Les Misérables
himself on the end of the table. He seized the pistol, and a faint
click announced that he had cocked it.
Almost at the same moment, 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, and gazing intently at the insurgents, he said to them:
“You are in no better case than I am.”
“All out!” shouted Enjolras.
The insurgents poured out tumultuously, and, as they went, received in
the back,—may we be permitted the expression,—this sally of Javert’s:
“We shall meet again shortly!”
CHAPTER XIX—JEAN VALJEAN TAKES HIS REVENGE
When Jean Valjean was left alone with Javert, he untied the rope which
fastened the prisoner across the middle of the body, and the knot of
which was under the table. After this he made him a sign to rise.
Javert obeyed with that indefinable smile in which the supremacy of
enchained authority is condensed.
Jean Valjean took Javert by the martingale, as one would take a beast
of burden by the breast-band, and, dragging the latter after him,
emerged from the wine-shop slowly, because Javert, with his impeded
limbs, could take only very short steps.
Jean Valjean had the pistol in his hand.
In this manner they crossed the inner trapezium of the barricade. The
insurgents, all intent on the attack, which was imminent, had their
backs turned to these two.
Marius alone, stationed on one side, at the extreme left of the
barricade, saw them pass. This group of victim and executioner was
illuminated by the sepulchral light which he bore in his own soul.
Jean Valjean with some difficulty, but without relaxing his hold for a
single instant, made Javert, pinioned as he was, scale the little
entrenchment in the Mondétour lane.
When they had crossed this barrier, they found themselves alone in the
lane. No one saw them. Among the heap they could distinguish a livid
face, streaming hair, a pierced hand and the half nude breast of a
woman. It was Éponine. The corner of the houses hid them from the
insurgents. The corpses carried away from the barricade formed a
terrible pile a few paces distant.
Javert gazed askance at this body, and, profoundly calm, said in a low
tone:
“It strikes me that I know that girl.”
Then he turned to Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean thrust the pistol under his arm and fixed on Javert a look
which it required no words to interpret: “Javert, it is I.”
Javert replied:
“Take your revenge.”
Jean Valjean drew from his pocket a knife, and opened it.
“A clasp-knife!” exclaimed Javert, “you are right. That suits you
better.”
Jean Valjean cut the martingale which Javert had about his neck, then
he cut the cords on his wrists, then, stooping down, he cut the cord on
his feet; and, straightening himself up, he said to him:
“You are free.”
Javert was not easily astonished. Still, master of himself though he
was, he could not repress a start. He remained open-mouthed and
motionless.
Jean Valjean continued:
“I do not think that I shall escape from this place. But if, by chance,
I do, I live, under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue de l’Homme
Armé, No. 7.”
Javert snarled like a tiger, which made him half open one corner of his
mouth, and he muttered between his teeth:
“Have a care.”
“Go,” said Jean Valjean.
Javert began again:
“Thou saidst Fauchelevent, Rue de l’Homme Armé?”
“Number 7.”
Javert repeated in a low voice:—“Number 7.”
He buttoned up his coat once more, resumed the military stiffness
between his shoulders, made a half turn, folded his arms and,
supporting his chin on one of his hands, he set out in the direction of
the Halles. Jean Valjean followed him with his eyes:
A few minutes later, Javert turned round and shouted to Jean Valjean:
“You annoy me. Kill me, rather.”
Javert himself did not notice that he no longer addressed Jean Valjean
as “thou.”
“Be off with you,” said Jean Valjean.
Javert retreated slowly. A moment later he turned the corner of the Rue
des Prêcheurs.
When Javert had disappeared, Jean Valjean fired his pistol in the air.
Then he returned to the barricade and said:
“It is done.”
In the meanwhile, this is what had taken place.
Marius, more intent on the outside than on the interior, had not, up to
that time, taken a good look at the pinioned spy in the dark background
of the tap-room.
When he beheld him in broad daylight, striding over the barricade in
order to proceed to his death, he recognized him. Something suddenly
recurred to his mind. He recalled the inspector of the Rue de Pontoise,
and the two pistols which the latter had handed to him and which he,
Marius, had used in this very barricade, and not only did he recall his
face, but his name as well.
This recollection was misty and troubled, however, like all his ideas.
It was not an affirmation that he made, but a question which he put to
himself:
“Is not that the inspector of police who told me that his name was
Javert?”
Perhaps there was still time to intervene in behalf of that man. But,
in the first place, he must know whether this was Javert.
Marius called to Enjolras, who had just stationed himself at the other
extremity of the barricade:
“Enjolras!”
“What?”
“What is the name of yonder man?”
“What man?”
“The police agent. Do you know his name?”
“Of course. He told us.”
“What is it?”
“Javert.”
Marius sprang to his feet.
At that moment, they heard the report of the pistol.
Jean Valjean reappeared and cried: “It is done.”
A gloomy chill traversed Marius’ heart.
