





The voice which had summoned Marius through the twilight to the
barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, had produced on him the effect
of the voice of destiny. He wished to die; the opportunity presented
itself; he knocked at the door of the tomb, a hand in the darkness
offered him the key. These melancholy openings which take place in the
gloom before despair, are tempting. Marius thrust aside the bar which
had so often allowed him to pass, emerged from the garden, and said: “I
will go.”


Mad with grief, no longer conscious of anything fixed or solid in his
brain, incapable of accepting anything thenceforth of fate after those
two months passed in the intoxication of youth and love, overwhelmed at
once by all the reveries of despair, he had but one desire remaining,
to make a speedy end of all.

He set out at rapid pace. He found himself most opportunely armed, as
he had Javert’s pistols with him.

The young man of whom he thought that he had caught a glimpse, had
vanished from his sight in the street.

Marius, who had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the boulevard, traversed
the Esplanade and the bridge of the Invalides, the Champs-Élysées, the
Place Louis XV., and reached the Rue de Rivoli. The shops were open
there, the gas was burning under the arcades, women were making their
purchases in the stalls, people were eating ices in the Café Laiter,
and nibbling small cakes at the English pastry-cook’s shop. Only a few
posting-chaises were setting out at a gallop from the Hôtel des Princes
and the Hôtel Meurice.

Marius entered the Rue Saint-Honoré through the Passage Delorme. There
the shops were closed, the merchants were chatting in front of their
half-open doors, people were walking about, the street lanterns were
lighted, beginning with the first floor, all the windows were lighted
as usual. There was cavalry on the Place du Palais-Royal.

Marius followed the Rue Saint-Honoré. In proportion as he left the
Palais-Royal behind him, there were fewer lighted windows, the shops
were fast shut, no one was chatting on the thresholds, the street grew
sombre, and, at the same time, the crowd increased in density. For the
passers-by now amounted to a crowd. No one could be seen to speak in
this throng, and yet there arose from it a dull, deep murmur.

Near the fountain of the Arbre-Sec, there were “assemblages”,
motionless and gloomy groups which were to those who went and came as
stones in the midst of running water.

At the entrance to the Rue des Prouvaires, the crowd no longer walked.
It formed a resisting, massive, solid, compact, almost impenetrable
block of people who were huddled together, and conversing in low tones.
There were hardly any black coats or round hats now, but smock frocks,
blouses, caps, and bristling and cadaverous heads. This multitude
undulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom. Its whisperings had the
hoarse accent of a vibration. Although not one of them was walking, a
dull trampling was audible in the mire. Beyond this dense portion of
the throng, in the Rue du Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in the
extension of the Rue Saint-Honoré, there was no longer a single window
in which a candle was burning. Only the solitary and diminishing rows
of lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street in the distance.
The lanterns of that date resembled large red stars, hanging to ropes,
and shed upon the pavement a shadow which had the form of a huge
spider. These streets were not deserted. There could be descried piles
of guns, moving bayonets, and troops bivouacking. No curious observer
passed that limit. There circulation ceased. There the rabble ended and
the army began.

Marius willed with the will of a man who hopes no more. He had been
summoned, he must go. He found a means to traverse the throng and to
pass the bivouac of the troops, he shunned the patrols, he avoided the
sentinels. He made a circuit, reached the Rue de Béthisy, and directed
his course towards the Halles. At the corner of the Rue des
Bourdonnais, there were no longer any lanterns.

After having passed the zone of the crowd, he had passed the limits of
the troops; he found himself in something startling. There was no
longer a passer-by, no longer a soldier, no longer a light, there was
no one; solitude, silence, night, I know not what chill which seized
hold upon one. Entering a street was like entering a cellar.

He continued to advance.

He took a few steps. Some one passed close to him at a run. Was it a
man? Or a woman? Were there many of them? he could not have told. It
had passed and vanished.

