Kabanata Kabanata 289 · THE FLAG: ACT FIRST

As yet, nothing had come. Ten o’clock had sounded from Saint-Merry.

Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in

hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed

each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most

distant sound of marching.

Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice,

which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing

distinctly, to the old popular air of “By the Light of the Moon,” this

bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:—

Mon nez est en larmes,

Mon ami Bugeaud,

Prête moi tes gendarmes

Pour leur dire un mot.

En capote bleue,

La poule au shako,

Voici la banlieue!

Co-cocorico!54

They pressed each other’s hands.

“That is Gavroche,” said Enjolras.

“He is warning us,” said Combeferre.

A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more

agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into

the barricade, all breathless, saying:—

“My gun! Here they are!”

An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of

hands seeking their guns became audible.

“Would you like my carbine?” said Enjolras to the lad.

“I want a big gun,” replied Gavroche.

And he seized Javert’s gun.

Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same

moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street,

and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the

Lane des Prêcheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that

nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly

visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered

to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a

smoke.

Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.

Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre,

Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside

the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the

barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as

though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by

Feuilly, had installed themselves, with their guns levelled at their

shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.

Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured,

heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of

Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and

sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a

tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It

was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander,

but this stony step had something indescribably enormous and multiple

about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, at the same time,

the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion

marching onward. This tread drew near; it drew still nearer, and

stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard

at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the

bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude

of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which

moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees

beneath one’s closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the

moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and

gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the

torch.

A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from

the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister,

since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself

speaking, shouted:—

“Who goes there?”

At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered into

position, was heard.

Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:—

“The French Revolution!”

“Fire!” shouted the voice.

A flash empurpled all the façades in the street as though the door of a

furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed again.

A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell.

The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut the

staff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole.

Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated

the barricade and wounded several men.

The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The

attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection in the

boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment

at the very least.

“Comrades!” shouted Courfeyrac, “let us not waste our powder. Let us

wait until they are in the street before replying.”

“And, above all,” said Enjolras, “let us raise the flag again.”

He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet.

Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard; the

troops were re-loading their arms.

Enjolras went on:—

“Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the

barricade again?”

Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when,

without any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply

death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation.

Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated:—

“Does no one volunteer?”