The Flag: Act First — Les Misérables

As yet, nothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other. They listened. Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing, to the old popular air of By the Light of the Moon, a bit of poetry terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock. They pressed each other's hands. That is Gavroche, said Enjolras. He is warning us, said Combeferre. A hasty rush troubled the deserted street. They beheld a being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless: My gun! Here they are! An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade. Would you like my carbine? said Enjolras. I want a big gun, replied Gavroche. And he seized Javert's gun. Two sentinels had fallen back with him. The vidette of the Lane des Precheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie offered the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke. Each man had taken up his position. Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside the large barricade, their heads on a level with the crest, the barrels of their guns aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed themselves at the windows of Corinthe. Several minutes passed, then a sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread drew near, drew still nearer, and stopped. Nothing was to be seen, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles, which moved about like those phosphoric networks one sees beneath closed eyelids. These were bayonets and gun-barrels, confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.

A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted: Who goes there? Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone: The French Revolution! Fire! shouted the voice. A flash empurpled all the facades as though the door of a furnace had been flung open and hastily closed again. A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole. Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices wounded several men. The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment at the very least. Comrades, shouted Courfeyrac, let us not waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before replying. And, above all, said Enjolras, let us raise the flag again. He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet. Outside, the clatter of the ramrods could be heard. The troops were re-loading. Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again? Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when it was again the object of their aim was simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated: Does no one volunteer?