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"There!" said Le Cabuc, dropping the butt end of his gun to the pavement. He had hardly uttered this word, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon, and he heard a voice saying to him: "On your knees." The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' cold, white face. Enjolras held a pistol in his hand. He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.
These fifty men were waiting for sixty thousand. Enjolras felt attacked by that impatience which seizes on strong souls on the threshold of redoubtable events. He went in search of Gavroche, who had set to making cartridges in the tap-room, by the dubious light of two candles placed on the counter by way of precaution, on account of the powder which was scattered on the tables.
Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks. Listen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of the Rue du Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window, on the fifth floor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head of an old woman, who had the air of having spent the night in watching. Perhaps she is the mother of some one of you.
I have, therefore, tried that man, and condemned him to death. As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself." Those who listened to him shuddered. "We will share thy fate," cried Combeferre. "So be it," replied Enjolras. "One word more.
Marius called to Enjolras, who had just stationed himself at the other extremity of the barricade: "Enjolras!" "What?" "What is the name of yonder man?" "What man?" "The police agent. Do you know his name?" "Of course. He told us." "What is it?" "Javert." Marius sprang to his feet. At that moment, they heard the report of the pistol. Jean Valjean re-appeared and cried: "It is done."
Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching.
When they were exhausted, when these formidable men on the point of death had no longer either powder or ball, each grasped in his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved, and of which we have spoken, and held the scaling party in check with these frightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles of aquafortis. We relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they occurred.
The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated: "Does no one volunteer?" Since they had arrived at Corinthe, and had begun the construction of the barricade, no attention had been paid to Father Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf had not quitted the mob, however; he had entered the ground-floor of the wine-shop and had seated himself behind the counter.
"Well, don't meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from your absinthe." "You are an ingrate, Enjolras." "You the man to go to the Barriere du Maine! You capable of it!"
Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once more. He was, himself, moreover, composed of two elements, which were, to all appearance, incompatible. He was ironical and cordial. His indifference loved. His mind could get along without belief, but his heart could not get along without friendship. A profound contradiction; for an affection is a conviction.
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