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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesLes Miserables - Volume V - BOOK FIRST - THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS - Chapter IV. Minus Five, Plus One
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Les Miserables - Volume V - BOOK FIRST - THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS - Chapter IV. Minus Five, Plus One Post by :Darshana Category :Long Stories Author :Victor Hugo Date :March 2011 Read :3290

Click below to download : Les Miserables - Volume V - BOOK FIRST - THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS - Chapter IV. Minus Five, Plus One (Format : PDF)

Les Miserables - Volume V - BOOK FIRST - THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS - Chapter IV. Minus Five, Plus One

After the man who decreed the "protest of corpses" had spoken,
and had given this formula of their common soul, there issued from
all mouths a strangely satisfied and terrible cry, funereal in sense
and triumphant in tone:

"Long live death! Let us all remain here!"

"Why all?" said Enjolras.

"All! All!"

Enjolras resumed:

"The position is good; the barricade is fine. Thirty men are enough.
Why sacrifice forty?"

They replied:

"Because not one will go away."

"Citizens," cried Enjolras, and there was an almost irritated
vibration in his voice, "this republic is not rich enough in men
to indulge in useless expenditure of them. Vain-glory is waste.
If the duty of some is to depart, that duty should be fulfilled
like any other."

Enjolras, the man-principle, had over his co-religionists that sort
of omnipotent power which emanates from the absolute. Still, great as
was this omnipotence, a murmur arose. A leader to the very finger-tips,
Enjolras, seeing that they murmured, insisted. He resumed haughtily:

"Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than thirty say so."

The murmurs redoubled.

"Besides," observed a voice in one group, "it is easy enough to talk
about leaving. The barricade is hemmed in."

"Not on the side of the Halles," said Enjolras. "The Rue Mondetour
is free, and through the Rue des Precheurs one can reach the Marche
des Innocents."

"And there," went on another voice, "you would be captured.
You would fall in with some grand guard of the line or the suburbs;
they will spy a man passing in blouse and cap. `Whence come you?'
`Don't you belong to the barricade?' And they will look at your hands.
You smell of powder. Shot."

Enjolras, without making any reply, touched Combeferre's shoulder,
and the two entered the tap-room.

They emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in his
outstretched hands the four uniforms which he had laid aside.
Combeferre followed, carrying the shoulder-belts and the shakos.

"With this uniform," said Enjolras, "you can mingle with the ranks
and escape; here is enough for four." And he flung on the ground,
deprived of its pavement, the four uniforms.

No wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combeferre took
the word.

