At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius, a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it.
This was done by some one who had darted forward,—the young workman in velvet trousers.
The shot sped, traversed the hand and possibly, also, the workman, since he fell, but the ball did not strike Marius.
All this, which was rather to be apprehended than seen through the smoke, Marius, who was entering the tap-room, hardly noticed.
Still, he had, in a confused way, perceived that gun-barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked it, and he had heard the discharge.
But in moments like this, the things which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one pauses for nothing.
One feels obscurely impelled towards more darkness still, and all is cloud.
The insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied.
Enjolras had shouted:
“Wait!
Don’t fire at random!”
In the first confusion, they might, in fact, wound each other.
The majority of them had ascended to the window on the first story and to the attic windows, whence they commanded the assailants.
The most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, and Combeferre, had proudly placed themselves with their backs against the houses at the rear, unsheltered and facing the ranks of soldiers and guards who crowned the barricade.
All this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and threatening gravity which precedes engagements.
They took aim, point blank, on both sides: they were so close that they could talk together without raising their voices.
When they had reached this point where the spark is on the brink of darting forth, an officer in a gorget extended his sword and said:—
“Lay down your arms!”
“Fire!” replied Enjolras.
The two discharges took place at the same moment, and all disappeared in smoke.
An acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weak, dull groans.
When the smoke cleared away, the combatants on both sides could be seen to be thinned out, but still in the same positions, reloading in silence.
All at once, a thundering voice was heard, shouting:—
“Be off with you, or I’ll blow up the barricade!”
All turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded.
Marius had entered the tap-room, and had seized the barrel of powder, then he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the sort of obscure mist which filled the entrenched enclosure, to glide along the barricade as far as that cage of paving-stones where the torch was fixed.
To tear it from the torch, to replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the pile of stones under the barrel, which was instantly staved in, with a sort of horrible obedience,—all this had cost Marius but the time necessary to stoop and rise again; and now all, National Guards, Municipal Guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the other extremity of the barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he stood with his foot on the stones, his torch in his hand, his haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolution, drooping the flame of the torch towards that redoubtable pile where they could make out the broken barrel of powder, and giving vent to that startling cry:— “Be off with you, or I’ll blow up the barricade!”
Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision of the young revolution after the apparition of the old.
“Blow up the barricade!” said a sergeant, “and yourself with it!”
Marius retorted: “And myself also.”
And he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder.
But there was no longer any one on the barrier.
The assailants, abandoning their dead and wounded, flowed back pell-mell and in disorder towards the extremity of the street, and there were again lost in the night.
It was a headlong flight.
The barricade was free.
CHAPTER V—END OF THE VERSES OF JEAN PROUVAIRE
All flocked around Marius.
Courfeyrac flung himself on his neck.
“Here you are!”
“What luck!” said Combeferre.
“You came in opportunely!” ejaculated Bossuet.
“If it had not been for you, I should have been dead!” began Courfeyrac again.
“If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled up!” added Gavroche.
Marius asked:— “Where is the chief?”
“You are he!” said Enjolras.
Marius had had a furnace in his brain all day long; now it was a whirlwind.
This whirlwind which was within him, produced on him the effect of being outside of him and of bearing him away.
It seemed to him that he was already at an immense distance from life.
His two luminous months of joy and love, ending abruptly at that frightful precipice, Cosette lost to him, that barricade, M. Mabeuf getting himself killed for the Republic, himself the leader of the insurgents,—all these things appeared to him like a tremendous nightmare.
He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact that all that surrounded him was real.