PART IV
Rebellion in the Streets
It was December of 1825. In only three weeks it would be Christmas, and in the town of Uzès, snow covered the earth and was falling heavily from the sky, which in the fading light of day and in the reflection of the snow, appeared to glow through a pale pink veil. It was Saturday evening. The last lights of the sun were setting below the white horizon, the moon and stars had already risen, and darkness was falling over the earth. The night was cold in the snow and in the wind of the winter, the air smelled of snow and of burning fireplaces, and the snow continued to fall and condense over the frozen earth. Perhaps, the world was at peace, but there was turmoil in the streets of Uzès.
Despite the cold, despite the snow, despite the wind, even despite the constables, and the inspectors, and the officers came at them, waving angry hands, and raising threatening clubs, a large mass of people had gathered in the street out front of the church of which they all—the people and the police alike—would be seated together listening to the priest conduct mass the next morning. This congregation had started out as a meeting of only a few young men, had grown into a crowed of several, and then to many, had eventually turned into a rally, and was now on the verge of becoming a riot. The people were shouting, crying out in despair and in hope, in triumph and in anger, calling for action, demanding freedom, chanting, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!" As the hearts and souls of the people began to burn in the sparks of rebellion, the police had arrived and had ordered them all to settle down, clear the street, and go home. They tried to put out the flames that were just being kindled. They wanted to smother the small flame of this candle before it could grow into an inferno.
A very handsome young man, perhaps in the early years of his twenties, stood upon the snow-dusted surface of a stone ledge so that he was elevated above the crowed. It was he who had started the rally, he who had spoke before the people to provoke courage in their hearts and passion in their souls, he who would be willing to lead these people at the expense of his life. When the police came, many people began to back away, their bravery and their certainty waning and fading, but this man did not waver. In fact, he stood up taller, straighter, prouder, and stronger as they approached. He opened his lips and called out in a loud voice so that his words could be heard above the crowd and the chaos, through the snow and the wind, and by all of the officers around them: "They will never give in! They will never stop fighting! This war is one that will not be finished until all chains are broken and all slaves are set free! Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!"
When the young man shouted these words, it was as if the waning flame of the fire had suddenly erupted again like the bust of lightning that cracks the sky and shakes the earth. At this point, the rally intensified and began to grow. As if all fear had fled away and had been forgotten, the people pressed on, they did not back down, they did not recoil. They continued to chant and call for freedom. The police drew their clubs, and in a desperate attempt to end all of this rebellion, one of them struck a rallying citizen. This was, perhaps, the worst thing that the young officer could have done. The anger, the fury, and defiance of the people heightened greatly. The police began to strike more people, knocking some of them down into the snow. Then some people began throwing snowballs and stones at the police. At length, one of the inspectors drew a gun, aimed it into the mass, and bellowed in a voice that he made angry and brutal in order to hide his fear, "Enough of this! All of you return to your homes now, or I will pull this trigger!"
"Shoot," an unexpected voice answered at once, shouting out boldly and fearlessly. When heads and eyes turned, they found themselves looking upon the brave young man who had begun the rally. Their leader. "Shoot," he said again, just as certainly. "Let us all die, and let us all face the judgment of God. All men die. Die today or die tomorrow. Die a slave or die free."
This young man was the strength, the courage, the hope, the spirit of the uprising. When he said these words, so certainly, so bravely, so powerfully, there was not a man who heard that did not feel something moving within him. The crowed let out a loud cheer, and nobody, not even the weakest amongst them, backed down. When they were together, they were strong, and the young man standing above them was the rock on which the foundation of this structure stood. As the riot continued to grow and as more weapons continued to be drawn, the young leader stood upon the stone wall, above all of the others, in clear view of all eyes and in clear range of all guns. Yet, he remained standing where he was, still and strong like a statue of stone, not trying to hide, not trying to protect himself, not trying to defend himself. The words that he spoke were truthful, and he was not afraid to die.
At last, the gun sounded. The people knew not who had pulled the trigger. Had it been the inspector who had first threatened to do so or had it been one of the other officers? Had it been purposeful or in the chaos, in the snow, and in the cold had someone pulled the trigger by mistake? Nobody knew. Nobody cared to wonder. It did not matter. At this moment, cheers of triumph and shouts of rebellion turned into cries of fear and screams of terror, and the stunned and horror-struck people watched their young leader fall. He landed with his face down in the white snow, which immediately began to turn red. A riot of defiance was, at once, a frenzy of panic. For a long time, everyone was at lost: too outraged to flee, too afraid to fight, too devastated to do either. So they all stood around the body of their fallen leader, not retreating form him but nor going to him, and they watched him bleed as the last breaths of life left his cold lips, buried in snow. Then, a moment later, a man whom no one knew stepped forward.
