the joy of having served the human race."
And, such are the windings of the exchange of speech, that, a moment
later, by a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire's verses,
Combeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics,
Raux with Cournand, Cournand with Delille, pointing out the passages
translated by Malfilatre, particularly the prodigies of Caesar's death;
and at that word, Caesar, the conversation reverted to Brutus.
"Caesar," said Combeferre, "fell justly. Cicero was severe towards
Caesar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zoilus
insults Homer, when Maevius insults Virgil, when Vise insults Moliere,
when Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire,
it is an old law of envy and hatred which is being carried out;
genius attracts insult, great men are always more or less barked at.
But Zoilus and Cicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter
in thought, just as Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part,
I blame that last justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it.
Caesar, the violator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they
came from him, the dignities which emanated from the people,
not rising at the entrance of the senate, committed the acts
of a king and almost of a tyrant, regia ac pene tyrannica.
He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much the better;
the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds
touch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ.
Caesar is stabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys.
One feels the God through the greater outrage."
Bossuet, who towered above the interlocutors from the summit
of a heap of paving-stones, exclaimed, rifle in hand:--
"Oh Cydathenaeum, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of
the AEantides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses
of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?"
LIGHT AND SHADOW
Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way
out through Mondetour lane, gliding along close to the houses.
The insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in which
they had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them
to almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it
with a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to
their cause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them.
They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy
which is one of the sources of strength in the French combatant,
they divided the day which was at hand into three distinct phases.
At six o'clock in the morning a regiment "which had been
labored with," would turn; at noon, the insurrection of all Paris;
at sunset, revolution.
They heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent
for an instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade,
the great one, Jeanne's, still held out.
All these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a
sort of gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike
hum of a hive of bees.
Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight
into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy
with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth. Then, fresh and rosy
in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:
"The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing
down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National
Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line,
and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will
be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday, to-day it
is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for.
Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned."
These words fell upon the buzzing of the groups, and produced on them
the effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm.
A moment of indescribable silence ensued, in which death might have
been heard flitting by.
This moment was brief.
A voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:
"So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet,
and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests
of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans,
the republicans do not abandon the people."
These words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of
individual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.
No one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some
unknown blouse-wearer, a stranger, a man forgotten, a passing hero,
that great anonymous, always mingled in human crises and in social
geneses who, at a given moment, utters in a supreme fashion
the decisive word, and who vanishes into the shadows after having
represented for a minute, in a lightning flash, the people and God.
This inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air
of the 6th of June, 1832, that, almost at the very same hour,
on the barricade Saint-Merry, the insurgents were raising that clamor
which has become a matter of history and which has been consigned
to the documents in the case:--"What matters it whether they come
to our assistance or not? Let us get ourselves killed here,
to the very last man."
As the reader sees, the two barricades, though materially isolated,
were in communication with each other.
MINUS FIVE, PLUS ONE
After the man who decreed the "protest of corpses" had spoken,
and had given this formula of their common soul, there issued from
all mouths a strangely satisfied and terrible cry, funereal in sense
and triumphant in tone:
"Long live death! Let us all remain here!"
"Why all?" said Enjolras.
"The position is good; the barricade is fine. Thirty men are enough.
Why sacrifice forty?"
"Because not one will go away."
"Citizens," cried Enjolras, and there was an almost irritated
vibration in his voice, "this republic is not rich enough in men
to indulge in useless expenditure of them. Vain-glory is waste.
If the duty of some is to depart, that duty should be fulfilled
like any other."
Enjolras, the man-principle, had over his co-religionists that sort
of omnipotent power which emanates from the absolute. Still, great as
was this omnipotence, a murmur arose. A leader to the very finger-tips,
Enjolras, seeing that they murmured, insisted. He resumed haughtily:
"Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than thirty say so."
The murmurs redoubled.
"Besides," observed a voice in one group, "it is easy enough to talk
about leaving. The barricade is hemmed in."
"Not on the side of the Halles," said Enjolras. "The Rue Mondetour
is free, and through the Rue des Precheurs one can reach the Marche
"And there," went on another voice, "you would be captured.
You would fall in with some grand guard of the line or the suburbs;
they will spy a man passing in blouse and cap. `Whence come you?'
`Don't you belong to the barricade?' And they will look at your hands.
You smell of powder. Shot."
Enjolras, without making any reply, touched Combeferre's shoulder,
and the two entered the tap-room.
They emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in his
outstretched hands the four uniforms which he had laid aside.
Combeferre followed, carrying the shoulder-belts and the shakos.
