Enlargement of Horizon — Les Misérables

The shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this admirable property, that one can never foresee the spark. At the moment of jest, the serious makes its entry. Chance is the stage-manager of such conversations. In the midst of the uproar, Bossuet terminated some apostrophe to Combeferre with a date: June 18th, 1815, Waterloo. At this name Marius, who was leaning his elbows on a table beside a glass of water, removed his wrist from beneath his chin and began to gaze fixedly at the audience. Courfeyrac exclaimed that eighteen was Bonaparte's fatal number. Enjolras, who had remained mute, broke the silence and addressed Combeferre: You mean to say, the crime and the expiation.

This word crime overpassed the measure of what Marius, already agitated by the evocation of Waterloo, could accept. He rose, walked slowly to the map of France spread out on the wall, laid his finger on the island in a separate compartment, and said: Corsica, a little island which has rendered France very great. This was like a breath of icy air. All ceased talking. They felt that something was on the point of occurring. Enjolras, whose blue eye seemed to be gazing at space, replied without glancing at Marius: France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she is France. Marius felt no desire to retreat. His voice burst forth with a vibration from his very being. He warned them that he heard them say Buonaparte, accenting the u like the Royalists. His grandfather did better still. Whom do you admire, if you do not admire the Emperor? He had everything. He was complete. He was the archangel of war. All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always produces somewhat the effect of acquiescence. Marius continued, almost without pausing for breath: What greater thing is there?

To be free, said Combeferre. Marius lowered his head in his turn; that cold and simple word had traversed his epic effusion like a blade of steel, and he felt it vanishing within him. When he raised his eyes, Combeferre was no longer there. Probably satisfied with his reply to the apotheosis, he had just taken his departure, and all, with the exception of Enjolras, had followed him. The room had been emptied. Enjolras, left alone with Marius, was gazing gravely at him. Then they heard some one singing on the stairs as he went. It was Combeferre, singing that if Caesar had given him glory and war, and he had to quit the love of his mother, he would tell great Caesar to take back the sceptre and the chariot: I love my mother better. The wild and tender accents communicated to the couplet a sort of strange grandeur. Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes on the ceiling, repeated almost mechanically: My mother? At that moment he felt Enjolras's hand on his shoulder. Citizen, said Enjolras to him, my mother is the Republic.