 Chapter 7 and 8 of Book 12 of Les Miserables Volume 4 by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martina Hutchins of Berkeley, California. Les Miserables Volume 4 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood. Book 12, Corinth. Chapter 7. The man recruited in the Rue de Billet. Night was fully come, nothing made its appearance. All that they heard was confused noises, and at intervals, fusilades. But these were rare, badly sustained, and distant. This respite, which was thus prolonged, was a sign that the government was taking its time and collecting its forces. These fifty men were waiting for sixty thousand. And Horace felt attacked by that impatience, which seizes on strong souls on the threshold of redoubtable events. He went in search of Gavrush, who had set to making cartridges in the tap room by the dubious light of two candles placed on the counter by way of precaution on account of the powder which was scattered on the tables. These two candles cast no gleam outside. The insurgents had, moreover, taken pains not to have any light in the upper stories. Gavrush was deeply preoccupied at the moment, but not precisely with his cartridges. The man of the Rue de Billet had just entered the tap room and had seated himself at the table which was the least lighted. A musket of large muddle had fallen into his chair, and he held it between his legs. Gavrush, who had been up to that moment, distracted by a hundred amusing things, had not even seen this man. When he entered, Gavrush followed him mechanically with his eyes, admiring his gun. Then, all at once, when the man was seated, the street urchin sprang to his feet. Anyone who had spied upon that man up to that moment would have seen that he was observing everything in the barricade and in the band of insurgents with singular attention. But from the moment when he had entered this room, he had fallen into a sort of brown study, and no longer seemed to see anything that was going on. The gamut approached this pensive personage and began to step around him on tiptoe, as one walks in the vicinity of a person whom one is afraid of waking. At the same time, over his childish countenance, which was, at once, so impudent and so serious, so giddy and so profound, so gay and so heartbreaking, passed all those grimaces of an old man which signified, Ah, bah, impossible, my sight is bad, I am dreaming, can this be? No, it is not, but yes, why no, etc. Gavrush, balanced on his heels, clenched both fists in his pockets, moved his neck around like a bird, expended in a gigantic pout all the sagacity of his lower lip. He was astounded, uncertain, incredulous, convinced, dazzled. He had the mane of the chief of the eunuchs in the slave mart, discovering a venus among the blousy females, and the air of an amateur recognizing a Raphael and a heap of dabs. His whole being was at work, the instinct which sense out and the intelligence which combines. It was evident that a great event had happened in Gavrush's life. It was at the most intense point of this preoccupation that Enhoras accosted him. You are small, said Enhoras, you will not be seen. Go out of the barricades, slip along close to the houses, skirmish about a bit in the streets, and come back and tell me what is going on. Gavrush raised himself on his haunches. So the little chaps are good for something, that's very lucky, all go, in the meanwhile trust to the little fellows, and distrust the big ones. And Gavrush raising his head and lowering his voice, added as he indicated the man of the rude debutier. Do you see that big fellow there? Well, he's a police spy. Are you sure of it? It isn't two weeks since he pulled me off the cornice of the Port Royale, where I was taking the air by my ear. Enhoras hastily quitted the urchin and murmured a few words in a very low tone to a longshoreman from the wine docks who chanced to be at hand. The man left the room and returned almost immediately, accompanied by three others. The four men, four porters, with broad shoulders, went and placed themselves without doing anything to attract his attention behind the table on which the man of the rude debutier was leaning with his elbows. They were evidently ready to hurl themselves upon him. When Enhoras approached the man and demanded of him, who are you? At this abrupt query the man started. He plunged his gaze deep into Enhoras' clear eyes and appeared to grasp the latter's meaning. He smiled with a smile then which nothing was more disdainful, more energetic, and more resolute to be seen in the world inside with haughty gravity. I see what it is. Well, yes. You are a police spy. I am an agent of the authorities. And your name? Javert. Enhoras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling of an eye, before Javert had time to turn around, he was collared, thrown down, pinioned, and searched. They found on him a little round card pasted between two pieces of glass and, bearing on one side the arms of France engraved and, with this motto, supervision and vigilance. And on the other, this note, Javert, inspector of police, aged 52. And the signature of the prefect of police of that day, Monsieur Giscuit. Besides this, he had his watch and his purse, which contained several gold pieces. And they left him his purse and his watch. Under the watch, at the bottom of his font, they felt and seized a paper and an envelope, which Enhoras unfolded, known which he read these five lines, written in the very hand of the prefect of police. As soon as his political mission is accomplished, inspector Javert will make sure, by special supervision, whether it is true that the malefactors have instituted intrigues on the right bank of the Seine near the Gena bridge. The search ended. They lifted Javert to his feet, found his arms behind his back and fastened him to that celebrated post in the middle of the room which had formally given the wine shop its name. Garrosh, who had looked on at the whole of this scene and had approved of everything, was a silent toss of his head, stepped up to Javert and said to him, it's the mouse who has caught the cat. All this was so rapidly executed that it was all over when those about the wine shop noticed it. Javert had not uttered a single cry. At the site of Javert bound to the post, Corferac, Basouet, Jolie, Conbeferre, and the man scattered over the two barricades came running up. Javert, with his back to the post and so surrounded with ropes that he could not make a movement, raised his head with the intrepid serenity of the man who has never lied. He is a police spy, said Enhoras, and turning to Javert. You will be shot ten minutes before the barricade is taken. Javert replied in his most imperious tone, why not at once? We are saving our powder, then finish the business with a blow of a knife. Spy, said the handsome Enhoras, we are judges and not assassins. Then he called Gavros. Here you, go about your business, do what I told you. I'm going, cried Gavros, and halting as he was on the point of setting out, by the way, you will give me his gun. And he added, I leave you the musician, but I want the clarinet. The gammon made the military salute and passed gaily through the opening in the large barricade. Chapter 8 Many interrogation points with regard to a certain Le Cabouc, whose name may not have been Le Cabouc. The tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be complete. The reader would not see those grand moments of social birth pangs in a revolutionary birth, which contained convulsion mingled with effort, in their exact and real relief were we to omit, in the sketch here outlined, an instant full of epic and savage horror, which occurred almost immediately after Gavros's departure. Mobs, as the reader knows, are like a snowball and collect as they roll along, a throng of tumultuous men. These men do not ask each other whence they come. Among the passers-by who had joined the rabble led by Enhoras, Combefer, and Corfuac, there had been a person wearing the jacket of a street porter, which was very threadbare on the shoulders, who gesticulated and vociferated, and who had the look of a drunken savage. This man, whose name or nickname was Le Cabouc, and who was, moreover, an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him, was very drunk, or assumed the appearance of being so, and had seated himself with several others at a table which they had dragged outside the wine shop. This Cabouc, while making those who vied with him drunk, seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large house at the extremity of the barricade, whose five stories commanded the whole street and faced the ruse and denise. All at once he exclaimed, Do you know, comrades? It is from that house yonder that we must fire. When we are at the windows, the deuce is in it if anyone can advance into the street. Yes, but the house is closed, said one of the drinkers. Let us knock. They will not open. Let us break in the door. Le Cabouc runs to the door, which had a very massive knocker and knocks. The door opens not. He strikes a second blow. No one answers. A third stroke. The same silence. Is there anyone here? Shouts Cabouc. Nothing stirs. Then he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the butt end. It was an ancient alley door, low, vaulted, narrow, solid, entirely of oak, lined on the outside with a sheet of iron and iron stays, a genuine prison postern. The blows from the butt end of the gun made the house tremble, but did not shake the door. Nevertheless, it is probable that