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Terrible (Combeferre): June, 1832
The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop, and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche's arrival, rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras' order could be executed, the discharge took place with the terrifying rattle of a round of grape-shot. This is what it was, in fact. The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced two dead and three wounded. If this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable. The grape-shot made its way in. A murmur of consternation arose. "Let us prevent the second discharge," said Enjolras. And, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun, who, at that moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing. The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery, very young, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which, by dint of perfecting itself in horror, must end in killing war. Combeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this young man. "What a pity!" said Combeferre. "What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother." "He is," said Enjolras. "Yes," replied Combeferre, "he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him." "Let me alone. It must be done." And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek. At the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms extended in front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath, then he fell with his side on the gun, and lay there motionless. They could see his back, from the centre of which there flowed directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast from side to side. He was dead. He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes were thus gained, in fact. I woke beside Julien yesterday morning, as I have woken with him for six years now, so pleased to be in his arms that I could scarcely imagine being anywhere else. He has never felt so glad of me. If it were not so terrible it would be funny -- I could have been happy with him, but he has not believed that for years; he could never have been content with what I wanted from life. I wanted him to feel bound to someone, anyone, to love them more than his ideals as he has not loved me, but I have failed in that. It was all for nothing, the kisses he resented, the embraces that disgusted him, it changed nothing in his heart. If anything, it made him colder toward me, though I cannot really remember how it was before everything began. I wanted him to learn patience, but I could not teach him that. I wanted him to feel loved, but in seeking people who would love him and whom he might care for, I lost him. I see it now, too late to change anything. He should have felt bound to take care of them, of me, of himself, but he only feels bound to his ideals, and we will all die for them. I doubt he has spared a thought for Christophe and Jehan. He may not notice that they are gone. He may have forgotten that they were ever here, that they were ever his friends, his brothers, and remembered them only as nameless, faceless sacrifices in this insanity. I should have more faith in his humanity, but I can't. I should trust him, but I have trusted him too much for too long. He is not the man I have loved, not here, not in this. I wanted him to feel that they were a part of him, closer than blood, but he is untouched by their deaths. I don't understand him, and I begin to think that I never did. When I look at him in the torchlight, in the weak dawn of this horrible day, I forget that I love him, that I have loved him. I could never have been so close to someone as cold as he is, as untouched by the tragedies he causes all around him, and yet I was. I feel that I have lost him already, and that when I die, he will be neither surprised nor perturbed. None of us can leave now, not with the soldiers pressing so close. I am here, trapped with all of them, and I will do what I can to heal them and keep life in their hearts as long as I can. I love them still, my brothers, and I have no words to comfort them. The manic, empty cheer in Aimery's eyes and Bossuet's words makes me want to shake Julien and force him to explain to them what we have gained that could be worth the life of any man. I want to weep for them; in my cowardice, I want to hide, to speak with Aimery as if it were a normal morning. But he has more right to mourn than I, for Julien still lives, however unlike himself he has become. If Paris wakes and flies to our aid, if we should suddenly find ourselves living and victorious, I will have lost Julien as surely as if he had been shot. I have seen him like this, lost in impossible dreams, heedless of danger and death, only once before, and I almost turned away from him then. Because we triumphed in July, I managed to convince myself that the fearsome idealist was not really Julien, that it was only an illusion. It was a cruel lie to tell myself. If I had remembered clearly, I would not be trapped and sentenced to death by my own words. This madness will not end as that did, with a dethroned king and a celebration of victory among my brothers. I shall never again wake with Jehan's head on my shoulder and his soft curls tickling my nose, nor shall I hear Christophe's chuckle, cut off by his teasing words. If I should suddenly wake, as I did that day, to find Aimery touching my shoulder and asking me to come with him and visit Daniel at home, then I might begin to forgive Julien, I might forget this. But that is impossible now, and I cannot forget anything that has happened, everything that Julien could have prevented. I cannot love him anymore. He is not the boy I have loved; that boy, sweet and gentle, was never real -- he was always this man, this soldier, somehow inured to the sight of blood, heartless, willing to sacrifice himself and his friends for the sake of an impossible dream. I lied to myself about him for so many years that it is difficult to remember the truth, even in the midst of this battle, for more than a moment at a time. I want to be with him in this, but I can't watch him kill, not again. I wish that I could stop this. I tried, Jehan. If I had only gone, if I had not said anything to him -- but our position is increasingly hopeless, and soon it will not matter who died first, for we will all be shot in the street. If I could approach him, if he would speak to me again, if we had half a moment to spare, I might tell Julien that I loved him, but we do not have that time, and so I do not need to lie. I only hope that I do not see him injured; I could not think well enough to help him, not now. The others, yes, but they have not betrayed me as he has. They are my brothers, not mon âme, and I would give them the breath from my body if I could save them with it. I am cowardly enough that I would rather not die, given the chance to live, but I have sworn to too many men here, living and dead, and I cannot leave. It doesn't matter whether I am here for myself, for Julien, for an ideal, or out of suicidal insanity. All that matters is that I am here, that we all are. Three men may keep a secret if two of them are dead; eight men have kept a secret, and soon it will be perfectly safe, for no one will survive who would care to remember what folly brought him to such a place. No one will wonder what we might have meant to each other; no one will care whether any of us died with a broken heart.
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