by Victor Hugo
The hope did not last long; the gleam was soon eclipsed. In less than half an hour that which was in the air vanished; it was like heat lightning, and the insurgents felt that kind of leaden pall fall upon them which the indifference of the people casts over the wilful when abandoned.
The general movement, which seemed to have been vaguely projected, had miscarried; and the attention of the Minister of War and the strategy of the generals could now be concentrated upon the three or four barricades remaining standing.
The sun rose above the horizon.
An insurgent called to Enjolras:
“We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this without eating?”
Enjolras, still leaning upon his battlement, without taking his eyes off the end of the street, nodded his head.
12 (14)
IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE NAME OF ENJOLRAS’ MISTRESS
“I ADMIRE ENJOLRAS,” said Bossuet. “His impassive boldness astonishes me. He lives alone, which renders him perhaps a little sad. Enjolras suffers for his greatness, which binds him to widowhood. The rest of us have all, more or less, mistresses who make fools of us, that is to say braves. When we are as amorous as a tiger the least we can do is to fight like a lion. It is a way of avenging ourselves for the tricks which Mesdames our grisettes play us. Roland gets himself killed to spite Angelica; all our heroisms come from our women. A man without a woman, is a pistol without a hammer; it is the woman who makes the man go off. Now, Enjolras has no woman. He is not in love, and he finds a way to be intrepid. It is a marvellous thing that a man can be as cold as ice and as bold as fire.”
Enjolras did not appear to listen, but had anybody been near him he would have heard him murmur in an undertone, “Patria.”gk
Bossuet was laughing still when Courfeyrac exclaimed:
“Something new!”
And, assuming the manner of an usher announcing an arrival, he added:
“My name is Eight-Pounder.”
In fact, a new personage had just entered upon the scene. It was a second piece of ordnance.
The artillerymen quickly executed the manoeuvres, and placed this second piece in battery near the first.
This suggested the conclusion.
A few moments afterwards, the two pieces, rapidly served, opened directly upon the redoubt; the platoon firing of the line and the banlieue supported the artillery.
Another cannonade was heard at some distance. At the same time that two cannon were raging against the redoubt in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, two other pieces of ordnance, pointed, one on the Rue Saint-Denis, the other on the Rue Aubry le Boucher, were riddling the barricade St. Merry. The four cannon made dreary echo to one another.
The bayings of the dismal dogs of war answered each other.
Of the two pieces which were now battering the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, one fired grapeshot, the other ball.
The gun which threw balls was elevated a little, and the range was calculated so that the ball struck the extreme edge of the upper ridge of the barricade, dismantled it, and crumbled the paving-stones over the insurgents in showers.
This peculiar aim was intended to drive the combatants from the summit of the redoubt, and to force them to crowd together in the interior, that is, it announced the assault.
The combatants once driven from the top of the barricade by the balls and from the windows of the tavern by the grapeshot, the attacking columns could venture into the street without being watched, perhaps even without being under fire, suddenly scale the redoubt, as on the evening before, and, who knows? take it by surprise.
“We must at all events diminish the inconvenience of those pieces,” said Enjolras, and he cried: “fire upon the cannoneers!”
All were ready. The barricade, which had been silent for a long time, opened fire desperately; seven or eight discharges succeeded each other with a sort of rage and joy; the street was filled with a blinding smoke, and after a few minutes, through this haze pierced by flame, they could confusedly make out two thirds of the cannoneers lying under the wheels of the guns. Those who remained standing continued to serve the pieces with rigid composure, but the fire was slackened.
“This goes well,” said Bossuet to Enjolras. “Success.”
Enjolras shook his head and answered:
“A quarter of an hour more of this success, and there will not be ten cartridges in the barricade.”
It would seem that Gavroche heard this remark.
13 (15)
GAVROCHE OUTSIDE
COURFEYRAC suddenly perceived somebody at the foot of the barricade, outside in the street, under the balls.
Gavroche had taken a basket from the tavern, had gone out by the opening, and was quietly occupied in emptying into his basket the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been killed on the slope of the redoubt.
“What are you doing there?” said Courfeyrac.
Gavroche cocked up his nose.
“Citizen, I am filling my basket.”
“Why, don’t you see the grapeshot?”
Gavroche answered:
“Well, it rains. What then?”
Courfeyrac cried:
“Come back!”
“Directly,” said Gavroche.
And with a bound, he sprang into the street.
It will be remembered that the Fannicot company, on retiring, had left behind them a trail of corpses.
