Published February 6, 2013

Father Mabeuf was alone in the crowd, even though he might have known a few of the insurrectionists. Courfeyrac was there, which meant Marius might show up. Another boy reminded him of the sprite-like girl who had watered his garden in the twilight …

He saw his life play before his eyes, as though he were looking down into a theater. He recalled his friendship with the Colonel Pontmercy, and how he had honored the man in his death by telling his son about him.

Father Mabeuf knew he would die if he stayed here. This fact did not bother him. He was a holy man, and he was long past fearing death.

He had contemplated death often, especially in recent times, since he and Mother Plutarch were falling further down the slope of poverty. He had wondered how much it cost to keep the two of them alive, and perhaps even wondered if death would be a solution for one or both of them.

Here was a holy way to die. It was almost as though God had given him this opportunity, to spare him the sin of deliberately taking his own life. Now, instead of dying slowly and quietly, he could be involved in something bigger than his own life and death.

Father Mabeuf had always abstained from having any political opinions of his own. But now, he stood alongside thinkers, his friends, his countrymen, the people.

His eyes met those of the leader, Enjolras, for the briefest of moments. The old man saw respect, reverence, fervor, and energy in the young revolutionary. Perhaps that was what Colonel Pontmercy had been like in his youth. It was no wonder that so many put their faith in him: a man like that emanated hope.

He heard no battle-cry, no patriotic song, no cacophony of gunshot. In fact all was deathly silent as he slowly climbed up the makeshift slope. No one tried to hinder him, nor did anyone try to help him.