第 二百九十四 章 · 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 Mondétour 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.

It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him.

The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of

coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of

blood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted

towards him and which was saying to him:—

“You do not recognize me?”

“No.”

“Éponine.”

Marius bent hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy child. She was

dressed in men’s clothes.

“How come you here? What are you doing here?”

“I am dying,” said she.

There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. Marius

cried out with a start:—

“You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will

attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you in

order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did

you come hither?”

And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her.

She uttered a feeble cry.

“Have I hurt you?” asked Marius.

“A little.”

“But I only touched your hand.”

She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius

saw a black hole.

“What is the matter with your hand?” said he.

“It is pierced.”

“Pierced?”

“Yes.”

“What with?”

“A bullet.”

“How?”

“Did you see a gun aimed at you?”

“Yes, and a hand stopping it.”

“It was mine.”

Marius was seized with a shudder.

“What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it

is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one

does not die of a pierced hand.”

She murmured:—

“The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is

useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care

for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone.”

He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius’ knees, and, without looking at

him, she said:—

“Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer

suffer.”

She remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face with an

effort, and looked at Marius.

“Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered

that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house;

and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you—”

She paused, and overstepping the sombre transitions that undoubtedly

existed in her mind, she resumed with a heartrending smile:—

“You thought me ugly, didn’t you?”

She continued:—

“You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It

was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon

that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the

muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die

before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one

saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said: ‘So he is

not coming!’ Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now

I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I

looked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the

boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long

time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: ‘I don’t want

your money.’ I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did

not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it

was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am!

Every one is going to die.”

She had a mad, grave, and heart-breaking air. Her torn blouse disclosed

her bare throat.

As she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast, where there

was another hole, and whence there spurted from moment to moment a

stream of blood, like a jet of wine from an open bung-hole.

Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion.

“Oh!” she resumed, “it is coming again, I am stifling!”

She caught up her blouse and bit it, and her limbs stiffened on the

pavement.

At that moment the young cock’s crow executed by little Gavroche

resounded through the barricade.

The child had mounted a table to load his gun, and was singing gayly

the song then so popular:—

“En voyant Lafayette,

Le gendarme répète:—

Sauvons nous! sauvons nous!

sauvons nous!”

“On beholding Lafayette,

The gendarme repeats:—

Let us flee! let us flee!

let us flee!

Éponine raised herself and listened; then she murmured:—

“It is he.”

And turning to Marius:—

“My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me.”

“Your brother?” inquired Marius, who was meditating in the most bitter

and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Thénardiers

which his father had bequeathed to him; “who is your brother?”

“That little fellow.”

“The one who is singing?”

“Yes.”

Marius made a movement.

“Oh! don’t go away,” said she, “it will not be long now.”

She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken

by hiccoughs.

At intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her face as

near that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression:—

“Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my

pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not

want to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry with me for it

when we meet again presently? Take your letter.”

She grasped Marius’ hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no

longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius’ hand in the

pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper.

“Take it,” said she.

Marius took the letter.

She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment.

“Now, for my trouble, promise me—”

And she stopped.

“What?” asked Marius.

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead.—I shall feel it.”

She dropped her head again on Marius’ knees, and her eyelids closed. He

thought the poor soul had departed. Éponine remained motionless. All at

once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she

slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of

death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to

proceed from another world:—

“And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in

love with you.”

She tried to smile once more and expired.