Chapter Chapter 293 · 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. 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.”