the inhabitants were disturbed for a tiny square window was finally seen to open on the third story, appeared the reverend and terrified face of a gray-haired old man who was the porter and who held a candle. The man who was knocking paused. Gentlemen, said the porter, what do you want? Open, said Cabouc. That cannot be, gentlemen. Open nevertheless. Impossible, gentlemen. The cabouc took his gun and aimed at the porter, but as he was below and as it was very dark the porter did not see him. Will you open yes or no? No, gentlemen. Do you say no? I say no, my good. The porter did not finish. The shot was fired. The ball entered under his chin and came out of the nape of the neck after transversing the jugular vein. The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and was extinguished and nothing more was to be seen except a motionless head lying on the sill of the small window and a little whitish smoke which floated off towards the roof. There, said Le Cabouc, dropping the butt end of his gun on the pavement, he had hardly uttered this word when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon and he heard a voice saying to him On your knees. The murderer turned around and saw before him an holras cold white face and holras held a pistol in his hand. He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge. He had seized Kuch's collar, blouse, shirt and suspender with his left hand. On your knees, he repeated and with an imperious motion the frail young man of twenty years bent the thick set and sturdy porter like a reed and brought him to his knees in the mire. Le Cabouc attempted to resist but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman hand and holras pale with bare neck and disheveled hair and his woman's face had about him at that moment something of the antique themus. His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of chastity which as the ancient world viewed the matter befit justice. The whole barricade hastened up then all ranged themselves in a circle at a distance feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in the presence of the thing which they were about to behold. Le Cabouc vanquished no longer tried to struggle and trembled in every limb and holras released him and drew out his watch. Collect yourself said he think or pray you have one minute. Mercy murmured the murderer then he dropped his head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths and holras never took his eyes off him he allowed a minute to pass then he replaced his watch in his fob that done he grasped Le Cabouc by the hair as the latter coiled himself into a ball at his knees and shrieked and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear many of those intrepid men who had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of adventures turned aside their heads an explosion was heard the assassin fell to the pavement face downwards and holras straightened himself up and cast a convinced and severe glance around him then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said throw that outside three men raised the body of the unhappy wretch which was still agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled and flung it over the little barricade of the Rue Monteture and holras was thoughtful it was impossible to say what grandiose shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity all at once he raised his voice a silence fell upon them citizens said in holras what that man did was frightful what I have done is horrible he killed therefore I killed him I had to do it because insurrection must have its discipline assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere we are under the eyes of the revolution we are the priests of the republic we are the victims of duty and must not be possible to slander our combat I have therefore tried that man and condemned him to death as for myself constrained as I am to do what I have done and yet abhorring it I have judged myself also and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself those who listen to him shuddered we will share thy fate cried Comber Fair so be it burplied in holras one word more in executing this man I have obeyed necessity but necessity is a monster of the old world necessity's name is fatality now the law of progress is that monsters shall disappear before the angels and that fatality shall vanish before fraternity it is a bad moment to pronounce the word love no matter I do pronounce it and I glorify it love the future is thine death I make use of thee but I hate thee citizens in the future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts neither ferocious ignorant nor bloody retaliation as there will be no more Satan there will be no more Michael in the future no one will kill anyone else the earth will beam with radiance the human race will love the day will come citizens when all will be conquered harmony, light, joy and life it will come and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die in holras ceased his virgin lips closed and he remained for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood in marble immobility his staring eye caused those around him to speak in low tones Jean-Prouvillier and Combeaufer pressed each other's hands silently and leaning against each other in an angle of the barricade they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion that grave young man executioner and priest composed of light like crystal and also of rock let us say it once that later on after the action when the bodies were taken to the morgue and searched a police agent's card was found on le kaboek the author of this book had in his hands in 1848 the special report on this subject made to the prefect of police in 1832 we will add that if we are to believe a tradition of the police which is strange but probably well founded le kaboek was claque-sous the fact is that dating from the death of le kaboek there was no longer any question of claque-sous claque-sous had nowhere left any trace of his disappearance he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible his life had been all shadows his end was night the whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so quickly terminated when corphorac again beheld on the barricade the small young men who had inquired of him that morning for Marius this lad who had a bold and reckless air had come by night to join the insurgents end of book 12 chapter 8 end of book 12 Corinth recording by Martina Hutchins in Berkeley California chapter 1 of book 13 of Les Miserables volume 4 by Victor Hugo this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Libri Patricia Hayes Les Miserables volume 4 by Victor Hugo translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood book 13 Marius enters the shadow chapter 1 from the Rue Plumet to the Cordier Sans Denis the voice which had summoned Marius to the twilight of the barricade of the Rue de la Chancerie had produced on him the effect of the voice of destiny that he wished to die the opportunity presented itself he knocked at the door of the tomb a hand in the darkness offered him the key these melancholy openings which take place in the gloom before despair are tempting Marius thrusts to side the bar which had so often allowed him to pass emerge from the garden and said I will go mad with grief being fixed or solid in his brain incapable of accepting anything thenceforth of the fate after those two months passed in the intoxication of youth and love overwhelmed at once by all the reveries of despair he had but one desire remaining to make a speedy end of all he set out at rapid pace he found himself most opportunely armed as he had Javert's pistols with him the young man of whom he thought he had caught a glimpse had vanished from his sight in the street Marius who had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the Boulevard traversed the Esplanade and the bridge of the Envelide the Champs-Elysées the Place Louis XV and reached the Rue de Rivoli the shops were open there the gas was burning under the arcades in the stalls people were eating ices in the café la thé and nibbling small cakes at the English pastry cook shop only a few posting chaise were setting out at a gallop from the Hôtel des Prons and the Hôtel Maurice Marius entered the Rue Saint-Henry through the passage de l'Hormes there the shops were closed the merchants were chatting in front of their half open doors people were walking about the street lanterns were lighted beginning with the first floor all the windows were lighted as usual there was cavalry on the Place du Palais Royal Marius followed the Rue Saint-Henry in proportion as he left the Palais Royal behind him there were fewer lighted windows the shops were fast shut no one was chatting on the thresholds the street grew somber and at the same time increased in density for the passers-by now amounted to a crowd no one could be seen to speak in this throng and yet there arose from it a dull deep murmur near the fountain of the Abra Sack there were assemblages motionless and gloomy groups which were to those who went and came as stones in the midst of running water at the entrance of the Rue des Provers no longer walked it formed a resisting, massive solid compact almost impenetrable block of people who were huddled together and conversing in low tones there were hardly any black coats or round hats now but smock-frocks, blouses, caps and bristling and cadaverous heads this multitude undulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom