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Updated: June 18, 2025
As he descended again at a run, the portress hailed him: "Monsieur de Courfeyrac!" "What's your name, portress?" The portress stood bewildered. "Why, you know perfectly well, I'm the concierge; my name is Mother Veuvain." "Well, if you call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall call you Mother de Veuvain. Now speak, what's the matter? What do you want?"
"I have paid this rent for the last two hours, and I aspire to get rid of it; but there is a sort of history attached to it, and I don't know where to go." "Come to my place, sir," said Courfeyrac. "I have the priority," observed Laigle, "but I have no home." "Hold your tongue, Bossuet," said Courfeyrac. "Bossuet," said Marius, "but I thought that your name was Laigle."
A formidable pair of jaws yawned on the barricade. "Come, merrily now!" ejaculated Courfeyrac. "That's the brutal part of it. After the fillip on the nose, the blow from the fist. The army is reaching out its big paw to us. The barricade is going to be severely shaken up. The fusillade tries, the cannon takes." "It is a piece of eight, new model, brass," added Combeferre.
They smashed the only street lantern in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the lantern corresponding to one in the Rue Saint-Denis, and all the lanterns in the surrounding streets, de Mondetour, du Cygne, des Precheurs, and de la Grande and de la Petite-Truanderie. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directed everything.
"To make a barricade," replied Courfeyrac. "Well, here! This is a good place! Make it here!" "That's true, Aigle," said Courfeyrac. And at a signal from Courfeyrac, the mob flung themselves into the Rue de la Chanvrerie. The spot was, in fact, admirably adapted, the entrance to the street widened out, the other extremity narrowed together into a pocket without exit.
One was the bearded old woman who swept out his chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: "Seeing that his servant woman wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard." The other was a sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked at.
Still, in spite of his mournful preoccupation, he could not refrain from saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers with whom Jondrette was talking resembled a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, whom Courfeyrac had once pointed out to him as a very dangerous nocturnal roamer. This man's name the reader has learned in the preceding book.
"That's queer!" whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire. "No," responded Prouvaire, "that's serious." It was serious; in fact, Marius had reached that first violent and charming hour with which grand passions begin. A glance had wrought all this. When the mine is charged, when the conflagration is ready, nothing is more simple. A glance is a spark. It was all over with him. Marius loved a woman.
The theft of a nation cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark extracted like a pocket handkerchief. Courfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. One of the false ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration as regards aristocracy and the nobility was to believe in the particle.
A severe thought, starting oddly from a clash of words, suddenly traversed the conflict of quips in which Grantaire, Bahorel, Prouvaire, Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were confusedly fencing. How does a phrase crop up in a dialogue? Whence comes it that it suddenly impresses itself on the attention of those who hear it? We have just said, that no one knows anything about it.
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