"Come, said he, "you must have a little pity. Do you know what the
question is here? It is a question of women. See here. Are there
women or are there not? Are there children or are there not?
Are there mothers, yes or no, who rock cradles with their foot
and who have a lot of little ones around them? Let that man of you
who has never beheld a nurse's breast raise his hand. Ah! you
want to get yourselves killed, so do I--I, who am speaking to you;
but I do not want to feel the phantoms of women wreathing their
arms around me. Die, if you will, but don't make others die.
Suicides like that which is on the brink of accomplishment here
are sublime; but suicide is narrow, and does not admit of extension;
and as soon as it touches your neighbors, suicide is murder.
Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks.
Listen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of
the Rue du Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window,
on the fifth floor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head
of an old woman, who had the air of having spent the night in watching.
Perhaps she is the mother of some one of you. Well, let that man go,
and make haste, to say to his mother: `Here I am, mother!' Let him
feel at ease, the task here will be performed all the same.
When one supports one's relatives by one's toil, one has not the
right to sacrifice one's self. That is deserting one's family.
And those who have daughters! what are you thinking of? You get
yourselves killed, you are dead, that is well. And tomorrow? Young girls
without bread--that is a terrible thing. Man begs, woman sells.
Ah! those charming and gracious beings, so gracious and so sweet,
who have bonnets of flowers, who fill the house with purity, who sing
and prattle, who are like a living perfume, who prove the existence
of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earth, that Jeanne,
that Lise, that Mimi, those adorable and honest creatures who are your
blessings and your pride, ah! good God, they will suffer hunger!
What do you want me to say to you? There is a market for human flesh;
and it is not with your shadowy hands, shuddering around them,
that you will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street,
think of the pavement covered with passers-by, think of the shops past
which women go and come with necks all bare, and through the mire.
These women, too, were pure once. Think of your sisters, those of
you who have them. Misery, prostitution, the police, Saint-Lazare--
that is what those beautiful, delicate girls, those fragile marvels
of modesty, gentleness and loveliness, fresher than lilacs in the
month of May, will come to. Ah! you have got yourselves killed!
You are no longer on hand! That is well; you have wished to release
the people from Royalty, and you deliver over your daughters to
the police. Friends, have a care, have mercy. Women, unhappy women,
we are not in the habit of bestowing much thought on them.
We trust to the women not having received a man's education,
we prevent their reading, we prevent their thinking, we prevent
their occupying themselves with politics; will you prevent them from
going to the dead-house this evening, and recognizing your bodies?
Let us see, those who have families must be tractable, and shake hands
with us and take themselves off, and leave us here alone to attend
to this affair. I know well that courage is required to leave,
that it is hard; but the harder it is, the more meritorious.
You say: `I have a gun, I am at the barricade; so much the worse,
I shall remain there.' So much the worse is easily said. My friends,
there is a morrow; you will not be here to-morrow, but your families will;
and what sufferings! See, here is a pretty, healthy child,
with cheeks like an apple, who babbles, prattles, chatters, who laughs,
who smells sweet beneath your kiss,--and do you know what becomes
of him when he is abandoned? I have seen one, a very small creature,
no taller than that. His father was dead. Poor people had taken
him in out of charity, but they had bread only for themselves.
The child was always hungry. It was winter. He did not cry.
You could see him approach the stove, in which there was never
any fire, and whose pipe, you know, was of mastic and yellow clay.
His breathing was hoarse, his face livid, his limbs flaccid,
his belly prominent. He said nothing. If you spoke to him,
he did not answer. He is dead. He was taken to the Necker Hospital,
where I saw him. I was house-surgeon in that hospital. Now, if there
are any fathers among you, fathers whose happiness it is to stroll
on Sundays holding their child's tiny hand in their robust hand,
let each one of those fathers imagine that this child is his own.
That poor brat, I remember, and I seem to see him now, when he lay
nude on the dissecting table, how his ribs stood out on his skin
like the graves beneath the grass in a cemetery. A sort of mud was
found in his stomach. There were ashes in his teeth. Come, let us
examine ourselves conscientiously and take counsel with our heart.
Statistics show that the mortality among abandoned children is fifty-five
per cent. I repeat, it is a question of women, it concerns mothers,
it concerns young girls, it concerns little children. Who is talking
to you of yourselves? We know well what you are; we know well that
you are all brave, parbleu! we know well that you all have in your
souls the joy and the glory of giving your life for the great cause;
we know well that you feel yourselves elected to die usefully
and magnificently, and that each one of you clings to his share
in the triumph. Very well. But you are not alone in this world.
There are other beings of whom you must think. You must not be

All dropped their heads with a gloomy air.

Strange contradictions of the human heart at its most
sublime moments. Combeferre, who spoke thus, was not an orphan.
He recalled the mothers of other men, and forgot his own.
He was about to get himself killed. He was "an egoist."

Marius, fasting, fevered, having emerged in succession from all hope,
and having been stranded in grief, the most sombre of shipwrecks,
and saturated with violent emotions and conscious that the end
was near, had plunged deeper and deeper into that visionary stupor
which always precedes the fatal hour voluntarily accepted.

A physiologist might have studied in him the growing symptoms
of that febrile absorption known to, and classified by, science,
and which is to suffering what voluptuousness is to pleasure.
Despair, also, has its ecstasy. Marius had reached this point.
He looked on at everything as from without; as we have said,
things which passed before him seemed far away; he made out the whole,
but did not perceive the details. He beheld men going and coming
as through a flame. He heard voices speaking as at the bottom
of an abyss.

