FOOT TO FOOT
When there were no longer any of the leaders left alive,
except Enjolras and Marius at the two extremities of the barricade,
the centre, which had so long sustained Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet,
Feuilly and Combeferre, gave way. The cannon, though it had not
effected a practicable breach, had made a rather large hollow
in the middle of the redoubt; there, the summit of the wall had
disappeared before the balls, and had crumbled away; and the rubbish
which had fallen, now inside, now outside, had, as it accumulated,
formed two piles in the nature of slopes on the two sides
of the barrier, one on the inside, the other on the outside.
The exterior slope presented an inclined plane to the attack.
A final assault was there attempted, and this assault succeeded.
The mass bristling with bayonets and hurled forward at a run,
came up with irresistible force, and the serried front of battle
of the attacking column made its appearance through the smoke
on the crest of the battlements. This time, it was decisive.
The group of insurgents who were defending the centre retreated
Then the gloomy love of life awoke once more in some of them.
Many, finding themselves under the muzzles of this forest of guns,
did not wish to die. This is a moment when the instinct of
self-preservation emits howls, when the beast re-appears in men.
They were hemmed in by the lofty, six-story house which formed the
background of their redoubt. This house might prove their salvation.
The building was barricaded, and walled, as it were, from top to bottom.
Before the troops of the line had reached the interior of the redoubt,
there was time for a door to open and shut, the space of a flash
of lightning was sufficient for that, and the door of that house,
suddenly opened a crack and closed again instantly, was life
for these despairing men. Behind this house, there were streets,
possible flight, space. They set to knocking at that door with the
butts of their guns, and with kicks, shouting, calling, entreating,
wringing their hands. No one opened. From the little window
on the third floor, the head of the dead man gazed down upon them.
But Enjolras and Marius, and the seven or eight rallied about them,
sprang forward and protected them. Enjolras had shouted to
the soldiers: "Don't advance!" and as an officer had not obeyed,
Enjolras had killed the officer. He was now in the little inner court
of the redoubt, with his back planted against the Corinthe building,
a sword in one hand, a rifle in the other, holding open the door
of the wine-shop which he barred against assailants. He shouted
to the desperate men:--"There is but one door open; this one."--
And shielding them with his body, and facing an entire battalion alone,
he made them pass in behind him. All precipitated themselves thither.
Enjolras, executing with his rifle, which he now used like a cane,
what single-stick players call a "covered rose" round his head,
levelled the bayonets around and in front of him, and was the last
to enter; and then ensued a horrible moment, when the soldiers tried
to make their way in, and the insurgents strove to bar them out.
The door was slammed with such violence, that, as it fell back into
its frame, it showed the five fingers of a soldier who had been
clinging to it, cut off and glued to the post.
Marius remained outside. A shot had just broken his collar bone,
he felt that he was fainting and falling. At that moment, with eyes
already shut, he felt the shock of a vigorous hand seizing him,
and the swoon in which his senses vanished, hardly allowed him time
for the thought, mingled with a last memory of Cosette:--"I am
taken prisoner. I shall be shot."
Enjolras, not seeing Marius among those who had taken refuge in
the wine-shop, had the same idea. But they had reached a moment
when each man has not the time to meditate on his own death.
Enjolras fixed the bar across the door, and bolted it, and double-locked
it with key and chain, while those outside were battering furiously
at it, the soldiers with the butts of their muskets, the sappers
with their axes. The assailants were grouped about that door.
The siege of the wine-shop was now beginning.
The soldiers, we will observe, were full of wrath.
The death of the artillery-sergeant had enraged them, and then,
a still more melancholy circumstance. during the few hours which had
preceded the attack, it had been reported among them that the insurgents
were mutilating their prisoners, and that there was the headless body
of a soldier in the wine-shop. This sort of fatal rumor is the usual
accompaniment of civil wars, and it was a false report of this
kind which, later on, produced the catastrophe of the Rue Transnonain.
When the door was barricaded, Enjolras said to the others:
"Let us sell our lives dearly."
Then he approached the table on which lay Mabeuf and Gavroche.
Beneath the black cloth two straight and rigid forms were visible,
one large, the other small, and the two faces were vaguely outlined
beneath the cold folds of the shroud. A hand projected from beneath
the winding sheet and hung near the floor. It was that of the
Enjolras bent down and kissed that venerable hand, just as he
had kissed his brow on the preceding evening.
These were the only two kisses which he had bestowed in the course
of his life.
Let us abridge the tale. The barricade had fought like a gate
of Thebes; the wine-shop fought like a house of Saragossa.
These resistances are dogged. No quarter. No flag of truce possible.
Men are willing to die, provided their opponent will kill them.
When Suchet says:--"Capitulate,"--Palafox replies: "After the war
with cannon, the war with knives." Nothing was lacking in the capture
by assault of the Hucheloup wine-shop; neither paving-stones raining
from the windows and the roof on the besiegers and exasperating
the soldiers by crushing them horribly, nor shots fired from the
attic-windows and the cellar, nor the fury of attack, nor, finally,
when the door yielded, the frenzied madness of extermination.
The assailants, rushing into the wine-shop, their feet entangled
in the panels of the door which had been beaten in and flung on
the ground, found not a single combatant there. The spiral staircase,
hewn asunder with the axe, lay in the middle of the tap-room, a few
wounded men were just breathing their last, every one who was not
killed was on the first floor, and from there, through the hole
in the ceiling, which had formed the entrance of the stairs,
a terrific fire burst forth. It was the last of their cartridges.
When they were exhausted, when these formidable men on the point
of death had no longer either powder or ball, each grasped
in his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved,
and of which we have spoken, and held the scaling party in check
with these frightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles of aquafortis.
We relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they occurred.
The besieged man, alas! converts everything into a weapon. Greek fire
did not disgrace Archimedes, boiling pitch did not disgrace Bayard.
All war is a thing of terror, and there is no choice in it.
The musketry of the besiegers, though confined and embarrassed by
being directed from below upwards, was deadly. The rim of the hole
in the ceiling was speedily surrounded by heads of the slain, whence
dripped long, red and smoking streams, the uproar was indescribable;
a close and burning smoke almost produced night over this combat.
Words are lacking to express horror when it has reached this pitch.
There were no longer men in this conflict, which was now infernal.
They were no longer giants matched with colossi. It resembled Milton
and Dante rather than Homer. Demons attacked, spectres resisted.
It was heroism become monstrous.