If the first man had been young, this man was even younger, not even yet twenty. He was, perhaps, one of the youngest people there to witness this horrific event, yet he was the first to come forward. Without hesitating a moment, he went to the side of the fallen leader silently and surely as if unafraid. He sunk to his knees in the red snow beside the bleeding body, reached out his hands and firmly but carefully took hold of the man, lifted his face out of the snow, and turned him over so that he was looking up into the night sky. At this moment, those watching learned that the young leader, wounded and bleeding, was still alive.
As his face was lifted out of the snow, the dying man drew in a deep and sudden gasp, like one on the verge of drowning in a treacherous sea. For several terrifying and painful moments, he tried to pull air into his punctured lungs, which the bullet had cut through and which were rapidly filling up with blood. Blood which gives life but also takes life, which saves life but also condemns life, which is life but also is death. "Hurry! Somebody get a doctor, at once! Quickly!" someone shouted, and several men took off running for help. But it was too late. Blood was draining out of the wound and spreading over the young man's chest, soaking his clothes and staining them red, spilling out into the white snow, and coming up his throat as he began to painfully cough it out of his lungs. The man's face contracted in agony, and his hands weakly moved to clutch at his chest, as if to hold back the pain. For a moment, he remained gasping and struggling to breathe, his face in a grimace of pain, his body shaking, his teeth grinding, his eyes tightly shut, his hands grabbing hopelessly at his chest as blood continued to spill out of his fatal wound. He lay there in the cold winter night, cold in the icy snow, cold in the bitter wind, cold in the empty darkness, cold in the clutches of death. Yet, the wound in his chest burned as if his lungs and heart were on fire, the blood that spilled out all over his body was hot, and he was warm in the arms of the stranger that held him.
For the first time, this dying man realized that someone was, indeed, holding him. Despite the dangers of allying one's self with a fighter for the Revolution, someone was doing so now. The fallen rebel opened his eyes and looked up into the face of this person, and he found himself gazing into the fair face and blue eyes of a man—no, a boy—who was several years younger than even himself. How old was this boy? Sixteen? Fifteen? Certainly, of some youthful age. Yet, this was the boy who had risen of all the other men.
When the dying man looked up at this boy and their eyes met, it was as if they were silently telling each other the same truth, which they both understood in their hearts: The brave young man was fatally wounded, his lungs had been ruptured, he had lost too much blood, it was too late to save him, he was going to die. Yet, the face of the boy was like that of a soldier as he held this man in his arms and watched him suffer, watched him bleed, watched him die. His face was still. Calm. Yet, also there was compassion, sadness, and sorrow in his eyes. This man was going to die on this night, before his eyes, in his arms. Yet, perhaps, dying was not such a terrible thing. For the follows of the Saving One, death is sad only to those who are left behind on the earth. To those who are passing, it is the day of highest and utter most joy. When one passes out of slavery, of grief, of hardship, and of pain, and enters into the world of freedom, of joy, of beauty, and of holiness. Now, this young man who pass into the place where he could be free.
As this dying man looked up into the face of the young stranger who held him, he felt a deep sensation of relief come into his bleeding heart. His rapid and painful gasping for air slowed, and he let out a soft, easy sigh. He gazed into the boy's reassuring face and comforting eyes, and his body relaxed, stopped shaking, stopped convulsing. Then his darkening face lit up and a faint smile appeared upon his cold lips. He parted his mouth, and a thin trickle of blood began to slowly run down his chin. He did not seem to notice. He continued to look up into the boy's face above him and the dark sky that loom beyond. Through his dying lips, with his final fading breaths, a smile still upon his lips, he whispered in a voice so soft that only this boy could hear him, "Some people will rise. You will rise." Then, he let out one final breath and died.
Then, there was only silence. No one moved, or stirred, or made even the softest noise. At this moment, it was as if the all the world had stopped moving, all lungs had stopped breathing, all hearts had stopped living, and everyone and everything was now watching the fallen leader die in the arms of the stranger. A deathly, a ghostly, and a holy silence had set over the earth. The people must have been holding their breath, and the angels looming overhead must have ceased their song. The only sound that could be heard was the cold and hollow echoing of the wind as it rushed down the winter streets.