"With this uniform," said Enjolras, "you can mingle with the ranks
and escape; here is enough for four." And he flung on the ground,
deprived of its pavement, the four uniforms.
No wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combeferre took
"Come, said he, "you must have a little pity. Do you know what the
question is here? It is a question of women. See here. Are there
women or are there not? Are there children or are there not?
Are there mothers, yes or no, who rock cradles with their foot
and who have a lot of little ones around them? Let that man of you
who has never beheld a nurse's breast raise his hand. Ah! you
want to get yourselves killed, so do I--I, who am speaking to you;
but I do not want to feel the phantoms of women wreathing their
arms around me. Die, if you will, but don't make others die.
Suicides like that which is on the brink of accomplishment here
are sublime; but suicide is narrow, and does not admit of extension;
and as soon as it touches your neighbors, suicide is murder.
Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks.
Listen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of
the Rue du Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window,
on the fifth floor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head
of an old woman, who had the air of having spent the night in watching.
Perhaps she is the mother of some one of you. Well, let that man go,
and make haste, to say to his mother: `Here I am, mother!' Let him
feel at ease, the task here will be performed all the same.
When one supports one's relatives by one's toil, one has not the
right to sacrifice one's self. That is deserting one's family.
And those who have daughters! what are you thinking of? You get
yourselves killed, you are dead, that is well. And tomorrow? Young girls
without bread--that is a terrible thing. Man begs, woman sells.
Ah! those charming and gracious beings, so gracious and so sweet,
who have bonnets of flowers, who fill the house with purity, who sing
and prattle, who are like a living perfume, who prove the existence
of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earth, that Jeanne,
that Lise, that Mimi, those adorable and honest creatures who are your
blessings and your pride, ah! good God, they will suffer hunger!
What do you want me to say to you? There is a market for human flesh;
and it is not with your shadowy hands, shuddering around them,
that you will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street,
think of the pavement covered with passers-by, think of the shops past
which women go and come with necks all bare, and through the mire.
These women, too, were pure once. Think of your sisters, those of
you who have them. Misery, prostitution, the police, Saint-Lazare--
that is what those beautiful, delicate girls, those fragile marvels
of modesty, gentleness and loveliness, fresher than lilacs in the
month of May, will come to. Ah! you have got yourselves killed!
You are no longer on hand! That is well; you have wished to release
the people from Royalty, and you deliver over your daughters to
the police. Friends, have a care, have mercy. Women, unhappy women,
we are not in the habit of bestowing much thought on them.
We trust to the women not having received a man's education,
we prevent their reading, we prevent their thinking, we prevent
their occupying themselves with politics; will you prevent them from
going to the dead-house this evening, and recognizing your bodies?
Let us see, those who have families must be tractable, and shake hands
with us and take themselves off, and leave us here alone to attend
to this affair. I know well that courage is required to leave,
that it is hard; but the harder it is, the more meritorious.
You say: `I have a gun, I am at the barricade; so much the worse,
I shall remain there.' So much the worse is easily said. My friends,
there is a morrow; you will not be here to-morrow, but your families will;
and what sufferings! See, here is a pretty, healthy child,
with cheeks like an apple, who babbles, prattles, chatters, who laughs,
who smells sweet beneath your kiss,--and do you know what becomes
of him when he is abandoned? I have seen one, a very small creature,
no taller than that. His father was dead. Poor people had taken
him in out of charity, but they had bread only for themselves.
The child was always hungry. It was winter. He did not cry.
You could see him approach the stove, in which there was never
any fire, and whose pipe, you know, was of mastic and yellow clay.
His breathing was hoarse, his face livid, his limbs flaccid,
his belly prominent. He said nothing. If you spoke to him,
he did not answer. He is dead. He was taken to the Necker Hospital,
where I saw him. I was house-surgeon in that hospital. Now, if there
are any fathers among you, fathers whose happiness it is to stroll
on Sundays holding their child's tiny hand in their robust hand,
let each one of those fathers imagine that this child is his own.
That poor brat, I remember, and I seem to see him now, when he lay
nude on the dissecting table, how his ribs stood out on his skin
like the graves beneath the grass in a cemetery. A sort of mud was
found in his stomach. There were ashes in his teeth. Come, let us
examine ourselves conscientiously and take counsel with our heart.