But this moved him. There was in this scene a point which
pierced and roused even him. He had but one idea now, to die;
and he did not wish to be turned aside from it, but he reflected,
in his gloomy somnambulism, that while destroying himself,
he was not prohibited from saving some one else.

He raised his voice.

"Enjolras and Combeferre are right," said he; "no unnecessary sacrifice.
I join them, and you must make haste. Combeferre has said convincing
things to you. There are some among you who have families,
mothers, sisters, wives, children. Let such leave the ranks."

No one stirred.

"Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks!"
repeated Marius.

His authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head
of the barricade, but Marius was its savior.

"I order it," cried Enjolras.

"I entreat you," said Marius.

Then, touched by Combeferre's words, shaken by Enjolras' order,
touched by Marius' entreaty, these heroic men began to denounce
each other.--"It is true," said one young man to a full grown man,
"you are the father of a family. Go."--"It is your duty rather,"
retorted the man, "you have two sisters whom you maintain."--
And an unprecedented controversy broke forth. Each struggled to
determine which should not allow himself to be placed at the door
of the tomb.

"Make haste," said Courfeyrac, "in another quarter of an hour it
will be too late."

"Citizens," pursued Enjolras, "this is the Republic, and universal
suffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go."

They obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutes, five were
unanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.

"There are five of them!" exclaimed Marius.

There were only four uniforms.

"Well," began the five, "one must stay behind."

And then a struggle arose as to who should remain, and who should
find reasons for the others not remaining. The generous quarrel
began afresh.

"You have a wife who loves you."--"You have your aged mother."--"
You have neither father nor mother, and what is to become of your
three little brothers?"--"You are the father of five children."--"You
have a right to live, you are only seventeen, it is too early
for you to die."

These great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for heroism.
The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish each other.

"Be quick," repeated Courfeyrac.

Men shouted to Marius from the groups:

"Do you designate who is to remain."

"Yes," said the five, "choose. We will obey you."

Marius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion.
Still, at this idea, that of choosing a man for death, his blood
rushed back to his heart. He would have turned pale, had it been
possible for him to become any paler.

He advanced towards the five, who smiled upon him, and each,
with his eyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the
depths of history hovering over Thermopylae, cried to him:

"Me! me! me!"

And Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them!
Then his glance dropped to the four uniforms.

At that moment, a fifth uniform fell, as if from heaven, upon the
other four.

The fifth man was saved.

Marius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.

Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.

He had arrived by way of Mondetour lane, whither by dint of
inquiries made, or by instinct, or chance. Thanks to his dress
of a National Guardsman, he had made his way without difficulty.

The sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mondetour
had no occasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman,
and he had allowed the latter to entangle himself in the street,
saying to himself: "Probably it is a reinforcement, in any case it
is a prisoner." The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel
abandoning his duty and his post of observation.

At the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubt, no one had
noticed him, all eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the
four uniforms. Jean Valjean also had seen and heard, and he
had silently removed his coat and flung it on the pile with the rest.

The emotion aroused was indescribable.

"Who is this man?" demanded Bossuet.

"He is a man who saves others," replied Combeferre.

Marius added in a grave voice:

"I know him."

This guarantee satisfied every one.

Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean.

"Welcome, citizen."

And he added:

"You know that we are about to die."

Jean Valjean, without replying, helped the insurgent whom he was
saving to don his uniform.

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The situation of all in that fatal hour and that pitiless place,had as result and culminating point Enjolras' supreme melancholy.Enjolras bore within him the plenitude of the revolution;he was incomplete, however, so far as the absolute can be so;he had too much of Saint-Just about him, and not enough ofAnacharsis Cloots; still, his mind, in the society of the Friendsof the A B C, had ended by undergoing a certain polarization fromCombeferre's ideas; for some time past, he had been gradually emergingfrom the narrow form of dogma, and had allowed himself to inclineto the broadening influence of progress, and he had

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Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his wayout through Mondetour lane, gliding along close to the houses.The insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in whichthey had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused themto almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for itwith a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as totheir cause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them. They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecywhich is one of the sources