Some twenty dead lay scattered along the whole length of the street on the pavement. Twenty cartridge-boxes for Gavroche, a supply of cartridges for the barricade.
The smoke in the street was like a fog. Whoever has seen a cloud fall into a mountain gorge between two steep slopes can imagine this smoke crowded and as if thickened by two gloomy lines of tall houses. It rose slowly and was constantly renewed; hence a gradual darkening which even rendered broad day pallid. The combatants could hardly perceive each other from end to end of the street, although it was very short.
This darkness, probably desired and calculated upon by the leaders who were to direct the assault upon the barricade, was of use to Gavroche.
Under the folds of this veil of smoke, and thanks to his small size, he could advance far into the street without being seen. He emptied the first seven or eight cartridge-boxes without much danger.
He crawled on his belly, ran on his hands and feet, took his basket in his teeth, twisted, glided, writhed, wormed his way from one body to another, and emptied a cartridge-box as a monkey opens a nut.
From the barricade, of which he was still within hearing, they dared not call to him to return, for fear of attracting attention to him.
On one corpse, that of a corporal, he found a powder-flask.
“In case of thirst,” said he as he put it into his pocket.
By successive advances, he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent.
So that the sharp-shooters of the line drawn up and on the alert behind their wall of paving-stones, and the sharp-shooters of the banlieue massed at the corner of the street, suddenly discovered something moving in the smoke.
Just as Gavroche was relieving a sergeant who lay near a stone-block of his cartridges, a ball struck the body.
“The deuce!” said Gavroche. “So they are killing my dead for me.”
A second ball splintered the pavement beside him. A third upset his basket.
Gavroche looked and saw that it came from the banlieue.
He rose up straight, on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eye fixed upon the National Guards who were firing, and he sang:
On est laid à Nanterre
C‘est la faute à Voltaire,
Et bête à Palaiseau,
C’est la faute à Rousseau.1
Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridge which had fallen out, without losing a single one, and, advancing towards the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge-box. There a fourth ball just missed him again. Gavro
che sang:
Je ne suis pas notaire,
C‘est la faute à Voltaire;
Je suis petit oiseau,
C’est la faute à Rousseau.
A fifth ball succeeded only in drawing a third couplet from him.
Joie est mon caractère,
C‘est la faute à Voltaire;
Misère est mon trousseau,
C’est la faute à Rousseau.
This continued thus for some time.
The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche, fired at, mocked the firing. He appeared to be very much amused. It was the sparrow pecking at the hunters. He replied to each discharge by a couplet. They aimed at him incessantly, they always missed him. The National Guards and the soldiers laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up, hid himself in a doorway, then sprang out, disappeared, reappeared, escaped, returned, retorted upon the volleys by wry faces, and meanwhile pillaged cartridges, emptied cartridge-boxes, and filled his basket. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes. The barricade was trembling; he was singing. It was not a child; it was not a man; it was a strange fairy gamin. One would have said the invulnerable dwarf of the mêlée. The bullets ran after him, he was more nimble than they. He was playing an indescribably terrible game of hide-and-seek with death; every time the flat-nosed face of the spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers.
One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the others, reached the Will-o‘-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then he fell. The whole barricade gave a cry; but there was an Antæus in this pigmy; for the gamin to touch the pavement is like the giant touching the earth; Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he sat up, a long stream of blood rolled down his face, he raised both arms in air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing:
Je suis tombé par terre,
C‘est la faute à Voltaire,
La nez dans le ruisseau,
C’est la faute à—
He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement, and did not stir again. That great little soul had taken flight.
14 (16)
HOW BROTHER BECOMES FATHER
THERE WERE at that very moment in the garden of the Luxembourg—for the eye of the drama should be everywhere present—two children holding each other by the hand.gl One might have been seven years old, the other five. Having been soaked in the rain, they were walking in the paths on the sunny side; the elder was leading the little one; they were pale and in rags; they looked like wild birds. The smaller said: “I want something to eat.”
The elder, already something of a protector, led his brother with his left hand and had a stick in his right hand.
They were alone in the garden. The garden was empty, the gates being closed by order of the police on account of the insurrection. The troops which had bivouacked there had been called away by the necessities of the combat.
These two children were the very same about whom Gavroche had been in trouble, and whom the reader remembers. Children of the Thénardiers, rented out to Magnon, attributed to M. Gillenormand, and now leaves fallen from all these rootless branches, and whirled over the ground by the wind.
Their clothing, neat in Magnon’s time, and which served her as a prospectus in the sight of M. Gillenormand, had become tatters.