Statistics show that the mortality among abandoned children is fifty-five
per cent. I repeat, it is a question of women, it concerns mothers,
it concerns young girls, it concerns little children. Who is talking
to you of yourselves? We know well what you are; we know well that
you are all brave, parbleu! we know well that you all have in your
souls the joy and the glory of giving your life for the great cause;
we know well that you feel yourselves elected to die usefully
and magnificently, and that each one of you clings to his share
in the triumph. Very well. But you are not alone in this world.
There are other beings of whom you must think. You must not be
All dropped their heads with a gloomy air.
Strange contradictions of the human heart at its most
sublime moments. Combeferre, who spoke thus, was not an orphan.
He recalled the mothers of other men, and forgot his own.
He was about to get himself killed. He was "an egoist."
Marius, fasting, fevered, having emerged in succession from all hope,
and having been stranded in grief, the most sombre of shipwrecks,
and saturated with violent emotions and conscious that the end
was near, had plunged deeper and deeper into that visionary stupor
which always precedes the fatal hour voluntarily accepted.
A physiologist might have studied in him the growing symptoms
of that febrile absorption known to, and classified by, science,
and which is to suffering what voluptuousness is to pleasure.
Despair, also, has its ecstasy. Marius had reached this point.
He looked on at everything as from without; as we have said,
things which passed before him seemed far away; he made out the whole,
but did not perceive the details. He beheld men going and coming
as through a flame. He heard voices speaking as at the bottom
of an abyss.
But this moved him. There was in this scene a point which
pierced and roused even him. He had but one idea now, to die;
and he did not wish to be turned aside from it, but he reflected,
in his gloomy somnambulism, that while destroying himself,
he was not prohibited from saving some one else.
He raised his voice.
"Enjolras and Combeferre are right," said he; "no unnecessary sacrifice.
I join them, and you must make haste. Combeferre has said convincing
things to you. There are some among you who have families,
mothers, sisters, wives, children. Let such leave the ranks."
No one stirred.
"Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks!"
His authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head
of the barricade, but Marius was its savior.
"I order it," cried Enjolras.
"I entreat you," said Marius.
Then, touched by Combeferre's words, shaken by Enjolras' order,
touched by Marius' entreaty, these heroic men began to denounce
each other.--"It is true," said one young man to a full grown man,
"you are the father of a family. Go."--"It is your duty rather,"
retorted the man, "you have two sisters whom you maintain."--
And an unprecedented controversy broke forth. Each struggled to
determine which should not allow himself to be placed at the door
of the tomb.
"Make haste," said Courfeyrac, "in another quarter of an hour it
will be too late."
"Citizens," pursued Enjolras, "this is the Republic, and universal
suffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go."
They obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutes, five were
unanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.
"There are five of them!" exclaimed Marius.
There were only four uniforms.
"Well," began the five, "one must stay behind."
And then a struggle arose as to who should remain, and who should
find reasons for the others not remaining. The generous quarrel
"You have a wife who loves you."--"You have your aged mother."--"
You have neither father nor mother, and what is to become of your
three little brothers?"--"You are the father of five children."--"You
have a right to live, you are only seventeen, it is too early
for you to die."
These great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for heroism.
The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish each other.
"Be quick," repeated Courfeyrac.
Men shouted to Marius from the groups:
"Do you designate who is to remain."
"Yes," said the five, "choose. We will obey you."
Marius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion.
Still, at this idea, that of choosing a man for death, his blood
rushed back to his heart. He would have turned pale, had it been
possible for him to become any paler.
He advanced towards the five, who smiled upon him, and each,
with his eyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the
depths of history hovering over Thermopylae, cried to him:
"Me! me! me!"
And Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them!
Then his glance dropped to the four uniforms.
At that moment, a fifth uniform fell, as if from heaven, upon the
The fifth man was saved.
Marius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.
Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.
He had arrived by way of Mondetour lane, whither by dint of
inquiries made, or by instinct, or chance. Thanks to his dress
of a National Guardsman, he had made his way without difficulty.
The sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mondetour
had no occasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman,
and he had allowed the latter to entangle himself in the street,
saying to himself: "Probably it is a reinforcement, in any case it
is a prisoner." The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel
abandoning his duty and his post of observation.
At the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubt, no one had
noticed him, all eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the
four uniforms. Jean Valjean also had seen and heard, and he
had silently removed his coat and flung it on the pile with the rest.
The emotion aroused was indescribable.
"Who is this man?" demanded Bossuet.
"He is a man who saves others," replied Combeferre.
Marius added in a grave voice:
"I know him."
This guarantee satisfied every one.
Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean.
And he added:
"You know that we are about to die."
Jean Valjean, without replying, helped the insurgent whom he was
saving to don his uniform.
