Chapter Twelve: An Exchange
'Go. Now.' Enjolras pointed a pistol at Le Cabuc's head.
'But they will attack any second. If I leave now I may die.'
'And if you do not, you will surely die.' Enjolras cocked the pistol and stared at the coward defiantly.
Le Cabuc lifted his hands in the air as if in surrender and turned around. They let him out through an opening and closed it immediately.
After listening for a few moments in silence, they only heard receding footsteps and stifled whimpers, but no shots.
'It looks like he got lucky,' Enjolras said bitterly.
'I'm not sure about that. He still has a long way to go before he's safe,' Feuilly spoke.
The clock of Saint Merry struck ten, and still there was no sign of any attack. Combeferre hovered for a moment by where Enjolras was sitting with Grantaire, then seemed to think better of it and re-joined Jean Prouvaire. The poet smiled when he saw him and started to tell him about a poem he was writing.
'I hope it survives longer than we do,' Combeferre remarked darkly but humorously at the same time.
'I thought of that. That's why I'm carving it onto this.' With difficulty, he lifted a paving stone and pointed out the words on it to Combeferre. 'See? Blood will only make it more visible.'
'How is it that you can always brighten my day?' Combeferre chuckled at him, shaking his head.
'It's a gift,' Jehan grinned.
On the other side of Enjolras and Grantaire, Joly sat with Bossuet. They were, very indiscreetly, observing the other two. Enjolras and Grantaire tried to ignore it, but exchanged exasperated glances when Bossuet whispered something to his companion and they burst out laughing.
'Let's place a bet,' Bossuet had said.
'I'm listening,' Joly's eyes lit up.
'I bet we're gonna see them kiss before this time tomorrow.'
'Ha! Yeah, right.'
'You'll bet against me, then?'
'My pleasure. I know Enjolras, although maybe not as well as I thought. If they do kiss, we won't know about it.'
'I bet you a bottle of the finest wine Corinthe has to offer.'
'Two.'
'Deal'. The men shook hands and then resumed pointing out constellations to each other.
Feuilly and Bahorel were standing guard at the small barricade. There had been some sentinels there, but the two friends were happy to do them a favour and stand in for them while they had a drink in the Corinthe with their friends.
Feuilly was trying to make a fan out of splinters of wood he found around the barricade and was surprisingly successful at it.
Bahorel was cracking his knuckles and leaning forward slightly, as if he was already in a one-on-one fight.
'Relax, Bahorel. When the attack comes, I'm sure we will know.'
'Aren't you a little too relaxed?'
'Maybe. An ideal state would probably be about halfway between us. Take a seat.'
Bahorel begrudgingly sat down on the ground next to Feuilly, with his back against the barricade. He was still restless, so the fan-maker made him hold the pieces he was using for the makeshift fan.
Back by the opening of the barricade, Enjolras sat with Grantaire. They were silent, listening out for sounds of marching, although they seemed to communicate with glances. Grantaire now had a gun. He was not happy about it, but he needed to look as if he was fighting, even if he did not intend to injure anyone with it.
Just then, the whole barricade heard Gavroche's voice, singing a few lines of a song. Enjolras started and gripped Grantaire's wrist tightly.
'It's Gavroche!' Grantaire whispered.
'He is warning us.'
Gavroche bounded into the barricade and ran up to the leader.
'My musket!' he cried, breathless. 'Here they are.'
In the background they heard a shuffling sound, as everyone hurried to get to their muskets.
'Do you want my carbine?' Enjolras asked.
'I want the big musket,' Gavroche insisted, taking Javert's musket.
Everyone took their positions. The continuous sound of marching was terrifying. Then a voice, whose owner could not be seen, spoke.
'Who is there?' This was accompanied by the click of muskets.
Enjolras was the one to answer.
'French Revolution!'
Despite the extreme seriousness of the situation, Grantaire could not hide his smile as he thought French Revolution who?
The smile was quickly wiped off his face when he heard the voice's reply.
'Fire!' A volley of shots followed with a blinding flash. Some of the balls ricocheted from the houses and injured several men. Fortunately, as far as anyone could see, no one had yet been killed.
'Comrades,' Courfeyrac announced, 'don't waste the powder. Let us wait to reply till they come into the street.'
'And first of all,' Enjolras said, 'let us hoist the flag again!'
No one volunteered. As Enjolras was about to speak again, Grantaire silenced him.
'Enjolras, this is stupid! The flag is just a symbol. While it is important, we can hoist it up later, not now. This would be a pointless thing to waste a life for.'
Enjolras stopped himself from repeating the order, however an old man who had exited the wine-shop walked up to Enjolras.
'It is the Voter! It is the Conventionist! It is the Representative of the people!' The insurgents cried.
Monsieur Dubois, with his arm in a sling, ran out after him.
'My friend Mabeuf, do not do this! It is suicide!'
Mabeuf did not hear either of these cries. He took the flag from Enjolras, who was too astounded to stop him, and slowly climbed up the barricade.
'Hats off!' somebody cried and everyone wearing a hat, which, admittedly, was not a great number, obeyed.
