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"M. Mabeuf, go to your home." "Why?" "There's going to be a row." "That's well." "Thrusts with the sword and firing, M. Mabeuf." "That is well." "Firing from cannon." "That is good. Where are the rest of you going?" "We are going to fling the government to the earth." "That is good." And he had set out to follow them. From that moment forth he had not uttered a word.
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!" M. Mabeuf, 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.
In the presence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of M. Mabeuf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed, and Courfeyrac shouting: "Follow me!" of that child threatened, of his friends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, and he had flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand.
"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 lying prone. The pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade, was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag to it.
They threw a long black shawl of Widow Hucheloup's over Father Mabeuf. 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 tap-room. 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 door was barricaded, Enjolras said to the others: "Let us sell our lives dearly." Then he approached the table on which lay Mabeuf and Gavroche. Beneath the black cloth two straight and rigid forms were visible, one large, the other small, and the two faces were vaguely outlined beneath the cold folds of the shroud. A hand projected from beneath the winding sheet and hung near the floor.
Moreover, he had his hat in his hand, although it had been raining all the morning, and was raining pretty briskly at the very time. Courfeyrac had recognized Father Mabeuf. He knew him through having many times accompanied Marius as far as his door.
This miscarriage had its consequences, however, which were perfectly distinct from Brujon's programme. The reader will see what they were. Often when we think we are knotting one thread, we are tying quite another. Marius no longer went to see any one, but he sometimes encountered Father Mabeuf by chance.
As he read, over the top of the book which he held in his hand, Father Mabeuf was surveying his plants, and among others a magnificent rhododendron which was one of his consolations; four days of heat, wind, and sun without a drop of rain, had passed; the stalks were bending, the buds drooping, the leaves falling; all this needed water, the rhododendron was particularly sad.
There was something about her, as she thus ran about among paths, where her outline appeared perfectly black, waving her angular arms, and with her fichu all in rags, that resembled a bat. When she had finished, Father Mabeuf approached her with tears in his eyes, and laid his hand on her brow. "God will bless you," said he, "you are an angel since you take care of the flowers."
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