Les Misérables
And then he fell to weeping bitterly.
This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he could
not. Since she was gone, he must needs die. Had he not given her his
word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant
that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that
she no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning,
without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What
was the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what!
should he retreat after going so far? should he flee from danger after
having approached it? should he slip away after having come and peeped
into the barricade? slip away, all in a tremble, saying: “After all, I
have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is
civil war, and I shall take my leave!” Should he abandon his friends
who were expecting him? Who were in need of him possibly! who were a
mere handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love,
to country, to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of
patriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father
was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on
the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him: “March on, you
poltroon!”
Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped
his head.
All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just
been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought
which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see
clearly to be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt
that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more
as lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly
transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before
the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of
reverie recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left
none of them unanswered.
Let us see, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases
where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that
was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was
about to begin? It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is
something quite different. The question is no longer one of sacred
territory,—but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but
humanity applauds. But is it true that the country does wail? France
bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty’s smile,
France forgets her wound. And then if we look at things from a still
more lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war?
Civil war—what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not all war
between men, war between brothers? War is qualified only by its object.
There is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and
unjust war. Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded,
war, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is
hastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be
necessary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not become
a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is
used for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization,
truth. Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called
crime. Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does
one form of man despise another? By what right should the sword of
Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against the
stranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? the one is
the defender, the other the liberator. Shall we brand every appeal to
arms within a city’s limits without taking the object into a
consideration? Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von
Blankenheim, Coligny, Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That
was the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius. But
Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against
Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, the
monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is
a stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates
the geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the
English, in both cases, regaining possession of one’s own territory.
There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after
philosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has
sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Arostogeiton ends; the
encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them.
After Æschylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a
tendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A
crowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up,
pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance,
their eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be hurled at them in
terrible handfuls. They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at
their own well-being; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity
of tocsins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations
with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with
gloom by the right divine, Cæsarian glory, force, fanaticism,
irresponsible power, and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied
in the contemplation, in their twilight splendor, of these sombre
triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking?
Do you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. Both
of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings; but
principles are not to be parcelled out, the logic of the true is
rectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance; no
concessions, then; all encroachments on man should be repressed. There
is a divine right in Louis XVI., there is _because a Bourbon_ in Louis
Philippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of
right, and, in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be
combated; it must be done, France being always the one to begin. When
the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what cause
is more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than that which
re-establishes social truth, restores her throne to liberty, restores
the people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the
purple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their
plenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to
himself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole
immense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a
level with the right? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress
of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses,
violences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this world,
with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass
must be made to crumble. To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the
Bastille is immense.
There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case—the soul,—and
therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a
strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent
extremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound
despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects
and discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of
the syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm of
thought. This was the situation of Marius’ mind.
As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every
direction, and, in short, shuddering at what he was about to do, his
glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were
here conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was
perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of
expectation. Overhead, at the small window in the third story Marius
descried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly
attentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below,
by the lights of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones,
this head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger, in
that sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, motionless,
astonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring,
and its yawning mouth, bent over the street in an attitude of
curiosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying
those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed
from that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the
height of the first floor, where it stopped.
BOOK FOURTEENTH—THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR
CHAPTER I—THE FLAG: ACT FIRST
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, seeking to catch even the faintest and most
distant sound of marching.
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
distinctly, to the old popular air of “By the Light of the Moon,” this
bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:—
Mon nez est en larmes,
Mon ami Bugeaud,
Prête moi tes gendarmes
Pour leur dire un mot.
En capote bleue,
La poule au shako,
Voici la banlieue!
Co-cocorico!54
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, saying:—
“My gun! Here they are!”
An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of
hands seeking their guns became audible.
“Would you like my carbine?” said Enjolras to the lad.
“I want a big gun,” replied Gavroche.
And he seized Javert’s gun.
Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same
moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street,
and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the
Lane des Prêcheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that
nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.
The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly
visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered
to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a
smoke.
Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.
Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre,
Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside
the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the
barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as
though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by
Feuilly, had installed themselves, with their guns levelled at their
shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.
Several minutes passed thus, 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. Nothing was to be heard but this. It
was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander,