The children of the barricade were laid side-by-side on the cobblestone Parisian streets. Each child was now pale of face, but congealed in puddles or with splotches of their own blood, lying where they fought, lying where they died. Gavroche's little blue eyes were glazed and starring at the morning sky, but all other eyes were shut and would forever remain shut, never to peek open and show some sign of life ever again. The good turning women of the city gathered them together through the night as they whipped the streets clean of their blood, lining them up one-by-one in order for proper respects to be paid; for the children to be claimed by their parents. Enjolras and Grantaire's hands were outspread to each other, as they were when they were shot down, nearly holding hands for each acting as a support of the other. In his other hand, Enjolras's corpse still gripped the red flag, even in death defending his liberty at all costs. His red and gold vest lay open, revealing the blood-clad wounds through his strong, still chest. Some of the schoolboys still held their guns in their hands, still with their fingers close to the triggers, as if they could jump up at any moment and continue to fight. If they could have, they would have.
Eponine's body laid on one side of Enjolras's, and the other side of Gavroche's. Her brown, dirt-caked trench coat fell open, exposing the long, drawn-out blood splatters on her white shirt. They pooled from the bullet holes in her chest, made of the bullets meant for Marius – the same bullets that stopped her bleeding, broken heart. But she did not fret, for the rain of her blood would water the meadows of France – the flowers of tomorrow would grow, a new world was soon to begin. None of them mourned over their own deaths: through their time ending, the dawn of a new era would rise like the sun.
Marius sat alone in the ABC café, on top of the table in the corner on the second floor. From his small perch there, he starred out the window at the bodies of his friends, lying where he should be, too. He did not dare move, or cry, or speak, or do anything in particular than gaze out of that old, dusty window at what had become of his old friends. He couldn't. He couldn't, because to do anything more, to cry for them or speak of them or to go out on the street and pay his respects to them, was to accept that they were gone. And Marius could not, at least for the time being, live if they were gone.
Thenardier had come out to the streets to see if there was anything he could filch off of the rich mourners who came to pay respects to the children of the barricade. What he did not expect was to see his daughter's body among those of the dead martyrs: her gaunt, street-worn face seemed to be frozen in some sort of state of glimmering reprieve, as if in death, she could finally live the life that she did not have here on earth. She could rest now, finally, and be free – as could all of them, letting go of the bloodshed and living in the free land of tomorrow that they all once dreamed. The master of the house could only hope that his daughter was now in a world full of happiness, but his did not keep him from being brought to his knees by crippling grief. He held his daughter's body in his arms and started to sob, thinking of how terrible he'd been to her. Thenardier was a greedy, selfish man, and lived a greedy, selfish life – he regretted now, holding Eponine's rain-soaked, blood-stained body in his arms, not living more like she did: as a brave, loyal, loving person. He wished he could take back the horrible things he'd done and said to her in spite – the times he'd hit her, or implied that he loved the money she made more than the girl herself. But now, as he sobbed over his daughter's corpse, he realized that it was too late for that. Eponine was dead.
Cosette had some to Marius's side by now, and looked on with him at the bodies of his best friends. She was saddened by not only their deaths, but also the death of Marius's good spirits. They were together at last, but it was so bitter-sweet now. She wondered how she could possibly feel so giddy and love-struck, while these schoolboys were lying there, cold and dead, never to feel anything again. She wondered how Marius could cope with being the lone survivor of his friends, and if any effort she put forward to show him happiness would be fruitless. Cosette propped herself up next to Marius on the tabletop, grabbed his hands in hers, and whispered to him:
"I know that they're safe now, and happy."
Marius said nothing.
"Do you want to know how I know that?"
He still did not respond.
"Because there is a castle on a cloud, Marius, and that's where they all reside now. My mother is there, too. It's a place where no one's lost and no one's cries – crying at all is not aloud. And there, right in the middle of it all, is my mother. She is dressed all in white, and I imagine she is holding each of them now, singing them a lullaby; saying 'I love you very much'…"
"Cosette?" Marius's voice, though horse and dazed, finally broke through the barrier of his hazed grief. "What was their sacrifice for?"
Cosette thought about her beloved's question for a long moment, and curved her pink lips into a tiny smile. She held him, and answered:
"Love, Marius. Their sacrifice was for love."