its whisperings had the horse accent of a vibration although not one of them was walking a dull trampling was audible in the mire beyond this dense portion of the throng and the Rue des Rues and the Rue des Provers and the extension of the Rue Saint-en-Hurie there were no longer a single window in which a candle was burning only the solitary and diminishing rows of lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street in the distance the lanterns of that date resembled large red stars hanging to ropes and shed upon the pavement a shadow which at the form of a huge spider these streets were not deserted there could be described piles of guns moving bayonets and troops bivouacking no curious observer passed that limit their circulation ceased there the rabble ended and the army began Marius willed with the will of a man who hopes no more he had been summoned he must go he found a means to traverse the throng and pass the bivouac of the troops he shunned the patrols he avoided the sentinels he made a circuit reached the Rue des Bethesies and directed his course toward the All at the corner of the Rue des Bordonnais there were no longer any lanterns after having passed the zone of the crowd he had passed the limits of the troops he found himself in something startling there was no longer a passerby no longer a soldier no longer a light there was no one solitude, silence night I know not to chill which seized upon one entering a street was like entering a cellar he continued to advance he took a few steps someone passed close to him at a run was it a man or a woman were there many of them he could not have told it had passed and vanished proceeding from circuit to circuit he reached a lane which he judged to be the Rue de la Patrie near the middle of this street he came in contact with an obstacle he extended his hands it was an overturned wagon his foot recognized pools of water gullies and paving stones scattered and piled up a barricade had been begun there at abandon he climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of the barrier he walked very near the street post and guided himself along the walls of the houses a little beyond the barricade it seemed to him that he could make out something white in front of him he approached it took on a form it was two white horses the horses of the omnibus harnessed by Basui in the morning who had been straying at random all day from the street to street and had finally halted there with the weary patience of brutes who no more understand the actions of men then man understands the actions of Providence Marius left the horses behind him as he was approaching a street which seemed to him to be the Rue du Contre social a shop a shop coming no one knows whence and traversing the darkness at random whistled close by him and the bullet pierced a brass shaving dish suspended above his head over a hairdresser's shop this pierced shaving dish was still to be seen in 1848 in the Rue du Contre social at the corner of the pillars of the market this shop still betokened life from that instant forth he encountered nothing more the whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black steps nevertheless Marius pressed forward End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 An Owl's View of Paris a being who could have hovered over Paris that night with the wing of the bat or the owl would have had beneath his eyes a gloomy sight all that old quarter of the owl which is like a city within a city through which run the Rue Saint-Doné and Saint-Martin where a thousand lanes cross and of which the insurgents had made their redoubt and their stronghold would have appeared to him like a dark and enormous cavity hollowed out in the center of Paris there the glance fell into an abyss thanks to the broken lanterns thanks to the closed windows their all radiance all life all sound all movement ceased the invisible police of the insurrection were on the watch everywhere and maintained order that is to say night the necessary tactics of insurrection are to drown small numbers in a vast obscurity to multiply every combatant by the possibilities which that obscurity contains at dusk every window where a candle was burning received a shot the light was extinguished sometimes the inhabitant was killed hence nothing was stirring there was nothing but fright, mourning stupor in the houses and in the streets a sort of sacred horror not even the long rows of windows and stores the indentations of the chimneys and the roofs and the vague reflections which are cast back by the wet and muddy pavements were visible an eye cast upward at that mass of shadows might perhaps have caught a glimpse here and there at intervals of indistinct gleams which brought out broken and eccentric lines and profiles of singular buildings something like the lights which go and come and ruins it was at such points that the barricades were situated the rest was a lake of obscurity foggy heavy and venereal above which in motionless and melancholy outlines rose the tower of Saint Jacques and the church of Saint-Marie and two or three more of those grand edifices of which man makes giants and the night makes phantoms all around this deserted and disquieting labyrinth in the quarters where the Parisian circulation had not been annihilated and where a few street lanterns still burned the aerial observer might have distinguished the metallic gleam of swords and bayonets the dull rumble of artillery and the swarming of silent battalions whose ranks were swelling from minute to minute a formidable girdle which was slowly drawing in and around the insurrection the invested quarter was no longer anything more than a monstrous cavern everything there appeared to be asleep or motionless and as we have just seen any street which one might come to offered nothing but darkness a wild darkness full of traps full of unseen and formidable shocks into which it was alarming to penetrate and in which it was terrible to remain those who entered shivered before those they awaited where those who waited shuddered before those who were coming invisible in combatants were entrenched at every corner of the street snares of the supple-cur were concealed in the density of night all was over no more light was to be hoped for henceforth except the lightning of guns no further encounter except the abrupt and rapid apparition of death where, how, when no one knew but it was certain and inevitable in this place which had been marked out for the struggle the government and the insurrection the national guard and popular societies the bourgeois and the uprising groping their way were about to come into contact the necessity was the same for both the only possible issue thenceforth was to emerge the world or conquerors a situation so extreme an obscurity so powerful that the most timid felt themselves seized with resolution and the most daring with terror moreover on both sides the fury, the rage and the determination were equal for the one party to advance meant death and no one dreamed of retreating for the other to remain meant death and no one dreamed of flight it was indispensable that all should be ended on the following day that triumph should rest either here or there that the insurrection should prove itself a revolution or a skirmish the government understood this as well as the parties the most insignificant bourgeois felt it hence a thought of anguish which mingled with the impenetrable gloom of this quarter where all was at the point of being decided hence a redoubled anxiety around the silence whence a catastrophe was on the point of emerging here only one sound was audible a sound as heart-rending as the death-rattle as menacing as a malediction the toxin of Saint-Marie nothing could be more blood-curdling than the clamour of the wild and desperate bell wailing amid the shadows as it often happens nature seemed to have fallen into a court with what men were about to do nothing disturbed the harmony of the whole effect the stars had disappeared heavy clouds filled the horizon with their melancholy foals a black sky rested on these dead streets as though an immense winding-sheet were being outspread over this immense tomb while a battle that was still holy political was in preparation in the same locality which had already witnessed so many revolutionary events while youth the secret associations the schools in the name of principals and the middle classes in the name of interest were approaching preparatory to dashing themselves together clasping and throwing each other while each one hastened and invited the last and decisive hour of the crisis far away and quite outside of this fatal quarter in the most profound depths of the unfathomable cavities of that wretched old Paris which disappears under the splendour of happy and opulent Paris the somber voice of the people could be heard giving utterance to a dull roar a fearful and sacred voice which is composed of the roar of the brute and of the word of God which terrifies the weak and warns the wise which comes both from below like the voice of a lion and from on high like the voice of the thunder End of book 13 chapters 1 and 2 chapter 3 there everything was still calmer more obscure and more motionless than in the neighbouring streets one would have said that the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread over the heavens nevertheless a red glow brought out against this black black ground the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the rue de la