An Attempt to Console the Widow Hucheloup — Les Misérables

Bahorel, in ecstasies over the barricade, shouted: Here's the street in its low-necked dress! How well it looks! Courfeyrac, as he demolished the wine-shop to some extent, sought to console the widowed proprietress. Mother Hucheloup, weren't you complaining the other day because you had had a notice served on you, because Gibelotte shook a counterpane out of your window? Yes, my good Courfeyrac. Ah! good Heavens, are you going to put that table of mine in your horror, too? And it was for the counterpane, and also for a pot of flowers which fell from the attic, that the government collected a fine of a hundred francs. Well, Mother Hucheloup, we are avenging you. She did not appear to understand very clearly the benefit which she was to derive from these reprisals. She was satisfied after the manner of that Arab woman whose father boxed the other cheek and told her to go and say that the debt was paid.

The rain had ceased. Recruits had arrived. Workmen had brought under their blouses a barrel of powder, bottles of vitriol, carnival torches, and fire-pots left over from the King's festival. They smashed the only street lantern in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and all the lanterns in the surrounding streets. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directed everything. Two barricades were now in process of construction at once, both resting on the Corinthe house and forming a right angle. About fifty workers; thirty armed with guns from a wholesale loan at an armourer's. Nothing could be more bizarre and at the same time more motley than this troop. One man shouted that they should die at the point of their bayonet, and had no bayonet. Another wore a cartridge-box labelled Public Order. They discussed the possible chances: succour about three o'clock, one regiment, Paris would rise. One would have pronounced them brothers, but they did not know each other's names. Great perils have this fine characteristic, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers. In the kitchen they were moulding pewter mugs and spoons into bullets. In the billiard-hall the widow, Matelote, and Gibelotte were tearing up old dish-cloths and making lint. The man of lofty stature who had joined them at the Rue des Billettes was at work on the smaller barricade. Gavroche was working on the larger one. As for the young man who had inquired for Marius, he had disappeared at about the time when the omnibus had been overturned.

Gavroche, completely carried away and radiant, had undertaken to get everything in readiness. He went, came, mounted, descended, whistled, and sparkled. He seemed to be there for the encouragement of all. Had he any incentive? His poverty. Had he wings? His joy. He was a fly on the immense revolutionary coach. Courage! more paving-stones! more casks! Break down the house. Hullo, here's a glass door. A glass door? what do you expect us to do with a glass door? Hercules yourselves, retorted Gavroche. A glass door is an excellent thing in a barricade. It does not prevent an attack, but it prevents the enemy taking it. However, he was furious over his triggerless pistol. A gun, I want a gun! When there are enough for the men, we will give some to the children, said Enjolras. If you are killed before me, I shall take yours, said Gavroche. Gamin, said Enjolras. Greenhorn, said Gavroche. A dandy who had lost his way lounged past the end of the street. Come with us, young fellow! The dandy fled.