CHAPTER XX—THE DEAD ARE IN THE RIGHT AND THE LIVING ARE NOT IN THE
WRONG
The death agony of the barricade was about to begin.
Everything contributed to its tragic majesty at that supreme moment; a
thousand mysterious crashes in the air, the breath of armed masses set
in movement in the streets which were not visible, the intermittent
gallop of cavalry, the heavy shock of artillery on the march, the
firing by squads, and the cannonades crossing each other in the
labyrinth of Paris, the smokes of battle mounting all gilded above the
roofs, indescribable and vaguely terrible cries, lightnings of menace
everywhere, the tocsin of Saint-Merry, which now had the accents of a
sob, the mildness of the weather, the splendor of the sky filled with
sun and clouds, the beauty of the day, and the alarming silence of the
houses.
For, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de
la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed,
windows closed, shutters closed.
In those days, so different from those in which we live, when the hour
was come, when the people wished to put an end to a situation, which
had lasted too long, with a charter granted or with a legal country,
when universal wrath was diffused in the atmosphere, when the city
consented to the tearing up of the pavements, when insurrection made
the bourgeoisie smile by whispering its password in its ear, then the
inhabitant, thoroughly penetrated with the revolt, so to speak, was the
auxiliary of the combatant, and the house fraternized with the
improvised fortress which rested on it. When the situation was not
ripe, when the insurrection was not decidedly admitted, when the masses
disowned the movement, all was over with the combatants, the city was
changed into a desert around the revolt, souls grew chilled, refuges
were nailed up, and the street turned into a defile to help the army to
take the barricade.
A people cannot be forced, through surprise, to walk more quickly than
it chooses. Woe to whomsoever tries to force its hand! A people does
not let itself go at random. Then it abandons the insurrection to
itself. The insurgents become noxious, infected with the plague. A
house is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a façade is a wall. This
wall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This
wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things
are closed houses. They seem dead, they are living. Life which is, as
it were, suspended there, persists there. No one has gone out of them
for four and twenty hours, but no one is missing from them. In the
interior of that rock, people go and come, go to bed and rise again;
they are a family party there; there they eat and drink; they are
afraid, a terrible thing! Fear excuses this fearful lack of
hospitality; terror is mixed with it, an extenuating circumstance.
Sometimes, even, and this has been actually seen, fear turns to
passion; fright may change into fury, as prudence does into rage; hence
this wise saying: “The enraged moderates.” There are outbursts of
supreme terror, whence springs wrath like a mournful smoke.—“What do
these people want? What have they come there to do? Let them get out of
the scrape. So much the worse for them. It is their fault. They are
only getting what they deserve. It does not concern us. Here is our
poor street all riddled with balls. They are a pack of rascals. Above
all things, don’t open the door.”—And the house assumes the air of a
tomb. The insurgent is in the death-throes in front of that house; he
sees the grape-shot and naked swords drawing near; if he cries, he
knows that they are listening to him, and that no one will come; there
stand walls which might protect him, there are men who might save him;
and these walls have ears of flesh, and these men have bowels of stone.
Whom shall he reproach?
No one and every one.
The incomplete times in which we live.
It is always at its own risk and peril that Utopia is converted into
revolution, and from philosophical protest becomes an armed protest,
and from Minerva turns to Pallas.
The Utopia which grows impatient and becomes revolt knows what awaits
it; it almost always comes too soon. Then it becomes resigned, and
stoically accepts catastrophe in lieu of triumph. It serves those who
deny it without complaint, even excusing them, and even disculpates
them, and its magnanimity consists in consenting to abandonment. It is
indomitable in the face of obstacles and gentle towards ingratitude.
Is this ingratitude, however?
Yes, from the point of view of the human race.
No, from the point of view of the individual.
Progress is man’s mode of existence. The general life of the human race
is called Progress, the collective stride of the human race is called
Progress. Progress advances; it makes the great human and terrestrial
journey towards the celestial and the divine; it has its halting places
where it rallies the laggard troop, it has its stations where it
meditates, in the presence of some splendid Canaan suddenly unveiled on
its horizon, it has its nights when it sleeps; and it is one of the
poignant anxieties of the thinker that he sees the shadow resting on
the human soul, and that he gropes in darkness without being able to
awaken that slumbering Progress.
“God is dead, perhaps,” said Gerard de Nerval one day to the writer of
these lines, confounding progress with God, and taking the interruption
of movement for the death of Being.
He who despairs is in the wrong. Progress infallibly awakes, and, in
short, we may say that it marches on, even when it is asleep, for it
has increased in size. When we behold it erect once more, we find it
taller. To be always peaceful does not depend on progress any more than
it does on the stream; erect no barriers, cast in no boulders;
obstacles make water froth and humanity boil. Hence arise troubles; but
after these troubles, we recognize the fact that ground has been
gained. Until order, which is nothing else than universal peace, has
been established, until harmony and unity reign, progress will have