chancerie on the Saint-Eustache side it was the reflection of the torch which was burning in the Corinth barricade Marius directed his steps toward that red light it had drawn him to the Marceau pourri and he caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the rue de Préchère he entered it the insurgent sentinel who was guarding the other end did not see him he felt that he was very close to that which he had come in search of and he walked on tiptoe in this manner he reached the elbow of that short section of the rue Montour which was, as the reader will remember the only communication which Angera had preserved with the outside world at the corner of the last house on his left he thrust his head forward and looked into the fragment of the rue Montour a little beyond the angle of the lane and the rue de la chancerie which cast a broad curtain of shadow in which he was himself engulfed he perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop and beyond a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall and men crouching down with guns on their knees all this was ten fathoms distant from him it was the interior of the barricade the houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of the wine-shop the large barricade and the flag from him Marias had but a step more to take then the unhappy man seated himself on a post folded his arms and fell to thinking about his father he thought of that heroic Colonel Count Mercier who had been so proud a soldier who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic and had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon who had beheld Genoa Alexandra Milan, Torrin, Madrid Vienna, Dresden Berlin, Moscow who had left on all the victorious battlefields of Europe drops of that same blood which he Marias had in his veins who had grown gray before his time in discipline and command who had lived with his sword buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade blackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet in barracks, in camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances and who, at the expiration of twenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scar cheek, a smiling countenance tranquil, admirable pure as a child having done everything for France and nothing against her he said to himself that his day had also come now that his hour had struck that following his father he too was about to show himself brave intrepid, bold to run to meet the bullets to offer his breast to bayonets to shed his blood to seek the enemy, to seek death that he was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of battle and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was the street and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil war he beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him and into this he was about to fall then he shuttered he thought of his father's sword which his grandfather had sold to a second hand dealer and which he had so mournfully regretted he said to himself that that chase and valiant sword had done well to escape from him and to depart and wrath into the gloom that if it had thus fled it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the future that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion the war of the gutters the war of pavements, fuselods blows given and received in the rear it was because coming from Marengo and Freedland it did not wish to go to the Rue de la Chonvary it was because after what it had done with the father it did not wish to do this for the son he told himself that if that sword were there if after taking possession of it at his father's pillow he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of darkness the Frenchman in the streets it would assuredly have scorched his hands and burst out of flame before his eyes like the sword of the angel he told himself that it was fortunate that it was not there that it had disappeared that that was well that that was just that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father's glory and that it was far better that the Colonel's sword should be sold at auction sold to the old clothesman than it should today wound the side of his country and then he fell to weeping bitterly this was horrible but what was he to do live with that cossette he could not since she was gone he must needs die had he not given her his word of honor that he would die she had gone knowing that this meant that it pleased her that Maria should die and then she no longer loved him since she had departed thus without warning without a word without a letter although she knew his address what was the good of living and why should he live now then what should he retreat after going so far should he flee from danger after having approached it should he slip away after having come and peeped into the barricade slip away all in a tremble saying after all I have had enough of it as it is I have seen it that suffices this is civil war and I shall take my leave should he abandon his friends who were expecting who were in need of him possibly who were a mere handful against an army should he be untrue at once to his love to country to his word should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism but this was impossible and if the phantom of his father was there in the gloom and beheld him retreating he would beat him on the loins with the fight of his sword and shout to him march on you paltrune thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts he dropped his head all at once he raised it a sort of splendid rectification had just been affected in his mind there is a widening of the spear of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave it makes one see clearly to be near death the vision of the action into which he felt that he was perhaps on the point of entering appeared to him no more as lamentable but as superb the war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul before the eye of his thought all the tumultuous interrogation points of reverie recurred to him in throngs but without troubling him he left none of them unanswered let us see why should his father be indignant are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty what was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pont Merci and the combat which was about to begin it is no longer Mont-Miral nor Champ-au-Bair it is something quite different the question is no longer one of sacred territory but of a holy idea the country wails that may be but humanity applauds but is it true that the country does wail France bleeds but liberty smiles and in the presence of liberty smile France forgets her wound and then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view why do we speak of civil war civil war what does that mean is there a foreign war is not all war between war between men war between brothers war is qualified only by its object there is no such thing as foreign or civil war there is only just an unjust war until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded war that at least which is the effort of the future which is hastening on against the past which is lagging in the rear may be necessary what have we to reproach that war with war does not become a disgrace the sword does not become a disgrace except when it is used for assassinating the right progress reason civilization truth then war whether foreign or civil is iniquitous it is called crime outside the pale of that holy thing justice by what right does one form of man despise another by what right should the sword of Washington disown the pike then it is a meal de molem Leonidas against the stranger Timoleon against the tyrant which is greater the one is the defender the other the liberator shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city limits without taking the object into a consideration then note the infamous Marcell Arnault von Blankenheim calling the hedge roll war the war of the streets why not the war of Ambriory, of Artveld, of Marnie, of Pelagius? But Ambiori fought against Rome. Artveld against France. Marnie against Spain. Pelagius against the Moors. All against the foreigner. Well, the monarchy is a foreigner. Oppression is a stranger. The right divine is a stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier. And invasion violates geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the English in both cases regaining possession of one's own territory. There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices. After philosophy action is required. Live force finishes what the idea has sketched out. Prometheus chained begins. A rostrategen begins. The encyclopedia enlightens souls. The tenth of August electrifies them. After Escalus, Thaurisibulus. After Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up, pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance. Their eyes must be wounded by the true. Light must be hurled at them in terrible handfuls. They must be a little at thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being. This dazzling awakens them, hence the necessity of toxins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with gloom by the right divine, cesarean glory, force, fanaticism, responsible power, and absolute majesty. A rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation in their twilight splendor of these somber triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant, of whom are you speaking? Do you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No, no more than Louis the sixteenth. Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings. But principles are not to be parceled out. The logic of the true is rectilinear. The peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complacence. No concessions. Then all encroachments on man should be repressed. There is a divine right in Louis the sixteenth. There is because of bourbon in Louis Philippe. Both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of right. And in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be combatted. It must be done. France being always the one to begin, when the master falls and France he falls everywhere. In short, what cause is more just? And consequently, what war is greater than that which reestablishes social truth, restores throne to liberty, restores the people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the purple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their plenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to himself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole immense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a level with the right. These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, violences, iniquities, and darkness still stand erect in this world with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass must be made to crumble. To conquer it, Austerlitz's gran. To take the bestill is immense. There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case, the soul, and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues treats subjects and disgusts theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the threat of syllogism floats without breaking in the mournful storm of thought. This was the situation of Marius's mind. As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every direction and in short shuddering at what he was about to do, his glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were there conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of expectation. Overhead at the small window in the third story, Marius described a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly attentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Lderkabuk. Below by the lights of the torch which was thrust between the paving-stones, this head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger in that somber and uncertain gleam than that vivid, motionless, astonished face with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring at its yawning mouth bent over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the height of the first floor, where it stopped. Chapter 1 of Book 14 of Le Miserab, Volume 4, by Victor Hugo. The Flag Act First As yet nothing had come, ten o'clock it sounded from St. Mary. Angelaire and Compeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the Grand Barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching. Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the rue Saint-Denis, rose and again to sing distinctly to the old popular air of by the light of the moon. This bit of poetry terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock. Mounaise est le maire, mon ami begard, priep moites grand arms, pour l'air d'er un mot, and capote bleu, le pool au chéco, vuici la benlieu, co-co-co-rico. They pressed each other's hands, that is, Gravolche said, and you're there. He is warning us, said Compeferre. A hasty rush troubled the deserted street. They beheld a being more agile than a clown, climbed over the omnibus, and Gevrosche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying, My gun, here they are! An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of hands seeking their guns became audible. Would you let my carbine, said Angelaire, to the lad? I want a big gun, replied Gevrosche. And he seized Gevers' gun. Two sentinels had fallen back and had come in almost at the same moment as Gevrosche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vedet of the rue de la petite tronzière. The vedet of the lane des presseurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and halls. The rue de la chenvrerie, of which a few paving stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke. Each man had taken up his position for the conflict. Forty-three insurgents, among who were N. Jolère, Combefair, Courfe-Roch, Basway, Jolie, Bérol, and Gevrosche, were kneeling inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as though at loopholes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six commanded by Fulie had installed themselves with their guns leveled at their shoulders at the windows of the two stories of Corridth. Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of St. Louis. This sound fainted first then precise then heavy, and sonorous approached slowly without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It was that combined silence and sound of the statue of the commander, but this stony step had something indescribably enormous and multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and at the same time the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible state legion marching onward. This tread drew near, it drew still nearer and stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved about like those indescribable, phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and gun barrels, confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch. A pause ensued as though both sides were waiting, all at once, from the depths of the darkness of voice, which was all the more sinister since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted, Who goes there? At the same time, the click of guns as they were lowered into position was heard. Angel Rah replied in a haughty and vibrating tone, The French Revolution! Fire shouted the voice. A flash and purpled all the facades in the street, as though the door of a furnace had been flung open and hastily closed again. A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it cut the staff, that is to say the very tip of the omnibus pole. Bullets which had been rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men. The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The attack had been rough and of a nature to inspire reflection in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment at the very least. Comrades! shouted Corfe Rock, Let us not waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before replying. It above all, said Angel Rah, let us raise the flag again. He picked up the flag which had fallen precisely at his feet. Outside the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard. The troops were reloading their arms. Angel Rah went on, Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again? Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when, without any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation. Angel Rah himself felt a thrill. He repeated, Does no one volunteer? Chapter 2 The Flag Act II Since they had arrived at Corinth and had begun the construction of the barricade, no attention had been paid to Father Mabouf. Monsieur Mabouf had not quitted the mob, however. He had entered the ground floor of the wine-shop and had seated himself behind the counter. However he had, so to speak, retreated into himself. He no longer seemed to look or to think. Coyfee Rock and the others had accosted him two or three times, warning him of his peril. Beseeching him to withdraw, but he did not hear them. When they were not speaking to him his mouth moved as though he were replying to someone, and as soon as he was addressed his lips became motionless and his eyes no longer had the appearance of being alive. Several hours before the barricade was attacked he had assumed an attitude which he did not afterwards abandon with both fists planted on his knees and his head thrust forward as though he were gazing over a precipice. Nothing had been able to move him from this attitude. It did not seem as though his mind were in the barricade. When each had gone to take up his position for the combat, there remained an attack room where Gervere was bound to the post only a single insurgent with a naked sword watching over Gervere and himself Mabouf. At the moment of the attack, at the detonation, the physical shock had reached him and had, as it were, awakened him. He started up abruptly, crossed the room, and at the instant when N. Jorley repeated his appeal, Does no one volunteer? The old man was seen to make his appearance on the threshold of the wine shop. His presence produced a sort of commotion in the different groups. A shout went up, It is the voter, it is the member of the convention, it is the representative of the people. It is probable that he did not hear them. He strode straight up to N. Jorley, the insurgents withdrawing before him with a religious fear. He tore the flag from N. Jorley, who recoiled in amazement, and then, since no one dared to stop or to assist him, this old man of eighty was shaking head, but firm foot began slowly to ascend the staircase of paving stones arranged in the barricade. This was so melancholy and so grand that all around him cried, Off with your hats! At every step that he mounted it was a frightful spectacle. His white locks, his decrepit face, his lofty bald and wrinkled brow, his amazed and open mouth, his aged arm upholding the red banner, rose through the gloom, and were enlarged in the bloody light of the torch, and the bystanders thought that they beheld the specter