This is what had taken place that same night at La Force. An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close confinement. Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefit. Montparnasse was to help them from outside. Brujon, after a month in the punishment cell, had woven a rope and matured a plan. Those severe places were once called dungeons; nowadays they are called chambers of punishment. A little light penetrates towards midday. The inconvenient point is that they allow the persons who should be at work to think. The first thing Brujon found in the New Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail. Guelemer, that is to say, crime; a nail, that is to say, liberty. The roofers were re-laying slates; scaffoldings and ladders stood toward liberty. The New Building was the weak point of the prison, eaten by saltpetre. A great chimney-flue traversed all four stories. Guelemer and Brujon had been placed, by way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that the heads of their beds should rest against the chimney. Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story known as Fine-Air, in a cage of masonry and iron bars, in solitary confinement since the night of the 3d of February, with fetters weighing fifty pounds, a sentry, and a jailer who came with two dogs.
On that same night when little Gavroche picked up the two lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet was waiting in the street as well as Montparnasse, rose softly and, with the nail, began to pierce the chimney. The rubbish fell on Brujon's bed. Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors and created in the prison a terrible and opportune uproar. Those of the prisoners who woke pretended to fall asleep again. Before any sound had reached the watcher, the wall had been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating forced, and the two ruffians were on the roof. What a good night to leg it, said Brujon. An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from the surrounding wall. They fastened the rope, crossed at one bound, slipped to a little roof, pulled their rope after them, pushed open the porter's wicket, and found themselves in the street. Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen in bed, nail in hand. A bit of rope remained attached to the chimney. That night Thenardier was warned, without any one being able to explain how, and was not asleep. Towards one o'clock he saw two shadows pass along the roof. One halted at the window long enough to dart in a glance. This was Brujon. Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough. He had an iron bolt with which he spiked his bread, to preserve it from the rats. At two o'clock the old soldier was relieved by a conscript. The man with the dogs paid his visit and went off, noticing only the rustic air of the raw recruit. At four o'clock the conscript was found asleep on the floor like a log. Thenardier was no longer there. There was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and another in the roof. A half-empty bottle of stupefying wine remained. The soldier's bayonet had disappeared.
On the roof Thenardier found the remains of Brujon's rope, but the fragment was much too short. How he reached the crest of a ruin on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, no one has ever been able to explain. The lightning must have hindered and helped him. The man who makes his escape is inspired; there is something of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight. Dripping, flayed, his clothes in ribbons, he stretched himself out at full length on the edge of the wall, and there his strength failed him. A steep escarpment three stories high separated him from the pavement. The rope which he had was too short. He waited, pale, exhausted, telling himself that day was on the point of dawning, staring at that pavement which meant death and which meant liberty. Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A confused uproar broke forth in the prison. Lights ascended and descended. He was on a wall ten inches wide, with two gulfs to right and left, and his thoughts swung like a pendulum: Dead if I fall, caught if I stay. Then, the street still dark, a man gliding along the walls halted in the recess, then a second, a third, a fourth. They lifted the latch and entered the enclosure of the shanty, directly under him. They conversed in slang. By icigo he knew Brujon; by icicaille he knew Babet. The third spoke French, and was Montparnasse. The fourth held his peace; his huge shoulders betrayed Guelemer. The tavern-keeper hasn't managed to cut his stick, said Brujon. He's only a greenhorn, said Babet. Let's go drink a bottle of old wine together. One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape, grumbled Montparnasse. A moment more, and they would be gone. Thenardier was panting on his wall like the shipwrecked of the Meduse when the vessel vanishes. He dared not call. He flung into the enclosure the end of Brujon's rope. A widow, said Babet. The tavern-keeper is there, said Montparnasse.
I am paralyzed with cold, said Thenardier. I can't budge. Then one of us must climb up, said Montparnasse. Three stories, ejaculated Brujon. An ancient plaster flue ran along the wall. One might get up by the help of that. A grown-up cove, never, said Babet. It would take a brat. Wait, said Montparnasse. I've got the very article. He set off at a run toward the Bastille. Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier. The gate opened, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, followed by Gavroche. The water was dripping from his hair. Are you a man, young un? A young un like me's a man, and men like you are babes. Climb up that flue. Fasten the rope to the cross-bar of the window. There's a man up there whom you are to save. Greenhorn, replied the lad, as though the question were unprecedented. He took off his shoes. At the moment when he was on the point of ascending, Thenardier bent over the edge; the first light of dawn struck white upon his brow, and Gavroche recognized him. Hullo, it's my father. Oh, that won't hinder. And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent. A moment later, Thenardier was in the street. As soon as he touched the pavement he was no longer weary, or chilled, or trembling. Now, whom are we to eat? There was an affair that promised well in the Rue Plumet, said Brujon: a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate, and lone women. Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter, and brought a biscuit. Nothing to be made there. The girl's no fool, said Thenardier. Still, it must be seen to. None of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who had seated himself on a fence-post. He waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him, then he put on his shoes. Is that all? Now you're out of your scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my brats out of bed. When Gavroche had disappeared, Babet took Thenardier aside. Did you take a good look at that young un? What young un? The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope. Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son. Bah, said Thenardier, do you think so?
