Bab Bab 292 · THE BARREL OF POWDER

Marius, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Mondétour, had

witnessed, shuddering and irresolute, the first phase of the combat.

But he had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign

vertigo which may be designated as the call of the abyss. In the

presence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of

M. Mabeuf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed,

and Courfeyrac shouting: “Follow me!” of that child threatened, of his

friends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, and he had

flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand. With his

first shot he had saved Gavroche, and with the second delivered

Courfeyrac.

Amid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted guards,

the assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on whose summit Municipal

Guards, soldiers of the line and National Guards from the suburbs could

now be seen, gun in hand, rearing themselves to more than half the

height of their bodies.

They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did

not leap into the enclosure, as though wavering in the fear of some

trap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into a

lion’s den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets,

their bear-skin caps, and the upper part of their uneasy and angry

faces.

Marius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away his discharged

pistols after firing them; but he had caught sight of the barrel of

powder in the tap-room, near the door.

As he turned half round, gazing in that direction, a soldier took aim

at him. 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.