THE HORIZON WHICH ONE BEHOLDS FROM THE SUMMIT OF A BARRICADE
The situation of all in that fatal hour and that pitiless place,
had as result and culminating point Enjolras' supreme melancholy.
Enjolras bore within him the plenitude of the revolution;
he was incomplete, however, so far as the absolute can be so;
he had too much of Saint-Just about him, and not enough of
Anacharsis Cloots; still, his mind, in the society of the Friends
of the A B C, had ended by undergoing a certain polarization from
Combeferre's ideas; for some time past, he had been gradually emerging
from the narrow form of dogma, and had allowed himself to incline
to the broadening influence of progress, and he had come to accept,
as a definitive and magnificent evolution, the transformation
of the great French Republic, into the immense human republic.
As far as the immediate means were concerned, a violent situation
being given, he wished to be violent; on that point, he never varied;
and he remained of that epic and redoubtable school which is
summed up in the words: "Eighty-three." Enjolras was standing
erect on the staircase of paving-stones, one elbow resting on
the stock of his gun. He was engaged in thought; he quivered,
as at the passage of prophetic breaths; places where death is
have these effects of tripods. A sort of stifled fire darted
from his eyes, which were filled with an inward look. All at once
he threw back his head, his blond locks fell back like those of
an angel on the sombre quadriga made of stars, they were like
the mane of a startled lion in the flaming of an halo, and Enjolras cried:
"Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets
of cities inundated with light, green branches on the thresholds,
nations sisters, men just, old men blessing children, the past
loving the present, thinkers entirely at liberty, believers on
terms of full equality, for religion heaven, God the direct priest,
human conscience become an altar, no more hatreds, the fraternity
of the workshop and the school, for sole penalty and recompense fame,
work for all, right for all, peace over all, no more bloodshed,
no more wars, happy mothers! To conquer matter is the first step;
to realize the ideal is the second. Reflect on what progress has
already accomplished. Formerly, the first human races beheld
with terror the hydra pass before their eyes, breathing on
the waters, the dragon which vomited flame, the griffin who was
the monster of the air, and who flew with the wings of an eagle
and the talons of a tiger; fearful beasts which were above man.
Man, nevertheless, spread his snares, consecrated by intelligence,
and finally conquered these monsters. We have vanquished the hydra,
and it is called the locomotive; we are on the point of vanquishing
the griffin, we already grasp it, and it is called the balloon.
On the day when this Promethean task shall be accomplished,
and when man shall have definitely harnessed to his will the triple
Chimaera of antiquity, the hydra, the dragon and the griffin,
he will be the master of water, fire, and of air, and he will be
for the rest of animated creation that which the ancient gods
formerly were to him. Courage, and onward! Citizens, whither are
we going? To science made government, to the force of things
become the sole public force, to the natural law, having in itself
its sanction and its penalty and promulgating itself by evidence,
to a dawn of truth corresponding to a dawn of day. We are advancing
to the union of peoples; we are advancing to the unity of man.
No more fictions; no more parasites. The real governed by the true,
that is the goal. Civilization will hold its assizes at the
summit of Europe, and, later on, at the centre of continents,
in a grand parliament of the intelligence. Something similar
has already been seen. The amphictyons had two sittings a year,
one at Delphos the seat of the gods, the other at Thermopylae,
the place of heroes. Europe will have her amphictyons; the globe
will have its amphictyons. France bears this sublime future
in her breast. This is the gestation of the nineteenth century.
That which Greece sketched out is worthy of being finished by France.
Listen to me, you, Feuilly, valiant artisan, man of the people.
I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right.
You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity
for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die,
that is to say to triumph, here. Citizens, whatever happens
to-day, through our defeat as well as through our victory, it is
a revolution that we are about to create. As conflagrations light
up a whole city, so revolutions illuminate the whole human race.
And what is the revolution that we shall cause? I have just told you,
the Revolution of the True. From a political point of view,
there is but a single principle; the sovereignty of man over himself.
This sovereignty of myself over myself is called Liberty. Where two
or three of these sovereignties are combined, the state begins.
But in that association there is no abdication. Each sovereignty
concedes a certain quantity of itself, for the purpose of forming
the common right. This quantity is the same for all of us.
This identity of concession which each makes to all, is called Equality.
Common right is nothing else than the protection of all beaming
on the right of each. This protection of all over each is
called Fraternity. The point of intersection of all these assembled
sovereignties is called society. This intersection being a junction,
this point is a knot. Hence what is called the social bond.
