Nothing was to be seen, but there was something to be heard.
A mysterious movement was going on at a certain distance.
It was evident that the critical moment was approaching.
As on the previous evening, the sentinels had come in; but this time all had come.
The barricade was stronger than on the occasion of the first attack.
Since the departure of the five, they had increased its height still further.
On the advice of the sentinel who had examined the region of the Halles, Enjolras, for fear of a surprise in the rear, came to a serious decision. He had the small gut of the Mondetour lane, which had been left open up to that time, barricaded.
For this purpose, they tore up the pavement for the length of several houses more.
In this manner, the barricade, walled on three streets, in front on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, to the left on the Rues du Cygne and de la Petite Truanderie, to the right on the Rue Mondetour, was really almost impregnable; it is true that they were fatally hemmed in there.
It had three fronts, but no exit.—“A fortress but a rat hole too,” said Courfeyrac with a laugh.
Enjolras had about thirty paving-stones “torn up in excess,” said Bossuet, piled up near the door of the wine-shop.
The silence was now so profound in the quarter whence the attack must needs come, that Enjolras had each man resume his post of battle.
An allowance of brandy was doled out to each.
Nothing is more curious than a barricade preparing for an assault.
Each man selects his place as though at the theatre.
They jostle, and elbow and crowd each other.
There are some who make stalls of paving-stones.
Here is a corner of the wall which is in the way, it is removed; here is a redan which may afford protection, they take shelter behind it.
Left-handed men are precious; they take the places that are inconvenient to the rest.
Many arrange to fight in a sitting posture.
They wish to be at ease to kill, and to die comfortably.
In the sad war of June, 1848, an insurgent who was a formidable marksman, and who was firing from the top of a terrace upon a roof, had a reclining-chair brought there for his use; a charge of grape-shot found him out there.
As soon as the leader has given the order to clear the decks for action, all disorderly movements cease; there is no more pulling from one another; there are no more coteries; no more asides, there is no more holding aloof; everything in their spirits converges in, and changes into, a waiting for the assailants.
A barricade before the arrival of danger is chaos; in danger, it is discipline itself.
Peril produces order.
As soon as Enjolras had seized his double-barrelled rifle, and had placed himself in a sort of embrasure which he had reserved for himself, all the rest held their peace.
A series of faint, sharp noises resounded confusedly along the wall of paving-stones.
It was the men cocking their guns.
Moreover, their attitudes were prouder, more confident than ever; the excess of sacrifice strengthens; they no longer cherished any hope, but they had despair, despair,—the last weapon, which sometimes gives victory; Virgil has said so.
Supreme resources spring from extreme resolutions.
To embark in death is sometimes the means of escaping a shipwreck; and the lid of the coffin becomes a plank of safety.
As on the preceding evening, the attention of all was directed, we might almost say leaned upon, the end of the street, now lighted up and visible.
They had not long to wait.
A stir began distinctly in the Saint-Leu quarter, but it did not resemble the movement of the first attack.
A clashing of chains, the uneasy jolting of a mass, the click of brass skipping along the pavement, a sort of solemn uproar, announced that some sinister construction of iron was approaching.
There arose a tremor in the bosoms of these peaceful old streets, pierced and built for the fertile circulation of interests and ideas, and which are not made for the horrible rumble of the wheels of war.
The fixity of eye in all the combatants upon the extremity of the street became ferocious.
A cannon made its appearance.
Artillery-men were pushing the piece; it was in firing trim; the fore-carriage had been detached; two upheld the gun-carriage, four were at the wheels; others followed with the caisson.
They could see the smoke of the burning lint-stock.
“Fire!” shouted Enjolras.
The whole barricade fired, the report was terrible; an avalanche of smoke covered and effaced both cannon and men; after a few seconds, the cloud dispersed, and the cannon and men reappeared; the gun-crew had just finished rolling it slowly, correctly, without haste, into position facing the barricade.
Not one of them had been struck.
Then the captain of the piece, bearing down upon the breech in order to raise the muzzle, began to point the cannon with the gravity of an astronomer levelling a telescope.
“Bravo for the cannoneers!” cried Bossuet.
And the whole barricade clapped their hands.
A moment later, squarely planted in the very middle of the street, astride of the gutter, the piece was ready for action.
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.