We must insist upon one psychological fact peculiar to barricades. The barricade, for those who are inside it, remains a vision. There is something of the apocalypse in civil war. Anyone who has passed through a barricade thinks he has traversed a dream. One has lived in death. Shadows have passed by. One stares at something red on one's finger nails. One no longer remembers anything. Let us return to the Rue de la Chanvrerie. All at once, between two discharges, the distant sound of a clock striking the hour became audible. It is midday, said Combeferre. The twelve strokes had not finished striking when Enjolras sprang to his feet. Carry stones up into the houses. Line the windowsills and the roofs with them. Half the men to their guns, the other half to the paving-stones. There is not a minute to be lost. A squad of sappers and miners, axe on shoulder, had just made their appearance at the end of the street. This could only be the head of the attacking column.
Enjolras' order was executed with the haste peculiar to ships and barricades, the only two scenes of combat where escape is impossible. In less than a minute the stones piled at the door of Corinthe walled up the windows to half their height. Feuilly planned the loop-holes. The two cannons were now discharging ball against the centre, to make a breach. When the stones of the final defence were in place, Enjolras had the bottles from under the table where the old warden lay carried to the first floor. Who is to drink that, Bossuet asked. They, replied Enjolras. The fortress was complete. The barricade was the rampart, the wine-shop was the dungeon. The assailants took their ease. This deliberation permitted Enjolras to perfect everything. He felt that, since such men were to die, their death ought to be a masterpiece. He said to Marius: We are the two leaders. I will give the last orders inside. Do you remain outside and observe. He had the kitchen door, which was the ambulance, nailed up. No splashing of the wounded. There are now twenty-six combatants of us on foot. Thirty-four guns. Eight too many. Keep those eight loaded and at hand. Twenty men to the barricade. Six ambushed at the windows. Then he turned to Javert. I am not forgetting you. The last man to leave this room will smash the skull of this spy. Not here. Do not mix their corpses with our own. The little barricade of the Mondetour lane can be scaled. He shall be taken thither and put to death. There was some one more impassive at that moment than Enjolras. It was Javert.
Here Jean Valjean made his appearance. He had been lost among the group. You are the commander. You thanked me a while ago. In the name of the Republic. The barricade has two saviours, Marius Pontmercy and yourself. Do you think that I deserve a recompense. Well, I request one. That I may blow that man's brains out. Javert raised his head, saw Jean Valjean, made an almost imperceptible movement, and said: That is just. Enjolras had begun to re-load his rifle. No objections. Take the spy. Jean Valjean seated himself on the end of the table, seized the pistol, and a faint click announced that he had cocked it. A blast of trumpets became audible. Take care, shouted Marius from the top of the barricade. Javert began to laugh with that noiseless laugh which was peculiar to him. You are in no better case than I am. All out, shouted Enjolras. The insurgents poured out, and as they went they received in the back this sally of Javert's. We shall meet again shortly.
Coming Up in Chapter 317
When Jean Valjean was left alone with Javert, he untied the rope which fastened the prisoner across the middle of the body. He made him a sign to rise. Javert obeyed with that indefinable smile in which the supremacy of enchained authority is condensed.