Proceeding from circuit to circuit, he reached a lane which he judged
to be the Rue de la Poterie; near the middle of this street, he came in
contact with an obstacle. He extended his hands. It was an overturned
wagon; his foot recognized pools of water, gullies, and paving-stones
scattered and piled up. A barricade had been begun there and abandoned.
He climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of the
barrier. He walked very near the street-posts, and guided himself along
the walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricade, it seemed to
him that he could make out something white in front of him. He
approached, it took on a form. It was two white horses; the horses of
the omnibus harnessed by Bossuet in the morning, who had been straying
at random all day from street to street, and had finally halted there,
with the weary patience of brutes who no more understand the actions of
men, than man understands the actions of Providence.

Marius left the horses behind him. As he was approaching a street which
seemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social, a shot coming no one
knows whence, and traversing the darkness at random, whistled close by
him, and the bullet pierced a brass shaving-dish suspended above his
head over a hairdresser’s shop. This pierced shaving-dish was still to
be seen in 1848, in the Rue du Contrat-Social, at the corner of the
pillars of the market.

This shot still betokened life. From that instant forth he encountered
nothing more.

The whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black steps.

Nevertheless, Marius pressed forward.






A being who could have hovered over Paris that night with the wing of
the bat or the owl would have had beneath his eyes a gloomy spectacle.

All that old quarter of the Halles, which is like a city within a city,
through which run the Rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, where a
thousand lanes cross, and of which the insurgents had made their
redoubt and their stronghold, would have appeared to him like a dark
and enormous cavity hollowed out in the centre of Paris. There the
glance fell into an abyss. Thanks to the broken lanterns, thanks to the
closed windows, there all radiance, all life, all sound, all movement
ceased. The invisible police of the insurrection were on the watch
everywhere, and maintained order, that is to say, night. The necessary
tactics of insurrection are to drown small numbers in a vast obscurity,
to multiply every combatant by the possibilities which that obscurity
contains. At dusk, every window where a candle was burning received a
shot. The light was extinguished, sometimes the inhabitant was killed.
Hence nothing was stirring. There was nothing but fright, mourning,
stupor in the houses; and in the streets, a sort of sacred horror. Not
even the long rows of windows and stores, the indentations of the
chimneys, and the roofs, and the vague reflections which are cast back
by the wet and muddy pavements, were visible. An eye cast upward at
that mass of shadows might, perhaps, have caught a glimpse here and
there, at intervals, of indistinct gleams which brought out broken and
eccentric lines, and profiles of singular buildings, something like the
lights which go and come in ruins; it was at such points that the
barricades were situated. The rest was a lake of obscurity, foggy,
heavy, and funereal, above which, in motionless and melancholy
outlines, rose the tower of Saint-Jacques, the church of Saint-Merry,
and two or three more of those grand edifices of which man makes giants
and the night makes phantoms.

All around this deserted and disquieting labyrinth, in the quarters
where the Parisian circulation had not been annihilated, and where a
few street lanterns still burned, the aerial observer might have
distinguished the metallic gleam of swords and bayonets, the dull
rumble of artillery, and the swarming of silent battalions whose ranks
were swelling from minute to minute; a formidable girdle which was
slowly drawing in and around the insurrection.

The invested quarter was no longer anything more than a monstrous
cavern; everything there appeared to be asleep or motionless, and, as
we have just seen, any street which one might come to offered nothing
but darkness.

A wild darkness, full of traps, full of unseen and formidable shocks,
into which it was alarming to penetrate, and in which it was terrible
to remain, where those who entered shivered before those whom they
awaited, where those who waited shuddered before those who were coming.
Invisible combatants were entrenched at every corner of the street;
snares of the sepulchre concealed in the density of night. All was
over. No more light was to be hoped for, henceforth, except the
lightning of guns, no further encounter except the abrupt and rapid
apparition of death. Where? How? When? No one knew, but it was certain
and inevitable. In this place which had been marked out for the
struggle, the Government and the insurrection, the National Guard, and
popular societies, the bourgeois and the uprising, groping their way,
were about to come into contact. The necessity was the same for both.
The only possible issue thenceforth was to emerge thence killed or
conquerors. A situation so extreme, an obscurity so powerful, that the
most timid felt themselves seized with resolution, and the most daring
with terror.