"Everyone get out of here!" one of the police finally ordered, breaking and shattering the silence like a lethal bullet hitting smooth glass. He stepped forward, holding a pistol—although not the pistol that had been fired—out in front of him. "All of you! Out of the streets! Clear out!" Confused, at loss, and terrified, the people obeyed. Some of them weeping, some of them crying out in fear, some of them too afraid to make any noise at all, they began to back away and depart, as the authorities ordered them to do. Hesitantly, the other officers, many of whom had been just as stunned and scared as the people, choked down their emotions and began to join in the effort to drive people away.
There was one man, however, who did not move. One young boy remained on his knees in the snow, still holding the lifeless body of the leader in his arms, still gazing upon the man's pale and cold face. Spotting the young man still sitting in the snow, not moving, not attempting to heed the commands of the police, an inspector marched toward him, planted himself in front of the boy and the corpse, and barked, "Everyone get out of here! That means you, too, boy! Boy! Are you listening to me!? Get up! Get off of the street!"
For a moment, the boy remained silent and continued to look upon the face of the fallen man in his arms, not even acknowledging that he had heard the inspector speak, which further added to the man's fury and outrage. When at last the boy did speak, it was in a low, angry, and defiant voice, and it was a single word that rekindled a dim spark of anger and of courage in the hearts of the people: "Murderer." Upon hearing this one word, many of the people who had been retreating stopped and turned their heads to watch this young boy who was not afraid to keep fighting.
"That is enough!" The inspector snapped after a moment. "Get up! Get off of the street! This is not murder; this is justice!"
"Justice!?" the boy cried, at once, and his voice now was loud, bold, courageous, strong.
For the first time, he looked away from the face of his fallen leader and turned his eyes to glare up into the face of the inspector. For only a fraction of a second, the inspector's heart dropped, his blood froze, and his flesh turned to ice, as if the icy arms of death had taken him into a straggling embrace. But then, the sensation had passed, and the man could not help but let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, only for a moment, the man had perceived that when this boy had looked up at him, his face was not his own but the face of the dead man. For only a moment, he feared that this boy was, in fact, the ghost of the dead man here to haunt and seek vengeance on the men who had killed him. But no. He quickly dismissed the idea as foolishness and folly. Yet, even as he continued to look into the boy's youthful face, into his angry and fiery eyes, there was no denying that there was something very much the same about them both: the anger, the defiance, the will, the courage, the fearlessness in their faces, their eyes, their souls. Perhaps, the disturbed inspector could not help but think for a moment, the soul of the dead man had not ascended into Heaven but had passed into this young boy so that the leader could continue to live and to fight for the Revolution.
"You say that this is justice!?" the boy continued, raising his voice to a shout, in which anger and hatred thrived and trembled like the wrathful thunder that rolls through the clouds in a storm. "This is not justice! This is murder! You have spilled the blood of the innocent! Stolen an incident life! What had he done to deserve this!? You are murderers!"
"That is enough!" the man shouted again, but anxiety was rising in his voice, because he could see that the words of the boy had rallied the people around them, rekindling the fires of defiance in their souls. Instead of leaving now, as the police had told them to do, the people were now coming back, coming to stand around this boy and their fallen leader in his arms, coming to stand and fight again.
The boy, gently putting down and letting the body of the dead man rest in the snow, rose to his feet and continued to shout, "This is not justice! This is not freedom! This is murder, this is slavery, and this is the work of the Devil, whom God gives courage to those who oppose!"
At these word, the fears of the people seemed to have been forgotten. Their leader had fallen, and they had been lost. But now another brave young man had risen to take his place, and they again had someone to follow. Now, they were strong again. Anyone who had been retreating was now back in the mass of people, shouting and crying out for freedom, standing brave and standing strong. "That is enough!" the inspector made one last feeble attempt to quite the people, but only in vain, as the young boy before him raised his voice and shouted, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!" and then, all of the people were chanting again, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution! Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!"
The inspector looked frantically and fearfully at the people around him, coming in and rising like the tides of the ocean. He knew that they would continue to riot now. They would continue to fight. They would not surrender. Something had to be done. Something had to be done, at once, or else this riot might grow to become a revolution! A battle! A war! How much more blood would have to be spilt to end such an uprising!? Something had to be done, at once! Thinking and acting as quickly as he could, trying to end this rebellion before it grew too vast to control, the inspector reached for his gun. He drew it out in front of him, pulled back the hammer to load it, and aimed the barrel directly at the chest of the boy, this new leader, standing hardly a step in front of him. The shot would be impossible to miss. Impossible wound without killing.
Again, the people fell silent, and again the world seemed to stand still. This time, even the snow had stopped falling. All eyes were now fixed on these two opponents: the inspector aiming a gun and the young man who stood defenselessly before him. The people's heart began to turn dark and cold as fear and dread filled them. Was there to be not one but two deaths today? Were they now to suffer the loss of yet another leader? Was this cold winter night to make two martyrs instead of one?
When this man aimed a gun at him, the boy froze, but not in fear. He stood still, silent, and strong before this gun, not trying to retreat, not trying to defend himself, and he looked directly into the eyes of the man who threatened to take his life. The man stared back to the eyes of the boy, and despite the cold of this winter night, there was sweat upon the inspector's forehead. Struggling to keep his voice even and fearless, he said, "Back down now. All of you get off of these streets, as you were told. All of you go home." He swallowed and then finished, "…Or I shoot you."
Then one might have been able to hear his own heartbeat. The silence was so deathly, so piercing, so lethal… It was like the silence that looms over a graveyard during the darkest hour of the night, when one can scarcely venture into the cemetery for fear that he might disturb the slumber of the dead sleeping in the earth beneath their graves. Now, all of the people, conflicted, lost, and terrified, were watching the young man, waiting to see how he would respond. If he obliged to this inspector, then who would they have to follow? But if he did not… was this alternative not several times worse? The people held their breath as they waited in terrible anticipation and suspense, some hoping that the boy would back down and save himself, some hoping that he would remain strong and stand for the Révolution, but most too afraid and conflicted to know what to hope for. For either way this young boy chose he could not win.
The young leader never looked away from the man's eyes, and his face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. So when he finally opened his lips to answer, no one knew what to expect. Yet, the boy had decided, and when spoke he spoke with certainty. "Shoot me."
A wave of disturbance rolled through the crowed now, some people cried out in fear, some yelled angrily at the inspector in protest, some raised their voices and shouted, "Vive la Révolution!" His decision made and pronounced, the boy only stood there and continued to look into the inspector's eyes as he waited for him to make his own decision. He had told the man to shoot him, yet even with the increasing turbulence, the inspector hesitated, and he did not pull the trigger. It is one thing to shoot a man at a distance, to shoot a man during a war, or to shoot a man who is not looking into one's eyes, but to take the life of a boy who is standing only a step before him, looking straight into his eye, defenseless and weaponless is another. If the man pulled the trigger, he knew that he would be called a murderer. Perhaps, he would even call himself a murderer. God would call him a murderer.
When the people saw this man hesitating, they began to cry out louder in triumph and in victory, the courage and certainty in their souls heightened greatly, and the inspector could see that they would fight even stronger and wilder if he did not do something. If he let this boy go without punishment, then they would believe that they had won the battle, they would think that they could stand up to the law and get away with it, they would continue to rebel and revolt, and the uprising would grow larger than what can be contained. His finger tightened on the trigger for a moment, but looking into the angry yet innocent eyes of this young boy, he still could not pull it. Yet, he had to do something! Acting as quickly as he could, he drew out his club, raised it, and brought it down, striking the boy across his face.
Many people let out gasps and cries as the club hit him with a sound like the cracking of a whip, but the young man who had been struck did not let a sound. He stumbled backward, and his hand went to grasp his injured face for a moment, but he recovered quickly. Almost as if he was accustomed to receiving blows such as these—but this preposterous thinking could not have been so—he quickly regained his footing and turned back to the inspector who had struck him. When he raised his face, there was a gruesome gash across his cheek bone, and blood like red teardrops was beginning to run slowly down his face. As if ignorant to the wound, the blood, and the pain he stared again into the eyes of the man before him. Now there was something new in the boy's eyes, and as the inspector looked into them, he could understand clearly as if the boy had spoken these words aloud: "Why did you not shoot me? I told you to shoot me, but you did not. Why? Will you not shoot me? No. You will not shoot me." This angered the man, but even more it scared him. The rebels were winning! This had to be stopped!
"Get out of here! All of you!" he ordered again, stepping threateningly toward the boy.
But the young man did not move. He stood motionlessly before him, crossed his arms before his chest, and said in a calm clear voice, "Vive la Révolution."
