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Updated: May 19, 2025
The officer did not persist, and retired speedily. This time the warning was understood. No one made his appearance thereafter on that roof; and the idea of spying on the barricade was abandoned. "Why did you not kill the man?" Bossuet asked Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean made no reply. Bossuet muttered in Combeferre's ear: "He did not answer my question."
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.
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.
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.
"Well," resumed Combeferre, "I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for theirs." "Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre'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!"
He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre's philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly's cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac's dash, Bahorel's smile, Jean Prouvaire's melancholy, Joly's science, Bossuet's sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well.
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