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"Citizen," said Enjolras to Jean Valjean, "the Republic thanks you." Bossuet admired and laughed. He exclaimed: "It is immoral that a mattress should have so much power. Triumph of that which yields over that which strikes with lightning. But never mind, glory to the mattress which annuls a cannon!" At that moment, Cosette awoke.
France is great because she is France. Quia nomina leo." Marius felt no desire to retreat; he turned towards Enjolras, and his voice burst forth with a vibration which came from a quiver of his very being: "God forbid that I should diminish France! But amalgamating Napoleon with her is not diminishing her. Come! let us argue the question.
The menacing majesty of Enjolras disarmed and motionless, appeared to oppress this tumult, and this young man, haughty, bloody, and charming, who alone had not a wound, who was as indifferent as an invulnerable being, seemed, by the authority of his tranquil glance, to constrain this sinister rabble to kill him respectfully.
Who will grant me to pronounce the verses of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?" 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.
Enjolras 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, whence they commanded the assailants.
When the stones destined to the final defence were in place, Enjolras had the bottles which he had set under the table where Mabeuf lay, carried to the first floor. "Who is to drink that?" Bossuet asked him. "They," replied Enjolras. Then they barricaded the window below, and held in readiness the iron cross-bars which served to secure the door of the wine-shop at night.
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.
They were, evidently, on the brink of that moment which M. Clermont-Tonnerre, in 1822, called "the tug of war." Enjolras' order was executed with the correct haste which is peculiar to ships and barricades, the only two scenes of combat where escape is impossible.
All day long, he buried himself in social questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, property, production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the human ant-hill with darkness; and at night, he gazed upon the planets, those enormous beings. Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son.
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.
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