Some say social contract; which is the same thing, the word
contract being etymologically formed with the idea of a bond.
Let us come to an understanding about equality; for, if liberty is
the summit, equality is the base. Equality, citizens, is not wholly
a surface vegetation, a society of great blades of grass and tiny oaks;
a proximity of jealousies which render each other null and void;
legally speaking, it is all aptitudes possessed of the same opportunity;
politically, it is all votes possessed of the same weight;
religiously, it is all consciences possessed of the same right.
Equality has an organ: gratuitous and obligatory instruction.
The right to the alphabet, that is where the beginning must
be made. The primary school imposed on all, the secondary school
offered to all, that is the law. From an identical school,
an identical society will spring. Yes, instruction! light! light!
everything comes from light, and to it everything returns.
Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century
will be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history
of old, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest,
an invasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand,
an interruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings,
on a birth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by
a congress, a dismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty,
a combat of two religions meeting face to face, like two bucks
in the dark, on the bridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have
to fear famine, farming out, prostitution arising from distress,
misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword,
and battles and the ruffianism of chance in the forest of events.
One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall
be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial
globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be re-established between
the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth,
as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I
am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases
of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human race will
be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier.
Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights
of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction,
of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is
not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron;
it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes.
Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night,
and says to it: `I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again
with me.' From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth.
Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality.
This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute
our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance
of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the
Enjolras paused rather than became silent; his lips continued to
move silently, as though he were talking to himself, which caused
them all to gaze attentively at him, in the endeavor to hear more.
There was no applause; but they whispered together for a long time.
Speech being a breath, the rustling of intelligences resembles the
rustling of leaves.
MARIUS HAGGARD, JAVERT LACONIC
Let us narrate what was passing in Marius' thoughts.
Let the reader recall the state of his soul. We have just recalled it,
everything was a vision to him now. His judgment was disturbed.
Marius, let us insist on this point, was under the shadow of the great,
dark wings which are spread over those in the death agony.
He felt that he had entered the tomb, it seemed to him that he
was already on the other side of the wall, and he no longer beheld
the faces of the living except with the eyes of one dead.
How did M. Fauchelevent come there? Why was he there? What had
he come there to do? Marius did not address all these questions
to himself. Besides, since our despair has this peculiarity,
that it envelops others as well as ourselves, it seemed logical
to him that all the world should come thither to die.
Only, he thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.
However, M. Fauchelevent did not speak to him, did not look at him,
and had not even the air of hearing him, when Marius raised his voice
to say: "I know him."
As far as Marius was concerned, this attitude of M. Fauchelevent
was comforting, and, if such a word can be used for such impressions,
we should say that it pleased him. He had always felt the absolute
impossibility of addressing that enigmatical man, who was,
in his eyes, both equivocal and imposing. Moreover, it had been
a long time since he had seen him; and this still further augmented
the impossibility for Marius' timid and reserved nature.
The five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mondetour lane;
they bore a perfect resemblance to members of the National Guard.
One of them wept as he took his leave. Before setting out,
they embraced those who remained.
When the five men sent back to life had taken their departure,
Enjolras thought of the man who had been condemned to death.
He entered the tap-room. Javert, still bound to the post, was engaged
"Do you want anything?" Enjolras asked him.
"Javert replied: "When are you going to kill me?"
"Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present."
"Then give me a drink," said Javert.
Enjolras himself offered him a glass of water, and, as Javert
was pinioned, he helped him to drink.
"Is that all?" inquired Enjolras.
"I am uncomfortable against this post," replied Javert.
"You are not tender to have left me to pass the night here.
Bind me as you please, but you surely might lay me out on a table
like that other man."
And with a motion of the head, he indicated the body of M. Mabeuf.
There was, as the reader will remember, a long, broad table
at the end of the room, on which they had been running bullets
and making cartridges. All the cartridges having been made,
and all the powder used, this table was free.
At Enjolras' command, four insurgents unbound Javert from the post.
While they were loosing him, a fifth held a bayonet against his breast.
Leaving his arms tied behind his back, they placed about his feet a
slender but stout whip-cord, as is done to men on the point of mounting
the scaffold, which allowed him to take steps about fifteen inches
in length, and made him walk to the table at the end of the room,
where they laid him down, closely bound about the middle of the body.
By way of further security, and by means of a rope fastened to his neck,
they added to the system of ligatures which rendered every attempt
at escape impossible, that sort of bond which is called in prisons
a martingale, which, starting at the neck, forks on the stomach,
and meets the hands, after passing between the legs.