of ninety-three emerging from the earth with a flag of terror in his hand. When he reached the last step, when this trembling and terrible phantom erect on that pile of rubbish in the presence of twelve hundred invisible guns drew himself up in the face of death, as though he were more powerful than it, the whole barricade assumed amid the darkness a supernatural and colossal form. There ensued one of those silences which occur only in the presence of prodigies. In the midst of the silence the old man waved the red flag and shouted, Long live the revolution! Long live the republic! Fraternity, equality, and death! Those in the barricade heard a low and rapid whisper, like the murmur of a priest who is dispatching a prayer in haste. It was probably the commissary of police who was making the legal summons at the other end of the street. Then the same piercing voice which had shouted, Who goes there? shouted, Retire! Monsieur Mabouf, pale, haggard, his eyes lighted up with the mournful flame of aberration raised the flag above his head and repeated, Long live the republic! Fire, said the voice, a second discharge, similarly to the first, rained down upon the barricade. The old man fell on his knees, then rose again, dropped the flag and fell backward on the pavement, like a log at full length without stretched arms. Rivulets of blood flowed beneath him, his aged head pale and sad, seemed to be gazing at the sky. One of those emotions which are superior to man, which make him forget even to defend himself, seized upon the insurgents, and they approached the body with a respectful awe. What men these regicides were, said Andrew Lair. Corfeirac bent down to Andrew Lazir. This is for yourself alone. I do not wish to dampen the enthusiasm, but this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him. His name was Father Mabouf. I do not know what was the matter with him today. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head. The head of a blockhead and the heart of a Brutus replied Andrew Lair. Then he raised his voice. Citizens, this is the example which the old gave to the young. We hesitate he came. We were drawing back he advanced. This is what those who are trembling with age teach to those who tremble with fear. This aged man is august in the eyes of his country. He has had a long life and a magnificent death. Now let us place the body under cover that each one of us may defend this old man, dead as he would his father living, and may his presence in our midst render the barricade impregnable. A murmur of gloomy and energetic assent followed these words. Andrew Lair bent down, raised the old man's head, and fierce as he was he kissed him on the brow. Then throwing wide his arms and handling this dead man with tender precaution, as though he feared to hurt it, he removed his coach, showed the bloody holes in it all, and said, This is our flag now. They threw a long black shawl of widow who schloops over father Maboof. Six men made a litter of their guns. On this they laid the body and bore it with bared heads, with solemn slowness to the large table in the taproom. These men, wholly absorbed in the grave and sacred task in which they were engaged, thought no more of the perilous situation in which they stood. When the course passed near Ja'er, who was still impassive, Angel Ra said to the spy, it will be your turn presently. During all this time, little Gavrosh, who alone had not quitted his post, but had remained on guard, though he thought he aspired some men stealthily approaching the barricade. All at once he shouted, Look out! Corfeirock, Angel Ra, Jean Proverre, Comberferre, Jolie, Barol, Boussout, and all the rest ran tumultuously from the wine shop. It was almost too late. They saw a glistening density of bayonets undulating above the barricade. Municipal guards of lofty stature were making their way in, some striding over the omnibus, others through the cut thrusting before them the urchin who were treated but did not flee. The moment was critical. It was that first redoubtable moment of inundation when the stream rises to the level of the levee, and when the water begins to filter through the fissures of a dyke, a second more in the barricade would have been taken. Baharel dashed upon the first municipal guard who was entering and killed him on the spot with a blow from his gun. The second killed Baharel with a blow from his bayonets and another had already overtaken Corfeirock, who was shouting, Follow me! The largest of all, a sort of colossus marched on Gavrosh with his bayonet fixed. The urchin took in his arm Giver's immense gun, leveled it resolutely at the giant, and fired. No discharge, wow, Giver's gun was not loaded. The municipal guard burst into a laugh and raised his bayonet at the child. Before the bayonet had touched Gavrosh, the gun slipped from the soldier's grasp. A bullet had struck the municipal guardsman in the center of the forehead, and he fell over on his back. A second bullet struck the other guard who assaulted Corfeirock in the breast and laid him low on the pavement. This was the work of Marius who had just entered the barricade. Chapter 4 The Barrel of Powder Marius, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Montetor, had witnessed shuttering in a resolute the first phase of the combat. But he had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign vertigo which may be designated as the call of the Abyss, in the presence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of Mishir Mabouf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Barrel killed in Corfeirock shouting, follow me, of that child threatened of his friends to succor or to avenge. All hesitation had vanished, and he flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand. With his first shot he had saved Gavrosh, and with the second delivered Corfeirock. Amid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted guards, the assailants had climbed the entrenchment on whose summit municipal guards, soldiers of the line, and national guards from the suburbs could now be seen, gun in hand, rearing themselves to more than half the height of their bodies. They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did not leap into the enclosure, as though wavering in the fear of some trap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into a lion's den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets, their bearskin caps, and the upper part of their uneasy and angry faces. Marius had no longer any weapons, he had flung away his discharged pistols after firing them. But he had caught sight of the barrel of powder in the tap room near the door. As he turned half-round, gazing in that direction, a soldier took aim at him. At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it. This was done by someone who had darted forward, the young workmen and velvet trousers. The shot sped, traversed the hand and possibly also the workman since he fell, but the ball did not strike Marius. All this which was rather to be apprehended than seen through the smoke, Marius, who was entering the tap room, hardly noticed. Still he had in a confused way perceived that gun barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked it, and he had heard the discharge. But in moments like this, the things which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one pauses for nothing, one feels obscurely impelled towards more darkness still, and all is cloud. The insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied. Angel Ra had shouted, Wait, don't fire at random! In the first confusion they might in fact wound each other, the majority of them had ascended to the window on the first story and to the attic windows, once they commanded the assailants. The most determined, with Angelé, Corphéroc, and Jean Provière and Combre Faire, had proudly placed themselves with their backs against the houses at the rear, unsheltered in facing the ranks of soldiers and guards who crowned the barricade. All this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and threatening gravity which proceeds engagements. They took aim, point blank, on both sides. They were so close that they could talk together without raising their voices. When they had reached this point, where the spark is on the brink of darting forth, an officer and a gore gay extended his sword and said, Lay down your arms! Fire! replied Angel Ra. The two discharges took place at the same moment, and all disappeared in smoke, an acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weak dull groans. When the smoke cleared away, the combatants on both sides could be seen to be thinned out, but still in the same positions, reloading in silence. All at once a thundering voice was heard, shouting, Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade! All turned in the direction once the voice proceeded. Marius had entered the taproom, and had seized the barrel of powder. Then he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the sort of obscure mist which filled the entrenched enclosure to glide along the barricade as far as that cage of paving stones where the torch was fixed. To tear it from the torch to replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the pile of stones under the barrel which was instantly staved in, with a sort of horrible obedience. All this had cost Marius by the time necessary to stoop and rise again, and now all, national guards, municipal guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the other extremity of the barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he stood with his foot on the stones, his torch in his hand, his haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolution, drooping the flame of the torch towards the redoubtable pile, where they could make out the broken barrel of powder. In giving vent to that startling cry, Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade. Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision of the young revolution after the apparition of the old. Blow up the barricade, said a sergeant, and yourself with it. Marius retorted, and myself also, and he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder. But there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assailants abandoning their dead and wounded flowed back pal mel and in disorder towards the extremity of the street. And there were again lost in the night. It was a headlong flight. The barricade was free. Chapter five. End of the Verses of Jean Proviere. All flocked around Marius. Corfeirock flung himself on his neck. Here you are. What luck, said Combefer. You came in, opportunely ejaculated bassoot. If it had not been for you, I should have been dead, began Corfeirock again. If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled up, added Gavrush. Marius asked, Where is the Chief? You are he, said Angel Ra. Marius had a furnace in his brain all day long. Now it was a whirlwind. This whirlwind, which was within him, produced on him the effect of being outside of him and of bearing him away. It seemed to him that he was already at an immense distance from life, his two luminous months of joy and love, ending abruptly at that frightful precipice. Cassette lost to him, that barricade, Monsieur Mabouf getting himself killed for the Republic, himself the leader of the insurgents. All these things appeared to him like a tremendous nightmare. He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact that all that surrounded him was real. Marius had already seen too much of life not to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible, and that what is already necessary to foresee is the unforeseen. He had looked on at his own drama as a piece which one does not understand. In the mists which enveloped his thoughts he did not recognize Gavr, who, bound to his post, had not so much as moved his head during the whole of the attack on the barricade, and who had gazed on the revolt seething around him with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of a judge. Marius had not even seen him. In the meanwhile, the assailants did not stir. They could be heard marching and swarming through at the end of the street, but they did not venture into it, either because they were awaiting orders or because they were awaiting reinforcements before hurling themselves afresh on this impregnable redoubt. The insurgents had posted sentinels, and some of them, who were medical students, set about caring for the wounded. They had thrown the tables out of the wine shop, with the exception of the two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, and of the one in which lay Father Maboof. They had added them to the barricade, and had replaced them in the taproom with mattresses from the bed of the widow Hushloop and her servants. On these mattresses they had laid the wounded. As for the three poor creatures who inhabited Corinth, no one knew what had become of them. They were finally found, however, hidden in the cellar. A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered barricade. The role was called. One of the assurgents was missing. And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Provière. He was sought among the wounded. He was not there. He was sought among the dead. He was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combe Faire said to Engelara, They have our friend. We have their agent. Are you set on the death of that spy? Yes, replied Engelrière. But less so than on the life of Jean Provière. This took place in the taproom near Javert's post. Well, resumed Combe Faire, I am going to fasten my handkerchief to this cane and go as a flag of truth to offer to exchange our man for theirs. Listen, said Engelrière, lying his hand on Combe Faire's arm. At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms. They heard a manly voice shout, Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future! They recognized the voice of Provière. A flash passed, a report rang out. Silence fell again. They've killed him! explained Combe Faire. Engelrière glanced at Javert and said to him, Your friends have just shot you. End of Book 14, Chapters 3, 4, and 5, Recording by Jersey City Frankie. Chapter 6 and 7 of Book 14 of Les Miserables, Volume 4 by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Eastman. Les Miserables, Volume 4 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood. Book 14. The Grandures of Despair. Chapter 6. The Agony of Death After the Agony of Life. A peculiarity of this species of war is that the attack of the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that the assailants generally abstain from turning the position, either because they fear ambushes or because they are afraid of getting entangled in the tortuous streets. The assailants' whole attention had been directed, therefore, to the Grand Barricade, which was evidently the spot always menaced, and there the struggle would infallibly recommend. But Marius thought of the little barricade, and went thither. It was deserted, and guarded only by the fire-pot, which trembled between the paving-stones. Moreover the Monditor Alli, and the branches of the Rue de la Petite Ronderie, and the Rue de Sanya, were profoundly calm. As Marius was withdrawing after concluding his inspection, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness. Mr. Armarius? He started, for he recognized the voice which had called to him two hours before, through the gate in the Rue Plume. Only the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath. He looked about him, but saw no one. Marius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing around him. He advanced a step in order to quit the distant recess where the barricade lay. Mr. Marius repeated the voice. This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly. He looked, and saw nothing. At your feet, said the voice. He bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was dragging itself towards him. It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him. The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of course velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of blood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head, which was lifted towards him, and which was saying to him, You do not recognize me? No. Eponine. Marius bent hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy child. She was dressed in men's clothes. How came you here? What are you doing here? I am dying, said she. There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. Marius cried out with a start. You are wounded! Wait! I will carry you into the room. They will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I hold you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did you come hither? And he tried to pass his arm under her in order to raise her. She uttered a feeble cry. Have I hurt you, asked Marius? A little. But I only touched your hand. She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius saw a black hole. What is the matter with your hand, said he? It is pierced. Pierced? Yes. What with? A bullet. How? Did you see a gun aimed at you? Yes, and a hand stopping it. It was mine. Marius was seized with a shudder. What madness! Poor child! But so much the better. If that is all, it is nothing. Let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound. One does not die of a pierced hand. She murmured. The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from the spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on the stone. He obeyed. She laid her head on Marius's knees, and without looking at him, she said, Oh, how good this is! How comfortable this is! There I no longer suffer. She remained silent for a moment. Then she turned her face with an effort and looked at Marius. Do you know what, Mr. Marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden. It was stupid because it was I who showed you that house. And then I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you— She paused, and overstepping the somber transitions that undoubtedly existed in her mind, she resumed with a heart-rending smile. You thought me ugly, didn't you? She continued. You see, you are lost. Now no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way. You are going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here. No one saw me. No one picked me up. I was waiting for you. I said, so he is not coming. Oh, if only you knew. I bit my blouse. I suffered so. Now I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself in your mirror? And the day when I came to you on the boulevard near the washer-women? How the birds sang! That was a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sews and I said to you, I don't want your money. I hope you picked up your coin. You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright and it was not cold. Do you remember, Mr. Marius? Oh, how happy I am. Everyone is going to die. She had a mad grave and heartbreaking air. Her torn blouse disclosed her bare throat. As she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast where there was another hole and whence there spurted from moment to moment a stream of blood like a jet of wine from an open bunghole. Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion. Oh, she resumed, it is coming again. I am stifling. She caught up her blouse and bit it and her limbs stiffened on the pavement. At that moment the young cocks crow executed by little Gavrache resounded through the barricade. The child had mounted a table to load his gun and was singing gaily the song then so popular. Unbeholding Lafayette, the gendarme repeats Let us flee, let us flee, let us flee. Eponine raised herself and listened. Then she murmured, It is he. and turning to Marius. My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me. Her brother, inquired Marius, he was meditating in the most bitter and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Tarnardiers which his father had bequeathed to him. Who is your brother? That little fellow. The one who was singing? Yes. Marius made a movement. Oh, don't go away. Said she. It will not be long now. She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken by hiccoughs. At intervals the death-rattle interrupted her. She put her face as near as out of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression. Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you, but perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently. Take your letter. She grasped Marius's hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius's hand in the pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper. Take it, said she. Marius took the letter. She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment. Now, for my trouble, promise me. And she stopped. What? asked Marius. Promise me! I promise. Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead. I shall feel it. She dropped her head again on Marius's knees and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes, in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world. And, by the way, Mr. Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you. She tried to smile once more and expired. Chapter 7 Gavrash as a profound calculator of distances. Marius kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid brow where the icy perspiration stood in beads. This was no infidelity to Cozzette. It was a gentle and pensive farewell to an unhappy soul. It was not without a tremor that he had taken the letter which Eponine had given him. He had immediately felt that it was an event of weight. He was impatient to read it. The heart of man is so constituted that the unhappy child had hardly closed her eyes when Marius began to think of unfolding this paper. He laid her gently on the ground and went away. Something told him that he could not peruse that letter in the presence of that body. He drew near to a candle in the taproom. It was a small note, folded and sealed with a woman's elegant care. The address was in a woman's hand and ran to Monsieur Marius Pomercy at Monsieur Corphorox, Rue de la Vérerie, No. 16. He broke the seal and read, My dearest Alas! My father insists on her setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de la Omarme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. Cozzette, June 4. Such was the innocence of their love that Marius was not even acquainted with Cozzette's handwriting. What had taken place may be related in a few words. Eponine had been the cause of everything. After the evening of the 3rd of June she had cherished a double idea. To defeat the projects of her father and the Ruffians on the house of the Rue Clumet and to separate Marius and Cozzette. She had exchanged rags with the first young scamp she came across who had thought it amusing to dress like a woman while Eponine disguised herself like a man. It was she who had conveyed to Jean Valjean in the Chant de Mars the expressive warning, leave your house. Jean Valjean had, in fact, returned home and had said to Cozzette, we set out this evening and we go to the Rue de l'Homarmé with Toussaint. Next week we shall be in London. Cozzette, utterly overwhelmed by this unexpected blow, had hastily penned a couple of lines to Marius. But how was she to get the letter to the post? She never went out alone and Toussaint, surprised at such a commission, would certainly show the letter to Mr. Fouche-Levan. In this dilemma Cozzette had caught sight through the fence of Eponine in men's clothes who now prowled incessantly around the garden. Cozzette had called to this young workman and had handed him five francs in the letter saying, carry this letter immediately to its address. Eponine had put the letter in her pocket. The next day, on the 5th of June, she went to Cofforock's quarters to inquire for Marius, not for the purpose of delivering the letter, but a thing which every jealous and loving soul will comprehend, to see. There she had waited for Marius, or at least for Cofforock, still for the purpose of seeing. When Cofforock had told her, we are going to the barricades, an idea flashed through her mind to fling herself into that death, as she would have done into any other, and to thrust Marius into it also. She had followed Cofforock, had made sure of the locality where the barricade was in the process of construction. And quite certain, since Marius had received no warning, and since she had intercepted the letter, that he would go at dusk to his tristing-place for every evening, she had be taken herself to the Rue Plume, had there awaited Marius, and had sent him, in the name of his friends, the appeal which would, she thought, lead him to the barricade. She reckoned on Marius's despair when he should fail to find Cozzette. She was not mistaken. She had returned to the Rue de la Chandrerie herself. What she did there, the reader has just seen. She died with the tragic joy of jealous hearts who dragged the beloved being into their own death and who say no one shall have him. Marius covered Cozzette's letter with kisses, so she loved him. For one moment the idea occurred to him that he ought not to die now. Then he said to himself, she is going away, her father is taking her to England, and my grandfather refuses his consent to the marriage. Nothing has changed in our fates. Dreamers like Marius are subject to supreme attacks of dejection and desperate resolves are the result. The fatigue of living is insupportable. Death is sooner over with. Then he reflected that he had still two duties to fulfil. To inform Cozzette of his death and send her a final farewell, and to save from the impending catastrophe which was in preparation that poor child, Eponine's brother and Tarnardier's son, he had a pocket-book about him, the same one which had contained the notebook in which he had inscribed so many thoughts of love for Cozzette. He tore out a leaf and wrote on it a few lines in pencil. Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused. I have no fortune, neither hast thou. I hastened to thee, thou art no longer there. Thou knowest the promise that I gave thee, I shall keep it. I love thee. When thou redest this, my soul will be near thee, and thou wilt smile. Having nothing wherewith to seal this letter, he contended himself with folding the paper in four, and added the address. To Mademoiselle Cozzette Foch-Levant, and Monsieur Foch-Levant's Rue de l'Aumarmée, number seven. Having folded the letter, he stood in thought for a moment, drew out his pocket-book again, and wrote with the same pencil these four lines on the first page. My name is Marius Po-Mercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, Monsieur Gil-Norman, Rue de Phil-du-Caverre, number six in the Marais. He put his pocket-book back in his pocket, then he called Gavrache. The gammon, at the sound of Marius's voice, ran up to him with his merry and devoted air. Will you do something for me? Anything, said Gavrache. Good God! If it had not been for you, I should have been done for! Do you see this letter? Yes? Take it. Leave the barricade instantly. Gavrache began to scratch his ear uneasily. And tomorrow morning you will deliver it at its address to Mademoiselle Cozzette, and Monsieur Foch-Levant's Rue de l'Aumarmée, number seven. The heroic child replied, well, but in the meanwhile the barricade will be taken, and I shall not be there. The barricade will not be attacked until daybreak, according to all appearances, and will not be taken before tomorrow noon. The fresh respite which the assailants were granting to the barricade had, in fact, been prolonged. It was one of those intermissions which frequently occur in nocturnal combats, which are always followed by an increase of rage. Well, said Gavrache, what if I were to go and carry your letter tomorrow? It will be too late. The barricade will probably be blockaded. All the streets will be guarded, and you will not be able to get out. Go at once. Gavrache could think of no reply to this, and stood there in indecision, scratching his ear sadly. All at once he took the letter with one of those bird-like movements which were so common with him. All right, said he, and he started off at a run through Mundator Lane. An idea had occurred to Gavrache which had brought him to a decision, but he had not mentioned it, for fear that Marius might offer some objection to it. This was the idea. In his barely-midnight, the route to Leomarmé is not far off. I will go and deliver the letter at once, and I shall get back in time. End of Book 14, Chapter 7