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The law is only the law when entire. No! no charter!" It was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fireplace. This was tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled the poor Touquet Charter in his fist, and flung it in the fire. The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII. burn philosophically, and contented himself with saying:
Courfeyrac dragged a mattress off his bed, which was furnished with two, spread it out on the floor, and said: "There."
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 respectful awe. "What men these regicides were!" said Enjolras. Courfeyrac bent down to Enjolras' ear: "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.
He had learned German and English; thanks to Courfeyrac, who had put him in communication with his friend the publisher, Marius filled the modest post of utility man in the literature of the publishing house. He drew up prospectuses, translated newspapers, annotated editions, compiled biographies, etc.; net product, year in and year out, seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How? Not so badly.
Combeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by Gavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly: "We are soon to take the diligence for another planet"; Courfeyrac was disposing and arranging on some paving-stones which he had reserved for himself near Enjolras, a complete arsenal, his sword-cane, his gun, two holster pistols, and a cudgel, with the care of a young girl setting a small dunkerque in order.
Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has no time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught unprepared. We must go over all the seams that we have made and see whether they hold fast. This business ought to be concluded to-day. Courfeyrac, you will see the polytechnic students. It is their day to go out. To-day is Wednesday.
Near the Rue des Billettes, a man of lofty stature, whose hair was turning gray, and whose bold and daring mien was remarked by Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre, but whom none of them knew, joined them. Gavroche, who was occupied in singing, whistling, humming, running on ahead and pounding on the shutters of the shops with the butt of his triggerless pistol; paid no attention to this man.
The grandfather executed a pirouette on his eighty-year-old heels, and began to talk again like a spring that has broken loose once more: "Ainsi, bornant les cours de tes revasseries, Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries." "By the way!" "What is it, father?" "Have not you an intimate friend?" "Yes, Courfeyrac." "What has become of him?" "He is dead." "That is good."
The insurgents' cartridges were giving out; but not their sarcasms. In this whirlwind of the sepulchre in which they stood, they laughed. Courfeyrac was bare-headed. "What have you done with your hat?" Bossuet asked him. Courfeyrac replied: "They have finally taken it away from me with cannon-balls." Or they uttered haughty comments.
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.
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