Moreover, on both sides, the fury, the rage, and the determination were
equal. For the one party, to advance meant death, and no one dreamed of
retreating; for the other, to remain meant death, and no one dreamed of
flight.

It was indispensable that all should be ended on the following day,
that triumph should rest either here or there, that the insurrection
should prove itself a revolution or a skirmish. The Government
understood this as well as the parties; the most insignificant
bourgeois felt it. Hence a thought of anguish which mingled with the
impenetrable gloom of this quarter where all was at the point of being
decided; hence a redoubled anxiety around that silence whence a
catastrophe was on the point of emerging. Here only one sound was
audible, a sound as heart-rending as the death rattle, as menacing as a
malediction, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Nothing could be more
blood-curdling than the clamor of that wild and desperate bell, wailing
amid the shadows.

As it often happens, nature seemed to have fallen into accord with what
men were about to do. Nothing disturbed the harmony of the whole
effect. The stars had disappeared, heavy clouds filled the horizon with
their melancholy folds. A black sky rested on these dead streets, as
though an immense winding-sheet were being outspread over this immense
tomb.

While a battle that was still wholly political was in preparation in
the same locality which had already witnessed so many revolutionary
events, while youth, the secret associations, the schools, in the name
of principles, and the middle classes, in the name of interests, were
approaching preparatory to dashing themselves together, clasping and
throwing each other, while each one hastened and invited the last and
decisive hour of the crisis, far away and quite outside of this fatal
quarter, in the most profound depths of the unfathomable cavities of
that wretched old Paris which disappears under the splendor of happy
and opulent Paris, the sombre voice of the people could be heard giving
utterance to a dull roar.

A fearful and sacred voice which is composed of the roar of the brute
and of the word of God, which terrifies the weak and which warns the
wise, which comes both from below like the voice of the lion, and from
on high like the voice of the thunder.






Marius had reached the Halles.

There everything was still calmer, more obscure and more motionless
than in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the glacial
peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread
over the heavens.

Nevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black background the
lofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the
Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which was
burning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps towards
that red light. It had drawn him to the Marché-aux-Poirées, and he
caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Prêcheurs. He entered
it. The insurgents’ sentinel, who was guarding the other end, did not
see him. He felt that he was very close to that which he had come in
search of, and he walked on tiptoe. In this manner he reached the elbow
of that short section of the Rue Mondétour which was, as the reader
will remember, the only communication which Enjolras had preserved with
the outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he
thrust his head forward, and looked into the fragment of the Rue
Mondétour.

A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie
which cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which he was himself engulfed,
he perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop, and
beyond, a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall, and men
crouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms
distant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.

The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of
the wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag from him.

Marius had but a step more to take.

Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, folded his arms,
and fell to thinking about his father.

He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy, who had been so proud a
soldier, who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic, and
had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa,
Alexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who
had left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that
same blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown gray
before his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his
sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade
blackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet, in barracks,
in camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances, and who, at the expiration of
twenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a
smiling countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done
everything for France and nothing against her.

He said to himself that his day had also come now, that his hour had
struck, that following his father, he too was about to show himself
brave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet the bullets, to offer his breast
to bayonets, to shed his blood, to seek the enemy, to seek death, that
he was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of
battle, and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was
the street, and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil
war!

He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and into this he
was about to fall. Then he shuddered.

He thought of his father’s sword, which his grandfather had sold to a
second-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully regretted. He said
to himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done well to escape
from him, and to depart in wrath into the gloom; that if it had thus
fled, it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the
future; that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of
the gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through
cellar-windows, blows given and received in the rear; it was because,
coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go to the Rue de
la Chanvrerie; it was because, after what it had done with the father,
it did not wish to do this for the son! He told himself that if that
sword were there, if after taking possession of it at his father’s
pillow, he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of
darkness between Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have
scorched his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword
of the angel! He told himself that it was fortunate that it was not
there and that it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was
just, that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father’s
glory, and that it was far better that the colonel’s sword should be
sold at auction, sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old
junk, than that it should, to-day, wound the side of his country.

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.




