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THE FLAG: ACT FIRST
As yet, nothing had come.
Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre
had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet
of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they
listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant
sound of marching.
Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young
voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and
began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of "By the
Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry
like the crow of a cock:--
Mon nez est en larmes,
Mon ami Bugeaud,
Prete moi tes gendarmes
Pour leur dire un mot.
En capote bleue,
La poule au shako,
Voici la banlieue!
Co-cocorico![54]
[54] My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy
gendarmes that I may say a word to them.
With a blue capote and a chicken in his shako, here's the
banlieue, co-cocorico.
They pressed each other's hands.
"That is Gavroche," said Enjolras.
"He is warning us," said Combeferre.
A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being
more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded
into the barricade, all breathless, saying:--
"My gun!
Here they are!"
An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the
sound of hands seeking their guns became audible.
"Would you like my carbine?" said Enjolras to the
lad.
"I want a big gun," replied Gavroche.
And he seized Javert's gun.
Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the
same moment as Gavroche.
They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the
vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the
Lane des Precheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that
nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and
Halles.
The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone
were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on
the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black
door vaguely opened into a smoke.
Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.
Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre,
Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling
inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the
crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed
on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready
to fire.
Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed themselves, with
their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the windows of the
two stories of Corinthe.
Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured,
heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction
of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy
and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission,
with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard
but this.
It was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the
commander, but this stony step had something indescribably enormous
and multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and,
at the same time, the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard
the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread drew near;
it drew still nearer, and stopped.
It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard
at the end of the street.
Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that
dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic
threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved
about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees
beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at
the moment when one is dropping off to sleep.
These were bayonets and gun-barrels confusedly illuminated
by the distant reflection of the torch.
A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting.
All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which
was all the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which
appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted:--
"Who goes there?"
At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered
into position, was heard.
Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:--
"The French Revolution!"
"Fire!" shouted the voice.
A flash empurpled all the facades in the street as though
the door of a furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed
again.
A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade.
The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so
dense that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip
of the omnibus pole.
Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses
penetrated the barricade and wounded several men.
The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing.
The attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection
in the boldest.
It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment
at the very least.
"Comrades!" shouted Courfeyrac, "let us not
waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before
replying."
"And, above all," said Enjolras, "let us raise
the flag again."
He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet.
Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard;
the troops were re-loading their arms.
Enjolras went on:--
"Who is there here with a bold heart?
Who will plant the flag on the barricade again?"
Not a man responded.
To mount on the barricade at the very moment when, without
any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply death.
The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation.
Enjolras himself felt a thrill.
He repeated:--
"Does no one volunteer?"
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