He was on the crest of the barricade, holding onto the post of the omnibus to steady himself. 'Vive la révolution! Vive la république! Fraternity! Equality! And death!"
'Disperse!' cried the same ominous voice from before.
M. Mabeuf, insanity in his eyes, raised the flag above his head and repeated:
'Vive la république!'
'Fire!'
A second volley made Mabeuf fall on his knees. With impossible resilience, he stood up, dropped the flag back onto its place, and fell backwards.
His body was caught by the insurgents, who held him up so carefully it was as if he was still alive.
'What men these regicides are!' Enjolras exclaimed. His voice was steady. There was no grief in it, only admiration.
'This is only for you,' Courfeyrac whispered to him, 'and I don't wish to diminish the enthusiasm. But he was anything but a regicide. I knew him. His name was father Mabeuf. I don't know what ailed him today. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head.'
'Blockhead and Brutus heart,' Enjolras answered.
Enjolras spoke, as he always did, with passion. He called for respect for the old man and to follow his example. He then stooped down and timidly kissed him on the forehead. He gently took off his coat and demonstrated the bleeding bullet holes.
'This is now our flag."
The martyr was carried down and laid on the table in the basement room. Monsieur Dubois, tears in his eyes, stayed by his side.
'Take care!' Gavroche warned, seeing Municipal Guards cross the barricade.
Bahorel, the first at the scene, killed one of them at a close distance – the muzzle of his carbine was touching the assailant.
Less than a moment later, Bahorel was killed by a bayonet.
Another guard had pinned down Courfeyrac who, helpless, cried for help.
A giant over two metres tall was approaching Gavroche, who calmly aimed Javert's musket at him and pulled the trigger. Javert had not loaded the musket. The giant burst out in a pitiless laugh and swung his bayonet at the gamin.
Just before it touched Gavroche, the Guard dropped his musket, as he had been shot in the middle of the forehead.
A second shot killed the one who had attacked Courfeyrac.
It was Marius. He now had no more weapons, but he noticed a keg of powder and ran towards it. A musket was aimed at him, but someone's hand and possibly their chest had stopped it from reaching Marius. Marius was so focused on the keg of powder, he did not stop to see what had happened.
Enjolras was trying to prevent chaos and called the shots, but the barricade was still on the verge of being taken over.
Marius raised the keg of powder. He also held a torch.
'Begone, or I'll blow the barricade!' Both the attackers and the defenders fell silent.
'Blow up the barricade!' a sergeant cried, 'and yourself also!'
'And myself also.' Marius answered and raised the torch closer to the powder. Something about the lifeless way he spoke and the resigned look in his eyes made it evident he was not bluffing.
The assailants were all gone.
Everyone crowded about Marius in excitement and gratefulness. This was the first time Grantaire had ever seen him and, it had to be said, he was impressed. Was this the same love-struck Marius the rest of them always made fun of?
He decided to stay away. He knew he would be intruding.
Combeferre joined him.
'Have you seen Jehan?' he asked, worry in his voice.
'No…' Grantaire looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen.
'Do you think-?'
'I don't know, but-'
They pushed through the crowd forcefully, took hold of Enjolras and dragged him out of the crowd.
'What are you-?'
'Jehan is missing. He must have been taken prisoner.'
'What about a bargain? They have our friend; we have their officer. Have you set your heart on the death of this spy?' Combeferre's voice was higher than usual; he was desperate.
'Less than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.'
Combeferre tied his handkerchief to his cane, his fingers fumbling in haste.
'Wait, you're going to go out there?' Grantaire protested. 'They'll shoot you.'
Combeferre looked up at him, his eyes devoid of life.
'I have no choice.'
Grantaire and Enjolras watched tensely as Combeferre climbed onto the barricade with his makeshift flag of surrender.
Courfeyrac had untied Javert from the post and followed Combeferre, his pistol held against the side of Javert's head.
'This is Inspector Javert!' Combeferre called. 'Unless you give us back our friend, he will die.' The message was clear.
After a minute, Jehan was swiftly returning to the barricade. Accordingly, Courfeyrac pushed Javert forward, the spy leaving slowly and reluctantly.
Combeferre helped Jehan get up onto the barricade and embraced him. Moments later, a shot was heard. Jehan gasped and fell down to the inside of the barricade, pulling Combeferre down with him.
Courfeyrac ran out, before anyone else had time to react, and took Javert back into the barricade, closing the opening before any more shots could hit.
Combeferre knelt by Jehan's side. The injured man was shivering and holding onto Combeferre's shirt.
Combeferre was sobbing. Jehan tried to speak, to calm him down, but he could not.
'I- Combeferre, I lo-'
He wailed in pain. He knew he would not be able to finish the sentence. With difficulty, he raised his head close to Combeferre's.
'I finished the poem,' he whispered and pressed his lips against Combeferre's for a moment. Then his head fell back and he breathed no more.
Combeferre sunk down and spread his arms over Jehan's body, as if protecting him. He then threw his head back and uttered a heartrending scream, more of a howl. Amongst the insurgents, there was not a single dry cheek.