These creatures belonged henceforth to the statistics of “abandoned children,” whom the police report, collect, scatter, and find again on the streets of Paris.
It required the commotion of such a day for these little outcasts to be in this garden. If the officers had noticed them, they would have driven away these rags. Poor children cannot enter the public gardens; still one would think that, as children, they had a right in the flowers.
The two little abandoned creatures were near the great basin, and slightly disturbed by all this light, they endeavoured to hide, an instinct of the poor and feeble before magnificence, even impersonal, and they kept behind the shelter for the swans.
Here and there, at intervals, when the wind fell, they faintly heard cries, a hum, a kind of tumultuous rattle, which was the musketry, and dull blows, which were reports of cannon. There was smoke above the roofs in the direction of the markets. A bell, which appeared to be calling, sounded in the distance.
These children did not seem to notice these sounds. The smaller one repeated from time to time in an undertone: “I want something to eat.”
Almost at the same time with the two children, another couple approached the great basin. This was a goodman of fifty, who was leading by the hand a goodman of six. Doubtless a father with his son. The goodman of six had a big bun in his hand.
At that period, certain adjoining houses, in the Rue Madame and the Rue d‘Enfer, had keys to the Luxembourg Gardens which the occupants used when the gates were closed, a favour since suppressed. This father and this son probably came from one of those houses.
The two poor little fellows saw “this Monsieur” coming, and hid themselves a little more closely.
He was a bourgeois. The same, perhaps, whom one day Marius, in spite of his love fever, had heard, near this same great basin, counselling his son “to beware of extremes.” He had an affable and lofty manner, and a mouth which, never closing, was always smiling. This mechanical smile, produced by too much jaw and too little skin, shows the teeth rather than the soul. The child, with his bitten bun, which he did not finish, seemed stuffed. The boy was dressed as a National Guard, on account of the émeute, and the father remained in citizen’s clothes for the sake of prudence.
The father and son stopped near the basin in which the two swans were sporting. This bourgeois appeared to have a special admiration for the swans. He resembled them in this respect, that he walked like them.
For the moment, the swans were swimming, which is their principal talent, and they were superb.
If the two poor little fellows had listened, and had been of an age to understand, they might have gathered up the words of a grave man. The father said to the son:
“The sage lives content with little. Behold me, my son. I do not love pomp. Never am I seen with coats bedizened with gold and gems; I leave this false splendour to badly organised minds.”
Here the deep sounds, which came from the direction of the markets, broke out with a redoubling of bell and of uproar.
“What is that?” inquired the child.
The father answered:
“They are saturnalia.”
Just then he noticed the two little ragged fellows standing motionless behind the green cottage of the swans.
“There is the beginning,” said he.
And after a moment, he added:
“Anarchy is entering this garden.”
Meanwhile the son bit the bun, spit it out, and suddenly began to cry.
“What are you crying for?” asked the father.
“I am not hungry any more,” said the child.
The father’s smile grew broad.
“You don’t need to be hungry, to eat a cake.”
“I am sick of my cake. It is stale.”
“You don’t want any more of it?”
“No.”
The father showed him the swans.
“Throw it to those palmipeds.”
The child hesitated. Not to want any more of one’s cake, is no reason for giving it away.
The father continued.
“Be humane. We must take pity on the animals.”
And, taking the cake from his son, he threw it into the basin.
The cake fell near the edge.
The swans were at a distance, in the centre of the basin, and busy with some prey. They saw neither the bourgeois nor the bun.
The bourgeois, feeling that the cake was in danger of being lost, and aroused by this useless shipwreck, devoted himself to a telegraphic agitation which finally attracted the attention of the swans.
Th
ey perceived something floating, veered about like the ships they are, and directed themselves slowly towards the bun with that serene majesty which is fitting to white animals.
“Cygnes [swans] understand signes [signs],” said the bourgeois, delighted at his wit.
Just then the distant tumult in the city suddenly increased again. This time it was ominous. There are some gusts of wind that speak more distinctly than others. That which blew at that moment brought clearly the rolls of drums, shouts, platoon firing, and the dismal replies of the tocsin and the cannon. This was coincident with a black cloud which abruptly shut out the sun.
The swans had not yet reached the bun.
“Come home,” said the father, “they are attacking the Tuileries.”
He seized his son’s hand again. Then he continued:
“From the Tuileries to the Luxembourg, there is only the distance which separates royalty from the peerage; it is not far. It is going to rain musket-balls.”