While they were binding Javert, a man standing on the threshold
was surveying him with singular attention. The shadow cast by this
man made Javert turn his head. He raised his eyes, and recognized
Jean Valjean. He did not even start, but dropped his lids proudly
and confined himself to the remark: "It is perfectly simple."
THE SITUATION BECOMES AGGRAVATED
The daylight was increasing rapidly. Not a window was opened,
not a door stood ajar; it was the dawn but not the awaking.
The end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, opposite the barricade, had been
evacuated by the troops, as we have stated it seemed to be free,
and presented itself to passers-by with a sinister tranquillity.
The Rue Saint-Denis was as dumb as the avenue of Sphinxes at Thebes.
Not a living being in the cross-roads, which gleamed white in the light
of the sun. Nothing is so mournful as this light in deserted streets.
Nothing was to be seen, but there was something to be heard.
A mysterious movement was going on at a certain distance.
It was evident that the critical moment was approaching. As on
the previous evening, the sentinels had come in; but this time all
The barricade was stronger than on the occasion of the first attack.
Since the departure of the five, they had increased its height
On the advice of the sentinel who had examined the region of
the Halles, Enjolras, for fear of a surprise in the rear, came to
a serious decision. He had the small gut of the Mondetour lane,
which had been left open up to that time, barricaded. For this purpose,
they tore up the pavement for the length of several houses more.
In this manner, the barricade, walled on three streets, in front
on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, to the left on the Rues du Cygne and de
la Petite Truanderie, to the right on the Rue Mondetour, was really
almost impregnable; it is true that they were fatally hemmed in there.
It had three fronts, but no exit.--"A fortress but a rat hole too,"
said Courfeyrac with a laugh.
Enjolras had about thirty paving-stones "torn up in excess,"
said Bossuet, piled up near the door of the wine-shop.
The silence was now so profound in the quarter whence the attack must
needs come, that Enjolras had each man resume his post of battle.
An allowance of brandy was doled out to each.
Nothing is more curious than a barricade preparing for an assault.
Each man selects his place as though at the theatre. They jostle,
and elbow and crowd each other. There are some who make stalls
of paving-stones. Here is a corner of the wall which is in the way,
it is removed; here is a redan which may afford protection,
they take shelter behind it. Left-handed men are precious;
they take the places that are inconvenient to the rest. Many arrange
to fight in a sitting posture. They wish to be at ease to kill,
and to die comfortably. In the sad war of June, 1848, an insurgent
who was a formidable marksman, and who was firing from the top of a
terrace upon a roof, had a reclining-chair brought there for his use;
a charge of grape-shot found him out there.
As soon as the leader has given the order to clear the decks for action,
all disorderly movements cease; there is no more pulling from
one another; there are no more coteries; no more asides, there is
no more holding aloof; everything in their spirits converges in,
and changes into, a waiting for the assailants. A barricade before
the arrival of danger is chaos; in danger, it is discipline itself.
Peril produces order.
As soon as Enjolras had seized his double-barrelled rifle,
and had placed himself in a sort of embrasure which he had reserved
for himself, all the rest held their peace. A series of faint,
sharp noises resounded confusedly along the wall of paving-stones.
It was the men cocking their guns.
Moreover, their attitudes were prouder, more confident than ever;
the excess of sacrifice strengthens; they no longer cherished any hope,
but they had despair, despair,--the last weapon, which sometimes
gives victory; Virgil has said so. Supreme resources spring from
extreme resolutions. To embark in death is sometimes the means
of escaping a shipwreck; and the lid of the coffin becomes a plank
As on the preceding evening, the attention of all was directed,
we might almost say leaned upon, the end of the street, now lighted
up and visible.
They had not long to wait. A stir began distinctly in the Saint-Leu
quarter, but it did not resemble the movement of the first attack.
A clashing of chains, the uneasy jolting of a mass, the click
of brass skipping along the pavement, a sort of solemn uproar,
announced that some sinister construction of iron was approaching.
There arose a tremor in the bosoms of these peaceful old streets,
pierced and built for the fertile circulation of interests and ideas,
and which are not made for the horrible rumble of the wheels
The fixity of eye in all the combatants upon the extremity
of the street became ferocious.
A cannon made its appearance.
Artillery-men were pushing the piece; it was in firing trim;
the fore-carriage had been detached; two upheld the gun-carriage,
four were at the wheels; others followed with the caisson.
They could see the smoke of the burning lint-stock.
"Fire!" shouted Enjolras.