The inspector, becoming panicked and furious, raised his club again and delivered another violent blow to the young man's face, knocking off his hat so his long blond hair began to whip violently around his face as the bitter wind rushed past him and splattering blood across his face. "Enough!" the man kept shouting, screaming. "Enough from all of you! Back down! Get out of here! All of you!" Before the boy had even recovered from the previous blow, the inspector was raising his club to strike again, not because he wanted to hurt this young boy but because he did not know what else to do, and the crowd—chanting, screaming, throwing rocks and ice—now seemed to be on the verge of a battle.
At last, after the third powerful blow, this young boy was knocked off of his feet. As he fell he made an attempt to catch himself, and as he landed on his hands and knees, he watched his bare hands sink into red snow. For a moment, he did not move. He stared down at the red blood all around him in the white snow. The white snow, which was so pure and clean, and the red blood, which was so cruel and so terrible. At this moment, it was as if he had suddenly awoken and taken in the true horrors that were happening around him; as if he had awoken and realized that this dream, this nightmare, that he had been roaming in was, in fact, reality; that this was real; that he was not dreaming; that a man had just died; that he had watched him die; that the man had died in his own arms; and that he was now lying in the corpse's blood.
As he stared numbly down at the red fluid around him, at the bloody snow that was melting on his hands, a deep feeling of dread and emptiness came into his gut, tightness pulled in his chest, and icy frost came to form over his heart. For the first time, seeing this blood made him suddenly feel very insecure and very anxious. For the first time, he was afraid. Even deeper fear and horror came into his soul as he slowly, reluctantly, grudgingly raised his eyes. Then he saw the dead man lying on the ground before him, so close to him that he would hardly have to reach out a hand to touch the cold, lifeless body. The man's body rest still in the snow, where the boy had left him; his flesh was pale like the snow and grey like the darkness of the night; his head was turned to the side so that the boy could see his face; and the dead man's dark, seeing-less eyes were still open, gazing emptily into the world, and fixed directly on the young boy before him. At once, the boy could hear this man's haunting final words speaking in his mind, "Some people will rise. You will rise." Then, he realized that it was snowing again.
Someone behind him grabbed him by his arm and yanked him violently to his feet. His mind still lost in some far-off world, he instinctively pulled away from this harsh grasp and turned around to face his assailant. For the moment that was too late to react, he saw the inspector raising his club to strike him again. But before this man could bring down the club with that sound like a whip, a sound far more sudden, far more thunderous, and far more terrible broke through the night. Everybody froze, or jumped, or gasped, or screamed. A second gun had been fired.
Panic and horror seized the hearts of the people again, and their eyes darted to look at this boy, expecting to see him, bleeding and a bullet in his heart, fall to lie in the snow beside the body of their fallen leader. When they looked at him, his face was pale and dripping in blood. Yet, he remained on his feet. His heart froze, and a moment later it was racing painfully in his chest, pounding in his ears, and his body was trembling. But the bullet had not touched him.
"Silence, all of you!" a voice, strong, powerful, and fearless bellowed over the panicking crowed. All eyes turned and came to rest upon the man who had shouted. There was something strong about him that made all who beheld him shutter and tremble, as if they were standing in the presence of a mighty and powerful king who had come to bring wrathful judgment upon them all. He stood still within the people like stone statue, his body tall, stiff, and strong, his face hard and cold, and his eyes betraying no emotion. No one recognized him. No one knew him. He must have only arrived in this street a moment before, because none had seen him at all until this moment. He was a Controller-General, which meant that he had full authority over all of the inspectors, all of the constables, all of the citizens, and which meant that he had full control over the events, the actions, and the punishments that would happen tonight. The pistol was still grasped tightly in his hand, and a thin cloud of smoke was still emitting from the barrel, rising as is drifted into the bitter winter air. But the gun was aimed up into the sky, not into the people. The bullet had not pierced flesh but only darkness.
The people fell silent for a moment as they stared with awe and with fear at this man before them. The Controller-General was still for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he lowered the gun, held it by his side, and began walking quickly and briskly through the people, who fearfully parted to get out of his way as he went. He went straight to approach the boy, who still stood before the now frozen club in the hand of the panicking inspector. The Controller-General brushed abruptly past this inspector, casting a dark, disapproving glare upon him and saying in a low growl, "Inspector Perusse, you may retire. Your services are no longer needed here."
Inspector Perusse had immediately lowered his club and taken a step backward when he saw this officer approaching, and now he bowed his back, too another step back, obviously intimidated and embarrassed, and muttered in a whisper, "Yes, Monsieur Herriot."
