Many Interrogation Points with Regard to a Certain le Cabuc Whose Name May Not Have Been le Cabuc — Les Misérables

The tragic picture would not be complete were we to omit an incident of epic and savage horror which occurred almost immediately after Gavroche's departure. Among the passers-by who had joined the rabble was a person wearing the threadbare jacket of a street porter, who gesticulated and vociferated, and who had the look of a drunken savage. This man, whose name or nickname was Le Cabuc, and who was an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him, was very drunk, or assumed the appearance of being so, and had seated himself at a table dragged outside the wine-shop. While making the others drunk he seemed to be examining the large house at the extremity of the barricade, whose five stories commanded the whole street. All at once he exclaimed that it was from that house yonder that they must fire. The house is closed. Let us knock. They will not open. Let us break in the door. He runs, he knocks, he strikes with the butt. A tiny square window opens on the third story, and the reverend and terrified face of a gray-haired porter appears, holding a candle. Open. That cannot be. Will you open, yes or no? No, gentlemen. Do you say no? I say no. The porter did not finish. The shot was fired. The ball entered under his chin and came out at the nape of his neck. The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and was extinguished. Nothing more was to be seen except a motionless head on the sill, and a little whitish smoke floating toward the roof.

There, said Le Cabuc. He felt a hand on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon. On your knees. The murderer turned and saw Enjolras' cold, white face, a pistol in his hand. The frail young man of twenty bent the thickset porter like a reed and brought him to his knees in the mire. The whole barricade ranged itself in a circle at a distance, feeling that it was impossible to utter a word. Collect yourself. Think or pray. You have one minute. Mercy, murmured the murderer. Enjolras allowed a minute to pass, replaced his watch, grasped Le Cabuc by the hair, and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear. Many of those intrepid men turned aside their heads. An explosion was heard. The assassin fell to the pavement face downwards. Enjolras spurned the corpse with his foot. Throw that outside. Three men flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mondetour.

Enjolras raised his voice. What that man did is frightful, what I have done is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed him. Insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere. I have tried that man and condemned him to death. Constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself. We will share thy fate, cried Combeferre. So be it. Necessity is a monster of the old world. He pronounces the word love all the same. Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee. The day will come when no one will kill any one else; it will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die. He remained standing on the spot where he had shed blood, in marble immobility. Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands, watching that grave young man, executioner and priest. Later, when the bodies were taken to the morgue, a police agent's card was found on Le Cabuc. If we are to believe a tradition of the police, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. Dating from that death, there was no longer any question of Claquesous. His life had been all shadows, his end was night. The whole group was still under the influence of that tragic case when Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade the small young man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius. This lad, who had a bold and reckless air, had come by night to join the insurgents.