The whole barricade fired, the report was terrible; an avalanche
of smoke covered and effaced both cannon and men; after a few seconds,
the cloud dispersed, and the cannon and men re-appeared; the gun-crew
had just finished rolling it slowly, correctly, without haste,
into position facing the barricade. Not one of them had been struck.
Then the captain of the piece, bearing down upon the breech in order
to raise the muzzle, began to point the cannon with the gravity
of an astronomer levelling a telescope.
"Bravo for the cannoneers!" cried Bossuet.
And the whole barricade clapped their hands.
A moment later, squarely planted in the very middle of the street,
astride of the gutter, the piece was ready for action. A formidable
pair of jaws yawned on the barricade.
"Come, merrily now!" ejaculated Courfeyrac. "That's the brutal
part of it. After the fillip on the nose, the blow from the fist.
The army is reaching out its big paw to us. The barricade is going
to be severely shaken up. The fusillade tries, the cannon takes."
"It is a piece of eight, new model, brass," added Combeferre.
"Those pieces are liable to burst as soon as the proportion of ten
parts of tin to one hundred of brass is exceeded. The excess
of tin renders them too tender. Then it comes to pass that they
have caves and chambers when looked at from the vent hole. In order
to obviate this danger, and to render it possible to force the charge,
it may become necessary to return to the process of the fourteenth
century, hooping, and to encircle the piece on the outside with a
series of unwelded steel bands, from the breech to the trunnions.
In the meantime, they remedy this defect as best they may;
they manage to discover where the holes are located in the vent
of a cannon, by means of a searcher. But there is a better method,
with Gribeauval's movable star."
"In the sixteenth century," remarked Bossuet, "they used to rifle cannon."
"Yes," replied Combeferre, "that augments the projectile force,
but diminishes the accuracy of the firing. In firing at short range,
the trajectory is not as rigid as could be desired, the parabola
is exaggerated, the line of the projectile is no longer sufficiently
rectilinear to allow of its striking intervening objects, which is,
nevertheless, a necessity of battle, the importance of which increases
with the proximity of the enemy and the precipitation of the discharge.
This defect of the tension of the curve of the projectile in the
rifled cannon of the sixteenth century arose from the smallness
of the charge; small charges for that sort of engine are imposed
by the ballistic necessities, such, for instance, as the preservation
of the gun-carriage. In short, that despot, the cannon, cannot do
all that it desires; force is a great weakness. A cannon-ball only
travels six hundred leagues an hour; light travels seventy thousand
leagues a second. Such is the superiority of Jesus Christ over Napoleon."
"Reload your guns," said Enjolras.
How was the casing of the barricade going to behave under the
cannon-balls? Would they effect a breach? That was the question.
While the insurgents were reloading their guns, the artillery-men
were loading the cannon.
The anxiety in the redoubt was profound.
The shot sped the report burst forth.
"Present!" shouted a joyous voice.
And Gavroche flung himself into the barricade just as the ball
dashed against it.
He came from the direction of the Rue du Cygne, and he had nimbly
climbed over the auxiliary barricade which fronted on the labyrinth
of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie.
Gavroche produced a greater sensation in the barricade than
The ball buried itself in the mass of rubbish. At the most there
was an omnibus wheel broken, and the old Anceau cart was demolished.
On seeing this, the barricade burst into a laugh.
"Go on!" shouted Bossuet to the artillerists.
THE ARTILLERY-MEN COMPEL PEOPLE TO TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY
Thet flocked round Gavroche. But he had no time to tell anything.
Marius drew him aside with a shudder.
"What are you doing here?"
"Hullo!" said the child, "what are you doing here yourself?"
And he stared at Marius intently with his epic effrontery.
His eyes grew larger with the proud light within them.
It was with an accent of severity that Marius continued:
"Who told you to come back? Did you deliver my letter at the address?"
Gavroche was not without some compunctions in the matter of
that letter. In his haste to return to the barricade, he had got
rid of it rather than delivered it. He was forced to acknowledge
to himself that he had confided it rather lightly to that stranger
whose face he had not been able to make out. It is true that
the man was bareheaded, but that was not sufficient. In short,
he had been administering to himself little inward remonstrances
and he feared Marius' reproaches. In order to extricate himself
from the predicament, he took the simplest course; he lied abominably.
"Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep.
She will have the letter when she wakes up.
Marius had had two objects in sending that letter: to bid farewell
to Cosette and to save Gavroche. He was obliged to content himself
with the half of his desire.
The despatch of his letter and the presence of M. Fauchelevent
in the barricade, was a coincidence which occurred to him.