Without another glance at Inspector Perusse, Monsieur Herriot turned his eyes to look upon the corpse still lying wide-eyed in the snow, and he gave instruction for some of the constables to return the body to the family of the deceased man. Then, hardly acknowledging their replies, he turned his back on all else and fixed his dark but fiery eyes upon the young boy standing before him. This boy he doubted was beyond his fifteenth year of age, yet he stood before him now, before police, before the law, before clubs, before guns, leading a band of rebels, injured and bleeding but still taking blows for the Révolution, risking his safety, risking his life.
Without wasting another moment, Monsieur Herriot stepped toward the boy. Although he did not recoil, the boy's muscles stiffened and he braced himself, expecting another painful blow. Instead of striking him, however, Monsieur Herriot grabbed him with a hand like an iron clamp, tight to the point of pain, around his arm and began to him across the street away from the people. As the Controller-General dragged the stumbling boy behind him, he raised his face, looked to one of the nearby constables, and ordered, "Bring shackles here." Monsieur Herriot came to a halt on the opposite side of the road, so that he and the boy stood still in the sight of by far beyond the rest of the people in the street. Then, at last, he looked into the eyes of the young rebel standing before him.
The boy stared silently back into this man's face for several long seconds, and all that could be heard was the cries of the wind. Then the faint rattling of chains as a constable, his head bowed, quickly approached these two adversaries, and without glancing up at Monsieur Herriot, took the boy by his wrists, slipped the iron bracelets over the young man's hands, and tightened the shackles around his wrists.
He looked down at the shackles that bound his hands. The metal was cold and frozen against his skin. His hands were pale but his palms and fingers pink from being in the snow. His hands, his wrists, the sleeves of his coat were covered in blood.
"What is your name, boy?"
He raised his eyes and found himself looking into the stony face of the Controller-General, who was looking upon him with a sharp and penetrating gaze. The young man hesitated for a moment, his mind still enslaved to the haunting images of the blood-covered man who had died in his arms. At last, he answered in a voice that was somewhat reluctant but still brave. "Enjolras."
Monsieur Herriot face did not change. Nor did his voice, which remained powerful and strong, calm yet there was clear anger with it, and he asked, "And how old are you, Enjolras?"
"I am fifteen."
Monsieur Herriot gave a curt nod. He had been expecting this. Turning his eyes to look past Enjolras and search the faces of the people in this street, as if looking for someone, he questioned this child again, "Where are your parents?"
"They are not here," Enjolras answered, at once. Monsieur Herriot opened his mouth and started to ask, "Do they—" but before he could even get out the words, Enjolras said, "They do not know that I am here. They had nothing to do with this. They do not support the Révolution."
Monsieur Herriot momentarily continued to look around the people in the streets, as to make sure that the boy was not lying and a father or mother was not going to come forward and defend their child. No one did. "Very well," he said at last, turning back to Enjolras. "They are at your home then, I trust?"
"Yes."
"You will bring me there. And the rest of you"—he turned to all of those who remained in the street watching this young boy be arrested—"will return to your homes. Enough blood has been spilt tonight. Do you wish for more to die, as well?" No. The Controller-General was right. Too much had happened tonight already. This was enough. It was over now.
Almost over.
Monsieur Herriot took Enjolras by his arm, and he, accompanied by two other constables, began to lead the young boy away. The rest of the police began to break up the crowd and send people back to their homes. But before the people parted, someone within the crowd let out a final cry. First one man shouted, and in only seconds, others began to join in. Soon, all of the people were chant in one brave and triumphant voice, one final cry of the night.
Everyone, including the constables, Monsieur Herriot, and Enjolras stopped and turned their heads to watch the people. Enjolras looked upon these people and listened to them crying out, raising their voices, strong and proud, into the night, raising their fists into the air, raising their hands into the Heavens, and he felt something deep and powerful moving inside of him, although at first he did not know what it was. Surprise and confusion, certainly. But much more also. Hope? Gratitude? Pride? Joy? Perhaps, all of these things, but most of all he felt amazement, wonder, awe. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Monsieur Herriot, who had also been watching the people, turned his head to look at him. Enjolras glanced up at him and met his eyes for a moment, and the man could see that this boy was just as surprised and at loss as he was. The officer looked out at the people one last time, let out a heavy sigh, and then turned his back on it all, continuing down the street and taking Enjolras away from the people who followed him.
What they cried was this:
"Vive Enjolras!"