Enjolras, wounded and weak stumbled on the stairs of the bistro, unable to gain his balance. He lurched forward; crashing to the floor, but feverishly scrambled up again and did not stop till he reached the small room at the top. He pressed himself against the wall and waited. He heard their boots on the stairs, Echoing ominously like the very footfalls of doom. Then the door opened, and knowing his defeat he stepped out into the open. Immediately half a dozen muskets were aimed at his chest and he glared down the barrel of each one. Slowly he backed away against the wall, but still glowered in defiance at the king's men. He ripped open his blood-stained shirt, baring his broad chest.
"Shoot me." He commanded, throwing his head back with a defiant stare. The soldiers looked shocked. "Shoot me!" he commanded again. "I am a usurper, is that not so? A rebel,a traitor? You have me, now shoot me!" Three of the men cocked their weapons, but the sergeant raised his hand.
"Who are you?"
"Enjolras, who believes in a France where all men are equal," Came the bold reply. "Now shoot me, if you have the guts to do it."
"Sir!" one of the privates protested against the delay. But the rest of the men were sorrowfully hanging their heads. They were touched by the young man's courage. For no man can look at another so willing to face death and not be moved.
"Do it," Enjolras said through gritted teeth. He was ready to die, and he knew it. The sergeant raised his hand and the young man's chest was riddled with bullets. His body stood upright for a second, propped by the wall, and then slumped to the floor. The contingent of men left the room, but the sergeant remained. Sighing tearfully he stooped into the puddle of blood now pooling on the floor and closed the young man's still open eyes before rising. He marveled at how peaceful the boy's handsome face was, even in death.
"Enjolras," he whispered, "I will remember the name. For none I have met have died so bravely."