He pointed out M. Fauchelevent to Gavroche.
"Do you know that man?"
"No," said Gavroche.
Gavroche had, in fact, as we have just mentioned, seen Jean Valjean
only at night.
The troubled and unhealthy conjectures which had outlined themselves
in Marius' mind were dissipated. Did he know M. Fauchelevent's opinions?
Perhaps M. Fauchelevent was a republican. Hence his very natural
presence in this combat.
In the meanwhile, Gavroche was shouting, at the other end
of the barricade: "My gun!"
Courfeyrac had it returned to him.
Gavroche warned "his comrades" as he called them, that the barricade
was blocked. He had had great difficulty in reaching it.
A battalion of the line whose arms were piled in the Rue de la Petite
Truanderie was on the watch on the side of the Rue du Cygne; on the
opposite side, the municipal guard occupied the Rue des Precheurs.
The bulk of the army was facing them in front.
This information given, Gavroche added:
"I authorize you to hit 'em a tremendous whack."
Meanwhile, Enjolras was straining his ears and watching at his embrasure.
The assailants, dissatisfied, no doubt, with their shot, had not
A company of infantry of the line had come up and occupied the end
of the street behind the piece of ordnance. The soldiers were
tearing up the pavement and constructing with the stones a small,
low wall, a sort of side-work not more than eighteen inches high,
and facing the barricade. In the angle at the left of this epaulement,
there was visible the head of the column of a battalion from the
suburbs massed in the Rue Saint-Denis.
Enjolras, on the watch, thought he distinguished the peculiar
sound which is produced when the shells of grape-shot are drawn
from the caissons, and he saw the commander of the piece change the
elevation and incline the mouth of the cannon slightly to the left.
Then the cannoneers began to load the piece. The chief seized
the lint-stock himself and lowered it to the vent.
"Down with your heads, hug the wall!" shouted Enjolras, "and all
on your knees along the barricade!"
The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop,
and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche's arrival,
rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras'
order could be executed, the discharge took place with the terrifying
rattle of a round of grape-shot. This is what it was, in fact.
The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there
rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced
two dead and three wounded.
If this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable.
The grape-shot made its way in.
A murmur of consternation arose.
"Let us prevent the second discharge," said Enjolras.
And, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun,
who, at that moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun
and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing.
The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery,
very young, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent
air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which,
by dint of perfecting itself in horror, must end in killing war.
Combeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this
"What a pity!" said Combeferre. "What hideous things these
butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will
be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant,
you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man;
he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young
artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother,
a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty
at the most; he might be your brother."
"He is," said Enjolras.
"Yes," replied Combeferre, "he is mine too. Well, let us not
"Let me alone. It must be done."
And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek.
At the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame
leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms
extended in front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath,
then he fell with his side on the gun, and lay there motionless.
They could see his back, from the centre of which there flowed
directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast
from side to side. He was dead.
He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes
were thus gained, in fact.
EMPLOYMENT OF THE OLD TALENTS OF A POACHER AND THAT INFALLIBLE
MARKSMANSHIP WHICH INFLUENCED THE CONDEMNATION OF 1796
Opinions were exchanged in the barricade. The firing from the gun
was about to begin again. Against that grape-shot, they could not
hold out a quarter of an hour longer. It was absolutely necessary
to deaden the blows.
Enjolras issued this command:
"We must place a mattress there."
"We have none," said Combeferre, "the wounded are lying on them."
Jean Valjean, who was seated apart on a stone post, at the corner
of the tavern, with his gun between his knees, had, up to that moment,
taken no part in anything that was going on. He did not appear
to hear the combatants saying around him: "Here is a gun that is
At the order issued by Enjolras, he rose.
It will be remembered that, on the arrival of the rabble in the Rue
de la Chanvrerie, an old woman, foreseeing the bullets, had placed
her mattress in front of her window. This window, an attic window,
was on the roof of a six-story house situated a little beyond
the barricade. The mattress, placed cross-wise, supported at
the bottom on two poles for drying linen, was upheld at the top
by two ropes, which, at that distance, looked like two threads,
and which were attached to two nails planted in the window frames.
These ropes were distinctly visible, like hairs, against the sky.
"Can some one lend me a double-barrelled rifle?" said Jean Valjean.
Enjolras, who had just re-loaded his, handed it to him.
Jean Valjean took aim at the attic window and fired.
One of the mattress ropes was cut.
The mattress now hung by one thread only.
Jean Valjean fired the second charge. The second rope lashed
the panes of the attic window. The mattress slipped between