Marius had already seen too much of life not to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible, and that what it is always necessary to foresee is the unforeseen.
He had looked on at his own drama as a piece which one does not understand.
In the mists which enveloped his thoughts, he did not recognize Javert, who, bound to his post, had not so much as moved his head during the whole of the attack on the barricade, and who had gazed on the revolt seething around him with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of a judge.
Marius had not even seen him.
In the meanwhile, the assailants did not stir, they could be heard marching and swarming through at the end of the street but they did not venture into it, either because they were awaiting orders or because they were awaiting reinforcements before hurling themselves afresh on this impregnable redoubt.
The insurgents had posted sentinels, and some of them, who were medical students, set about caring for the wounded.
They had thrown the tables out of the wine-shop, with the exception of the two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, and of the one on which lay Father Mabeuf; they had added them to the barricade, and had replaced them in the tap-room with mattresses from the bed of the widow Hucheloup and her servants.
On these mattresses they had laid the wounded. As for the three poor creatures who inhabited Corinthe, no one knew what had become of them.
They were finally found, however, hidden in the cellar.
A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered barricade.
The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing.
And who was it?
One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire.
He was sought among the wounded, he was not there.
He was sought among the dead, he was not there.
He was evidently a prisoner.
Combeferre said to Enjolras:—
“They have our friend; we have their agent.
Are you set on the death of that spy?”
“Yes,” replied Enjolras; “but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.”
This took place in the tap-room near Javert’s post.
“Well,” resumed Combeferre, “I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for theirs.”
“Listen,” said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre’s arm.
At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms.
They heard a manly voice shout:—
“Vive la France! Long live France!
Long live the future!”
They recognized the voice of Prouvaire.
A flash passed, a report rang out.
Silence fell again.
“They have killed him,” exclaimed Combeferre.
Enjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him:—
“Your friends have just shot you.”
CHAPTER VI—THE AGONY OF DEATH AFTER THE AGONY OF LIFE
A peculiarity of this species of war is, that the attack of the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that the assailants generally abstain from turning the position, either because they fear ambushes, or because they are afraid of getting entangled in the tortuous streets.
The insurgents’ whole attention had been directed, therefore, to the grand barricade, which was, evidently, the spot always menaced, and there the struggle would infallibly recommence.
But Marius thought of the little barricade, and went thither.
It was deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which trembled between the paving-stones.
Moreover, the Mondetour alley, and the branches of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the Rue du Cygne were profoundly calm.
As Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspection, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness.
“Monsieur Marius!”
He started, for he recognized the voice which had called to him two hours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet.
Only, the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath.
He looked about him, but saw no one.
Marius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing around him.
He advanced a step, in order to quit the distant recess where the barricade lay.
“Monsieur Marius!” repeated the voice.
This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly; he looked and saw nothing.
“At your feet,” said the voice.
He bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was dragging itself towards him.